Campion had her back to the Tower gateway. She heard hooves behind her, but did not see the four horsemen who crowded the archway. Their boots, jackets, and orange sashes were spattered with mud as though they had ridden a long way. The presence of the four strange horses made the carthorse jerk to one side, restless because of the noise, and Campion mistook the lurch of the cart for the beginning of her journey. She spoke at last. Her eyes were shut, but her voice rang out loud and clear in the small courtyard, “‘Our Father which art in heaven.’” She had planned to shout this from the stake, but the clawing noise of the mob warned her she would not be heard. Nevertheless she wanted these men to know that they burned an innocent woman. “‘Give us this day our daily bread.’”

“Stop!”

The voice was huge and harsh, deep and cruel. She would not stop. She could hear Faithful Unto Death screaming blasphemy, but she went on with the prayer. “‘And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.’” She steeled herself for the cart to move, for the wash of hatred from the crowd. The captain was still beside her. “‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.’”

“Amen.” The harsh voice mocked her.

She opened her eyes to see a mounted soldier who had forced his way beside the cart. He was in leather and steel, one gloved hand restraining his big horse, the other holding one of the cart’s upright poles. He looked at her with a face more terrible than any she had ever seen. He had a steel-gray beard that framed a cruel, wide mouth. One eye, surrounded by the lines of middle age, seemed to mock her, while the other eye, his right, was covered with a leather patch, but a patch unlike any she had ever seen. It covered not just his sightless eye, but also most of his cheek and forehead, and it disappeared under his steel helmet. There was something utterly terrible and savage about the man, as if he was the kind of human beast unleashed by warfare. He easily dominated the gateway’s courtyard. “Is this the witch?”

The captain was still in the cart. “Yes, sir.”

The bearded, scarred man felt in his pouch and handed a scroll to the captain. “This is a warrant for her.” The captain took it, unrolled it, and Campion saw a great red seal hanging from a short ribbon. The captain frowned.

“You’re Colonel Harries, sir?”

“No, I’m the King of Spain. Who in God’s holy name do you think I am?”

The captain stepped back from the blast of savagery. He looked at the warrant again. “It seems to be in order, sir.”

“Seems? You bastard! Seems? Are you doubting it?” Colonel Harries put a leather-gloved hand on a battered sword handle. “Is it all right, you filth, or is it not?”