Cards & Caravans

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  It was pushing suppertime when he finally reached the hamlet of Shadwick. Not having any idea which house belonged to the local magistrate, he headed straight for the gaol. Whoever manned that ought to know where the proper authorities could be found.

  Connor tied the horse to a rail outside the gaol and paused on a covered porch to shake off some of the rain before stepping inside. The porch creaked under Connor’s weight, but the walls of the small, squat building looked sturdy enough under the thickly thatched roof. Connor didn’t bother to knock, just let himself in and paused to survey his surroundings. The front room, perhaps the size of a farmhouse parlor, boasted two desks and a waiting area with two rickety wooden chairs. A youngish man sat at the smaller desk, his stocking-covered feet up on another chair close to a small iron stove with its grate open. He jumped when Connor strode in, nearly sticking his toes into the coals.

  Connor ignored him, preferring to remove his oiled leather greatcoat and hang it on a hall tree near the door.

  The gaoler’s eyes widened. “Can I help you?” His light brown hair stuck out at all sorts of odd angles from his face. Along with his lanky frame the overall impression was that of a scarecrow in stocking feet.

  Connor shrugged. “Perhaps. Sir Connor MacKay, Home Office.” He flipped his credentials out of the inner pocket of his tweed jacket. The Order operated out of the Home Office, allowing them sufficient authority while keeping the details of the ancient organization mostly secret. “It seems there’s been an accusation of witchcraft here in Shadwick?”

  The gaoler nodded. “Aye. Got her locked up right and tight, sir. The pyre is all ready for her to burn at dawn.” He frowned. “Well, we might have to set out some dry wood at first light if it doesn’t stop raining.”

  “Burn?” Connor’s jaw dropped. “Are you insane? We don’t burn witches anymore in Britain. This isn’t the sixteenth century.”

  “Law still says that’s the penalty for witchcraft,” the young man said with an air of smug self-righteousness. “So that’s what the sheriff and the magistrate decided to do.”

  “And where can I find these gentlemen?” Tomorrow at dawn didn’t leave Connor a lot of time. Even if the woman had committed a magickal crime, the idea of burning anyone at the stake turned Connor’s stomach.

  The gaoler shrugged. “Sheriff is back to Dumfries, most likely. The magistrate is Squire MacLellan. Lives just outside the village at Shadwick Manor.”

  More riding in the rain. Wonderful. Connor obtained the directions to the squire’s home then leaned over the gaoler’s desk. “I’d like to see the prisoner now.”

  The younger man jerked his chin up so fast it had to have hurt. His eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You can’t do that.”

  Connor waved his credentials again. “This says I can. Now, shall we?” He stood to his full height of six feet and four inches, towering over the none too tall gaoler. Connor ought to feel bad about intimidating the poor lad, who probably wasn’t more than nineteen or twenty. His rather bulbous nose was still mostly covered in spots.

  The younger man jerked his head toward the only doorway. “In there. I’m not going anywhere near her. I hear she can cast a curse to make your pecker fall off.”

  Connor sighed. Had he ever been that green and stupid? He hoped not. “If she could do that, do you think a little thing like a wall would stop her? Now hand over the keys.”

  “Can’t, sir.” The Adam’s apple jiggled again. “Squire MacLellan took them home with him. Said he’d be here in plenty of time to haul her out to the pyre.”

  “Of course he did.” Connor’s jaw began to ache from being clenched. “I presume he has all the documentation of the trial as well?”

  The other man shrugged. “Suppose so. Him or the sheriff.”

  Muttering curses under his breath, Connor strode toward the door that led to the other half of the building.

  The first thing that struck him was the smell of the chamber pot. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. A lot of rural buildings still didn’t have indoor plumbing, but this one clearly hadn’t been emptied in a while and Connor had grown used to modern conveniences. Sturdy iron bars divided the small room into two equal cells, with a six-foot corridor between them. Rain lashed in through chinks in the wattle or plaster that covered the walls. Either the village of Shadwick didn’t often have occasion to use its gaol or they used it so much that nobody paid attention to how it was maintained.

  The left-hand cell stood empty, the door ajar, so Connor looked into the right. A woman about his own age sat with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap on the edge of the bench near the inside wall—as far as possible from the rain and in the opposite corner from the metal bucket causing the smell. Her dress, the simple shirtwaist and skirt of a farm wife, might have once been a pretty green calico, but was now soiled and clinging damply to generous curves. Black hair tumbled down her back, though she’d clearly made some attempt to restrain it into a plait with a piece of string.

  Dark eyes flashed up at Connor and her spine stiffened as she looked him up and down. “Another witch-hunter come to gloat? Or are you a man of the cloth, here to enjoin me to repent? In that case, you’re wasting your time. I’ve done nothing to beg forgiveness for.” Her voice was low and husky, with the soft lilt of her gypsy ancestors overlain by a trace of Scottish burr.

  “Neither.” Connor glanced back to see the gaoler had once again dozed off by his brazier. Just in case, Connor spoke softly. “I’m here to investigate your arrest, Mrs. Danvers. Can you tell me what happened?”

  She snorted. “Ask Squire MacLellan or Alderman Douglas. I’m sure their story is very convincing. Better yet, ask the bloody witch-finder. I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you for hours.” Her stomach rumbled loudly, mitigating her haughty expression. When she looked up at him this time, Connor noted the deep circles beneath her eyes and the taut lines of her chin. “Blast it, I thought all condemned prisoners were supposed to get a last meal.”

  “They haven’t fed you?” What kind of so-called Christians were these people? Connor might not be a religious man—the Order was, if anything, a touch druidic in its roots—but he’d certainly been raised to be kinder than this, especially to a woman.

  She shook her head. “Not since they arrested me yesterday morning while I was making blackberry jam.” Her eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders sagged. “I hope they at least turned off the stove, or my house will be a mess of boiled-over goo. Not that it matters. There isn’t anyone to inherit the farm anyway. It will go to the parish, I suppose. Won’t Alderman Douglas be pleased about that?”

  “Yesterday? You were arrested just a day ago and have already been tried?” More and more, Connor grew certain there was something shady about this.

  She nodded. “Arrested on Tuesday, tried on Wednesday and executed on Thursday. Frugal Scots to the core, these men. They like efficiency.”

  They also seemed to ignore due process. Connor’s resolve firmed. “Can you tell me why you were accused?”

  “Cholera.” She leaned her cheek against the stone wall, exhaustion showing in every line of her body. “Douglas’s son died along with two other children and a handful of elders. Since it happened not long after I’d spurned the alderman’s advances, he claims I used witchcraft to kill his son.”

  “Did you?” Connor kept his tone light, but the question was serious. A Knight could sense magickal ability in those around him and the woman did possess some talent. It didn’t feel dark as he would have suspected if he’d encountered a true black witch.

  “No.” Her voice thickened as if with tears. “No matter what, I would never take my anger out on children, even if I did have that kind of power. The sad thing is, even after they kill me, more innocents will likely die. Isn’t cholera usually caused by tainted water? Yet they haven’t looked to their wells or the stream so the disease will still be there.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Connor wasn’t
completely sure she was innocent, but a forty-eight-hour trial process couldn’t be entirely legal, especially for a capital crime. It was time to sort this mess out and that meant dealing with the proper authorities. “In the meantime, here.” He reached into his pocket for the half sack of cinnamon-roasted walnuts he’d been eating on the train and handed the crumpled paper through the bars.

  She accepted it with trembling fingers. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t eat too quickly or you’ll be ill. And don’t worry—there will be more. That much I can promise.” He spotted a worn blanket in the other cell and fetched it, pushing that between the bars to her as well.

  “Thank you.” Her voice thickened again and she choked on a sob as she chewed a walnut. “Who are you?”

  He bowed. “Sir Connor MacKay of the Home Office, at your service.” The gaoler still wasn’t looking, so he leaned back toward the bars. “Parlez-vous français, madame?”

  She blinked. “Comme ҫi, comme ҫa. Pourquoi?”

  She wanted to know why Connor asked. He tipped his head toward the gaoler and she shook her head, indicating that the boy couldn’t understand. Connor whispered back in French. “Your uncle asked me to come. Be brave.”

  Her breath caught on a sob and she blinked, but her spine straightened and she mustered a smile and stretched out one hand through the bars, clutching the blanket around her shoulders with the other. “Merci.”

  Connor shook her hand, work roughened and chilled, but strong and still daintily feminine. He bowed over it. “I’m off to see the magistrate,” he said, still speaking French. “Perhaps we can get things sorted out.”

  She shook her head. “Not as long as the witch-finder remains in town. He won’t rest until I’m dead.”

  “Witch-finder?” Connor continued to warm her chilled hand between his own, unaccountably loath to let go. “What—or who—the hell is that?” She’d mentioned such a man before, but his mind had brushed past the archaic notion.

  “Mr. Engle, Alderman Douglas’s cousin.” She shuddered and leaned close, her words in English but no more than a whisper. “This all began when he came to town a few days ago. I thought the villagers were being silly, calling him that—until they appeared on my doorstep with pitchforks and torches to accuse me.”

  “Ballocks.” This all added up to a very ugly picture, indeed. Then he winced. “Pardon my language, Mrs. Danvers.”

  She made a sound that might almost have been a chuckle but fell short. “I grew up in a circus. I’ve heard worse.”

  Connor squeezed her hand one more time then reluctantly let go. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Try to rest if you can.”

  She nodded and sat back on the bench. “Thank you,” she said again as he turned to go. “For your kindness, if nothing else. It will have been good to know there was some of that left in the world.”

  Connor swallowed hard. He would free this woman, and damn the consequences. His heart pounded frantically. Reluctant to let her see the emotions she’d roused, he gave a curt nod as he strode away, deliberately waking the gaoler as his sturdy riding boots clacked on the floorboards. He dropped a pound note onto the desk. “Get the woman some food.”

  “Can’t, sir.” He blinked. “I’m not to leave the building. And the squire didn’t say nothing about food.”

  Connor sighed. It was worse than talking to a two-year-old. “What do you usually do for prisoners?”

  The gaoler shrugged. “Ain’t never had one so long before. Usually it’s just old Angus MacLeod, sleeping off a drunk.”

  A small tic formed at the corner of Connor’s mouth. Could nothing about this venture be simple?

  Steam must have poured out his ears because the gaoler suddenly looked even more terrified. “There’s a tavern across the way,” he said. “You could get food there and bring it back.”

  “Fine.” Connor grabbed the note and yanked on his greatcoat. What a fat pain in the arse this little jaunt had turned out to be. Someone was going to suffer for all this rot. Connor would make damn sure of that. He just didn’t know who yet.

  Chapter Two

  Belinda curled as closely as she could to the bars dividing her cell from the empty one next to it and slowly chewed one of the sugared, spiced walnuts. They tasted like heaven, the cinnamon warming her tongue. She’d never been particularly fond of nuts but if she somehow survived this, she suspected they would become her new favorite food.

  Had her uncle—great-uncle, really—Fernando honestly sent someone from the Home Office to rescue her? How had he known? Belinda closed her eyes on a slight smile. Great-Aunt Zara, of course. While Belinda had some small skill with the tarot, her grandmother’s sister had an amazing ability to read the cards. Belinda had little doubt that it was Zara who’d known she was in trouble. Thank all the gods for nosy great-aunts.

  Of course, it was more than likely that Home Office or not, the handsome young man with the auburn hair and startling blue eyes would be unable to sway the squire and his henchmen. She still fully expected to die in the morning, but at least now, her family would know what happened and she wouldn’t faint from hunger on her way to the pyre. If Sir Connor was really as kind as she thought he was, maybe he’d have the grace to save her the slow, horrible death from the flames.

  How ironic it was that she’d always been attracted to fire. She loved to watch it burn with all the colors of the rainbow and feel the heat flicker against her skin. Her strongest memories of her grandparents were of them gathered around the campfire after a performance. Sometimes she could stare into the flames and even remember her mother’s face or her father’s laugh. Since she’d settled in Shadwick, not a Beltane had passed where she didn’t attend the village bonfire and smile as the flames licked the sky. Still, she’d always been careful with fire, respectful of its power and destructive force. It was oddly fitting that it should be the instrument of her death.

  Footsteps clattering outside her cell brought her out of her terror-filled daze.

  “Here.” Sir Connor thrust a covered plate beneath the door to her cell. “Eat this while I go sort things out with the magistrate.”

  Belinda’s mouth watered as she lifted the lid and the scent of potatoes, carrots and roast mutton filled her nostrils. Once again she blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

  He shoved a fork between the bars and spoke again in French. “The innkeeper’s wife said she was praying for you. She also said the women of the village know you didn’t do it, but they’ve been threatened with burning alongside you if they help you in any way. She told her husband the meal was for me.”

  So Elsie hadn’t forgotten her. That made Belinda feel better, at least a little. Then fury overtook gratitude. “How dare they threaten honest women like that? What kind of madness has come over this place?”

  “I don’t know.” Sir Connor’s eyes narrowed, making him look a little older than the twenty-five or so she suspected he was. “But I intend to find out. Is there a telephone in this village?”

  “At the inn.” Unable to resist, she speared a piece of mutton on the fork and chewed slowly, her eyes closing in bliss. “The squire and a few of the other village dignitaries have them as well, I’m sure.”

  “Naturally.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m back to the inn, then, before I go to the squire’s.”

  “Godspeed.” She smiled up at him, taking some hope from the strong breadth of his shoulders and the firm set of his jaw. He was a big man, but didn’t look as if he had an ounce of flesh to spare. His square chin and wide forehead balanced a strong nose and lips that might have looked soft on a less rough-hewn face. With wavy dark red hair and clean-shaven sun-browned skin, he made a remarkably attractive picture.

  “One more thing.” He motioned her back to the bars and slipped something into her hand. His voice was soft, his breath warm against her ear as he spoke, still in French. “In case I fail—this will be quicker than the flames. Just don’t use it too soon. I truly expect to have you out of here, but now
you’ll be armed in case something comes up.”

  She sat back on the bench and glanced at the small object in her hands. A Derringer. He’d read her mind.

  For the first time since her arrest, the tears escaped to leak down her cheeks. She nodded and slipped the tiny gun into the pocket of her skirt. She spoke loudly and in English. “Thank you again for the food, Sir Connor.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Danvers.” He tipped his hat and stalked out the way he’d come.

  Belinda wiped away her tears and returned to her meal, savoring every bite since it could well be her last.

  * * *

  Connor couldn’t remember ever being quite so angry as when he pounded on the squire’s front door a half hour or so later. The rain had turned even colder and his horse had picked up a stone in his shoe, forcing Connor to walk the last mile. Even his stockings were soaked inside what had once been his best boots.

  On top of everything else, thanks to the storm, the inn’s telephone line was down. He hadn’t even been able to summon reinforcements or get someone to look into the legality of the havy-cavy trial. He half hoped the squire would take a poke at him because Connor was more than in the mood to pummel someone. He’d never in his life forget the look of gratitude on Belinda Danvers’s face when he’d given her the means to commit suicide. He hoped to whatever gods were listening that she didn’t use it before he had the chance to set her free by more earthly means. He intended to at least get her moved to Edinburgh for a proper trial.

  A tired-looking butler accepted Connor’s coat and then showed him into a comfortable library with a roaring blaze in the marble hearth. The crystal chandelier and oak paneling were touch ostentatious for a village squire’s home, so clearly Shadwick had more wealth than Connor had supposed from the state of the gaol. A square, balding dark-eyed gentleman, clad in a red velvet smoking jacket, set aside his pipe and rose. “Squire Edgar MacLellan. How can I help you, sir?”