The executioner was standing in front of the table now, watching. Ewan nodded at him. “Ye can do her first. I want to watch.”
Philip jerked savagely at his bindings, muttering something incoherent.
The executioner started forward, but Colin said, “Wait. One of the elders sent something…laudanum.” Then to the executioner, “Give her the laudanum. She’ll not be in pain at all then, aye? You see, Philip, I’m not completely heartless.”
“Oh, you will be when I’m through with you,” Philip growled.
Colin tsked. “Still making threats—to the very end.”
“Laudanum?” Ewan said. “She doesna even deserve to be worried first. She tried to ruin my life. My wife still wilna lie with me.” And then he spat on her.
The executioner knelt beside Isobel, his back to Colin and Ewan, blocking out Ewan’s hated face. Isobel looked at the huge mask, through the eyeholes, for some sign of justice. Dark blue eyes peered back at her, laugh lines crinkling beside them. A frisson of surprise ran through her as she became certain this was a good man before her, despite his awful job.
“Give Philip the laudanum, too,” she pleaded.
“Here you go, lass,” he said. “Just you drink up.” But he pressed nothing to her mouth. In fact, his hands moved swiftly to the pole between Philip and Isobel. She felt the nick of a cold blade on the back of her hand, drawing blood.
But she didn’t move. The eyes that stared into hers were familiar. She caught the subtle raising of his brows through the mask’s eyeholes, then he straightened and turned.
“It’ll take a bit for the laudanum to work,” the executioner said, and went back to his table to wait.
Isobel kept her hands behind her, as if they were still secured. They were still trapped. The rope that secured them both to the stake was still there, wrapped twice about their upper torsos. But their hands were free. Philip gripped her full-handed.
Ewan was still talking to her, but Isobel’s blood pounded in her ears so she could barely hear. The executioner was a friend. This was not the end.
Ewan squatted beside her. “Are you feeling sleepy yet, witch?”
Isobel blinked at him, trying to look groggy. She didn’t know what the plan was, but then neither did Philip. Was she to use her freed hands, or wait for the executioner to do something? Her heart continued hammering insistently in her throat, her body tense and ready to spring at the slightest signal from the executioner.
“Why don’t ye kill the redshank so we can get on with the lass,” Ewan said.
Philip released Isobel’s hands. “What did he say?” Philip asked, his voice deathly quiet.
There was a scrape of a boot, then Colin’s voice was close, too, as he squatted down beside Philip. “Oh, that’s another thing Mr.Kennedy paid for. A wee bit of fun with Mistress MacDonell afore her worrying.” There was a long pause, then, “I was going to pass, myself, as I dinna fancy witch quim…” Colin’s face appeared before her as he leaned around, his eyes traveling over her body and lingering on her breasts. “But I just might reconsider.”
The entire pole moved as Philip surged forward, his hands on Colin’s throat. They were still attached to the pole and it shuddered with a splintering crack as Colin struggled to escape. The executioner ran forward, and their bindings were cut. Someone’s head slammed into Isobel’s, and she tried to scramble out of the way. Philip and Colin rolled about on the floor. Ewan tried to hop over them, making for the stairs.
Isobel was still on the ground, but she snagged the edge of his cloak, jerking him backward. She still had no idea what their plan was, but she knew well enough that Colin and Ewan could not leave the cellar, or the whole town would be breathing down their necks.
Ewan turned and kicked at her. Isobel caught his foot, throwing her weight on it. He tried to shake her off, but she held tight. The edges of her vision began to fragment. “No!” she cried, but she couldn’t let go, and before she knew it, a vision was upon her.
Ewan was trapped. The thick homespun of the sack sucked into his mouth every time he tried to breathe. But still he could get no air. He just sucked in more smoke, making his throat raw and his eyes water. The smell of pitch surrounded him; the oppressive heat grew thicker until it licked through sack, frying his skin like pork fat.
Ewan shook her off. Isobel blinked, back in the dank cold of the cellar. Philip had subdued Colin and the executioner guarded the cellar door. Ewan looked between them, then turned and grabbed Isobel by the hair, dragging her up in front of him.
He drew a small dirk from his belt and held it to her throat.
Philip came closer, looking between Ewan’s face and the knife. “Drop the dirk, or it’ll go bad for you, I vow it.”
“Let me out, or I’ll slit her gullet,” Ewan said.
The executioner removed his mask. It took Isobel a moment to recognize him; without his beard he looked quite different. “If we let you out, you’ll bring the whole village down on us,” Fergus said. “So that doesna make much sense, does it?”
“I won’t,” Ewan said, but they all knew he lied.
The knife pricked into Isobel’s skin. They were at an impasse. Ewan would not give up his only bargaining tool, and they could not let him out of the cellar alive. So Isobel did the only thing she could, considering the circumstances. She was sure her mother would have approved.
“I’ve seen your future, Ewan Kennedy,” Isobel said, her voice low and trembling.
