Lark sniffed and nodded in resignation. Turning, she picked the cat up and gave him a hug. Colin could see her shoulders heave with silent sobs as she did so and watched as she took the cat to the back door, uttered a quick spell of protection over him and whispered in his ear. When she put him on the ground he ran off as if he were being chased.
“Are you ready then?” he asked as she turned back to face him.
“Would it matter if I were not?” she asked.
He shook his head. “If you refused, I’d take you against your will.” Their eyes locked. “I’ll have no harm come to you, Lark.”
“I love you,” he screamed silently, but could not bring himself to say the words aloud. Not now. He watched as she threw a few more things in the bag and then grabbed her cloak.
She did not stop to ask where he got the horses. A very real sense of dread was growing in Larks’ chest now as she let Colin throw her up on the back of one of the horses.
“Hold on,” he said, and she nodded, locking her legs around the animal as he’d taught her do when they were children. For a moment she wondered if he remembered how he taught her to ride his gray pony when he was ten and she was seven. He did, and briefly enjoyed the recollection as he stood there watching her sit astride the black horse closely matching the one he was now mounting.
“We should follow the river upstream,” she said, and he nodded, for it was a good plan. The path to the river was clear, and the brush beside it wasn’t so thick that it would impede their travel. They could follow it for several miles and get back on the road only after they were safely away from town, hopefully before anyone noticed their absence.
Turning his horse’s head, Colin urged it forward, guiding the animal down the slope to the road. He turned back to see Lark on his heels, the traveling cloak pulled up to shield her face. When they were on solid surface, he spurred his mount to a gallop and Lark followed suit. The sky was even darker now, so dark in fact that it looked nearly night. It was a gloomy omen, but one Colin chose to ignore as he looked back once more to assure himself that Lark was still close by.
But when he looked forward again, his heart leapt into his throat. Ahead of them, the road was blocked by a group of men, some with lanterns, some with guns. He pulled his horse roughly to a stop, as did Lark who had also seen the men. But when they turned to go in the opposite direction they realized there were men on the other side as well.
The crowd of men was growing now, and surrounding them. The horses, as unnerved as their passengers, moved close together, snorting and pawing the ground. Colin turned and caught a glimpse of Lark’s frightened face peeking out from under her cloak. His pistol was by his side, but he had no time to load it, not that it would have mattered. All around them, men were now brandishing already loaded weapons.
The crowd parted now and a black-robed man stepped forward, the light of the lanterns gleaming off his black hair. His dark eyes were fixed on the couple and when he spoke his voice was deep and commanding.
“You cannot outrun the justice of the Lord,” he said. He turned to the crowd. “If someone would be so kind as to reclaim my horses?”
Several men stepped forward to take the reins of the horses as several others reached up to pull down the riders. Colin lunged towards the ones who had removed Lark from her mount, but was restrained from reaching them and watched helplessly as Reverend Fordham moved towards her, his hand outstretched towards her hood.
He pulled the hood from Lark’s face slowly, as if unwrapping a gift he’d been given. For a moment he regarded her in appreciative silence, his lips curling into a mocking sneer. “What darkness lurks beneath this fair light?” he asked, almost to himself.
“No darkness,” Lark said coldly. “To claim such exists would be a lie.”
He struck her then with such force that she collapsed and would have hit the ground were it not for the men holding her. With a cry of pure rage, Colin hurled himself at the preacher so violently that he broke the grip on the men holding him back. But he was restrained again before he could reach his target and the two men - now inches apart this time - regarded each other once more.
“Note,” he said to the crowd, “the effects of a bewitched man. “With but a look this little temptress has enticed him to steal for her, to assist her in escaping the just questions of a soldier of Christ.” He looked at Colin in disgust.
“Take him from my sight.”
Colin made to struggle but was subdued and hauled away, but not before looking over his shoulder at Lark, whose limp form was still slumped between the two men who held her. Fordham was approaching her again, and upon reaching her undid the clasp of her cloak and watched as the heavy fabric slid to the ground. Underneath she was dressed in a simple country dress, the bodice cinched tightly enough to accentuate the curves of her waist. Above the neckline, the creamy swell of her breasts flared enticingly before his eyes. Lark moaned, still dazed from the blow the preacher had given her. Reaching out a finger, he tilted her chin until she was looking at him. As he did, he noted dispassionately the purple bruise blooming across her cheek from where he’d struck her.
“It is my feeling that this is a powerful witch,” he said to the crowd of men, who began to murmur to one another.
“It is not safe for any of you to deal with her. Only a man of God, one strong enough to resist temptation should expose himself to such a creature.”
With one motion he swept Lark into his arms. The men moved back as he did, clearing the way. “I shall bear her back to the church now and extract what I predict will be a full confession of allegiance to the devil,” he said. “I ask for your patience. And your prayers.”
Somewhere, through her fog, Lark felt the sensation of being lifted and heard the words he had spoken.
“It’s a dream,” she said. “It must be a dream. But even as she gave in to the darkness once more she knew it was real, and dreaded when she would next be forced to open her eyes.”
Chapter Seven
Lark Willoughby opened her eyes and winced slightly at her first view of light. Dim though it was, it made her head pound and she blinked hard, willing herself to focus. The light was coming from several dripping candles sitting in sconces affixed to a dark, stone wall. As her eyes adjusted, Lark perceived the outline of a bookshelf stuffed with dusty, leather-bound volumes and a low table up on which sat more books and a quill pen and inkwell. And then movement from the corner caught her attention and she saw him - the man whose black garb and cloak had made him blend in until this moment. Now he stepped forward, his pale face glowing in the light above the cross that hung just below his collar. The expression on it was not kind, but stern and judgmental. Reverend Fervor’s lip curled in a slight sneer, and Lark was instantly reminded of how the snarling wolf in her dream had lifted it lip in a similar fashion. A feeling of panic surged through her and she made to flee, but realized as she did that she could not move; her hands and feet were bound to the chair upon which she sat.
“Well, well, well.” Reverend Fervor crossed his arms slowly and began walking around her, his eyes locking with hers once he’d come full circle. “Lark Willoughby, the village witch.” He paused. “There’s no need to deny it.”
“I never intended to.” She glared at him, defiant and he rushed forward, gripping her arms as his face hovered just inches from hers.
“So you admit you are the devil’s consort?” he snarled.
“I never said that,” Lark replied coldly. “I simply admitted to being a witch, although that is the name you would attach to what I do. I consider myself a healer. As for which of us is the devil’s consort, I could just as easily make the claim about you.”
Reverend Fervor’s black eyes narrowed in rage. “Hold you tongue, woman, lest I be tempted to cut if from your mouth.”
The words chilled Lark to the bone. The man did not look or sound as if he were making an idle threat.
He stood then and began pacing back and forth in front of her, as if
contemplating what to do. “It is most unusual to have a young woman admit to the crime of witchcraft,” he said. “Usually they do so only after some persuasion.”
“If by persuasion, you mean torture, then yes, I suppose they do,” said Lark. “But given that it seems your mind was made up before you even took me from the road, it would be folly for me to allow you to brutalize me for hours simply to extract what I can give you without the use of duress.”
She stared at him boldly. From the time she’d laid eyes on the Reverend Maximilian Fervor, she’d known that everything Colin had warned her about was true. He would do horrible things to her until she admitted who she was. She’d be sentenced to death, if she even made it that far. She was not ashamed of who she was or what she believed. Admitting it would buy her more time to figure out a way to escape before ultimate judgment was passed. And if it was, she would go to her fate with dignity. Unlike the villagers, Lark was not afraid of what lay beyond this life. She did not believe in the eternal torment that frightened the faithful into blind compliance. She knew no sooner would her soul leave the body than it would be back as someone - or something - else. Existence, in her belief system, was one endless loop of birth and rebirth, lessons and learning.
She was studying his face now, and knew by the reverend’s disappointed expression that he’d expected a fight. Lark looked down, trying to keep him from seeing the look of triumph in her eyes. But it was too late.
Reverend Fervor stood and glowered down at her. For a moment he said nothing. And then his soft, deep voice broke the silence. “I’m not entirely convinced you are telling me the truth.”
Lark looked up at him, wondering at this change of tact.
Fervor began pacing again, thoughtfully tapping the side of his angular face with one finger. “The devil loves nothing more than to corrupt innocent souls, and delights in playing games that lead to the damnation of the righteous. In light of your ready confession, child, it occurs to me that he might be afoot this very game with you. For after all, what could be more pleasing than to see a young woman of faith die with the unpardonable confession of witchcraft on her lips?”
He walked back over to Lark and cupped her face in his large, cool hands, tipping her chin up so that she was forced to look at him. “If the devil is in you, child, the surest way to drive him away is to beat him out.”
“No…” Lark shook her head as the comprehension of his words sunk in and felt her terror deepen. Her now-obvious fear prompted not mercy in the face of the preacher, but a self-satisfied smirk.
“No, please…” She hated to beg, but could not bring herself to stop as Fervor began deftly untying the knots that bound her. When the last one was loosed, she attempted to spring from her chair, only to have him grab her about the waist and hold her fast.
“Surely you don’t think such a slip of a thing as yourself can outmatch me?” he said.. When a sob caught in her throat, he reached out and stroked her face, his fingers tracing the path of a newly fallen tear. “Save your tears, child,” he quietly into her ear. “You will need them for what is to come.”
His pulled her to the table then and pushed her back on it. Lark struggled as his hand began unlacing her bodice and cried out in frustration when it became apparent that she would not be able to free herself. Closing her eyes, she silently invoked the gods and goddesses of old for protection, and hopefully opened her eyes when Fervor halted in his efforts to remove her clothing. But her relief was short-lived. The preacher was clutching the talisman she’d put around her neck for protection. With a jerk, he snapped the leather string holding it and held the dangling talisman before Lark’s face.
“Made for protection, no doubt?” he asked with a smirk.
“Is it no less than you expect,” she asked. “You condemned me before you even spoke with me.”
“If you were a witch then where are your gods?” Fervor asked.
Lark wondered that herself. Never before had she felt so alone, so abandoned. All her life she’d been faithful to the old ways, never expecting anything in return. True, she’d asked for boons, but when they weren’t granted she understood and when they were she’d expressed her gratitude whether through a heartfelt poem written in honor of her divine benefactors or a little bowl of milk left out for the fairy spirits who’d assisted her in some way. Never before had she questioned the ancient ones. Never. Until now.
“It is required for me to have witnesses,” Reverend Fervor said, his voice resentful. “So you shall remain here and ponder your sins while I fetch godly elders of this church to preside over what must be done, and to attest to my fairness with you.”
“I offer my services!”
Reverend Fervor spun around to see Colin standing in the doorway. The larger man’s face was a cloud of anger. His fist curled at his side. The pale preacher blanched even paler.
“You,” he said, eyeing Colin as the magistrate walked in behind him. “Are you not supposed to be interred for the crime of assisting a witch?”
“Is she to be condemned already?” Colin asked. The preacher pressed his thin lips shut, angry that he’d tripped himself by his own tongue.
“She’s confessed!” Fervor sputtered.
“Not to your charges!” Lark spat. Fervor turned to her, his face angry but Colin was at her side now, brushing the preacher out of the way.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He touched her face. “Yes,” he said. “Now that I’ve explained the situation to the magistrate. He did not know that you recently agreed to accept my hand in marriage, which puts you under my authority and protection…”
Colin raised his eyebrows at her, indicating that it would be in Lark’s best interest to go along with the lie he was telling.
“Please, Lark,” he silently prayed. “This is not the time to be stubborn.”
But he did not have to say the words out loud. Lark read them in his eyes, and knew that to reveal Colin’s lie would not only condemn her, but him as well.
She looked at the magistrate. “I live quietly, treating people who need it. You know this. It should not be a surprise that I did not make news of my betrothal known.”
“It is a lie!” Fervor jumped to his feet. “Tis a trick to remove her from my righteous charge!”
The magistrate stepped forward. “I’ve known Colin since he was nae high,” the man said, putting his hand to just above his beltline. “I’ve never known him to be false. If he says he is betrothed to the accused then so he is.”
The pale face of the preacher turned slightly pink with anger. “If that is so,” he spat, “then let him marry her now!”
Lark was about to protest, but Colin - sensing it - stepped forward.
“If that is what is required to prove my claim true,” he said, but Lark shook her head.
“It should not be…”
“Being wed to him will increase his protection of you,” the magistrate said.
And Lark knew from the man’s expression that she should not protest. The magistrate, who had himself come to her seeking help for his mother’s cough, was in a difficult position. While he did not agree with what the church as doing, he could only exert his authority so far against them. Lark doubted that he even believed the claim of betrothal, but realized that the magistrate knew the benefits of what he suggested. It would throw up another obstacle to Rev. Fervor - an obstacle the man clearly did not want.
“Bring the preacher,” Colin said.
Lark bit her tongue. She knew Colin fancied her, knew since childhood that he’d wanted to marry her. Now she was torn between resentfulness for his trickery and gratitude that what he was doing may save her life.
“I can perform the ceremony,” said Rev. Fervor, his eyes cagey.
“No,” said Lark. “I would not have such wretched carrion bind me to this man.”
The minister’s eyes turned hard as steel, but this time when he spoke he addressed not Lark, but Colin.
“Your ‘betrothe
d’ is willful,” he said. “I hope as a dutiful husband you will apply the lash until she begs for your mercy. That is the only way to assure obedience in a woman.”
“And what would a lonely, bitter man know of matrimony?” asked Lark.
“Lark, mind your tongue,” Colin said, sensing that she was not yet out of danger and knowing that her needling of the minister was not helping. He could protect her, but only to an extent. She was not out of danger yet.
“Don’t tell me to mind my tongue,” Lark said. “This bitter creature is the one who should exercise caution. Not me…”
“Is that a threat, witch?” Colin asked.
“Convicting me again, you scurrilous dog?” she asked. “Is this your godly justice, then?”
The magistrate stepped between them now. “Listen to your betrothed, now, lass,” he said. “Best the two of you remove yourselves now and marry. This matter will yet be resolved, hopefully when cooler heads prevail.”
“Indeed it will,” said Reverend Fervor, icily. As Colin hurried Lark out she turned to see a new and hungry determination in Fervor’s eyes. She did not like the look of it; not at all.
*
“I don’t want to wait another minute.” Lester Hatch stood and lumbered towards the window and stared out at the direction of the church. “By now she’s bound to have confessed.”
He turned to his mother. “I’ll not take Lark a wife if she’s all scarred,” he said in what he hoped was a decisive tone.
From her rocking chair, Gertrude Hatch looked up from her needlepoint and glared. “Shut your mouth, Lester,” she said. “You’ll take the wife I pick for you, no matter how she looks.” She drove the needle down through the cloth, pulling a red thread behind it. Then she looked towards the window. “It is odd, though. I’d have thought I heard screams. Perhaps the godly light of Reverend Fervor was enough to make her confess, although it would do my heart good to know she suffered a bit first.
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