Stephen nodded, straightened up, raised his voice to a shout. 'I demand that before this court you deny your mistaken loyalty to the Pope and affirm your loyalty to the King, His Majesty Henry the Eighth, and your faith in his Holy Church of England.'

'I cannot do that,' the weary voice replied. 'I caution you that if you fail to repent now you will be found guilty of heresy to the Holy Church of England and you will be burned at the stake for your sins and burn hereafter in the everlasting torments of hell,' Stephen said in a shower of words like hailstones.

'I keep my faith,' Hildebrande said quietly. 'I await my cross.'

Father Stephen looked uncertainly towards Lord Hugh. 'Shall I wrestle with her for her soul?' he asked.

'She looks as if she has done enough wrestling,' the old lord said acidly. 'I'll sentence her, shall I?' Father Stephen nodded and sat down. Lord Hugh banged on the table with his stick. 'It is the judgement of this court that you are guilty of treason to His Supreme Majesty Henry the Eighth, and guilty of heresy to the Holy Church of England,' he said rapidly. 'Tomorrow morning at dawn you shall be taken from here to a place of execution where you will be burned at the stake for your crimes.'

Alys was writing blindly, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, watching the quill move up and down the paper. She felt Hildebrande's eyes on her, she felt the old woman willing her to look up, to exchange one look. She felt the weight of Hildebrande's need for the two of them to look into each other's faces once more, without deceit, without pretence, knowing what the other one truly was – as clear and as open as when Alys had been the little child in the garden and Hildebrande had seen the daughter she would never have. Alys knew that Hildebrande was waiting for one glance from her. One honest exchange of penitence, of forgiveness, of release.

Of farewell.

Alys kept her head down until she heard them carry the old woman out. She would not look at her. She never said goodbye.

In my dream I smelled the dark sulphurous stink of a passing witch and I pulled the smooth embroidered sheets up over my head and whispered 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us', to shield me from my dream, from a nightmare of terror. Then I heard shouting and the terrifying crackle of hungry flames and I came awake in a rush with a thudding heart and sat up in my bed and looked fearfully around the white-washed walls of my room.

The walls were orange, scarlet, with the bobbing light of reflected flames, and I could hear the deep excited murmur of a waiting crowd. I had slept too long, in my grief and confusion -I had slept too long and they had the faggots piled around her feet and they had already set them alight. I snatched for my cape and I ran barefoot through the open door of my chamber and out into the ladies' gallery, where the light was shining brightly through the coloured glass of the oriel window and the smoke was pouring in through the open casement where the women were gathered. Eliza Herring turned to me, one side of her face glowing with the brightness of the fire outside, and she said: 'We called you, but you were fast asleep. Come quick, Lady Alys, the flames have caught.'

I said nothing to her, but ran for the door, down the winding stairs and out into the courtyard.

They had set up a stake for her in the square stone-filled pit before the prison tower, and heaped small pieces of dry kindling at the base of the pile and faggots of wood, to burn brightly and strongly, at the top.

Before the fire were the soldiers and servants and Lord Hugh, Stephen the priest and my Hugo. But they had kept the townspeople away, afraid of their anger. Hugo turned and saw me in the doorway, my hair flying loose, my eyes glazed with fear. He put a handout to beckon me, turned to come towards me, but I was too quick for him.

I raced across the courtyard towards the fire, towards the flames, and I saw through the heat haze the white tortured face of Hildebrande. The wind was blowing from the west, a clean wind with the smell of rain behind it, and it kept the flames away from me. I scrambled, like a child rock-climbing, over the wide spread of kindling and then up the faggots to the central pole, and grabbed her thin, racked body around the knees, and then found my feet and pulled my self up, and held her around the waist. Her hands were bound behind her, she could not hold me. But she turned her face towards me and her bruised eyes were full of love. She said nothing, she was silent, as if she were at peace, like the quiet centre of a storm, as the flames came licking closer, all around us like the tongues of hungry serpents and I was choking in the swirl of smoke and dizzy with the heat and the terror.

Deep in my belly my baby churned and struggled as if he too could feel the heat, as if he too wanted, more than anything in the world, to live. I looked through the shifting heat haze of the smoke and saw Hugo's white, panic-stricken face turned towards me, and I tried to make my lips say 'Goodbye' but I knew he could not see me properly. His sight was too blurred, it is fading fast. He could not see me when I said to him 'Goodbye'.

I held firmly around her waist and tried to force myself to stand still like a woman with holy courage. It was no use. The bundles of dry wood beneath my feet were shifting, the flames were licking up from underneath. I stepped from one foot to the other in a foolish dance, vainly trying to spare my bare feet from the pain of burning.

'Alys! Jump!' Hugo yelled. He was beating at the flames with his cloak. Stephen was behind him, screaming for water to douse the fire. 'Jump off!' Hugo shrieked

The old lord was close behind him, his arms held out to me. 'Come down, Alys!' he shouted at me. 'Come away!'

Then Hugo flung himself past his father towards the flames and Stephen and some other men dragged him back. I saw them struggle with him, as I fretted from one frightened foot to the other and the heat fanned around me like the breath of a dragon. Through the heat haze I could see Hugo's face looking towards me, his mouth calling my name, and I saw in his eyes his terror of losing me and I knew then -for the first time perhaps – that he had loved me. And that for a little while – God knows only a little, little while – that I had loved him.

I turned my face away from him, away from the castle, away from them all. I leaned my head on her thin shoulder and tightened my arms around her waist. The flames had flickered up the back of the stake and the singed rope binding her hands behind her suddenly parted. Her broken, racked hand stroked my hair, I clasped the top of my head in her blessing. And even with the pain from my scalding feet and the heat of the smoke in my throat and the ceaseless, senseless thudding of fear all through me, I felt at peace at last. Because I knew at last where I belonged, and because I had found, at the very last, a love I would not betray.

The last thing I knew, even more powerful than my old constant terror of fire, was her arms coming around me and her voice. She said:

'My daughter.

Philippa Gregory

Philippa Gregory holds a doctorate from the University of Edinburgh for her research into eighteenth-century literature. She trained as a journalist and worked for the BBC, She lives with her family in West Sussex. Philippa Gregory is best known for her eighteenth-century novels, Wideacre, The Favoured Child and Meridon, which together make up the best selling saga of the Lacey family and are published by Penguin. Penguin also publish her novel Mrs Hartley and the Growth Centre. Her most recent novel is Fallen Skies. She has also written several children's books, Princess Florizella (Puffin 1989), Florizella and the Wolves and Florizella and the Giant.