Down below, the excitement was growing. Some whistled, and some called foul names, and one threw a soft fruit, which fell short, thudding down between the logs. People were arguing. The guards were struggling to hold the crowd back. I could see Margery now, just behind Megan, her face running with tears. She was shouting, but I could not hear the words. The drum began again, and I thought stupidly, now a whistle, and a fiddle, and dancing. The guards who held my things were standing at the foot of the pyre. One of them threw the spindle, and the distaff, and the small loom onto the pile. I heard the cracking as they landed and splintered. The guard with the basket hesitated, looking at me. It was the same man who had brought me blackberries in my tiny cell, when I had thought myself without a friend in the world.

“Make haste, man,” said Richard testily.

His hands, I thought, are itching to pick up that torch. In the west, the clouds had the faintest rim of pink. A little wind rose, sending leaves scurrying across the courtyard. People started putting on their cloaks.

Please. Please put them in my hands. Oh, please. The guard could not hear me; I tried to speak with my eyes, with my heart. He lifted up the basket. Just a little closer, I cannot reach. Please, oh please.

“No need for that,” said Richard sharply. “Just toss them on the fire with the rest. All must burn.”

But the man stepped up onto the ash logs, and higher, and lifted the basket onto the ledge beside my feet, and I gripped it with both hands like a lifeline.

“What are you doing, man?” Richard snapped. “Step down, unless you, too, wish to burn.” The man glanced at him, and at me, and his honest eyes showed both compassion and distaste.

“Last time you catch me doing this job,” he muttered. “Only a youngster, she is.”

He took his time to climb back down, while Richard’s fingers twitched with impatience. The last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon. The wind came in little gusts, making the torches flare and fade, flare and fade. Leaves blew in circles on the ground. Whipped by that wind, the fire would burn hot.

Come now. Come now. Where are you?

I could hear nothing, nothing but the howl of the rising wind, which blew strangely, this way and that. It tugged at the basket in my hands. Richard was making his way down the steps. The wind whipped at his tunic and ruffled his neatly combed hair. The torches blazed.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd. I closed my eyes. Now. It must be now. Hurry. The people were waiting, waiting as Richard walked steadily to the foot of the pyre, where the small torch burned in its holder. They were silent. Then, bright, clear and innocent through the dusk, a child’s voice rang out. “Look, Mother! Look up there!”