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It was apparent, right from the start, that it was going to be difficult. They had decided to light the straw beneath Stirling first; but, of course, the surface had been well doused with the water hurled over his face. Much cursing and apportioning of blame commenced, until the grandfather barked his orders and several men laboured to replace the dampened lumps of straw beneath Stirling with some from Richard’s pyre. All the while, Richard watched in abject horror. He would have screamed if he thought it would do any good. His dad, as stoic as ever, stared straight ahead, never flinching, perhaps having surrendered to the inevitable. Richard wanted to shout over to him, wrench him out of his catatonic state, but terror had gripped his throat, dug its claws in deep, severed any hope of
