The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  “Aye, but the hawk has naught to do with the charges against her.”

  “Does it not? James has told everyone who will listen how tame it is. It is hardly beyond belief that the wench cast a spell over it and over you, too.”

  Fists clenched, Patrick said, “With respect, my lord, that is absurd.”

  “She must be properly tried. If she is innocent, we will soon learn as much.”

  “But—”

  “That is all, sir,” Beaton said, picking up an ivory-handled silver bell near his right hand and ringing it.

  “I have heard they will try her today,” Patrick said. “I want to be there.”

  “It is more likely that her trial will take place tomorrow or the next day, but if you are indeed her husband, you may not attend. We try witches by religious tribunal and allow few spectators—and no family members, who are too likely to let emotion interfere with good sense. I will represent your interest, never fear.”

  The door opened, and the porter stood waiting.

  Patrick would have liked to haul Beaton out of his fancy, carved chair and force him to change his mind, but he knew that if he took even a step in that direction, the porter would summon armed guards. Soon after that, he would find himself behind bars, helpless to aid Beth in any way.

  Therefore, with a curt bow, he turned on his heel and went out. In the courtyard, he found Jock waiting but barely paused long enough to order the boy to look after his horse before striding on toward Stirling Bridge. Thinking only of burning off his fury before he had to face anyone else, he crossed the bridge and walked mindlessly until he realized he had come to the gates of the Tolbooth.

  His luck there proved no better than at Cambuskenneth, for when he gave his name and demanded entry, the guards informed him that witches did not receive visitors, no matter who those visitors might be.

  More furious than ever, he returned to the castle, crossed the outer close, and was about to enter the inner, when Francis Dalcross stepped in front of him, saying with the haughty arrogance of a popular young court gentleman, “One moment, Sir Patrick, if you please. I would speak with you about your beautiful sister, Barbara.”

  “Don’t let me hear Mistress MacRae’s name on your lips again, you insolent puppy,” Patrick snapped, lashing out with a powerful fist.

  Without breaking stride, he continued toward the palace entrance, paying no heed to the fact that he had knocked the insolent puppy flat.

  Claud paced the parlor floor, his small store of patience depleting rapidly, but certain she would come. He wrung his hands, knowing that every moment he spent waiting for his mother, the lass spent dreading what lay ahead. He had failed, but the lass landing in the Tolbooth was not his fault. It was Maggie’s.

  Maggie had dressed her and sent her to the ball. She had broken the rules, interfered in a way that mortals had noticed, and the clan’s rules did not allow that. It was one thing to assist with chores and learning, and to provide skills to help with those endeavors. It was quite another to shift a mortal from one social class to another right in front of the King and much of his nobility and gentry.

  “Just see the result,” he muttered to himself. “Ruin, likely!”

  Dust motes swirled in front of him and began to form into a solid shape.

  “At last!” he exclaimed in relief. “Where ha’ ye been, Mam?”

  But as the motes solidified, they lengthened, growing into a tall, muscular body, quite unlike that of Maggie Malloch. A shock of green hair appeared even before the apparition’s long, thin face took form.

  “Good day tae ye, lad,” Tom Tit Tot said. “Where ha’ ye mislaid me Lucy?”

  “What be ye doing here?” Claud demanded in dismay.

  “Why, I thought ye’d be glad tae see me, but ye be as glum as a drizzle.” His eyes twinkled, and Claud saw that their pupils were whirling green and red lines, like spinning archery targets. “Ha’ ye no learned me true name yet?” Tom asked.

  “I have not,” Claud snapped. “I ha’ other matters on me mind.”

  “Aye, sure, laddie, but none so important as this.” He tucked the fiddle under his other arm in order to scratch his head. “It did occur tae me that I neglected tae mention one small detail when last we spoke.”

  Warily Claud said, “What did ye forget?”

  “Tae tell ye how much time ye ha’ tae solve me wee puzzle.”

  Claud swallowed. “How much?”

  “Till the next meeting o’ the Circle,” Tom Tit Tot said blandly.

  “But the meetings be secret! How will ye ken, yourself, when it is?”

  “I ha’ friends in high places, lad, a fact ye should bear in mind whilst ye bend your mind tae me puzzle. Naught else should distract ye till ye earn the right tae wed me sweet Lucy. See ye remember!”

  And with a popping sound, Tom Tit Tot vanished.

  Smashing his fist into Francis Dalcross had done nothing to calm Patrick, and by the time he reached Fin and Molly’s chambers, his fury threatened to consume him. He snatched open the door, strode through the anteroom without pause, and stopped in the center of the sitting room to glower at its lone occupant.

  Fin looked up from a table where he was writing letters. His right eyebrow crooked upward, but he did not speak.

  “Although bloody Beaton claims to be much in my debt, he will not help, and the guards at the Tolbooth refuse to let me see her,” Patrick snapped.

  Fin said quietly, “You will accomplish little by barking at me, however.”

  For once, Fin’s displeasure did not faze him. “I must do something!”

  Setting aside his quill and frowning heavily, Fin stood up. “First,” he said, “I would advise you to control your temper.”

  Patrick straightened, thrusting his shoulders back. “This is no time to fling duty at me, Fin. I’ve spent the past year serving you and his bloody eminence in ways I could never have imagined before last August. I did it not only because I believed it was my duty but also because I believed I had failed to protect you from Jamie just as my father failed to protect yours at Kinlochewe. I would have given my life to win your freedom.”

  “Patrick—”

  “Nay, let me finish. I probably perjured my soul in your service, and the only good thing to come out of it was my sweet, unpredictable Beth. If you have aught to say that will help me rescue her, say it. Otherwise, keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Black silence loomed between them, and Patrick realized he was braced for battle, that he would in fact welcome it.

  “Does Beaton ask anything more of you?” Fin asked, his tone deadly calm.

  “If he does, he will demand it in vain,” Patrick retorted. “Loyalty, I have discovered, is for fools. It avails an honest man nothing good.”

  “By heaven,” Kintail growled, “you go too far.”

  The two men faced each other, with Patrick aware of nothing but that he was about to vent the fury that had filled him for the past hour and more. Since Kintail wore no sword, he unbuckled his and cast it onto an upholstered bench by the wall.

  They circled, eyeing each other warily. They had frequently pitted their mettle against each other but had not fought in earnest since boyhood.

  Kintail made a slight gesture, as if he were beckoning Patrick on, and Patrick leaped to answer the challenge, closing and grappling with him.

  “Fin! Patrick!”

  “Mercy, what are you doing?”

  Neither man took heed. It was as if birds chirped, nothing more.

  It felt good to fight, to have someone fighting back who was his equal or better, but although they fought hard, neither seemed able to overpower the other. They knew each other too well, had wrestled too often. Each could anticipate the other’s moves and counter them, but Patrick welcomed the challenge.

  This time he would win. He turned, managed to thrust a hip into Fin’s side, and braced himself to throw him.

  A flood of cold water put a sputtering end to the battle.

 
Gasping and dripping, both men straightened abruptly and glared at Molly, who glared right back, her left hand on her hip, the other holding a large silver pitcher, the contents of which she had just emptied over them.

  Beside her, Barbara MacRae said, “Have you lost your mind, Patrick?”

  “Where the devil have you been?” he demanded.

  “Right here,” she said. “Molly and Lady Percy collected me from Sir Alex Chisholm last night and brought me here to sleep. I must say I was glad to see them,” she added bitterly. “You disappeared without a word, and Sir Alex insisted it was his duty to keep me with him until you returned to collect me. He was horrid!”

  Molly said, “Never mind that, Bab. He is leaving for home in the morning, so you won’t see him again whilst you remain at Stirling.”

  “Good,” Barbara said flatly.

  A thought struck Patrick. “Is Alex leaving alone,” he asked, “or is the entire family returning to the Highlands?”

  Barbara gasped. “Patrick, you wouldn’t!”

  Molly’s lips twitched. “The whole family, of course,” she said. “But what on earth have you and Fin been—?”

  “You will go with them, Bab,” Patrick interjected. “You had no business staying here without our mother, and you know it. I doubt you even spared a thought for how you’d get home if Fin and Molly spent the winter here.”

  “But we knew you would return,” she said. “Don’t make me go, Patrick, please. I’ll be good, I promise, and you can take me home when you go.”

  Anger filled him again, but before he could reply, Molly said hastily, “Leave us now, Bab. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

  The look Molly gave her told Patrick as clearly as it told his sister that Molly meant to intercede for her, but it was Fin’s stern look and his own, he was sure, that sent Bab away with no more than a martyr’s sniff.

  When she was gone, he said to Molly, “Don’t badger me. She is going home. I can trust Alex to keep her safe, something I can’t do myself until Beth is safe.”

  “So you did not succeed with Cardinal Beaton,” Molly said. Glancing speculatively at her husband, she added, “Perhaps you would like to fetch some towels, sir, so that you and Patrick can dry yourselves.”

  Fin held her gaze. “Perhaps you will fetch those towels, sweetheart, and a few more to clean up this mess you made. And then, perhaps, I will overlook the impertinence of a wife who dashes cold water over her husband.”

  “You deserved it,” she said, meeting his gaze calmly. Then, to Patrick, she added, “Both of you deserved it for behaving like a pair of naughty bairns.”

  “We’ll discuss that later,” Fin said. “Now, go and get some towels, lass, and whilst you’re about it, tell that baggage Bab that she is not to pester Patrick about staying here. She will obey him without protest if she knows what’s good for her.”

  She looked from one to the other. “I do not like to leave you alone when I don’t even know why you were fighting.”

  “It was nothing,” Fin said, adding with a direct look at Patrick, “I did not realize how overset he was, and I took umbrage when I should not.”

  Molly hesitated, watching Patrick. Realizing she still did not trust him to behave himself, he said ruefully, “It was my fault, Molly. I came here seeking help, and instead I let my devilish temper get the best of me.”

  “But surely Fin did not refuse to help!”

  “I never got the chance,” Fin said, his eyes twinkling now. “You’ve a strange way of seeking help, my friend.”

  “I’ll get the towels,” Molly said, “and I’ll speak to Bab, too.”

  Relieved, Patrick watched her go. Then he turned ruefully to Fin.

  “Pax,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Pax,” Fin agreed, gripping it hard with both of his.

  By the time Maggie Malloch entered her parlor, Claud was beside himself.

  “What’s amiss?” she demanded when he practically flung himself at her.

  “They’ve arrested our lass and be charging her wi’ witchcraft!”

  “Witchcraft!”

  “Aye, it were them clothes and the jewels, Mam, and the auld besom what raised her told the cardinal’s men our lass bewitched Sir Patrick!”

  Maggie frowned. “What a pity that mortals ha’ so little brain,” she said. “ ’Tis all a body can do tae adjust her mental abilities and comprehend their thinking.”

  “But ye caused it, Mam. Ye gave her yon baubles and such.”

  “Aye, and what if I did? What is it wi’ them? They dinna notice when one o’ us cleans a kitchen, or keeps evil spirits from the door, or when a man’s arrows fly truer than he ever shot ’em afore. But put a few baubles on a pretty lass, and—”

  “But ye said I shouldna do things that they can see,” Claud protested. “Why, when I froze two men in their tracks last night, Lucy said ye’d be vexed.”

  “Aye, and so I am if ye did such a thing. Ye canna interfere wi’ men’s actions, lad. That be the one rule o’ the Circle we mustna break.”

  “But ye turned back history,” Claud protested. “Ye undid a host o’ actions.”

  “Aye, and the Circle called me tae account,” she said calmly. “That time, laddie mine, ’twas your interference wi’ a man’s death that forced me tae do as I did. If I never said that tae the Circle, ’tis because ye’re my son, Claud.”

  “I stopped his blood flowing, is all. We ha’ always done that.”

  “Aye, but for our own. Ye did it for an enemy. D’ye no see the difference?”

  Her voice was gentle, and although he thought he understood her point, he decided he’d be wise to change the subject. “D’ye ken Tom Tit Tot?” he asked.

  Maggie’s expression altered ludicrously. “Why d’ye ask about him?”

  Not wanting to admit he was in another scrape, he said, “He seems a bit strange, is all, and he goes by another name, too, so if ye ken what it be—”

  “I dinna ken any other name, but Tom Tit Tot’s a right scoundrel, and ye’ll do better no tae listen tae him or tae his fiendish music. Ye’ve nae time for such, any road, ’cause ye mun keep watch over our lass. Now, be off!”

  He went.

  Chapter 22

  Beth’s morning did not begin well, for the guard admitted two stiff-necked women who stripped her of her clothing and examined her body from tip to toe. Although they helped her dress again afterward, the ordeal was humiliating.

  Afterward, two guards took her to a room two floors above her cell with rows of benches, like pews, flanking a narrow aisle. At the front, a carpeted dais held three high-backed chairs behind a long, polished table. The chairs were empty, and although a few men sat scattered on the benches, she recognized none of them.

  No sooner did her escorts show her where she was to sit than everyone stood and three men in long robes entered, followed by men-at-arms. She recognized one of the three by his splendid red garments. Apparently, Cardinal Beaton himself was to preside over her trial. Briefly, hope stirred. Perhaps Patrick had spoken to him, and her ordeal would end quickly.

  As the cardinal took his seat, a man-at-arms bent to speak to him. Beth thought the man looked familiar, but she did not know him. Beaton glanced at her and then said evenly, “The crier will read the commission convening this assize.”

  A round little man stepped up to the dais and began to read in a thin, reedy voice. Beth understood little more of the legal phrasing than her name and that she was accused of casting spells and consorting with the devil. There was much more, and she heard the word “treason,” but none of it seemed real.

  When he finished reading, the crier declared, “If any man can say aught of Elspeth Douglas or these charges, let him step forward and be heard.”

  A distinguished-looking man carrying a sheaf of documents said, “Your eminence, I am Thomas Craig, advocate for his grace the King. I hold numerous depositions charging Elspeth Douglas with bewitchment, dealings with the devil, and treasonable attempts
on his grace’s life. She has likewise been examined and found to bear the devil’s mark on her right foot.”

  Beth could not think. What devil’s mark? And where was Patrick?

  Beaton said, “Is there no one to speak for Elspeth Douglas?”

  “Aye, your eminence.” Another man, who looked like a member of the gentry, stepped forward, adding, “I am William Hart.”

  “We know you well as a great legal expert, Sir William,” Beaton said. “The accused could have no better advocate.”

  One who knew her might be better, Beth thought. She had never seen Sir William before, nor did he seem interested in her. He did not even glance her way.

  “Pray, present your depositions,” the crier commanded.

  Sir William apparently had none, but the King’s advocate handed his to the judge at Beaton’s right, who glanced briefly at them and passed them to Beaton. The cardinal took longer to look them over, then passed them to the man at his left.

  It did not seem to Beth as if any of them read more than a sentence or two, but the third man said, “These are quite clear, I think.”

  She glanced at her so-called advocate. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he looked straight ahead, somber and silent.

  “Is there no witness to speak for the accused?” Beaton asked.

  Sir William replied, “No one, your eminence.”

  “But that cannot be!” Beth exclaimed, leaping to her feet. A heavy hand bit into her shoulder as one of her guards sought to force her back to her seat.

  “Let her speak,” Beaton said. “What witness can you provide, mistress?”

  “I… I am sure Sir Patrick MacRae will speak for me.”

  “He is not here.”

  “Then he must not know that this trial is taking place,” she said desperately. “Cannot someone send for him? My advocate, perhaps?”

  Beaton shifted his gaze. “Sir William?”

  Still without looking at her, Sir William said, “As you know from your own conversation with Sir Patrick, your eminence, although he would like to vouch for the accused, he can cast no factual light on the charges before you today.”