He was looking at the wing in which we had lived. It was a sight I had already seen, with sickness and a sad thumping of the heart. The snow, which had mostly been cleared from the courtyard, lay thick there, in uneven mounds from which a few blackened upright timbers pointed toward the gray sky. It was a whiteness and desolation that chilled the blood, a wilderness made more horrifying by the buildings which still stood all round. I saw him take a step, as though to go toward it and then with a twist of his head turn away. Then I called to him from the window; in a low voice, but he heard me and looked up. Even from that distance and with the light beginning to fade I could see the grief and anger in his face.
I threw clothes on and, ignoring the protests of the nurse who was attending to me, hurried downstairs. I found my father in the Great Hall along with others—Peter, three of his Captains, and a number of commoners, including Wilson. Wilson was talking, telling the story of what had happened, and my father was listening. His face was a cold hard mask now. He said at the end:
“Has the polymuf talked yet?”
“Only in crazed words.”
“Have him brought in.”
Peter said: “It may be he acted on his own. He is known to be a lunatic.”
“Yes,” my father said, “well known. And therefore a good weapon to another’s hand.”
Neither Blaine nor Harding was there, and none closely linked with them. If the polymuf had been set on by someone, I wondered which. Perhaps both. They had made no move but it might have been their plan not to—to wait until my father’s return and attack then, while he was shattered by the earlier blow. He looked like a man of iron, waiting for the polymuf to be brought. If they thought a blow could shatter him they were in for a surprise.
The polymuf, his hands chained, was pushed forward by the guards and sprawled at my father’s feet. I recognized him as one I had seen wandering alone in the fields beyond the East Gate. The Spirits had marked him with a hare lip, fissured red up to the nostril, and his voice showed that his mouth had no roof. He lay on the floor and talked nonsense, the words themselves scarcely understandable. I heard him babble about fire . . . the Spirits . . . death . . . and fire again.
My father stooped down and took him by the hair. He said:
“Who told you to do this?”
His voice was cold and sharp; only his eyes blazed with anger. The polymuf spoke again, but still in nonsense. My father shook him, with force enough to send his legs skittering across the polished boards but not letting go of his hair. The polymuf howled. My father said:
“I have a gift for you, polymuf. Tell me who put you up to it and you die quickly. It is a good reward. I do not think you care for pain.” He shook him a second time, a dog with a rat. “There was another. Was there not?”
“Yes!” the polymuf cried. “Yes, Lord . . .”
“Name him.”
“Not a man. It was . . .”
My father dragged him upright and stared into his face. “Do not say it was the Spirits or I will not keep my temper.”
“Not the Spirits. It was . . .”
I thought I grasped the words but he spoke so badly I could not be sure. And it made no sense. My father said:
“Say again.”
“Your Lady, Lord.”
“You fool!” my father shouted. “Are you saying my Lady told you to light the torch that burned her? You get no gift for that. You will . . .”
“Your other Lady, Lord!” My father’s hand dropped from him as though it too was scorched with flame. “She who lives on the River Road.”
• • •
At first my Aunt Mary denied everything, claiming that the story was an invention of the polymuf to save himself from torture. But when she was confronted by a farm worker, who had seen her coming away from the polymuf’s hut, she fell silent. Thereafter during her trial she did not speak, not even when the sentence of death by burning was pronounced on her. I was in the court and saw her eyes go to my father’s but I do not think it was in appeal. It was his gaze that, after a moment, turned away. Her look followed him while she was being taken off by the guards.
The execution was fixed for the next day. That evening I had word that she wished to see me. It was her polymuf servant, Gerda, who brought it. She had been weeping, it was plain, and wept again when I hesitated.
“Master Luke, I beg you! For a few minutes only.”
I had never heard my aunt give her anything but scoldings, but her grief might have been for a mother. That by itself would not have persuaded me to go. It was my aversion which did so. I had felt for my aunt, since I heard the accusation that spilled from the lips of the crouching polymuf in the Great Hall, both horror and a kind of fear. I would not give in to this. I told the maid I would see her.
The Sergeant of the prison guard demurred at first about admitting me. When he did, he accompanied me to the cell and himself stood there while we talked. From time to time he cast my aunt uneasy glances, as though fearing that, although unarmed and helpless, she could by some witch’s art strike me dead.
She looked very old in the gray shapeless felon’s gown. And feeble, though I knew she had not been put to torture. But her eyes were as sharp and strong as ever; and her mind had not budged from its single concern. She asked me:
“Where is Peter?”
“Under guard.”
“What will they do with him?”
I hesitated. In fact, I did not know. There had been no evidence to link him with the crime but to some it was condemnation enough that it had been done for his sake. Others said that even if not treacherous in the past he could not be trusted now, the son of such a mother.
My aunt said: “Speak for him, Luke.”
I said: “It was me you wanted dead, Aunt, wasn’t it? Not my mother.”
She shook her head, as though impatient, almost angry, at an irrelevance. She said:
“Peter knew nothing of it. You must believe that.”
“You wanted me dead.”
Her eyes met mine, unwavering. “Only because you were named heir. There was no right in it. My son is the elder, born in wedlock.”
“The Spirits named me.”
“There was no right in it,” she repeated.
“You would do it again, if you could.”
I did not say that as a question, although in my mind still it was a question. I could not believe that she had tried to kill me. She looked at me.
“Yes.”
“And you ask me to speak for Peter?”
“They are burning me tomorrow. Is that not enough? And Peter saved your life in the hunt.”
“To your regret.”
“No. I would not have him different from what he is.”
“But were ready to kill to make him heir.”
Weariness for a moment showed through her determination. She said:
“What he is and what I would do for him are different things. I will pay for my part, in the morning. Speak for him, Luke.”
• • •
I went to my father from the prison and asked him to release Peter. It was not because of my aunt’s plea. (She had only made this to me as a last resort; she had asked to see my father but he had refused.) Except in her reminder that Peter had saved me from the polyboar. By speaking for him now I could cancel that debt and make us quits.
My father listened in silence then, but ordered Peter’s release the next day, as soon as the burning was over. I did not go to see it. My father did, and sat, I was told, like stone.
It was not a long one; he had made sure of that. The people cheered, for his safety and the destruction of his enemy. The only trouble came from the Christians. They opposed the taking of life, even in battle or the execution of murderers, and always made a nuisance of themselves on such occasions. The people pelted them with filth and abused them. And one who called the Prince a murderer was taken by the guards. He was tried later but only condemned to the stocks for a day. The Christians, it was well known, were all mad, and no one took them seriously.