Free Heaven's Fire by Patricia Ryan

growing impatience with his men, “in case she seeks him out.”
    Pigot stared him down, his eyes like chips of ice. “The thought had occurred to me.”
    Wiley said something that prompted his friend to whisper, “Shh!”
    Turning to face the two men, Pigot reached into his satchel. “You,” he said to Frick.
    “Me?”
    Pigot withdrew a small, curved knife, which glinted in the late afternoon sun. The big man backed away, his eyes wide. “Wait, I—”
    “Hold him down,” Pigot ordered Frick, pointing toward the smaller man.
    The two villeins looked at each other, Wiley shaking his head, Frick wearing a dumbfounded expression. “Sir Roger?” the big man said. “What... what should I—?”
    “Christ,” Hugh muttered. “Sir Roger, don’t let him—”
    “ Now! ” Pigot commanded, advancing on the two men.
    “Uh, Pigot,” Sir Roger began, “must you really—”
    “ Don’t call me that! ” Pigot roared, whirling on the obese knight, the knife upraised.
    Sir Roger, clutching the little dog, stumbled backward. “Do it!” he ordered Frick, who hung his head, then nodded grimly.
    Wiley tried to run, but Frick overtook him easily. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.” Seizing his friend’s arms, he muscled him to the ground and held him down for Pigot. “Be quick about it, all right?”
    “ No! ” the little man screamed as Pigot straddled his thrashing legs and pried his mouth open. “ No! ”
    “Sir Roger!” pleaded Hugh. “For God’s sake!” But the knight only shrugged helplessly and squeezed Detinée against his chest.
    Wiley’s screams tore through the woods. Pigot, his back to Hugh, made an abrupt movement. Frick turned his head, his face contorted in anguish, as the screaming was replaced by an eerie, guttural moan.
    Pigot rose and crossed to Sir Roger, holding something outstretched in his bloody hand. “Here.”
    The astonished knight accepted the offering, which Detinée sniffed at eagerly. With a cry of disgust, he flung it away. The little dog leapt from his arms in zealous pursuit of the morsel. “No, Detinée!” Sir Roger shrieked as the dog pounced on Wiley’s tongue and swallowed it whole.
    Pigot retrieved a scrap of linen from his satchel, cleaned the blade carefully, and put it away. Then he washed his hands in the river. Rejoining Sir Roger and Hugh, he glanced toward Frick, cradling Wiley in his arms and stuffing a rag in his mouth. “He didn’t need that tongue. They’re a nuisance in a villein.” He held his hand out to Roger Foliot. “Half now, correct?”
    “Half? Ah. The payment.” With a trembling hand, Sir Roger withdrew a sack of silver from beneath his mantle and handed it to Pigot. “A pound sterling.” Pigot poured the coins into his palm and counted them.
    Sir Roger cleared his throat. “You’ll get the other pound when you bring her back.” He puffed out his stout chest. “With her face intact.”
    Pigot pinned the obese knight with an unblinking stare.
    “Please,” Sir Roger added sheepishly.
    The corners of Pigot’s mouth turned up in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t I always bring them back?”
    “Aye, but—”
    “And I’ll bring this one back, as well.”
    “Aye, but I don’t want her—”
    “Good day, Sir Roger... Master Hest.” He turned and began walking away.
    Sir Roger sighed heavily. “Good day, Pig—” He winced. “G-Good day.”
    Pigot paused, his head cocked to the side as if he were contemplating something; then he continued on his way.
    *   *   *
    “But what of Plato?” challenged a familiar voice from within the multitude of black-clad scholars crowded into dimly lit St. Mary’s Church. Rainulf sighed and rested his elbows on his lectern as Victor of Aeskirche, always overeager for confrontation, climbed onto his bench and planted his hands on his hips. “This ‘conceptualism’ of yours—this notion of universals as mere words—is in direct opposition to Plato’s teachings.”
    “Had you