Révérend Père d’Amboise dug his staff into the hillside and took another step, dragging the hem of his dingy white cassock across the dirt. Not only did the sturdy wood support his aging spine, it acted as a scepter of his command lest the parishioners who followed behind him forgot who was in charge. The French priest would allow no rebellion during this tumultuous time of Protestant corruption and witchcraft, no matter how difficult the task or how beautiful the witch.
D’Amboise grunted with disgust, which startled the peasant leading the way and made his arm shake. The firelight of his torch flickered against the trees like dancing demons.
“Hold steady, you fool.”
“Sorry, father.”
D’Amboise dug in the staff and quickened his step. Just the thought of what was to come made him feel young again. Why should he chase pleasures of the flesh when righteous execution could provide the same excitement and satisfaction?
When they crested the hill, d’Amboise continued to his platform without so much as a glance at the girl staked to the pyre.
“You can’t do this to me,” Colette cried to the villagers. “I’m innocent. The reverend is not a man of God. He’s a monster. Please listen to me. Someone help me. Please.”
A child screamed and a woman cried, but d’Amboise refused to look. He knew who they were just as he knew they could do nothing to stop what was about to happen. The villagers feared witchcraft almost as much as they feared him. Colette Richard would burn.
D’Amboise thumped his staff against the wooden platform and waited for silence. “We gather tonight to execute the will of God.”
“Blasphemer,” cried Colette, causing the crowd to grumble.
“Gag the witch,” a man yelled, followed by numerous cries of agreement.
D’Amboise nodded his approval. “Yes. Gag the witch. Evil has walked among us disguised as beauty long enough, speaking lies and tainting every woman, child, and man in Hameau de Vieille Forêt.”
Women moaned. Children whimpered. Angry men, who had probably lusted after Colette for years, shouted for her death.
D’Amboise breathed in the glory of the moment. “Take heart, my children. There is nothing to fear. The witch has made herself known to me.”
He gestured to the pyre and gasped.
Colette had never looked more alluring than she did in that moment, with her lovely face tipped back by the tightly knotted gag and her long, creamy neck exposed as if for a lover’s kiss. Her auburn hair draped like silk down the sleeves of her white gown while the coarse fiber of the ropes dug into her slender form and accentuated every youthful curve.
D’Amboise exhaled slowly, taking care to keep his expression neutral. He couldn’t risk having anyone other than Colette and her family know the truth behind his actions.
He signaled to the peasant who had guided his way up the trail to light the pyre. When others advanced to do the same, a boy screamed and attacked the man nearest to him.
D’Amboise smiled. It pleased him to see Philippe suffer. Almost as much as it would please him to watch Colette burn.