THIRTY-SIX
Siward rode up to the castle gates, sore, weary and soaked from his dip in the river. In the square, the townspeople were lighting bonfires for St John's Eve, as they did every year. He could even see the wicker man on one, a tradition that had its murky origins deep in the past. Something to do with fertility, was all he could remember. Perhaps that's why it looked so much like a woman, her skirts billowing in the rising smoke.
The bonfire caught, illuminating the figure, who was struggling to free herself from her bonds. Not wicker. A real, live woman.
"Stop them," the leaves on the trees whispered. "Don't let me burn."
Rosamond.
Siward slid from his horse, and shoved his way through the crowd. The flames leaped high above his head, but they had not touched her yet. I
