“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 Luthiashad 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.
“Now,” he said, smiling. “I will repeat my question. What witches reside in Glen Laire?”
Strathwick shook his head as if he hadn’t any idea what Luthias could possibly be referring to. So calm, so composed.
Luthias brought the mallet down hard, driving a wedge into Strathwick’s finger. He heard the bone snap, and blood spurted onto the table. The child shrieked. A righteous fire flared through him. He felt drunk from it. Strathwick inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw rigid, but he made no other sound. Luthias brought the mallet down again and again, punctuating each blow with a question. And every time the wizard’s answer was the same.
The child cried through it all. “Da! Make him stop! Make him stop!”
“I’m fine, Squirrel,” Strathwick said, his voice tight, his baleful gaze fixed on Luthias.
Luthias started to bring the mallet down again but paused. Strathwick had braced himself for the blow and was clearly irritated to be kept in suspense of the pain. Luthias regarded his subject thoughtfully. The man’s hand was a bloody useless lump. If he were to live—which he would not, of course—it would have to be amputated. His face was lined with pain, and his hair was damp with sweat, but he’d not made a single sound of pain beyond harsh breathing throughout. This wizard was powerful. He would not crack.
Luthias set the bloodstained mallet aside. “Come here…Squirrel is your name?” What a stupid name for a child. But fitting for one who communes with animals.
The child looked at her father with enormous blue eyes. A pretty child, with glossy black curls, plump cheeks, and sinfully long black lashes. A daughter of Eve; the first deserters of Divine Law, as St. Clement called them. In a few years she would bespell grown men to evil.
“What do you want with her?” the wizard asked, his voice rough with pain.
“If you will not talk, perhaps she will.”
When the child would not come, Luthias snatched her wrist, dragging her from where she hid behind her father’s chair. She dug in her heels, and the wizard began to bellow, trying to stand, though the villagers and the penniewinks held him fast.
“I’ll talk,” he said, his voice cracking with pain and defeat. “Just leave her alone.”
After Rose dressed, took her father back to his room, and gave Hagan explicit instructions on caring for him—the Irishman seemed rather in awe of her now and more inclined to listen—she went in search of Hilda. Rose was doing her utmost not to dwell on William and his desertion, so she turned her mind to Tira. What had gone wrong? She thought that perhaps she’d been mistaken: Perhaps shehadn’theard the woman’s voice. It still did not explain why she’d suffered with her aunt’s pain, but still, maybe she hadn’t truly healed her.
But now she knew that was not true. So what had happened? Hilda had been the only other person present at the birth, and despite what she’d told Roderick, Rose wanted to question the woman herself. There was also the nagging question of what had happened to her father. Everyone had concluded that he’d been attacked because Hagan had heard someone and William had been seen leaving her father’s chambers. But Rose did not credit this. She assumed her father had been attacked because of the gray film she’d seen around his brain. The only other time she’d seen such a thing had been when delivering Liam. Suffocation. There had been no marks on her father’s neck to indicate a strangling, but he’d been feeble from his illness. A pillow pressed over his face would have done the job just as well.
Sir Philip still had not returned with Sir Donnan, but William had indicated he might have an accomplice within Lochlaire. Hilda had already been at Lochlaire when Rose had arrived, but only for a few months—Uncle Roderick had engaged her services when Tira hadbecome pregnant, which was about the same time Alan MacDonell had fallen ill.
Even if Hilda did work for Sir Donnan, it did not explain why she would kill Tira. Perhaps the servant fancied herself in love with Uncle Roderick—he was a comely man, after all—and was ridding herself of the competition? It seemed a rather far-fetched theory, but then people did strange things for love. There was no limit to what she would do to protect William.
Rose knocked at the door to her uncle’s tower apartments. When no one answered, she tried the door and found it open.
“Uncle Roderick? Hilda?” She stepped into the room. There was still no answer. The chamber was dimly lit with two candles and a dying fire. The scent of dried blood and incense hung thick in the air. Rose was immediately struck by how bare the room was, as if all signs of her aunt had been obliterated. She wandered about the room, looking for something, anything that would indicate Tira had inhabited these apartments—her sewing, her needles, her clothes, her comb—anything. But it was all gone, even the chair she’d sat on. Why would Roderick dispose of her things, and so quickly? The answer came to Rose with sudden, startling clarity. Because of Isobel. Isobel could touch objects and uncover all manner of information.
This opened up new, more sinister possibilities. Uncle Roderick? A witch? She remembered the things Tira had screamed during her labor.It will kill me! He put it in there—it’s unnatural! It’s a monster!Could it be that Tiraknew something and could not be allowed to live? Her heart beating erratically, Rose returned to the door and shut it, then began methodically searching the room, opening cabinets, pushing aside the Turkey rugs to tap on the floorboards. Nothing. She went to the bedchamber and found that door locked.
Her hands shook as she located a stiletto blade of her uncle’s and picked the lock. Where was Uncle Roderick? What would he do if he found her in here, rifling through his things? She felt time slipping away, and yet she had to find something, some proof of this if anyone was to believe her. She wasn’t even certainshebelieved it.
The bedchamber was elaborately appointed, the bed piled high with furs and velvet coverlets trimmed in gold. Thick Turkey carpets covered the floor and walls. The ceiling was carved and painted with gold and red paint. As if he were already the chieftain.
Rose circled the room, searching everything. When again she found nothing, she moved the carpets aside and tapped the floorboards with a cane she’d found. She finally found what she searched for—a hollow knock. She knelt, sliding the stiletto in and around the sides of the floorboard. It pried up easily.
She fetched a candle and held it over the dark recess. Several dark shapes rested inside the hole. One item at a time, she removed the paraphernalia. A wand made of black glass, a small black bowl, smooth and gleaming like ebony. Inside the bowl rested scores of pins and three rusty nails. Also inside the recess were a small ivory casket and two lumps of dirty wax pierced through with long pins.
