Page 168 of A Column of Fire

Titelmans began to speak to the crowd about truth and heresy. The man had no sense of the effect he had on people, Ebrima realized. Everything about him offended them: his hectoring tone, his haughty look, and the fact that he was not from this city.

Then Drike began to speak. Her treble rose above Titelmans’s shout. Her words were in French:

Mon Dieu me paist soubs sa puissance haute

C’est mon berger, de rien je n’auray faute . . .

It was the psalm the crowd had sung at Lord Hubert’s Pasture, the twenty-third, beginningThe Lord is my shepherd. Emotion swamped the crowd like a tidal wave. Tears came to Ebrima’s eyes. Others in the crowd wept openly. Everyone felt they were present at a sacred tragedy.

Titelmans was furious. He spoke to the executioner, and Ebrima was close enough to hear his words: ‘You were supposed to pull out her tongue!’

There was a special tool, like a claw, for removing tongues. It had been devised as a punishment for liars, but was sometimes used to silence heretics, so that they could not preach to the crowd as they were dying.

Egmont said sullenly: ‘Only if specifically instructed.’

Drike said:

. . . En tect bien seur, joignant les beaulx herbages,

Coucher me faict, me meine aux clairs rivages . . .

She was looking up, and Ebrima felt sure she was seeing the green pastures and still waters waiting in the afterlife of all religions.

Titelmans said: ‘Dislocate her jaw.’

‘Very well,’ said Egmont. He was of course a man of blunted sensibility, but this instruction clearly offended even him, and he did not trouble to hide his distaste. Nevertheless, he handed his torch to a man-at-arms.

Next to Ebrima, Matthus turned around and shouted: ‘They’re going to dislocate her jaw!’

‘Be quiet!’ said his mother anxiously, but Matthus’s big voice had already reached far. There was a collective roar of anger. Matthus’s words were repeated throughout the crowd until everyone knew.

Matthus shouted: ‘Let her pray!’ and the cry was repeated: ‘Let her pray! Let her pray!’

Evi said: ‘You’ll get into trouble!’

Egmont went up to Drike and put his hands to her face. He thrust his thumbs into her mouth and took a firm grip of her jaw, so that he could wrench the bone from its sockets.

Ebrima sensed a sudden violent movement beside him, then Egmont was struck on the back of the head by a stone thrown by Matthus.

It was a big stone, aimed well and hurled hard by a strong seventeen-year-old arm, and Ebrima heard the thud as it hit Egmont’s skull. The executioner staggered, as if momentarily losing consciousness, and his hands fell from Drike’s face. Everyone cheered.

Titelmans saw the event slipping from his control. ‘All right, never mind, light the fire!’ he said.

Matthus shouted: ‘No!’

More stones were thrown, but they missed.

Egmont took back his torch and put it to the firewood. The dry sticks blazed up quickly.

Matthus pushed past Ebrima and ran out of the crowd towards Drike. Evi shouted: ‘Stop!’ Her son ignored her.

The men-at-arms drew their swords, but Matthus was too quick for them. He kicked the burning wood away from Drike’s feet then ran away, disappearing back into the crowd.

The men-at-arms came after him, swords raised. The crowd scattered before them, terrified. Evi wailed: ‘They’ll kill him!’

Ebrima saw that there was only one way to save the boy, and that was to start a general riot. It would not be difficult: the crowd was almost there already.

Ebrima pushed forward, and others went with him, surging around the now-undefended stake. Ebrima drew his dagger and cut the ropes that bound Drike. Albert appeared and picked her up – she did not weigh much – and they disappeared into the crowd.