“Yes, sir! Yes!” The captain was horrified by the anger that bellowed at him.

“Then cut the bitch down and give her to me.” Harries twisted in his saddle. “Mason!”

“Sir!” One of Harries’s three men spurred his horse forward.

“See if the damned boat’s here.” He looked back to the captain who, astonished, had not moved. Harries smiled, not prettily, and his voice dropped, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Wellings, sir. Captain Robert Wellings.”

“Cut her down, Wellings, or I’ll cut your bloody entrails apart. Move!”

Wellings still held the warrant. He shifted it from hand to hand, obviously confused. He had no knife so, nervously, he half drew his sword. Harries exploded in wrath.

“Bastard! Has she put a spell on you?”

There was a scraping noise, a movement so fast that Wellings blinked, and Harries held his long sword. He looked at Campion. “Lean forward, witch. I said, lean forward!”

She strained ahead, stretching the thong that tied her to the cart. She heard the swish of the sword, she shut her eyes, and felt the passing of the blade at the back of her hair. She cried out, felt a jerk, and then Captain Wellings was steadying her. Harries had severed the thong without touching her and now he pushed the blade back into its straight scabbard.

“What is this? Who are you?” Wellings’s own colonel pushed through the soldiers. He was red-faced, sweating, angry at the delay. The crowd was chanting now, chanting for the witch to burn.

Harries held a hand out to Wellings. “The warrant.”

“Sir.”

Colonel Harries turned his single eye on the newcomer. “Who out of hell are you?”

The red-faced colonel frowned. “Prior.”

Harries looked round at the soldiers. “This is a warrant requiring the Papist witch to appear before the Committee of Safety. This,” he touched the seal, “is the seal of Parliament, put there this morning by the Speaker of the House of Commons. If any of you wish to dispute the warrant, tell me now!”

No one seemed likely to dispute anything with Colonel Harries, but Prior tried a feeble protest. “She’s to be burned this morning!”

“She can burn another morning.”

“But the crowd!” Colonel Prior waved a hand at the archway beyond which the baying and chanting was rising to frenzied pitch. The soldiers, guarding the roadway, were struggling against the mob’s impatience.

“Good God Almighty.” Harries leaned forward in his saddle. “In 1629, you worm, I held a fortress for nine months against the armies of the Holy Roman Empire. Are you telling me you can’t hold the Tower of London against a rabble of women and apprentices?” He looked at Captain Wellings. “Don’t stand there, filth! Take her off the cart!”

The soldiers, crowding the space between the outer walls of the Tower, muttered protests. As Wellings helped Campion forward the mutterings became louder and Harries stood in his stirrups. “Silence!” He looked about him, waiting for quiet. “You’re not damned children! You’ll see her burn, but not today!”