“It’s a poor chieftain who has such a weak stomach.”
“You’re one to talk. You haven’t even the stomach to be chieftain. At least I want it. It’s yours by birth, and still you’re too cowardly to take it.”
Philip opened his eyes then, his jaw rigid. “If that’s true, why am I here?”
“Because you found Effie. I knew that would change things…and I want things to stay the same.”
Philip shook his head and started laughing. Colin scowled at him, but Philip didn’t seem to care—it started as a rough chuckle and dissolved into helpless laughter, tears streaming down his face.
“You find that amusing?”
When Philip could talk again, he said, “Ah, I do, I really do. It’s all a bit amusing if you look at it just so.”
Colin shook his head in annoyance. “And how is that? From the ground, tied to a stake, and covered with burns?”
“No—it’s just that you are right. Everythinghaschanged.” The humor left his face as suddenly as it had appeared. His eyes grew fierce and he strained against the stake, as if he were trying to spring free. “I vow on Sgor Dubh, which is mine by right, you thieving murderer, that if you speak her name, I will find a way tokill you.”
Colin should not have been unsettled. Philip was tied to a pole for Christ’s sake—weak from torture. There was no escape for him. He could not hurt Colin. And yet unsettled Colin was as he quickly retreated up the stairs, Philip’s threats following him out of the cellar and into the night.
Chapter 23
Isobel’s journey to Hawkirk was uneventful. She’d not been bothered by any broken men, and the few times she’d stopped to ask directions, the farmers had been very helpful. She’d arrived in Hawkirk in the evening and rented a room. She wore a scarf over her hair and her mantle hood pulled low over her face, just in case someone recognized her, but so far no one had said a word.
They were too busy talking about the withcraft trial. The man accused wasn’t a witch exactly—though he was accused of consulting and aiding a witch. The problem was, he wouldn’t give her up. Everyone agreed he was still enchanted. It was obvious, they claimed. That very day the smith had burned him with a hot iron and he just smiled and laughed. He couldn’t even feel pain. The devil’s work, it was.
Such talk made Isobel ill. When she inquired about the prisoner, she was told he was locked up for the night. She’d be able to view him on the morrow when the smith took the tongs to him. Would she like a basket packed for her—in case the questioning went on overlong, and she became hungry?
Isobel declined and retired to her rented room. She spent a restless night pacing the floor, wringing her hands and praying to God for divine intervention. Come morning, she was no closer to aplan than she’d been when she arrived. The dawn found her waiting outside the smithy with a crowd of other villagers, many carrying baskets packed with refreshments, waiting for the witch to arrive and the amusement to begin.
Isobel had debated whether or not to come armed. She couldn’t fire a gun—did not even know how to reload. But in the end she brought the whole satchel anyway. She might as well be prepared for anything.
Isobel backed to the edge of the crowd when Ewan Kennedy arrived on the scene. He stood apart from the others, looking very grave and dignified. Soon men drifted to him, to speak quietly and respectfully to him.
A surge of hatred shot through Isobel. He played the part of martyr well, acting as if he was only grudgingly forgiving the villagers for wrongly accusing him, for believing the witch’s lies. Isobel wished then that she did have the power to give the evil eye—for she’d strike him down in his tracks for letting an innocent man suffer for his crimes.
“Here he comes,” someone shouted.
Quiet fell over the crowd and they all turned. Isobel turned with them and saw a group of men coming up the street. She covered her mouth, biting her finger through her gloves to keep from making a sound when she saw Philip. Though his face was unmarked, he looked haggard, whiskers covering his jaw and dark circles beneath his eyes. The shirt he wore was too small and bulky from the bandages beneath it.
Colin was with him, looking very grave and important. He was dressed as a lowlander, in leather breeches, doublet, and a cap tilted rakishly on his blond head. Isobel’s attention went back to Philip. The relief she felt at seeing him alive and walking under his own power was tempered by the fact he was about to be tortured. Again. They sat him on a stump and removed his shirt. His uppertorso was wrapped with bloody and fluid-crusted linen, and when they began removing it, he hissed with pain. It had dried to the wounds, and skin ripped off with the cloth.
All sound from Philip stopped as he went rigid. Isobel raised her horrified eyes to his face, unable to bear watching him suffer, but unable to stop it. Her breath caught. He stared into her eyes, his so mournful it nearly broke her heart. Then he looked away and his gaze did not pass her way again. She wondered if she’d imagined it, then decided she’d not. If he’d not mentioned her name throughout his torture yesterday, he certainly wouldn’t give her up now.
The smith was at his forge, rolling a pair of tongs around in the fire. An elder with a long beard and tall black hat came to stand before Philip.
“Must we do this again today?”
“You can just let me go,” Philip suggested. When the elder only stared at him reprovingly, Philip sighed. “Let’s get on with it then.”
“Tell us the name of the witch, and we will set you free. It’s that simple.”
Isobel’s breath hitched in her chest.Set him free?She started forward when Philip said loudly, “That’s a lie—you’ll burn me no matter what I tell you.”
She paused. Would they lie? They were elders, church members who administered the village. Surely they didn’t tell blatant lies such as that.
The elder stroked his beard, watching Philip. “We are not lying. Tell us her name, and you are free to go.”
Philip rose suddenly from the stump. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? There is no witch, and no matter what you do, I’llnot say different.”
