Tiphaine looked around and realized the priest hadn’t overheard her conversation. Tersely she explained, and was reassured and oddly disturbed when the priest simply nodded acknowledgement.

Oh, damn. This sort of story is credible now. It’s good that he believes the truth but the truth is so Not Good.

“I think that we need to hallow and sanctify this land,” the cleric said thoughtfully. “And not bringing anybody vulnerable here sounds like a very good idea. In the future; I’m afraid I agree, this entire place should be destroyed and interdicted. Possibly burned over in the late summer when it dries out enough, for several years running.”

He turned and went to the other priests standing in the wind, as motionless as they might have been standing in the shade of an oak on a hot day, their hands tucked into the broad sleeves of their robes.

Disciplined, Tiphaine thought with approval.

As Father Lucien turned back to her the three paced the precincts, waving censers and sprinkling water, praying and chanting. One stood and sang the “Kyrie Eleison.” His powerful baritone fought the wind and rain. The other four picked up the descant and response.

Father Lucien signed the cross before her.

Did I just feel something from my amulet? Damn, but I’m not used to this. I don’t like it.

“Shall we pray for her soul?” he asked, between verses. “Christ died for us all. Even her.”

“I don’t know. She was born in the Church. She turned apostate and traitor for personal power. Probably about ten years ago. I could say her soul was stolen from her. With her permission, I think, but still.”

“It’s going to take a long time to reduce this to ashes,” observed Father Lucien. “I and my fellow priests will stay here, watch and make sure that all is consumed. And we will pray.”

Stratson cleared his throat. “Did you say you wanted to strip and bathe, Grand Constable?”

“Yes,” she said, and closed her eyes for an instant with a crushing weariness that made her bones ache. “Everything I have on goes on the fire. The bathwater to be poured out by the marsh; the towels on the fire.”

Father Lucien smiled at her. It was a small smile, and a bit tight. “Not taking any chances, I see, my lady Grand Constable.”

Tiphaine looked at her sword and sighed. She pitched it carefully into the center of the flames. It stood, quivering. Then she pulled off her helm and tossed it carefully to land at the foot of the blade, wincing as she thought of the cost of a new suit of plate armor. Stratson gave her reasonably knowledgeable assistance with the parts you simply couldn’t handle yourself. She turned to Lucien as she pulled off her right gauntlet. The scar stood out, inflamed, with a white rope of scar tissue down the center.