“Agatha, there is a way you may be spared the flames. Make full and public confession of your heresy, leave the beguinage, and marry. Your excommunication shall be lifted and you shall receive the Host publicly before all; then you will live out your full span as an obedient wife and faithful daughter of the Church.”

Osmanna lifted her head with an expression of such abject relief and gratitude upon her young face it seemed she would have hugged him if her hands had not been tied. He was watching her closely and triumph flickered in his eyes.

“Like the father of the prodigal son, your father has been most generous and forgiving, Agatha. He has offered a fine gift to the Church as a penance for your sins and he has already found you a suitable husband, a widower who has nobly agreed to take you of his charity.”

The look of fear was subsiding on her face. Like a drowning man feeling a rope pulling him to the shore, she saw that her rescue was assured. If she had only replied then, all would have been well. She would have agreed to anything they demanded of her. I could see from her face that she would have gladly wed the foulest ass in Christendom if it pulled her from the flames.

But D’Acaster chose that moment to lumber from the dais. He lurched drunkenly towards her and clapped a heavy hand on Osmanna’s shoulder to steady himself. She almost buckled under his weight.

“Never fear, girl. Your betrothed’s well past his prime. Old age has dimmed his sight, so be grateful he won’t see your blemishes. And if he still has the filthy appetites of lust, he can always ride his whore-bride in the dark.”

The crowd shrieked with laughter and Osmanna, her cheeks scarlet, hung her head in shame. The shock of the sentence had left her thoroughly cowed and if he had led her out there and then, she’d have followed him, meek as a nun. But D’Acaster, encouraged by the laughter of the villagers, spun Osmanna round to face them. He stood behind her, his arm around her waist and his mouth against her neck. He grabbed a fistful of his daughter’s hair in his hand, jerking it up and down like a small boy playing ride-a-cock-horse.

For an instant she seemed to go rigid. Her eyes widened in horror, then her face became a mask of pure hatred. I have never seen such a look on any maid’s face, not even on a man’s before he plunges in a dagger. Those closest to her stopped laughing abruptly, as if they too realised that something had changed. Despite her wrists being tied she jerked her elbow back, striking her father in his belly with such viciousness that D’Acaster loosed his grip on her and staggered backwards, gasping and clutching his side. She whirled around to the Commissarius.

“I will not marry and I will not receive the Host. If you want my life, you take it. For I’d rather die and burn in Hell for all eternity than owe my life to that man you call my father.”

She spat out the words with such force that every man in the room seemed to have the breath knocked out of him.

D’Acaster lurched towards her again and gave her a resounding crack across her face with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling against the dais. The crowd let out their breath in a roar of approval.

“I’ll send you to Hell myself, m’lady I knew from the first day I clapped eyes on you that you’d come to this. You were born under the Demon star, Lilith’s star. That evil queen of the night, that loathsome hag who fouls our wine and water with her woman’s blood and steals men’s seed while they sleep. And that devil’s whore, that… that… demon harlot marked you as her own. I tried to rid myself of your curse by fire with my own hand. I tried to make you pure like your sisters, but God saw the whore you were in the cradle and branded you with your fate.”

He hauled her to her feet and, spinning her round once more to face the crowd, tore down the front of her kirtle and thrust her at the gawping men. Her right breast tumbled out, small, white, and perfect, but it was not that that the men were staring at. It was her left breast, or rather the place where it should have been. Instead of a breast there was a fist-sized hollow in her chest, covered by puckered skin, scarlet as an open wound-the mark of Saint Agatha. The church was abruptly silenced.

“There, do you see, do you see it?” D’Acaster urged them, thrusting Osmanna towards them. He was clearly not getting the reaction he expected. Men stared horrified at the breasts, then averted their eyes, embarrassed and unnerved.

No one moved. As if to break a spell, the Commissarius stood and gestured to the man who had brought Osmanna into court to take her away.

“Leave her alone to think a while. I’ve known many a heretic more obstinate than she come to their senses when they’ve had time to reflect upon the agonies that await them at the stake. Did not the blessed Saint Paul himself say it is better to marry than to burn?”

Father Ulfrid laughed dutifully, but no one else joined in. All were trying to leave the church as fast as they could struggle through the doorway. The Commissarius, bellowing for his young clerk to follow, swept from the dais. As he drew level with me he stopped and leant towards me, his lips almost brushing my ear.

“Do not think this matter will end with her, Mistress. Father Ulfrid may be a fool and easily deceived, but I am not. I know there is more to be uncovered here.”

He drew himself away from me and addressed Father Ulfrid loudly enough for any left in the church to hear.

“Beguines are pernicious tares sown by the Devil to destroy the order of man and God. It was women that destroyed the order in the Garden of Eden-Lilith, Adam’s first wife, refusing to lie beneath her husband, and Eve seducing Adam into forbidden knowledge. Now they are hell-bent on destroying the very priesthood itself, and with it the Holy Church and all Christendom. They will drag you to Hell with them if they can. I caution you not to suffer them to take root here, lest all you hold dear is destroyed and thrown in chaos.”

He stared back at me one last time then strode from the church, pushing men aside as he elbowed his way through the crowded doorway.

THE SHUTTERS RATTLED in the casement of the chapel. I thought of that cold prison where Osmanna was lying at this very moment. I tried to imagine her thoughts, the terrors that must be filling her head. Yet when I left her she hadn’t cried or pleaded. She had stood there, arms at her sides, watching the door close.

It wasn’t a calm resignation, more as if she was frozen, beyond speaking, hearing, or feeling. Her gaze had been empty, turned inwards on some revelation that seemed to consume her. I told the Marthas that I had spoken to her, but what in all truth had I really said? What could I have said? I should have told her to give up the life of a beguine and marry, but I had only to look at her to know that the argument was futile.

As for the sacrament, I’d urged her to take the Host before, in vain. Would my arguments have carried any more weight this time? And what if she had agreed to take the sacrament to save her life? If it had turned out to be a principle not worth dying for, a conviction not strong enough to sustain her through the flames, could I have persuaded her to that, knowing I would despise her for being so persuaded? Worse still, if it were to prove a belief so easily surrendered, then I had allowed the beguinage to be brought to this grave danger through nothing more than a young girl’s game. I would not, I could not, live with that.

Yet, if I couldn’t persuade her to recant, I should have strengthened her resolve. I should have comforted her. I should have told her that the fleeting pains of this fire would save her from the agonies of the eternal fires, that as a martyr she would rise straight to Heaven, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even convince myself that somewhere Heaven still existed. What if, after all, there was nothing and no one beyond the grave? If my prayers were not answered because there was no one to answer them? What if none of it mattered; if Host and wine, prayer and Mass, and everything we had worked for, had been nothing but mist blown away by the wind?