by Connie Mason
“Even if ye were unbound, ye canna hold me here longer,” Fiona said. “Ye must wake, Rob. Ye must hie yourself to Drummond’s stronghold before it’s too late.”
“Too late? Elspeth isna there. She left with her father. What’s happened?”
“Wake, Rob.” Fiona hovered near the ceiling then began to pass through the thatch as if it weren’t there. She faded completely from his sight, but her voice whispered into his ear as if she rested her head on the pillow beside him. “Open your eyes, love, but this time, truly see.”
He came to full wakefulness, but he didn’t open his eyes immediately. Instead, he slitted his eyelids and checked his surroundings. He was in his own bed. Margot Beaton was sitting in the chair exactly as he’d dreamed her, complete with the foul cup in her lap.
His tongue felt too large and thick for his mouth. He tried to move his arms and legs and found that he was bound as tightly as in his dream. His stomach was queasy, and his bladder ached to be relieved.
He opened his eyes completely, wincing at the light even though the room was shuttered.
“Ha…Hamish,” he said, shocked at the disembodied sound of his own voice.
Margot snorted and woke. She skittered to his side. “My lord, be at peace.”
She tried to spoon some of the tea into his mouth, but he spat it back out.
“Hamish,” he repeated.
“Now, my lord, ye mustn’t excite yourself.” The spoon wavered before him again, beckoning him to oblivion.
“Pish,” he said.
She flinched.
“I haf to pish.” He formed the words carefully, but they still came out slurred. “Call Hamish.”
“My lord, I was ordered to—”
“I gif oders here,” he roared, and her eyes rounded. “Unbine me, or when I free mysel’, I’ll eat yer liffer for supper.”
Sometimes being thought mad was a good thing. Margot leaped to do his bidding. She unstrapped him and then scuttled away to find Hamish. Rob rose from the bed shakily and stalked to the chamber pot, hoping to piss the rest of drug-laden tea out of his body.
He threw open the shutters and inhaled the snow-fresh air. Then he began pacing the room, trying his body for signs of weakness. He seemed to be in possession of all his limbs. His head felt clearer, but there was an aching knot on the back of his skull. His tongue still felt oversized.
Hamish rapped once and then came in. He folded his arms over his barrel chest and curled his lip. “Ye’re no’ any the prettier for three days’ rest.”
A yellowish bruise purpled his friend’s jaw. “Look who’z talkin’.”
Three days. Rob pulled a shirt out of his trunk and drew it on over his nakedness. He put a hand to the back of his head. “Pounds like a…hammer.”
“Good. Is it knocking any sense into ye?”
“Aye, but I havena changed…toward Elspeth.” His tongue was settling. The slur faded. “She had a notion that there’d be a battle if she stayed. Ye canna deny she broke the siege. And now she needs me.”
“Ye’ll be wanting me to come with ye,” Hamish said matter-of-factly.
“Aye, I’ll need your help.”
“And ye’ll have it, so long as ye dinna plan on getting yourself killed.”
“I try to avoid that whenever I can,” Rob said as he wrapped a kilt around his loins. He chose a length of fabric that had belonged to his mother’s clan, a soft brown and tan weave. It would probably be wise not to announce his presence with a MacLaren plaid, since he intended to beard Lachlan Drummond in his own den. “But I’ll have your promise that ye’ll no’ clout me on the head again.”
Hamish grinned at him. “If ye promise ye’ll no’ deserve it.”
Chapter 33
In the chamber from which Fiona MacLaren had leaped to her death, Elspeth spent a sleepless night. No doubt that was Lachlan’s hope. Perhaps he also hoped she’d make a similar choice to end her own life.
Very few who were accused of witchcraft were acquitted. She could hardly be blamed for wanting to escape burning, but Elspeth purposed in her heart not to follow Fiona’s path.
It wasn’t that she feared damnation if she chose suicide. She didn’t believe God was as vindictive as His creatures. Wherever Fiona’s spirit now bided, Elspeth didn’t think the manner of her death had anything to do with it.
But losing his wife to suicide had disordered Rob’s mind. If Elspeth were to make the same choice…She feared what another similar loss might do to him more than she feared the flames.
Normina, the silent serving woman, appeared with a breakfast tray. Elspeth’s stomach roiled so, she couldn’t touch a mouthful. Normina helped her with her hair and made her as presentable as possible under the circumstances. Then she was left alone.
Elspeth knelt at the little private altar near the window and prayed. In silence, she started pleading for her life but found her prayers drifting away from herself and her straits. Her thoughts turned to Rob and her parents and how her trial would affect them. As she prayed for those she loved, a curious peace descended on her, and her fear lessened to a manageable level.
Still, the rap on the door made her flinch. Lachlan Drummond entered the room before she could rise.
“Praying, Elspeth? A very touching scene,” he said. “Might turn the judge’s heart to be kindly disposed toward you. Pity only I saw you kneeling.”
She rose with all the dignity she could muster. “It’s what God sees that matters.”
Then she walked past him to the guards who were waiting outside her door to escort her to trial.
The court was assembled in the Dining Hall, the largest room in Drummond’s stronghold, to accommodate all the onlookers crowding the space. The many tables had been cleared away, but the benches lining the walls were crammed with Lachlan’s retainers.
The dais at one end of the room was dominated by a man in a rich surplice. He was seated behind a table draped with velvet embroidered with liturgical symbols. Elspeth recognized him as the priest who tried to conduct her interrupted wedding. He owed his living to Lachlan Drummond. She could expect no leniency from him.
Below the judge, Father Kester, the priest who’d accused her, was seated beside Mrs. Beaton and a couple of the serving girls from Caisteal Dubh. If they were gathered here this quickly, it could only mean this accusation had been made with plenty of advance planning.
Her parents were nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Rob, though she could hardly expect him here in Drummond’s stronghold.
Elspeth was ushered to a straight-backed chair directly before the judge’s seat.
Mrs. Beaton was the first to be sworn to truthfulness and made to testify.
“Elspeth Stewart, by means of sorcery most foul, did bewitch my Lord MacLaren into stealing her away from her wedding to Lord Drummond,” she said.
The judge nodded. “I myself was present at the time, and it did seem an act of lunacy. Is the MacLaren here to confirm that he was acting under compulsion?”
“No, Father,” Mrs. Beaton said. “He is confined to his bed with an unnatural sickness. It came upon him suddenlike the morning after Elspeth Stewart left Caisteal Dubh. She witched him again, I’ll warrant.”
Elspeth’s hand flew involuntarily to her chest. Rob was sick. If he was ill enough to be bedridden, he wouldn’t have led his men in battle. Her vision of his and her father’s deaths couldn’t have come true. She’d fled for no reason.
Mrs. Beaton glared at her. “No doubt she cursed him to keep him from testifying against her here.”
A chorus of murmurs and nods greeted this pronouncement.
“Is there any other evidence of witchcraft to which you can attest?” the judge asked.
“I heard her call Hamish Murray’s name before she was introduced to him,
which could only have been because a demon whispered the name into her ear,” Mrs. Beaton said. “And Nessa and the other girls tell me she bears the wound of the devil’s pitchfork upon her body. And the devil always marks those who consort with him.”
“Ye’ve no’ seen the mark yourself?” the judge asked.
“Weel, no, but if ye make her strip off her clothes,” Mrs. Beaton said with a practical shrug, “I expect we’ll find it’s there.”
This suggestion was greeted by lewd calls of encouragement from the men gathered. The judge rapped his gavel for order.
“Lady Elspeth, do ye admit to the mark, or do ye wish to disrobe to disprove Mrs. Beaton’s assertion?”
Elspeth stood, her face hot with embarrassment. “I have a pair of scars from a recent crossbow wound. ’Tis no mark of the devil.”
“Such is the devil’s deceit that she might not even recognize the mark for what it is. It would have to be examined in this court in order for a determination of its origin to be made,” Father Kester piped up.
“Duly noted,” the judge said.
“The scar is in…an indelicate place, Father,” Elspeth said, sure the tips of her ears must be scarlet. If she was going to prove her innocence, she had to maintain the dignity of a noblewoman. Most women convicted of witchcraft were commoners. Her rank and birth were her best defense.
“If ye willna allow the mark to be examined, we must assume Mrs. Beaton is correct and ye have been in unholy congress with Satan,” the judge said.
“That’s no’ true,” Elspeth said.
“There’s a simple way to prove whether or no’ she’s had sexual union with the Dark One,” Father Kester said. “Lady Elspeth is unmarried. A midwife can examine her to determine if she’s yet a virgin.”
The judge nodded. “An excellent suggestion, and a determination about the nature of the mark upon her body might be made at the same time.”
“I’ve served as a midwife on many occasions,” Mrs. Beaton offered.
“In the interests of impartiality, we will find a different midwife, one with no association to this case,” the judge said. “Are ye willing to submit to examination, Lady Elspeth?”
She hadn’t intended to sit, but her knees gave way beneath her. A midwife would immediately know she was not a virgin. “No, Father,” she said softly. “There is no need.”
The room erupted with laughter and vulgar speculations. The judge once again rapped for silence, but he didn’t admonish the crowd this time.
“The court will draw its own conclusions, then, my lady,” he said.
A soft titter escaped Mrs. Beaton’s lips, and the judge silenced her with a glare. “Is there anything else you wish to add to these proceedings?”
“Aye, Father,” Mrs. Beaton said, composing her features quickly into such a somber expression, she reminded Elspeth of a blooded hound. “Elspeth Stewart was possessed of the devil in the Great Hall of Caisteal Dubh. She began spewing nonsense about death and destruction and prophesying evil upon all around her, till our laird lifted her up and carried her from the hall.”
Father Kester stood. “I can confirm that. I was in there when it happened.”
“And what’s more,” Mrs. Beaton continued, “through her dark arts, Elspeth Stewart did spirit Lord MacLaren into Caisteal Dubh and herself out again. A locked fortress, mind ye, without passing through any gate or opening made by human hands.”
“I saw her fly right over the castle walls,” Nessa piped up, and the other serving girls chimed in their support of the claim. One had seen her backlit by the full moon. Another watched while Elspeth mounted a broom and circled the castle turrets. Each of them shouted out a more fantastic variation on Elspeth’s abilities than the next.
The judge pounded his gavel for order. “In good time, ye’ll each be sworn and given a chance to unburden yourselves,” he told the nearly hysterical girls. “Mrs. Beaton, proceed.”
The day droned on. One lie after another was gleefully reported and embellished.
Elspeth’s back hurt. She stopped listening to the testimony after a while, her thoughts drifting back to Rob. If she could fly, why would she still be here? She’d have soared over the Highlands to be at his side and tend him through his illness, as he’d tended her. Part of her wished she really was a witch.
Finally the judge invited her to speak in her own defense. She swore to tell the truth and took the more comfortable witness seat, facing the assembled onlookers. She composed her hands in her lap, hoping no one could see them trembling.
“Father, allow me to address Mrs. Beaton’s testimony first,” she said. “I was able to call Hamish Murray’s name because I’d met his uncle, Angus Fletcher, whom he favors greatly. Has anyone here ever noticed that family members sometimes resemble each other, and you can name their kinsmen with a glance? That is how I was able to guess at Hamish’s name, not through magic of any means.”
A few heads nodded and she took heart.
“It has been suggested that I submit to an examination to determine my purity,” Elspeth said, willing her voice not to shake. “Since I am bound to tell the truth, I will admit that I am no longer a maiden.”
Grunts of disapproval greeted this admission.
“Unchastity is a sin,” she continued, “but one which may be forgiven. My lover was no devil. He is as human as I.”
“His name,” the judge said stonily. “So we may confirm your story.”
Elspeth’s lips clamped shut. So often in witch trials, the aim of the court was to get the accused to name their cohorts. If she named Rob, he’d be the next one condemned.
“I cannot give you his name.”
“That’s because she likely didna see his true face.” Father Kester stood and shook his finger at her to punctuate his remark. “The Prince of Darkness took a man’s form when he stole into her chamber and took carnal knowledge of her body!”
The judge nodded but motioned for him to sit. “Everyone knows how an incubus does his evil work, Father Kester. There’s no need to go into lurid detail.” Then he turned to Elspeth. “Proceed.”
“My wound, which I canna show ye for modesty’s sake, came from a crossbow. The bolt was shot by Lord Drummond.” There was a name she didn’t mind bringing to the judge’s attention.
Drummond stood. “Ridiculous! Why would I shoot my betrothed?”
“I dinna think ye meant to,” Elspeth said. “Ye were aiming at a dog at the time.”
She heard several suppressed snorts.
“Pray, be seated if it please ye, my Lord Drummond. Ye are not required to give testimony unless ye wish.” The judge turned back to Elspeth. “A crossbow bolt results in a wicked injury. Since ye survived it, ye must have had help. And whoever it was, they most likely had knowledge of the dark arts to affect such a healing. For the sake of your eternal soul, ye must give us their names.”
Hepzibah Black already had the whispered reputation of being a witch. If she were named in a witch trial, even her home’s remote location wouldn’t protect her.
“If I gave ye names, I would be repaying their kindness sorely.”
“Doing so might earn ye a bit of clemency.” When she refrained from answering, the judge narrowed his eyes at her. “Upon your head, so be it. Continue.”
She swallowed hard. “Mrs. Beaton has testified that she saw me prophecy. In truth, I do possess the Gift of Sight. She witnessed the expression of that Gift.”
“Such things have been known to be,” the judge said solemnly. “Men of faith have been visited by visions from God, but the devil is prone to imitate the Almighty’s gifts. Demonstrate your ability that we may judge from whence this Sight of yours comes.”
“I canna control its coming or going. I am shown that which I am meant to See. No more.”
“And what did ye See?�
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“A great battle, Father.”
“And did this vision prove true?” the judge asked.
“No, but—”
“Sounds like the wiles of the devil to me,” Father Kester said.
Elspeth resisted the urge to glare at him. He might claim she was trying to give him the Evil Eye.
“Finally, I freely confess that I canna fly,” she said. “Though I’ve wished I could several times during this trial.”
This time unrestrained laughter ringed the hall, and several faces actually seemed friendly toward her. The judge’s wasn’t one of them.
“Perhaps we should adjourn this court and repair to a high tower,” he said. “If ye are given a push off, we’ll see whether or no’ ye’re telling the truth right enough.”
She sucked her breath over her teeth. The judge was serious. “The truth is, if ye do that, ye’ll see me plummet to my death.”
“Which would lead to an acquittal,” the judge said, bringing his circular argument to its logical conclusion.
“And my death,” she reminded him.
“There are things worse than death, my child,” he assured her. “Your soul would at least be clean before God.”
Mrs. Beaton leaned over and whispered in Father Kester’s ear. He nodded and stood.
“If I may, I have one question for the accused.” Father Kester cast a wolf’s smile at her. “If ye are no’ willing to do as the judge suggests and offer us concrete proof that ye canna fly, will ye at least explain how ye were able to make Lord MacLaren and yourself appear suddenly inside a locked fortress?” Mrs. Beaton nudged him with her elbow. “And how ye were able to leave undetected the same way?”
Elspeth’s knuckles whitened on her lap. She couldn’t divulge the secret of the back entrance to Caisteal Dubh. It would mean betraying Rob. She’d rather take a leap from the tower.
At last, she understood Fiona. And the judge was right. There were things worse than death.
“I canna tell ye,” she said.
The judge rapped his gavel three times. “Then it is the judgment of this court that Elspeth Stewart is guilty of consorting with the Evil One. The accused will stand while I pronounce sentence.”
