Heretic by Bernard Cornwell

into the small square. “There is nothing to worry about!” the consul announced to the crowd. “Our visitor is a friar. He is a man of God.”
    The small crowd dispersed. Twilight wreathed the church tower and closed about the castle’s battlements. A man of God had come to Castillon d’Arbizon and the small town was at peace.
     
    T HE MAN OF GOD ate a dish of cabbage, beans and salt bacon. He explained to Father Medous that he had made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain to pray at the tomb of St. James and now he was walking to Avignon to fetch new orders from his superiors. He had seen no raiders, English or otherwise.
    “We have seen no English in many years,” Father Medous replied, making a hasty sign of the cross to avert the evil he had just mentioned, “but not so long ago they ruled here.” The friar, eating his meal, appeared not to be interested. “We paid taxes to them,” Father Medous went on, “but then they went and now we belong to the Count of Berat.”
    “I trust he is a godly man?” Friar Thomas asked.
    “Very pious,” Father Medous confirmed. “He keeps some straw from the manger at Bethlehem in his church. I would like to see that.”
    “His men garrison the castle?” the friar demanded, ignoring the more interesting topic of the baby Jesus’ bedding.
    “Indeed,” Father Medous confirmed.
    “Does the garrison hear Mass?”
    Father Medous paused, obviously tempted to tell a lie, then settled for a half-truth. “Some do.”
    The friar put down his wooden spoon and stared sternly at the uncomfortable priest. “How many are they? And how many of them hear Mass?”
    Father Medous was nervous. All priests were nervous when Dominicans appeared, for the friars were God’s ruthless warriors in the fight against heresy and if this tall young man reported that the folk of Castillon d’Arbizon were less than pious then he could bring the Inquisition and its instruments of torture to the town. “There are ten of them in the garrison,” Father Medous said, “and they are all good Christians. As are all my people.”
    Friar Thomas looked skeptical. “All of them?”
    “They do their best,” Father Medous said loyally, “but…” He paused again, evidently regretting that he had been about to add a qualification and, to cover his hesitation, he went to the small fire and added a log. The wind fretted at the chimney and sent a back-draught of smoke whirling about the small room. “A north wind,” Father Medous said, “and it brings the first cold night of the autumn. Winter is not far off, eh?”
    “But?” The friar had noted the hesitation.
    Father Medous sighed as he took his seat. “There is a girl. A heretic. She was not from Castillon d’Arbizon, God be thanked, but she stayed here when her father died. She is a beghard.”
    “I did not think the beghards were this far south,” the friar said. Beghards were beggars, but not just any importunate folk. Instead they were heretics who denied the Church and denied the need to work and claimed all things came from God and therefore that all things should be free to all men and women. The Church, to protect itself against such horrors, burned the beghards wherever they were found.
    “They wander the roads,” Father Medous pointed out, “and she came here, but we sent her to the bishop’s court and she was found guilty. Now she is back here.”
    “Back here?” The friar sounded shocked.
    “To be burned,” Father Medous explained hurriedly.
    “She was sent back to be burned by the civil authorities. The bishop wants the people to see her death so they know the evil is gone from among them.”
    Friar Thomas frowned. “You say this beghard has been found guilty of heresy, that she had been sent here to die, yet she is still alive. Why?”
    “She is to be burned tomorrow,” the priest said, still hastily. “I had expected Father Roubert to be here. He is a Dominican like yourself and it was he who discovered