“We challenged the Irishman, and he fled into the woods. The girl was apprehended. One of the men with me said he had heard them talking, earlier, but had not known who they were. They were speaking of men and arms and fortifications. Of the defenses of Harrowfield.”

“We will hear this man in due course. What of this Benedict you spoke of? Is he here to give his story?”

“He has no more to add,” said Richard quickly. “His tale tallies with mine. My men scoured the forest and did not find the Irishman. He escaped with valuable information. Information this girl passed to him.”

“Let us hear Benedict of Greystones,” said Father Dominic, ignoring him. I heard the men who guarded the door calling out for Ben under this rather grand name. Calling again. Calling a third time, after a pause. Father Dominic’s scribe got up and went to consult with the guards. Time passed, and there was a buzz of speculative chatter in the hall. I rubbed a hand across my eyes. I felt so strange, as if the room were dipping and swaying around me. The lamps were moving about like fireflies, and Richard of Northwoods had four eyes. I could remember feeling like this once before, on the day I was carried down the river by the current and nearly drowned. The day I met Red.

“He’s not here, Father,” said the young cleric. “They’re looking now. Can’t be found, that’s what they’re saying.” Richard let his breath out audibly. Father Dominic pursed his lips.

“Very well. I will hear from the others who were present that night. Do they corroborate this story?”

He was thorough. Surprisingly thorough, when you considered that he had only been invited to lend respectability to a hearing whose conclusion Richard himself had decided before it even began. We listened to three of Richard’s men telling how they found me in a compromising position, and how they sought my companion all night without success. There was still no sign of Ben. I thought perhaps, for Red’s sake, he will not speak against me, will not seek to speed my death. But he will not defend me either. He was quick to believe me guilty, as quick as the rest of them.

We heard another man tell how he had overheard me passing secrets to the foreign spy, information I could only have learned from my husband. It concerned weapons and outposts and the movement of men. There was no point in shaking my head, or trying to refute what was a complete fabrication. They would not understand me; few could. Besides, I sensed these proceedings could have but one conclusion.

One by one, people came in and said things and went out again. Father Dominic made notes in black ink, dipping and writing, dipping and writing. He had little deep-set eyes under dark forceful brows. Someone said they had seen me at night, dancing naked around a little fire. Someone said I had forbidden plants in my garden, herbs that no respectable person would allow anywhere near their kitchen; that I had tried to poison Mistress Margery, and it was a miracle her baby had survived. Who knew what the child would grow up to be, when the hands that brought it into this world were those of a sorceress? Someone said that, when I sewed up Lord Hugh’s leg, I left a little spell inside that worked its way slowly but surely up to the heart. A spell that bound him to my will for as long as I lived. It hurt to hear that. There were other accusations. They let me get up, once, and gave me a cup of water. I saw Lady Anne at the back of the room, white-faced and silent. A guard escorted my accusers in and out. It went on for a long time. I began to feel stranger and stranger, as if my head no longer belonged to my body. Then, for a while, it went black.