by Jen Holling
“I don’t believe he tried to murder me,” Alan said. “But I don’t know what happened. I was sleeping, then I couldn’t breathe. The next thing I remember I was awake, feeling better than I have in months, and you were on the floor beside my bed.” He shook his head, his brows drawing together in remembered grief. “Whatever happened, Strathwick was not responsible, of that I’m certain. Hagan wanted to send a man after him, to bring him back for questioning, but I refused. I told them to let him go.”
Rose smiled sadly. “Thank you…and you’re right. He could not have done it.”
Her father studied her silently for several moments, then he said, “You love him, aye?”
Rose nodded, another annoying tear escaping to slide down her nose. She swiped it away.
“Then I will send someone after him, to fetch him back to us so he can marry you!”
Rose shook her head. “He knows I love him. He won’t marry me. He can’t.”
“What?” Her father’s thick gray brows drew together with indignantion. “Is he already married?”
“No…he lost his first wife in childbirth…but he saved his daughter. He’s afraid to go through that again, to be forced to choose, so he pushes people away. In the end, he pushed me away, too. I thought he’d changed his mind…but I suppose it just frightened him more.” She dashed away her tears and gave her father a tremulous smile. “It’s fine…I’ll always love him, but I understand him, too. Better now than I ever did before.”
Her father gazed at her sadly, obviously wanting to give her what she desired. But only William could do that. Perhaps she would write him a letter, tell him how she’d healed her father. Maybe then he would truly believe that he wasn’t alone.
The door opened, and a servant bustled in with a tray topped with a steaming bowl of stew and a slab of bread. She set it on the table beside the bed and at a gesture from Alan, left discreetly.
“Here, eat something.” He waved to the tray.
Rose’s belly rumbled in response to the rich fragrances of beef and rosemary, and she took the stew gratefully.
“I hope you will use this gift wisely,” her father said, watching her steadily as she ate.
“What do you mean?”
He leaned forward and reached out his thin, bony hand as if he wanted to touch her. He slumped back and instead touched his own hair, near his forehead. “Your hair…it’s turning white.”
Rose set the stew aside and fingered her hair, pulling a hank of it in front of her. A large quantity of silvery white sprinkled the lock in her hand. She clasped it in both hands, her heart swelling, as if it were some connection to William.
“This healing,” her father continued, “is a great effort for you…and appears to age you. You cannot heal everyone. Do not try. You are a fine healer without the magic. Only use it when absolutely necessary and for those truly worthy.”
Rose nodded, still staring down at the hair in her hand. Her mind turned back to William and the night they’d spent together. Thinking of him was like a hole in her heart, hollow and aching. But he’d said he loved her, and she’d believed him. She still believed him. She remembered what else he’d said to her. I think you should tell your father. You will be angry with him until you do—and if he dies, you may never stop being angry. Tell him.
“Da?” she said uncertainly, plaiting the hair in her fingers, eyes focused on her mindless task, not seeing it. “There is something I wish to ask you.”
“Aye?” He sounded tired.
She should let him rest, not burden him with more worries. He was not fully recovered. She might have saved him from the latest attack, but there was still a witch trying to murder him. She began to turn those thoughts in her mind. If Sir Donnan wasn’t here, then how—
No! Tell him! It was William’s voice in her mind, and it strengthened her.
“I know why you sent us away twelve years ago. I didn’t understand when I was young, and I was angry—”
Her father chuckled ruefully. “Don’t I remember! You would rail at me every time I came to visit at you, begging me to take you home. And then running away!” He looked skyward and shook his head. He was smiling when he looked back at her. His smile faded when she didn’t return it.
“Aye, I ran away. And you sent me back. Why?”
He blinked, seemingly at a loss, then said, “It’s what your mother wanted, for you to learn from Crisdean Beaton. And you did, did you not? He wrote me what a fine healer you’d become.”
Rose sighed, abandoning the plait and staring down at the blanket again. This was harder than she’d thought it would be. “Aye, I learned a great deal from Crisdean. It’s just…” She closed her eyes. “It’s…it’s nothing. Forget I mentioned it.” Coward.
“I don’t think I can, love. Ever since you’ve returned from Skye you’ve had shadows in your eyes. I thought it was because of my illness and your inability to heal me, but I see it’s something else. Tell me what ails you, Rose, and mayhap I can make it better.”
She shook her head, eyes still closed tightly. “No, I was wrong. Nothing will make it better…except forgetting, trying to put it from my mind.”
He was silent for a long moment, then said, “You’re scaring me—and me an old sick man. Tell me. Now.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You aren’t too old to take over my knee.”
Rose gave a snort of laughter at that, and when she looked up at him, his gray brows were raised nearly to his hairline.
“Tell me. Why did you run away?”
“It was the MacLean…he made me do things—and he said if I told he would have me and my sisters burned for witchcraft. So I couldn’t tell you. But you knew I hated it there.” Her voice shook suddenly, thick with emotion. “You knew and still you made me stay.”
Her father did not say anything for a long time; he kept his gaze steady on her. Then it fell away, until he stared at the ground. “What things did he make you do?”
Shame flushed her cheeks. She shut her eyes, her lips pursed tighter. She didn’t want to say, not out loud. She’d said it already to William, but this was her father. She didn’t know if she could. It was too vile.
“Tell me, Rose.” His voice rose to a command.
“Things only a wife should do. Or a whore.” After a long, heavy silence, she said, “That’s what he did. Made me into his whore when I was eight years old.”
Her father said nothing. He only stared at her, and as he did, his skin seemed to pale. His throat worked, and his eyes grew bright. He closed his eyes and pressed a white-knuckled fist to his mouth.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “If he wasn’t already dead—”
“You’d kill him. I know.”
She looked away from his wounded expression, wishing she’d said nothing. She’d finally told him, and she didn’t feel any better. If anything, she felt worse. She heard movement, and then the bed dipped slightly. Her father put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Rose let him, pressing her face against the plaid covering his bony shoulder.
“Forgive me, lass, for being so blind and stupid.”
Like a dam breaking in her heart, the tears came then, burning her eyes. “I should have told you! I shouldn’t have been so stupid and believed him!”
Her father shook her slightly. “No! It’s my fault. I knew Fagan MacLean was not a kind man, but I never guessed he’d touch you—whom I was paying him to protect. I’m the stupid one. Can you ever forgive me?”
Rose nodded, wiping her eyes. “Aye, I think I can.”
So this is what it feels like to be just like everyone else. Utterly helpless.
William sat on the floor of a grimy cellar—a dirt hole dug in the ground for storing turnips and onions and apples…and apparently witches. His daughter lay across his lap, her head against his shoulder. She had finally awakened a few hours ago. After her initial fright, she’d grown silent. Speaking to the rats, probably. William didn’t ask. He now wished she’d s
tayed unconscious. No child should be put through what was in store for them, but especially not his child. He didn’t know if he could bear it; he was twisted in knots just thinking of it and being so damn helpless to do anything.
It seemed ironic that it should end this way. He’d been so arrogant, setting himself above everyone else, refusing to take the chances and risks that others took every day—that Rose took. And now here he was, all three of the people he’d let into his heart lost to him. Drake bleeding to death on the mountainside. His daughter held for witchcraft. Rose at the mercy of her uncle. And he was useless to them, just like everyone else.
And he was a fool, too. But it was too late to do anything about that.
Deidra stirred against his shoulder. “Someone is coming.”
He didn’t know how she knew—the vermin, most likely—because he heard nothing.
“Who did you tell that you can speak to animals, Squirrel?”
Deidra’s curls brushed his shoulder as she shook her head. “No one, Da. I promised.”
William sighed, impatient. “You must have told someone. How else did MacPherson know?” Unless Rose had told him. No. She would never. But his stomach felt strange and queasy, and his chest tightened.
“I know not! But the red-haired man—he already knew. He told me so.”
Roderick.
Cold fury settled over him. “When did he tell you?”
“In the stable. He wanted to show me something, but Moireach warned me. He’s the one the animals fear—the bad man. He uses them—kills some of them for black magic, puts demons in others. They all hate him.”
William closed his eyes, the irony of it all making his mouth curve grimly. All along his daughter had held the answers, and he’d never thought to ask her. And she’d never thought to tell him, too worried about burdening him.
A shaft of light flooded the cellar, and a rope ladder rolled down until it hit the dirt.
William stood, setting Deidra on her feet and taking her hand. A bearded face thrust through the hole. “Get up here. Now!”
“Stay behind me,” William murmured, grabbing the coarse hemp and climbing. He hoped no one would think to check his arrow wound, as it was nearly healed. Such a miracle would surely be construed as the devil’s work.
When he was clear of the hole, he stood to the side until Deidra was out, too. They both squinted in the bright sunlight as villagers grabbed them, thrusting them along before them. William held Deidra’s hand, keeping her close.
They were pushed into a cottage. The door shut behind them. William scanned the interior, his gaze fixating on a table covered with instruments of torture. A selection of wooden mallets. A “spider,” a sharp iron fork used to tear flesh from the body. Phallus-shaped irons rested beside it for heating and inserting into various orifices. The turcas, a set of pinchers for ripping out fingernails, lay clean and gleaming next to the irons. Needles to be driven into the nailless fingertips were stuck in a cushion next to the turcas. Beside them lay the penniwinks. The last tool on the table was the thumbscrews—a vise used to crush the bones in the thumb, similar to the penniwinks. A rope was looped over the side of the chair, for thrawing the skin from the head.
William swallowed hard, his hand tightening on his daughter’s, his gaze lighting on a tall, thin man in black robes. He was not a Highlander. He wasn’t even local.
“Good day, my lord Strathwick.” He looked down his long, sharp nose at Deidra, his lips wrinkling slightly. “I am Luthias Forsyth, former witch-finder to the king. I trust you are well rested and ready for our first session?” He spoke pleasantly, as though this were a social call rather than a prelude to torture.
William’s guts clenched. They were in serious trouble.
Chapter 18
Luthias Forsyth stared at the witches before him. A tall, brawny man—a Highland chief—and a child. He sighed. Force was not allowed to induce children to talk. And children were the easiest to question. But there were rules in place, and Luthias always followed them, even when he didn’t agree with them. A village elder stood at his shoulder, whispering advice to him. Luthias silenced him with a look.
He would extract the information from the prisoner in his own manner. In Edinburgh, he’d spent time in the king’s service as a witchpricker. Since the commission of 1592, which gave individuals the power to try and execute witches, he’d found his services in great demand across the country. But he’d never agreed with the kirk’s commission. Common men could now try witches and burn them. God had called on him to leave Edinburgh and travel through the country, offering his services—for a fee—to any village in need of an experienced witchpricker.
A man of his vast experience certainly didn’t need a village rustic interfering in his work, telling him how to induce a witch to talk. The interrogation of witches should only be undertaken by a professional such as himself. There were steps to be followed. Witches never acted as you expected them to. The only thing they could be counted on to do was lie.
The wizard continued to stare at him, his face expressionless, the child hiding behind his legs. He was a formidable man, tall and muscular. Though his inky black hair was liberally salted with gray, he was neither old nor feeble. Luthias would need muscle to conduct this interrogation.
Luthias removed his soft wool cloak, hanging it on a wooden peg. He smoothed his hands over his thinning hair and palmed the front of his robe. Eyes closed, he took deep, soothing breaths. One must always be calm and in control of one’s faculties when confronting one of Satan’s minions. They had such power.
He motioned to the burly villagers serving as guards. They brought the wizard to the table and forced him to sit. He did not appear frightened as he looked Luthias over curiously. The bold perusal sent a flash of anger through him that he fought to stifle. The devil was insolent and sought to intimidate him. This was nothing new. It was only the beginning of yet another battle between Luthias and the devil. It was God’s will. God permitted evil—though he did not wish it—for the perfecting of the universe.
And Luthias was God’s tool, just as the instruments of torture were merely Luthias’s tools for achieving his ends. It was a hierarchy that Luthias rejoiced to be a part of.
The wizard spoke. “Why are you keeping a child prisoner?” His arm encircled the child, holding her to his side. “She has done nothing.”
Luthias did not answer. He poured a measure of witch broth from the flagon on the table and offered it to the wizard. “Prithee, drink.”
The wizard peered into the cup as though it were poison. “What is it?”
“It is the witch broth.”
“Witch broth?”
“Aye, it was made from the gathered ashes of a witch after she was burnt at the stake. It will prevent you from casting a spell upon me during our session. Go on. Drink up.”
The wizard would not take the cup from him. When Luthias pressed it at him, he swiped hard, knocking the cup from Luthias’s hand and spilling the precious brew in the dirt. He glowered, completely unrepentant, as if Luthias were beneath contempt. Furious heat suffused Luthias’s face. “I think me this session will be long and tedious.”
“Let the child go. She is innocent.”
“That is not what I was told. I was informed she communed with animals.”
The wizard’s expression gave away nothing. Luthias scrutinized the wizard and his witch-child. Perhaps he could make use of the wizard’s concern for the child.
“Mayhap I will release her. If you cooperate.”
The wizard’s jaw bulged. “Verra well.”
Luthias withdrew the parchment from his robes. He unfolded it. “William MacKay of Strathwick,” he said, looking at the wizard over the top of the parchment, “it says here that you cure all manner of sickness.”
Strathwick nodded, his eyes hard, implacable.
“How is it you came by these miraculous powers?”
“It is merely a knowledge of plants and herbs. Nothing more.”
>
Luthias sneered. “The Lord cures our bodies through fasting and prayers, not through weeds.” He studied Strathwick’s impassive face. “That is the papist way of things. Be you a heretic as well as a witch?”
“Is there a difference in the eyes of men such as yourself?”
Luthias gritted his teeth and decided on the direct approach. “Who seduced you into witchcraft?”
“No one. I’m not a witch. Just a healer.”
“What of the MacDonells of Glen Laire? I hear that is a nest of witches and that is from whence you came. Tell me which of the MacDonells are the devil’s minions.”
“There are no others. Not even this child. Only me, and I’m all yours.”
The rapid scratching of the scribe’s quill against parchment as he recorded the questioning filled the long silence that followed. Luthias glared accusingly at Strathwick. The wizard only returned the stare. Emotionless.
Luthias sighed and moved to the table where his instruments were laid out neatly. The sharp steel prongs of the spider gleamed in the torchlight. His hand hesitated over it, then passed on to the turcas. He longed to rip Strathwick’s fingernails off with it. To make him scream. To see if tears would fall from his stoic eyes. He had read many treatises on witchcraft that said witches did not cry, but he’d found that not to be so. Some said it was saliva they smeared on their cheeks, not true tears. But Luthias had seen them weep. He liked when they wept. That’s when Satan lost his hold on them and the truth poured out. When he was doing God’s work.
He glanced at Strathwick, who watched warily. The skin of his neck was red. Ah, not so devoid of emotion after all. He feared Luthias’s methods of encouraging him to talk. The witch-child peeked out from behind her father’s shoulder. Or perhaps he only feared for the child? Time to find out.
He decided on the penniwinks. He motioned to the guards. Eagerly, they rushed forward to restrain Strathwick, pushing the child back against the far wall. Luthias guided Strathwick’s hand inside the iron glove, then secured it. The wizard allowed this, unresisting. He chose the smaller wooden mallet. The larger one was for the boots.
