You could not remember if you had locked the door, but you didn't dare to look up. The hourglass was running out.

Scarce moonlight peeked through the high arched windows at your back, casting the chapel in long shadows. The room was open and wide, the wall to your left richly decorated with fresco pictures, picturing holy things, good things. Your hand flew across the parchment at a frantic, maniacal speed as it traced patterns it had repeated a hundred times before. Your eyes were glossed over, not truly seeing.

Your hands were shaking as you dipped the quill in the inkpot and put it down. The following lines came out crooked, but once again the hourglass reminded you there was simply no time for perfection. Across the room, the door bounced on its hinges then slammed back down. Guards? Knights, perhaps, come to persecute you? You could almost feel the coolness of a metal blade at the back of your neck.

"Bona Deo date mihi bona fortuna, bona mens, bona spes," you prayed, the words spilling out of your mouth as newly formed cracks appeared on the concrete door. You had never been one to pray, a witch such as you, but you had relearned the foreign words somewhere along the way--- somewhere between the long spaces of silence left between Jehan and you during their travels, or perhaps somewhere within the short space of time you had caught Jehan whispering prayers fervently, not only for himself, but for you. For you, you repeated in your mind. He had prayed for you.

The floor quaked, and you were sure now that the sounds from the door were of a battering ram, cracking her spell apart bit by bit. The guards wanted in, desperately, and your time was up. "Damn it," you muttered shakily, and rose from the pew, hiding the page in your dress folds. You grabbed your basket and fled to a dark corner to wait.

The door tore from its hinges and smashed down onto the floor in a shower of wood shards.

It was quiet for a moment, then footsteps echoed on the hard floor as multiple pairs of armed men entered the chapel, torches in their hand. The commander of the soldiers stood by the now destroyed door.

Several more men searched the room, their footsteps drawing ever closer to the corner where you were hiding.

You tried to control your tremors, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum. They would find you. They would find you, and they would drag you out into the square, and tie you to a pyre, and you would burn, and Jehan would watch and think you a monster.

One of the soldiers entered the dark corner, shining a torch at the floor. He was followed by another soldier, who held a sword at the ready. If the first man stepped just a little closer, he would see you.

"I found something!" called one of the soldiers, and footsteps approached across the room. "What?" demanded the commander, stepping forward to see what his man was holding in his hands. One of the soldiers was holding her basket, filled with medicinal herbs. The guard holding it was looking at it with disgust, its contents spilling onto the floor. You knew what they would say, what it confirmed to them.

Witch, the men were thinking. Witch was written all over that basket.

"This is hers, alright." The guard holding the basket was examining its contents: vials filled with brightly colored liquids, dried flowers and withered herbs. "Witchcraft," he said with conviction. He started to poke the vials with his finger, making the liquids within them slosh around.

"Put that away!" the commander said, pushing him aside. He seemed very satisfied with the discovery they'd made. "Now all we need to do is find her alive," he said, glancing around the rest of the room. "Search everywhere. Leave no shadow unturned." The men nodded and spread out across the chapel, looking in every crack and crevice.

Only one man was still standing a few feet from your hiding spot. You could see the glint of his armored breastplate from the shadows. Even with his helmet on and the visor barely showing his eyes, you recognized the tall, armored figure as the man you loved, Jehan de Brienne, knight of the Holy Cross. A black, silken tabard was draped over his armor, the white cross at its center a sharp contrast against the darkness of the clothing. A golden cross, wrought and emblazoned at the back. Deep green eyes flashed.

Strands of his dark hair peeked out from underneath his helmet. You saw him as he walked through the pews, following after his fellow knights, his armor making only a few small clinking sounds as he did so. He always kept his armor well-oiled, and the sound of him making his way across the room was impossibly quiet. Jehan walked over to the altar and bowed just a few steps before it in a quiet signal of reverence. As he gathered himself up, his iron gauntlets lightly brushed against the feet of the idol of Mother Mary, at the front, holding baby Jesus, the crucifix above her. The action was automatic, almost thoughtless in how natural and practiced it was. It was so him, to show the utmost respect to the Mother Mary, always bowing, never raising his head, never raising his voice in church, always making sure to pay his blessings first before speaking to his men. If he raised his eyes now-- he would see you.