Don Alfonso was feeling a different kind of heat. The screaming had long since stopped, and the company of halberdiers had pushed the villagers back into the church, the only stone structure in the entire village; the rest of the buildings were consumed in an orange inferno around him as his halberdiers ran about, putting straw roofs to the fire, while the remaining cavalrymen formed a perimeter around the village, making sure that no one could escape.

He stared at the door of the church, where just moments ago, the parish priest had herded in the entirety of his surviving flock. They were probably going to wait out the raid in there. The don heard the clanking of armor behind him, signaling Otto’s approach. His black armor had streaks of blood all over it.

“These Polacks are outrageous! They attack me with stones and… eh… hirtengauner, you know, the sticks they use for the sheep.”

“Do you mean shepherd’s crooks?”

“Ja, that’s right. An outrageous thing, is it not?”

“When you are desperate to defend your home you will do anything. Back in the Indies, a native even tried to bite me once.”

“What happened?”

“He broke his teeth on my armor then I disemboweled him.”

“Good work, mein Herr. Ah, yes, I should tell you that Oberst MacRae has arrived to assess the situation. He is on the outskirts of the village, away from the smoke – bad for the horses you see.”

“Of course, the horses.” Don Alfonso said as he turned to leave.

Otto patted him on the back as he left and planted his bloody broadsword in the dirt to lean on it. His long day of killing was finally over.

MacRae and Gunther waited on horseback just outside the village, just like Otto said, watching the smoke billowing from the rooftops with stern expressions on both their faces. As Don Alfonso approached, they turned their steely gazes towards him.

“Master Spaniard, report.”

“Sir, the villagers have been routed and have congregated inside the church. They should weather there until we complete our plunder and leave.”

MacRae’s brow furrowed, “How many villagers were left alive?”

“There were several dozens, perhaps. No more than thirty, sir.”

Gunther shook his head, “That is still too many. A single soul reaching a nearby fortress would be a disaster for the company.”

“Master Jaeger has a point. We shall weigh our options, but I want the opinion of all my senior captains. Master Jaeger, fetch Warwick out of bed.”

Gunther silently nodded as he turned his horse around and galloped back to camp. MacRae looked upon the destruction he had ordered.

“This is never easy, Master Spaniard.”

“I know it too well, sir.” Don Alfonso replied as he set his eyes on a flaming chicken coop that was slowly collapsing.

MacRae dismounted and tied his horse to the village signpost.

“Come, we have much to discuss with Master Koenigsherr.”

The two strolled through the dirt roads in silence as charred, blackened structures collapsed around them. A pile of unspoiled goods lay in the center of the village. Bales of cloth, cooking utensils, barrels of mead, and all sorts of useful things that had been appropriated from the villagers could now be used to aid Talbot Company on its campaign.

MacRae and Don Alfonso came upon Otto at the church, who was now busy trying to clean his sword with a raggedy shirt he had pilfered off a dead man.

“Guten Tag, meine herren.” Otto said as he wiped off the last bits of blood, “As you can see we have truly done well for ourselves. This should last the company for a good while. Shall we assemble the men to march?”

“Not yet, Master Koenigsherr; there still be the matter of that to decide.” MacRae said as he pointed towards the church.

“What of it, mein Herr? The villagers will surely move on from this place once we’ve left.”

“Move on to where, Master Koenigsherr? Their wretched hides will flee back to their master, the local lord, who will no doubt wreak vengeance upon us with his militia.”

“Are you suggesting that we slaughter them here and now?”

“Yes.”

“Inside that church, mein Herr?”

“Yes!”

“But… this is a church.”

“And you are a fuckin’ Protestant! Do ye really care about the lives of the people that ye were so callously slaying nary half an hour ago? Do ye really care about the fuckers that were trying to kill ye?”

“Mein Herr…”

“Ye were up to yer fuckin’ bridles in Catholic blood at Breitenfeld, Master Koenigsherr. Yer moral ground be about as high as the bottom of Loch Ness!”

Otto, firmly silenced, lowered his head and sheathed his sword. Gunther had just arrived from camp but had been standing around long enough to hear the entire exchange, especially since MacRae had the tendency to shout at the top of his lungs all the time. As he saw Otto being berated, he resolved not to let his friend be cowed,

“Oberst MacRae,” he said, breaking his long silence, “I fear that the burning of this building would have a significant impact on the morale of our Catholic troops, myself included.”

MacRae threw his hands up in the air, “This is war, man! Are ye daft or are ye a fuckin’ hypocrite? How many men begged Mary Our Blessed Mother to spare them before you cut them down? You, a fellow Catholic?”

Gunther said nothing.

“But suddenly we be here at this little church in a Polish village in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere and ye decide to grow a conscience? Well, fuck me! But, let it be said that I be not a tyrant – if the consensus of you men is that the church shall not be put to the flame, and we should let a Polish army ride up our arse ten miles down the road and fuck us till we all be dead in the cold ground, then let it be so.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Just as the group turned to leave, Warwick came into view, hobbling along on his crutches. Otto muttered “Scheiße” under his breath as the group walked up to meet him.

“What did I miss?” said the Englishman.

“Master Warwick. Good, a fourth voice to the madness.”

“I am not sure I follow, sir.”

“The German boys and I had achieved consensus on whether or not to burn down this here church, but that was when there were only three of us to vote. I will not tell ye what consensus we came to, so that yer opinion will be fair and unbiased…”

“Sir, this building is a house of idolaters and heretics.” he said, almost confused as to why anyone would not want to destroy it. “Burn it, or we will regret it immensely when the villagers leave this place and call for reinforcements.”

MacRae’s one eye shifted towards his German captains, “What in the name of Satan’s burning cock are we to do now? Our vote is two to two.”

“Herr oberst,” said Otto, “Did you not ride in with Kapitän Villanueva?”

“The Spaniard? Aye, that I did.” MacRae realized as he looked around, “But I discounted him since he not yet be a senior officer. It seems we shall have nary a choice but to garner his opinion on the matter. There he be.”

Don Alfonso stood yet again in front of the church doors. He could hear the murmuring of the scared villagers inside, and could faintly make out the sobbing of their children. The Polish priest was saying blessings in Latin, and he admired the way that these people clung to their faith in such a trying time.

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder.

“Master Spaniard.” MacRae said solemnly, “We require yer vote on a matter of grave importance.”

Don Alfonso turned to see four officers staring at him, as if they were waiting for something. The expressions of anxiety, impatience, and sorrow on their faces were easy to read.

There was a long pause, as if no one wanted to tell him what they were going to vote on. He could hear nothing but the crackling of the fire burning away at weakening timber and dry grass. Someone cleared his throat.

“Do ye see this church?” MacRae said, finally breaking the silence, “The men are not decided on whether or not we should spare it or raze it like everything else in the village.”

“Consider the fact, sir,” said Warwick, “That if these people were to be released, they would have nothing to eat, nowhere to sleep, and nothing to sustain them without the mercy of their lord. If that lord is far away, then they would have to undertake an arduous journey towards his manor, and upon arrival, they would be treated as refugees. I dare say, some of the more desperate ones would turn to banditry. All this is disregarding the fact that if a single villager informs merely a passing Polish patrol, our jolly group is in danger of being attacked from the rear, or on the way back.”

“If I may, Herr Villanueva,” interjected Otto, “These people are no longer a threat to us. It is true that they may wander but it is far more likely that they will stay here and rebuild. Who knows how long they have lived here, centuries perhaps. They would be loath to leave the homes where their fathers and grandfathers broke ground. Besides, consider that this is a house of God. Does not our Lord preach peace and goodwill, even amongst our enemies? And take heed, sir, these words come from a person whom your people consider a heretic.”

Don Alfonso weighed his options carefully: on the one hand, Warwick was right that they would be suffering more if they were allowed to live. It was especially true that a displaced peasant population could very easily turn into an angry mob to demand action from their local lord, something that no lord would ignore, especially in a time of war.

On the other hand, Otto had an equally valid point. They would still suffer, but in time they could make the land ripe again. And Otto was right; this was indeed the Lord’s house. It was obvious that a lot of love and care went into the construction of this building. It was easily the largest building in the entire village, and the best maintained. The Lord would surely strike down the man that dared to lay a hand on His sacred place.

The don stared at his boots in silent contemplation. Both his choices factored in the lives of a great many souls. If he spared the villagers, he potentially doomed Talbot Company, himself included, to an ambush. If he destroyed God’s house, he would be killing innocent people that by and large did nothing to deserve it.

“Your vote, sir.” Warwick said, impatiently.

“Señores…”

The officers leaned in closer.

“It is my personal belief that we are justified in burning down this village.”

Warwick and MacRae breathed sighs of resignation, while Gunther and Otto glared at him coldly.

“The lives of our men are far more useful to God’s cause than the lives of these peasants, and by sending them to Him, we will spare them the suffering of having to live their lives as squatters, refugees, and beggars in the streets.” The don almost choked on his own words.

“Jesus Christ be praised.” MacRae said with the slightest hint of sarcasm as he walked away, eager to have this day done and over with, “See that yer men attend to it, Master Spaniard.”

“Si, señor.”

Don Alfonso would not jeopardize the souls of his men in this heinous, blasphemous act. He had to be willing to do anything that he would order them to do, for such was the value of a true leader.

He turned towards the church and looked up at the simple belfry. The cross Christ had died on to save all the world stood above the flames in defiance of the destruction that raged around it. Soon it, too, would be nothing but black, smoldering ashes.

The Spaniard exhaled in great breaths, releasing his sorrow, as he went around the church to search for a piece of wood that he could use to start the fire. A large torch had fallen from an outdoor sconce and was still very usable. He did not deign to pick it up yet.

Removing one of his gloves, he traced his fingers along the wall of the sacred building. It was simple cobblestone, painted white, even between the cracks of the stone. The villagers had been meticulous.

He had once constructed a similar structure back in the East Indies, at the request of the local natives who had then recently fully accepted Christ as their savior. His church was made of limestone and mud brick, and it was not as large as this one, but it served its purpose. Every afternoon the faithful would stop all activity during the Angelus, proclaimed by the church bell. On Sundays, families would gather for the mass, and at times the congregation became so large that it flooded to the outside of the church, where fathers had to carry their little children on their shoulders. When the mass had ended, there would always be a large communal feast, where he was always invited to share in the natives’ bountiful harvest; such things must have happened here once, but they would never happen again.

Picking up the torch, he lit it on the embers of a nearby building, rolling it around gently, making sure that the flammable cloth came to a good roaring flame so that he would not have to do this again. The roof of the church was made of straw hatching and was perfect for burning.

As Don Alfonso raised the torch to let the flames eat away at the edges of the roof, he thought he could hear something inside the church. It was faint, but it was definitely there. It sounded like a little girl – she was not crying or speaking, but singing. It did not take long for others to join her, and soon the whole congregation raised their voices to the heavens in melodious song, even as the fire spread rapidly throughout the roof.

It was the Ave Maria.

Don Alfonso could not keep his eyes dry as he hurled the torch onto the rooftop of the building, causing the fire to spread faster. Soon, the singing turned to coughing, then choking, and finally when beams began to collapse, screaming.

The don turned away, as Peter did when he betrayed Christ, but chose to remain there while the church burned away so that he might burn the terrible deed into his memory as a reminder of his sin.

When night had turned to morning, and the flames had stopped, Don Alfonso still had not moved from his spot, even as the church behind him had turned to a burned down ruin, with the charred human remains of the villagers buried under the massive wooden beams that had crushed them, pinning them down as they burned alive.

The rest of Talbot Company had packed up during the night and was on the move. MacRae had ordered a few of Don Alfonso’s men to stay behind and watch him after they had left for the night, and now the colonel himself had come riding along with a fresh horse in tow for him.

“We be leaving this place, Master Spaniard.” MacRae said softly.

Don Alfonso nodded and mounted the horse that MacRae had brought him. He joined the caravan at a slow walk, staring at the burned-out rubble of the church he had put to the fire.

“Espere…”

Don Alfonso saw something sticking out of the rubble – a hand? Was it moving? The don leaped off of the horse and sprinted towards the ruin, hoping that there was probably someone he could save, someone he could apologize to, someone that could redeem him for his grave sin.

He grabbed the hand and pulled. The ash fell in a torrent from the figure – a stone statue of Our Lady of Sorrows had survived the fire, perpetually weeping for the sins of mankind, and his sins as well. The Virgin’s gaze seemed to implore him for mercy.

Why would you do this to your Mother?

Don Alfonso released the statue’s hand as tears streamed down his cheeks. He backed away, defeated, and started back towards his horse. Otto had held the reins for him while he went off. The rest of the caravan was a far ahead of them.

“I am sorry, mein Herr, but it had to be done.”