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were massed so thickly round execution hill it would take an hour to wade through. And high on the hill they could see twenty bodies already dangling on nooses.

‘Come on,’ said Charlie, not willing to give up. ‘We can’t see the pyre. It hasn’t been lit.’

’We’ll never make it,’ said John.

‘We have to. Elizabeth Fitzgilbert is innocent. I’ll not have her death on my conscience.’

‘Why doesn’t she protest her innocence?’ gasped John. ‘She let us think she was guilty.’

‘Because she thinks she has sinned against God. And will only believe she’s forgiven if He saves her.’

‘Maybe He will.’

‘It’s not been His way so far,’ said Charlie, shoving through the crowd.

He pushed past a burly fishwife.

‘I’ve waited since noon!’ she shrieked. ‘You’ll not cheat me of my view!’ She lunged unsuccessfully at Charlie’s coat. Others in the crowd began to turn and shout now, as Charlie and John bludgeoned their way through. People formed ranks, barring their path.

Then a mighty cheer went up.

Charlie felt his stomach drop.

‘They’ve lit the pyre,’ he said grimly.

A winding line of smoke drifted up on the horizon. Charlie felt his blood turn to ice. They were too late. Elizabeth was aflame.

He looked at the bank of people crammed in ahead of them. At the smoke in the distance. There was no way they could save her.

Horror coiled in Charlie. Any moment now, they’d hear her screams.

Something splashed against his arm. Then again. Charlie looked down distractedly.

‘I don’t believe it.’ He turned to John. ‘Rain.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Confusion rippled through the crowd. Spatters of rain were falling faster now. Some of the bystanders began to break away, covering their heads, heading for shelter. As the crowd thinned, a pathway opened up. Charlie and John made for the smoking pyre.

‘’Tis God’s doing,’ Charlie heard a woman say.

‘That or witchcraft,’ said a man. ‘But the executioner will get that pyre burning. Rain or no rain.’

Yet the rain will slow him down, thought Charlie.

They made their way through the people, some of whom were scattering in all directions. Others were taking advantage of the weather to occupy a better spot near the front.

John and Charlie shouldered forward until the low mound of wood came into view. The people were crammed in tighter here. Die-hard execution-goers.

Charlie made out Elizabeth’s tall body, strapped to the central post. The executioner was at the base of it with a bellows, reigniting the smouldering flames.

Charlie reached the pyre, pushing aside a scrawny man and his enormous wife. Elizabeth met his eye and her face flowered in hope.

The rain seemed to be easing. People in the crowd began shouting for Charlie to get back from the pyre. The executioner stood with his bellows still in hand. He made towards Charlie, ready to push him back.

‘Elizabeth Fitzgilbert is innocent!’ shouted Charlie. The executioner hesitated. A few bystanders murmured uncertainly.

‘But the murderer is here today!’ added Charlie, taking a gamble that the drama of an accusation would work.

Several eyes swung to Fitzgilbert at his wife’s side. His mouth worked comically. A few other women were glaring at Lord Gilbert. His prostitute took a considered step backwards. He lowered the tankard and his hand moved to the heavy sword at his hip, drink-dulled eyes wary.

The executioner stood, temporarily forgetting his role to fan the flames. The fire sizzled and began to die beneath the rain.

‘There was a fair trial,’ he said. ‘You’ve nothing to prove what you say.’

‘I have the thimble,’ said Charlie, ‘stolen from the dead girl’s body. And the weapon used to cave in her skull.’

A thrill went through the remaining crowd. This was worth hearing.

‘Show me,’ demanded the executioner.

‘They’re both here in front of us,’ said Charlie. ‘The killer holds the murder weapon in his hands. But the thimble is no longer a thimble. It was cut to make a ring.’

Elizabeth’s mouth was moving in prayer.

‘Puritans give silver thimbles for engagements,’ continued Charlie. ‘I couldn’t understand how they could justify it. With a ring for the ceremony as well. Then I realised. The thimble doesn’t stay a thimble. It becomes the wedding band.’

He paused.

‘On the wedding day they slice off the top,’ he concluded, ‘and make it a ring.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Waste not, want not.’

Charlie pointed.

‘Her killer,’ he continued, ‘was in love with her. He had Nancy’s ring in his hanging pocket. But he couldn’t resist wearing it for Elizabeth’s execution.’

Charlie stepped towards the vicar.

‘He has the ring,’ said Charlie. ‘On his wedding finger. And he carries the sacrament.’ Charlie pointed to the large metal cross the vicar was holding, its base flat and heavy like a candlestick.

‘That was what he used,’ continued Charlie, ‘to murder Nancy.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

Confusion rippled through the crowd. Spatters of rain were falling faster now. Some of the bystanders began to break away, covering their heads, heading for shelter. As the crowd thinned, a pathway opened up. Charlie and John made for the smoking pyre.

‘’Tis God’s doing,’ Charlie heard a woman say.

‘That or witchcraft,’ said a man. ‘But the executioner will get that pyre burning. Rain or no rain.’

Yet the rain will slow him down, thought Charlie.

They made their way through the people, some of whom were scattering in all directions. Others were taking advantage of the weather to occupy a better spot near the front.

John and Charlie shouldered forward until the low mound of wood came into view. The people were crammed in tighter here. Die-hard execution-goers.

Charlie made out Elizabeth’s tall body, strapped to the central post. The executioner was at the base of it with a bellows, reigniting the smouldering flames.

Charlie reached the pyre, pushing aside a scrawny man and his enormous wife. Elizabeth met his eye and her face flowered in hope.

The rain seemed to be easing. People in the crowd began shouting for Charlie to get back from the pyre. The executioner stood with his bellows still in hand. He made towards Charlie, ready to push him back.

‘Elizabeth Fitzgilbert is innocent!’ shouted Charlie. The executioner hesitated. A few bystanders murmured uncertainly.

‘But the murderer is here today!’ added Charlie, taking a gamble that the drama of an accusation would work.

Several eyes swung to Fitzgilbert at his wife’s side. His mouth worked comically. A few other women were glaring at Lord Gilbert. His prostitute took a considered step backwards. He lowered the tankard and his hand moved to the heavy sword at his hip, drink-dulled eyes wary.

The executioner stood, temporarily forgetting his role to fan the flames. The fire sizzled and began to die beneath the rain.

‘There was a fair trial,’ he said. ‘You’ve nothing to prove what you say.’

‘I have the thimble,’ said Charlie, ‘stolen from the dead girl’s body. And the weapon used to cave in her skull.’

A thrill went through the remaining crowd. This was worth hearing.

‘Show me,’ demanded the executioner.

‘They’re both here in front of us,’ said Charlie. ‘The killer holds the murder weapon in his hands. But the thimble is no longer a thimble. It was cut to make a ring.’

Elizabeth’s mouth was moving in prayer.

‘Puritans give silver thimbles for engagements,’ continued Charlie. ‘I couldn’t understand how they could justify it. With a ring for the ceremony as well. Then I realised. The thimble doesn’t stay a thimble. It becomes the wedding band.’

He paused.

‘On the wedding day they slice off the top,’ he concluded, ‘and make it a ring.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Waste not, want not.’

Charlie pointed.

‘Her killer,’ he continued, ‘was in love with her. He had Nancy’s ring in his hanging pocket. But he couldn’t resist wearing it for Elizabeth’s execution.’

Charlie stepped towards the vicar.

‘He has the ring,’ said Charlie. ‘On his wedding finger. And he carries the sacrament.’ Charlie pointed to the large metal cross the vicar was holding, its base flat and heavy like a candlestick.

‘That was what he used,’ continued Charlie, ‘to murder Nancy.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘It’s a lie!’ The vicar’s face was an angry mask.

The executioner was moving towards him.

‘See the bevelled edge,’ said Charlie, as he pulled the ring roughly from the holy man’s finger. ‘The uneven top. It’s been cut.’

The vicar gave a high-pitched laugh. He held the sacrament closer to his body.

‘How could I do such a thing?’ he said.

‘You fell in love with Nancy,’ said Charlie. ‘She confided in you her relationship with Mistress Fitzgilbert and you convinced her she was possessed by the Devil. You went to the Fitzgilberts’ house to perform an exorcism on Nancy. You threw open the window,’ continued Charlie, ‘to let out the demon. And you had with you the murder weapon. The sacrament. A large cross with a heavy base. You would have found it easy to conceal the weapon.’

The vicar had paled.

‘It’s not true,’ he said. ‘Every holy man has a sacrament. And this is a silver ring, no more. Without the top no one can say …’

Charlie opened his mouth then shut it again. He flicked a glance at Elizabeth.

It’s up to you now, he thought, I’ll not tell if you don’t want it.

There was a pause. Then she spoke.

‘I have the top,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s around my neck.’

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd.

Elizabeth nodded to her husband. He untied the pouch of gunpowder from around her neck. Then he drew up the cord from beneath her dress. Attached was a domed silver medallion with the studded cross.

Fitzgilbert tugged it free and handed it to the executioner, who fitted it to the top of the ring. He held it up to the crowd triumphantly. Shouts rang out.

‘And how comes she by such a thing?’ accused the vicar loudly. ‘How does Elizabeth Fitzgilbert, a married lady, have part of a wedding ring for another woman?’

‘It’s no one’s concern,’ interjected Charlie, ‘if two women exchange tokens of affection. Girls are fond of such practices.’

A few women in the crowd were nodding. One lifted a lock of hair tied at her neck and kissed it. The tide had turned firmly in Elizabeth’s favour.

‘But you,’ Charlie pointed at the vicar, ‘killed an innocent woman.’

The cleric pursed his lips. His face reddened.

‘I never went to murder her,’ he whispered. ‘It was never my intention. I went to save her soul.’

‘But you couldn’t?’ guessed Charlie. ‘You couldn’t make Nancy stop loving her mistress?’

‘She was saying disgusting things,’ spluttered the vicar. ‘Things about Elizabeth. It was the Devil. He was speaking through Nancy. And I had to make her quiet. I had to …’ He squeezed his eyes tight shut. ‘I struck at the demon,’ he said. ‘But it was Nancy who fell.’

‘You didn’t just want to quieten a demon,’ said Charlie. ‘You wanted to black out Nancy’s beautiful face. You were so ashamed she’d tempted you. And you were angry that your exorcism had failed.’

‘She was a demon taunting me,’ said the holy man. His voice was tight with rage. ‘I can hardly say what happened. I just … I just kept hitting her.’

His eyes slipped