“Sir Connor MacKay. Home Office.” Connor shook the man’s hand and withdrew the leather folder holding his credentials. “I’m here to talk to you in your capacity as village magistrate. We’ve heard something about a witch trial in Shadwick?”
The squire nodded and motioned Connor into a chair. “Sad business. Brandy?”
Since he was chilled to the bone, Connor accepted and eased into the leather chair near the fire, opposite his host. He waited until the other man had resumed his seat before speaking again. “How did the accusation of witchcraft begin?”
The squire shrugged and picked up his pipe. “Ten years ago when Micah Danvers married a gypsy, most of his friends told him he was being foolish. Micah refused to listen to any of us and died three years later of a suspicious farm accident, leaving his widow a tidy property and all his money.”
“He had no other heirs?” Connor sipped at the rather good brandy he’d been given.
MacLellan shook his head. “His only child died of the same influenza epidemic that took his first wife—oh, five or six years before he married the witch. Damn near killed Micah too, but he was always strong. That’s why no one believes he died from falling out of his own hayloft.”
“Accidents do happen,” Connor pointed out. “Sometimes to those of us who least expect them. Was there any evidence that his wife was involved?” He thought about the woman he’d met in the gaol. Her simple dress and lack of jewelry hadn’t given the impression of a scheming gold-digger.
“Nothing out in the open.” MacLellan shrugged. “She always made potions for the ladies—cough syrups and skin creams and such, or so she said. One of her creams gave the vicar’s wife a horrible rash—the very week after the vicar preached on the evils of magick.”
Save him from small-town superstition. These same good people would string Connor up in a minute if they knew what he could do and he considered himself a middling magickal practioner at best. “I was under the impression the trial was for murder by witchcraft, not putting the wrong herb in a skin cream,” he said. “Can you explain why it wasn’t remanded to the High Court in Edinburgh? They have jurisdiction in all capital cases.” And would usually consult with the Order on anything involving magick.
“Witchcraft is still defined as a parish matter. The usual methods may have changed, but the letter of the law hasn’t. Our process was fast, but legal.” The squire tapped his pipe with one thick finger. “Tell me, why does the Home Office care about one village witch? And how did you even hear about the trial?”
“If parishes are taking capital crimes into their own hands, that’s certainly a matter of interest.” Connor wasn’t about to explain how he’d found out. That would just convince this backwater that witchcraft had been involved. Unfortunately, most people without access to magick didn’t understand the difference between the two. Witchcraft was a subset of magick, specific rituals that utilized the energies of the earth and other growing things. Like all magick, it was only a tool, one that could be used for good or bad. “Can you explain the specifics of the case?”
“Everyone knows Belinda Danvers hates Alderman Douglas. She’s none too fond of the vicar either, or the other church elders, as you’d expect from a witch. Hasn’t attended a service since her husband died, other than the occasional wedding or funeral.” Smoke puffed up out of the pipe as MacLellan spoke. “Alderman Douglas took a personal interest in her, trying to get her to repent and return to the fold of the church. She despised him for it. After the last time he visited with her to show her the error of her ways, she cursed him. The next day his boy took ill with cholera. He died just a few days later.”
“Perhaps he was simply looking for someone to blame for his son’s death?” Connor said. “I can see where losing a child might make any man go a little mad. Surely a disease like cholera is known to be caused by tainted water, not witchcraft. Were others affected?”
“Aye. Near a dozen in the village took sick in the past week. Two younger children and one old man died. Sad business indeed. ‘Tisn’t the water. Everyone knows it’s the witch who caused it.”
“And how does everyone know that?” Connor found it difficult to believe an educated man wouldn’t even consider the idea that the disease was based on natural causes. “If she only had a grudge against one man, why punish the whole village?”
MacLellan shrugged. “Who knows why a witch does the devil’s work? She just does. And now she’ll die.” He puffed on his pipe, utterly complacent about the idea of burning a fellow villager at the stake.
“Do you have the records of the trial?” Connor had finally gotten warm, but now his head was beginning to ache. Dealing with zealots could do that to a man. “I’ll need the name and direction of the officials presiding.”
“Sheriff has all the paperwork,” MacLellan said. “He’s gone home to Dumfries.”
“And who is the sheriff?” Connor whipped out a notebook and pencil and wrote down the name the squire provided, along with a vague address at a manor near Dumfries. “Do you have his telephone exchange?”
“No,” MacLellan said. “Wouldn’t matter if I did. All the lines are down in this storm. Won’t have service for a few days at the least.”
Enough dancing around. The throbbing at the base of Connor’s skull intensified. He carefully put his notepad back in his pocket. “Under the circumstances, Squire, I don’t have a choice. The Home Office requires me to take custody of the prisoner and take her to the High Court for a new trial. As this is a capital case, that supersedes any old laws regarding witchcraft that might remain on the books from an earlier era. You will turn Mrs. Danvers over to me in the morning, and I will personally escort her to Edinburgh.”
The squire smiled a slow, oily smile. “I think not. The execution will go forward as planned. Even in the rain, with enough paraffin oil, the pyre will burn.”
Connor blinked. The bastard was refusing to comply with the government? “You do realize this will subject you to severe penalties for refusing to comply with an officer of the government?”
The older man shrugged again. “Government isn’t around much in these parts. I can afford to pay a fine, and by the time everything is sorted out, the witch will still be dead.” He rose. “Let me escort you to the door, young man. You’ll find a decent bed at the tavern tonight.”
Two burly footmen had appeared, flanking the door of the library. Both had pistols on their belts. Connor probably could take them, but it would be a risk and he had no one to watch his back. Instead he strode out into the hall, accepted his coat and hat. “Good night, Squire. Rest assured, you haven’t heard the last of this.”
The squire just smiled again and Connor found himself alone in the rain with a lame horse once more. He swore a string of blistering oaths as he waded back toward town. Now what the hell was he supposed to do?
* * *
Belinda sipped the last of the lukewarm tea Sir Connor had brought with her meal while her fingers traced the outline of the tiny gun that sat heavily in the pocket of her skirt. Would she have the courage to use it when they came for her? She didn’t have to ponder long. Better a bullet than the flames.
She must have nodded off because she jerked awake as the empty flask slipped from her fingers and fell into her lap. Rain still spattered in at her from the chinks in the plaster, but between the food and the blanket, she was warmer than she had been before. Just knowing that someone had cared made almost as much difference as the food. It seemed wrong to sleep away her last few hours but surely that was better than sitting here counting the minutes. She set the dish and flask aside and allowed her head to sag back against the wall.
There was no way to tell how long she’d dozed when the door of the gaol slammed open again and heavy footsteps pounded on the floor boards. There was a cracking sound, not loud enough for a gunshot.
“What...” Johnny Gilchrist, the young gaoler gasped and then something large slumped to the floor.
“Who’s there?” Belind
a called.
“Connor MacKay.” There were more sounds, shuffling and grunts, and then the big man strode into the aisle between the cells with Johnny’s inert body tossed over his shoulder. Johnny’s hands had been bound behind his back and he was gagged, so she supposed that meant he wasn’t dead. MacKay dropped Johnny into the far cell and closed the door, mumbling something under his breath.
The lock clicked.
Belinda gasped. “Magick.” She looked up at MacKay, a tremor rattling her bones. “That was real magick.” Her voice shook and she shrank back against the back wall of her cell.
He nodded. “Please don’t scream. I’m trying to save your life.” With another muttered incantation, the padlock on her cell popped open. His light blue eyes were almost mesmerizing—she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his.
She moistened her lips. “Why? What difference is it to you?” Was he a real witch—or warlock, or whatever? Did he have some nefarious purpose in mind for her? And if he did, would that be better than dying?
His smile was kind and perhaps a trifle sad. “I just don’t like seeing innocent people die. I’m taking you somewhere safe while your trial is investigated by the proper authorities.” He opened the grated door and held out a hand. “Now will you come? He won’t be unconscious for long, and once he wakes, he’ll likely start yelling. Sooner or later, someone will hear him and they’ll be after us. I’d rather not steal a horse, so we’ll have to flee on foot, at least to the next village—unless you have horses on your farm?”
She stood and took his hand, still clutching the blanket around her with the other. “Only an old mule. I sold the last of my horses last autumn, when my crops failed—again. But I’m healthy. I can walk.”
“Good.” He dragged her out of the gaol, closing the door behind them. The High Street was empty, but even in this weather, there were lights and noise coming from the pub. Someone could come outside at any moment. Being just a few inches over five feet, compared to his six feet and then some, she had to run to keep up with his long strides. “Which way is the nearest train station?”
“North or east,” she answered easily. “There isn’t one to the west for quite some distance, and not until you cross the border into England if you go south. You needn’t worry. I’ll go alone—that way they won’t come after you.”
“No.” He didn’t bother explaining his curt reply. “Now which direction is your farm?” A block past the gaol, he pulled her into the alley behind the greengrocer’s and the butcher shop and slowed his stride so she didn’t have to run.
“West,” she said, panting. “Just about a mile and half. But won’t they look there first?”
“Perhaps. I’d check the nearest stations first if it were me. That’s why I want to leave by a roundabout manner.” He glanced down at her. “Besides, we can spare a moment for you to put on dry clothing and a proper coat. It won’t serve anyone’s purpose but theirs if you catch pneumonia and die anyway.”
“True.” She quickened her pace again. “That lane over there leads to my farm.”
A man strolled down the street toward them so they lingered in the alleyway until he’d passed, then darted across the open village green into the lane. They hurried down it, keeping as close as possible to the shadows of buildings, and then, as the shops and houses petered out, to the trees and hedgerows that lined the muddy roadway.
The walk, which would take her fifteen minutes on a normal day, seemed to last forever, though they moved as swiftly as she was able, given her sodden shoes and the blanket dragging in the mud behind her. Sir Connor kept hold of her hand. He hadn’t bothered to put his gloves back on after working the magick on the locks, and his heat radiated all the way up her arm.
When they reached the farm, she heaved a huge sigh of relief to see the house still standing. “I was afraid they’d have burned me out.”
“They might,” Sir Connor agreed as he followed her into the parlor. “If there’s anything small you can’t live without, you’d better take it. Damn, I wish my steam car wasn’t being repaired this week. Life would be a lot easier if we had motorized transportation.”
Belinda stopped in her tracks so suddenly that he crashed into her, the weight of him making her topple at the base of her stairs. Strong hands caught her and steadied her against him, and he held on to her waist. She turned to look up at him but in the darkness, his face was little more than a pale blur. “I do have a conveyance.” She swallowed hard. The idea was ridiculous, but perhaps... “Of a sort.”
“Oh?” She could hear the grin in his tone and was reminded again of just how young he must be. Surely it was only gratitude at his rescue that made her heart beat faster than it had when they were running.
“It’s a steam-powered...wagon,” she said. “Under a tarpaulin in the barn. It takes two people to operate—one to drive and the other to shovel coal for the boiler.”
“Excellent, provided you can drive.” He squeezed her waist with his hands. “Shoveling coal is one of my specialties. Now let’s get you some clean clothes and anything else you can’t replace. I don’t think you can count on coming home to this village, Mrs. Danvers. The Or... I mean the Home Office will do what it can, but if I were you, I wouldn’t want to take a chance on returning.”
“Right.” She hauled in a breath and stepped back, up onto the first stair. “I’ll need to light a lamp in order to change. Will that be a problem?”
He shrugged. “If you can close the drapes or blinds, all the better. We don’t want anyone coming to see who’s here.”
“Right. Upstairs, then.” She fled toward her bedroom, Sir Connor at her heels, and pulled the shutters closed before feeling around for the candle and sparker she kept by the bed.
“Here.” A small orb of blue light appeared in Sir Connor’s palm, throwing the room into shadows. She gulped at the reminder of his magick, so much more powerful than any piddling gift she might have. “Now light the candle. I can’t maintain this forever.”
She obeyed, then tugged a carpet bag from under the bed and shoved in the wedding photograph she kept on her bureau and a small portrait of her grandparents. Things that couldn’t be replaced, he’d said. Her few photos were at the top of that list.
“You should probably change clothes first,” he said calmly. “You need to get dry.”
She jammed another photograph in along with her small jewelry box and her mother’s silver-handled hairbrush before turning to him. “Fine. While I’m dressing, if you want to be useful, go down to the kitchen and put all the bread, cheese and so on into a hamper. You’ll find one in the closet under the stairs.”
“As milady wishes.” He bowed, but paused before he left the room. “Do you need any help with your laces?”
“No.” She lived alone, so she always dressed herself with no help from a maid. Grabbing the patchwork quilt off the bed, she shoved it toward him. “Go on and take this. My grandmother made it. There’s money in the jar in the pantry labeled coffee, if they haven’t stolen it.”
He accepted the quilt, folding it as he spoke. “Take a change of clothes if you have them, and a warm coat, but hurry, and take only what you absolutely can’t bear to leave. I’m sorry you don’t have time to pack more.”
She nodded again, fumbling with the buttons on her shirtwaist. “I don’t have much that matters.”
He paused in the doorway. “Well, then, I’m sorry for that too.”
* * *
Connor made his way down the stairs without a light. His senses were keener than those of most humans, and he acknowledged the cat, easily the size of a small lion, staring at him haughtily from the back of a sofa. “I suppose she’ll want to take you.” This was rapidly turning into a farce. What was going to happen next?
He found the kitchen. Something had been left on the stove, although at least the fire was out. The pantry door hung ajar, so it was quick work to light a candle and find the hamper. After blowing a thick layer of dust off the covered wicker basket, h
e loaded it with her modest supplies. The coffee tin was present and still jingled, so he added that and the one actually full of tea. A pretty painted vase sat on the kitchen window, so Connor wrapped that in a tea towel and stuck it in as well along with the few other knickknacks. He didn’t see a basket for the cat, so he moved back to the parlor to see if anything there would fit in the hamper or his pockets.
“The mantel clock, please,” Belinda said as she came down the stairs. “My parents gave me that as a wedding gift. And oh, heavens, I almost forgot my grandmother’s cards.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a packet wrapped in cloth, which she shoved in the larger of her two carpetbags. “There. That’s most of it.” Her voice was thick as she looked around at her home for probably the last time.
“Do you have a basket for the cat?” Connor looked at the beast in question, swallowing the lump in his own throat.
She sniffed and chuckled. “What? Put Lucifer in a basket? Please. He’ll come along on his own, never worry. He’s smart enough to know they’re after his blood too. After all, he’s the witch’s familiar.” She clicked her tongue and the enormous cat jumped down and padded behind her as she moved toward the kitchen door.
“Right.” Connor hefted the hamper and nicked one of the carpet bags when she set it down to pull on her heavy boots at the back door. “Are you sure this will all fit in your wagon?” Hopefully, they wouldn’t be taking a tractor or something else with an open driver’s box.
“Oh, there will be plenty of room.” She made a sound suspiciously like a giggle, then took an umbrella and led the way outside, her cat trotting at her heels.
The barn, like the house, was beginning to fall into disrepair. The door creaked and sagged as she pushed it open. An old tin lantern hung from a hook inside the wall, and Connor used a spell to light it, illuminating the inside of the barn. Aside from some dusty tools, most of the available space was taken by a single large object—easily eighteen feet long, eight feet high and six feet wide—covered by several tarps sewn together. Whatever it was, it would certainly hold two people and a cat. If it worked. He was pretty sure the old mule snoozing in the corner of the barn was going to have to stay.
Cards & Caravans Page 3
