Trial of Fire Read Free Page A

Duke of Ayr. What brings you here? And on foot?’
    ‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ John tried again to sit up, but at the Bishop’s gesture, he settled once more. ‘I came to … to find you. I want to—’ He paused. Suddenly his deep desire to be instrumental in the freeing of his people seemed an exercise in self-indulgence. He’d already had an important role, and he’d forsaken Andrew to come here, and be a burden on the one man who—
    ‘You want to?’ McCauly prompted.
    ‘I want to help you, Your Grace.’
    ‘Help me?’
    ‘Yes. If you will allow it.’
    ‘Help me how?’
    And there it was, the moment he had been dreading. He knew when he left Maitland, even when he had first contemplated this pilgrimage, that he would have to confess this most secret of secrets. Though his body ached, he took a deep breath. ‘You have been working with Robert Douglas.’
    ‘Have I?’ McCauly was noncommittal.
    ‘Yes. And you’ve been writing books and papers, disseminating them throughout Lusara. You’ve been writing about sorcery and how the Church needs to question all we’ve been told about it. That there are questions about the old Empire and the Guilde’s ancient attitude to sorcery. That every priest must search his conscience and ask what it is we most fear, and how best we should address those fears. How simple prejudice only breeds more fear and hatred.’
    Surprised, McCauly sat back. He put the cup on the side table and laced his fingers together. His expression gave nothing away. ‘You have certainly kept up with your reading. So tell me, why would this make you want to join me?’
    ‘Because, Your Grace, I … I am a sorcerer.’
    There was nothing in McCauly’s gaze, not a hint in his movements; just a pause and no more. Then, abruptly, he got to his feet and moved away a little to poke at the fire. For the first time, John noticed the rest of the room, but he couldn’t take in details other than the warm ochre colours, the sparse furnishings.
    ‘You recall,’ McCauly began softly, ‘Everard Payne, Earl of Cannockburke?’
    ‘Of course, Your Grace.’
    McCauly turned and faced him squarely. ‘He told me you had been instrumental in aiding my escape from prison. He never actually said, but I had to assume the only way you could do so was to use sorcery.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace.’
    ‘For what? For having the courage to take such a risk on my behalf? If you’d been caught, Father, you would have been burned at the stake! And now you’ve come all the way here – on foot – to help me?’
    John was taken aback at the fierceness in the Bishop’s gaze. It lasted only a moment, then McCauly was calm once more, his hands folded again into his woollen sleeves. ‘By all means, Father, if you want to help, then I am not the man to dictate in what manner you give that help. For my part, I am glad to have the company of another priest. Tomorrow we will celebrate mass together. In the meantime, I ask that you get your rest. You will be sore tomorrow for your trouble.’
    As he turned to go, he paused, showing John his face in profile. ‘And you being here has given me the opportunity to thank you personally for your part in my rescue. You are indeed a very brave man, Father John, and our cause is the stronger for your joining it. Good night.’
    ‘Good night, Your Grace,’ he breathed into the silence. Then the door was closed behind the Bishop and John lay there with a grin on his face, his aches and his sore eyes completely forgotten.
    *
    John had no idea what time it was when he woke. There was some daylight, a few misty clouds, and a gusty wind that whistled under his door now and then, but beyond that, he could only guess.
    He got out of bed gingerly, his muscles protesting even that little effort. But he needed to relieve himself and was delighted to find a corner curtain hiding a garderobe. After that, he found a bowl of warmish water, a towel and some plain clothes – not