Her voice trailed off as everyone at the table gaped at her in horror. Hesitantly, Heather took hold of the handkerchief and pulled it from Isobel’s fingers. Isobel’s gaze focused on Philip. Tears streaked her face; she looked as if she might collapse.He did it,she mouthed at him.He killed them both.
Ewan seemed to come to himself. “That is a God damned lie!” He turned to his wife, who stared down at the handkerchief in horrified amazement. “She has no proof! She’s a liar—or—or a witch—set to ruin me!”
Isobel’s head jerked. “No! I can show you where he buried the bodies.”
A jolt went through Philip. Ewan stared, mouth agape.
Philip stood and held his hand out to Isobel. “Show me.”
It seemed to take her some effort to slide off the bench, but she came to him, putting her hand in his. “First, take us to the brewery.”
“I thought you knew where her body was?” Ewan sneered. He turned to his wife, who frowned worriedly at the handkerchief. “Lies, I tell you! She knows nothing! They’re redshanks—we cannot trust them!”
Heather stared at her husband silently, her expression unfathomable, then stood slowly. “Follow me.”
They followed Heather up High Street. They had attracted some attention in the tavern, and a small group of villagers followed curiously. The whole situation made Philip uneasy, and yet he would not stop it. He’d never seen the like. He’d heard all the stories of witches, but he’d never seen anything that convinced him such a thing was possible. Until now.
Heather led them through the brewery, hundreds of wooden casks stacked upon each other and secured with rope, and through a back door. Isobel stopped, her hand tightening on Philip’s.
“Where did you find the handkerchief?” she asked.
Heather pointed to a spot a few feet from them.
“I need it back.”
Heather looked down at the square of linen, her fist tightening on it. She didn’t want to know any more. She was having second thoughts. Philip didn’t know how he knew these things, he just always did in such situations. And maybe he didn’t really know, but he felt it so strongly that he often went with his gut. In this case his gut told him Heather Kennedy knew this would change her life forever and was frightened.
Philip said, “If you truly wish to learn your daughter’s fate,you’ll have to give her the handkerchief.”
“You dinna have to, Heather,” Ewan said. “This a trick—something evil, I say.”
“If you’re innocent,” Fergus said, “what have ye then to fear?”
Heather searched the burly redhead’s face as if Fergus held the answers she searched for. Fergus nodded toward Isobel, and said, “Go on.”
Heather thrust the linen at Isobel. Isobel tried to draw her hand from Philip’s, but he held fast. When she looked up at him questioningly he asked, “Need ye two hands?”
She shook her head and balled the handkerchief in her fist. “We’ll need shovels.”
Philip turned to Stephen and Fergus, both of whom appeared thoroughly enthralled, their gazes fixed on Isobel. “Fetch some shovels and the town elders—then catch up.” The two hurried back into the brewhouse.
When Isobel’s eyes went glassy this time Philip was thankful he had a hold on her. She started walking, leading the group away from the house. Stephen and Fergus caught up, each with a shovel, before they reached the trees. Two bearded men dressed entirely in black trailed after them. They’d gone about fifty feet into the trees when Isobel stopped. Philip looked down at her. She swayed, her face white and damp with sweat.
“It happened here,” she said, her voice weak, barely a breath.
Philip looked around. The signs of a struggle were not obvious, but as he looked closer, he saw them. The ground was craggy, lichen- and moss-covered stone poking up through the bracken and wild grasses. Several stones showed deep scratches in the lichen, as if the side of a shoe or boot had been kicking orstruggling for purchase. Flowers that grew between the stones were bent, some wilting. The moss and ivy that grew up the side of a nearby tree had been ripped off and trailed to the ground.
“They’re buried here?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.” She began walking again. A hundred feet farther Philip saw the fresh earth, a dark scar in the grass- and lichen-covered ground. Isobel pointed, her eyes stark and frightening.
Stephen and Fergus set to it, the townspeople crowding around, watching in ominous silence. The elders stood in the front, hands clasped before them. Ewan hovered close to his wife, watching the digging, sweat running freely down his face.
When Laurie’s mottled face was uncovered, Stephen stood back, staring down into the grave, his expression tight and grim. Heather stepped forward. She cried out, clutching at Stephen as sobs wracked her body. Stephen put his arm around her shoulders, his gaze locked on Ewan.
Soon Roger Wood’s body was uncovered, and his mother began to wail, too. The anguished cries echoed through the forest, sending a dozen rooks flapping and screeching their annoyance. The elders bent their heads together, conversing silently, their gazes sliding between Ewan and Isobel.
Ewan went to his wife and tried to embrace her. “I didna do it, love! I swear, you must believe me! This is a trick—or—or witchcraft. You would truly believe these—these redshanks, naught but Highland scum, over me?”
