Nevertheless, if the Prince Bishop wanted him for something, believing Guillot’s story and helping deal with it was the price he must pay. Assuming the Prince Bishop and the dragon were not in some way connected. As ridiculous as the notion seemed, Guillot could not shake it off. It seemed too much of a coincidence that dal Sason turned up just after the first attack.
There were other hamlets in the area, some closer to the mountains, and Guillot now regretted not riding out to see if they had experienced similar problems. There hadn’t been time, however. Even now, he feared there was little he could do to save his tenants’ livelihoods. The next village over, the ever-popular Montpareil, would benefit from Guillot’s actions. He couldn’t think of a time less suited for going without wine.
As he reached the stable yard entrance, he spotted a gathering of people adding wood to what looked like a hastily erected pyre in a small square at the end of the street. It was an odd thing to see at that time of day, so, curious, he rode over.
“What’s going on here?” Guillot asked the first townsman whose eye he caught.
“Gonna burn a witch,” the man said, looking at the pyre and the small group of men who appeared to be in charge of the proceedings.
“A witch?” Gill asked.
“Aye, a witch.”
It had been some time since Guillot had heard of a witch trial. The Intelligenciers tended to deal with such things quietly.
“The duke’s holding witchcraft trials?” Guillot said.
“Duke’s in Mirabay,” the townsman said. “We found this ’un ourselves.”
“Then the duke’s magistrate tried her?”
The man shook his head and smiled, his expression one of excited euphoria.
Guillot nodded slowly. Nothing said justice like mob law. “When is she to burn?”
“First thing in the morning. Want to get the business done before the men in black show up.”
Guillot nodded again, and turned his horse back toward the stable yard entrance. He was caught between horror that mob justice was being done in the duke’s absence, and the satisfaction that he was not the only one who had allowed matters in his demesne to slide beyond his control. It was none of his business, however, and his thoughts quickly returned to the prospect of a warm bed.
Guillot woke in a state of great comfort, compounded by the thought that the Prince Bishop was paying. It took him a moment to realise his headache was gone, but he knew that was largely down to the fact that the previous night, a single nightcap had become a bottle, which had become two. He couldn’t remember if there had been a third, but could not discount the possibility. Either way, he was still drunk, and furious that his resolution of sobriety had not even lasted one day. Breakfast was as good as the bed, and he renewed his oath of temperance until he had finished what he had set out to do.
They waited at the entrance to the stable yard for the horses to be brought from the Royal Waypost by one of the inn’s stable hands. Gill’s own horse would be taken back to Villerauvais for what he considered to be a very reasonable addition to the Prince Bishop’s tab. For the rest of the journey, they would obtain fresh mounts at way stations along the road, a service provided for royal agents and mail carriers. Dal Sason had already been riding such a beast, so the exchange was easily made, but he’d had to send his official orders with the stable hand to have a horse made available to Gill.
“Fine morning,” dal Sason said, staring toward the light blue band of sky on the horizon.
Guillot shrugged.
“What do you make of that,” dal Sason said, pointing to the pyre as the stable hand jogged up, leading their horses.
“They’re burning a witch,” Guillot said, being careful not to slur his words. He could feel the first hints of sobriety returning. “They were building the pyre last night when we got in.”
“That’s not like the Intelligenciers.”
“It’s not them. It’s the locals. As best I could tell, the duke isn’t even involved.”
Dal Sason muttered something under his breath that Guillot couldn’t quite make out. Gill could feel his anger rise. He knew only too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of mob justice. For some reason, this morning, the thought of what was about to happen resonated with him far more deeply than it had the previous night.
Dal Sason studied him. “This is none of our business,” he said. “Things like this can get nasty fast, and we don’t have time for that.”
“It’s already gotten nasty,” Guillot said, hauling himself into the saddle.
“A good soldier follows his orders and doesn’t get sidetracked. You can’t allow your personal feelings to interfere. We’ve more important matters to deal with.”
Guillot could tell dal Sason wasn’t speaking out of fear, but rather out of a belief that his mission was more pressing than a woman’s life. He shrugged. “I suppose I never was a particularly good soldier.” He urged his horse forward.
“What’s going on here?” he said when he reached the group of people gathered at the pyre, who surrounded a young woman wearing a black cloak. Guillot could see a wisp of red hair protruding from the hood, and a few links of the chain that shackled her hands. Even though a black robe covered her, Guillot could tell she was shaking.
“Burning a witch,” one of them said.
The man very much fitted Gill’s mental image of a mob member, with an expression of feverish excitement and righteousness on his face. He had probably never experienced any type of power before. Now he was drunk on it.
“That much I know,” Guillot said. “On whose authority?”
“On ours!” the townsman said.
The crowd behind him roared in agreement. Their blood was up and they wanted to see someone die, and soon. He needed to be careful to ensure it wasn’t him.
He laughed, feigning levity. “I’m afraid that really isn’t good enough, unless you’re a royal magistrate. Are you a royal magistrate?”
“No. Are you?”
“Are you, my Lord,” Guillot said, allowing the angry edge to return to his voice and accompanying it with as damning a glare as he could muster. “As it happens, I’m not. But I am Banneret of the White Guillot dal Villerauvais, Seigneur of Villerauvais, Chevalier of the Silver Circle, and former champion to King Boudain the Ninth. Those titles and duties give me the power of life or death over every free man and woman of Mirabaya.”
Dal Sason appeared at his side, his horse as agitated as its rider. “We should leave.”
Guillot glared at him, then turned back to the gathered crowd. “She should receive a fair trial.”
The townsman stared at him. “Witches don’t get trials. They could use their magic to get off. She’s a witch for sure.”
“Could you tell that from the sinister black cloak she wears?” Guillot said.
Several people in the crowd laughed.
“Don’t matter,” the man said. “We’re doing the king’s work.”
“It’s not your place to decide what the king’s work is.”
The man shut his mouth, and for a moment, Gill thought he was cowed. Then he spoke again.
“Arnoul saw her doing magic.”