After her bath Earie combed Gillian’s hair dry before the fire and plaited it, wrapping the coils around herhead. All the while Gillian thought of the young maid she’d met the night before, taking her own life. What had been so horrible that death was preferable?
When Gillian was dressed and coiffured, Earie directed her to the great hall. The enormous hall had been transformed from the night before. The trestle tables were gone, and the hall milled with people. From the quality of the attire it was clear these were not servants—many not even villagers—but lairds and merchants.
Gillian hung back near the wall, uncertain what to do. Several men gave her appraising looks, but she ignored them, searching for her knight. She peered past the clusters of people to a table set upon the dais. Sir Evan sat behind it, and beside him sat another man, small and balding. Beside him was yet another man, this one young and thin, and writing furiously on a long piece of parchment.
Sir Evan spotted her and stood, motioning to someone behind him. To Gillian’s utter horror, yet another man stepped forward—a herald—and bellowed, “The countess of Kincreag!”
A hush fell over the hall. Every face turned toward her. Gillian froze, staring back into their faces with blank terror. Then Sir Evan was beside her, taking her arm and leading her through the crowd. Slowly her wits returned, and her cheeks burned brighter as she imagined herself paralyzed at the back of the room. What a poor countess she was turning out to be.
At the dais Sir Evan seated her in an elaborate high-backed chair, then took the chair beside her. He leanedclose and said, “This won’t last long, my lady, then I’m at your disposal.”
Gillian nodded numbly. She had no idea what was transpiring in the hall, or what might be expected of her, seated at the high table. But soon it all became clear, and she relaxed. This was Kincreag’s court session for settling grievances and hearing petitions, except Sir Evan administered what justice he could in Nicholas’s absence. Gillian’s foster father had been a March Warden, so she was familiar with courts of law. Nicholas was sheriff of many shires, so his reach was great.
Gillian listened avidly to pleas for mercy from mothers and fathers for their children, requests for loans, and accusations against others. The young man on the dais was a scribe, and he recorded each request for Nicholas to review later, along with any decisions made. Most were set aside for the earl to review later, but some Sir Evan ruled on, with the advice of the bald man, who, it turned out, was Nicholas’s solicitor.
A burly, red-faced man came forward with an accusation of witchcraft. Two men dragged an old woman forward, thrusting her in front of Sir Evan. She was haggard and filthy, dressed in rags. Sir Evan’s nose wrinkled at her stench, but otherwise he appeared immune to the woman’s distress.
Her accuser recited a list of grievances, among them drying up his cow’s milk, causing his young child to die of pox by giving him the evil eye, and necromancy. The last charge caused Gillian’s heart to skitter uncomfortably.
Sir Evan leaned toward the solicitor, and theyconversed quietly. Finally Sir Evan straightened. “Your grievances are noted. Lord Kincreag tries all cases of witchcraft.”
Gillian looked at Sir Evan in surprise. That was most unusual. Previously, only the king could try a witch, but a law had been passed several years ago giving power to villages to form committees to try, sentence, and execute witches. As long as the witch was a commoner, most nobles were happy to leave the trying and burning to the committees.
The man turned away, but the woman resisted attempts to remove her. Her watery brown eyes fixed pleadingly on Gillian.
Gillian hesitated, fidgeting in her seat and glancing anxiously at Sir Evan, but he’d already forgotten the old woman and motioned the next petitioner forward.
The old woman called out, “Help me, my lady, I am innocent of these charges. I beg yer sweet mercy. I did none of these things—I only saw the ghost, my lady. I didna summon her, I vow it!”
Sir Evan jerked his arm toward the men-at-arms stationed on either side of their table. “Get her out of here.”
Gillian stood abruptly. “Wait!”
The men-at-arms froze, looking from Gillian to Sir Evan. Sir Evan turned in his chair to look up at Gillian expectantly.
Gillian sat down and licked her lips. She gave the old woman a kind smile. “Tell me of this ghost.”
The old woman’s arms were released. She came back to stand before Gillian. “The late countess, my lady. Shewalks the cliffs, restless in her death. I was frightened, my lady! I did not summon her or try to speak with her—I just ran!”
Gillian’s eyes felt stretched wide with horror. Sir Evan stared at the woman, his jaw rigid. He motioned to the guards again to remove her, but this time the guards hesitated, looking to Gillian for confirmation.
“Where will they take this woman?” she asked the knight.
“She’ll be stuck in the thieves’ hole until Lord Kincreag returns.”
“What?” Gillian cried. Knowing what she did about Nicholas, she felt certain he would not charge this woman with witchcraft. And it was wrong to shove an old, feeble woman in a dank hole when she was innocent. And even if she wasn’t . . . Gillian couldn’t help thinking of her mother, certainly a witch, but a white one, being mistreated and burned.
“I forbid it.”
The first real emotion passed over Sir Evan’s face—surprise, and something else, something cagey. He inclined his head deferentially. “My lady? Your ruling?”
Sudden panic choked Gillian. Ruling? What ruling? She held a life in her hands, and she couldn’t think of what to do. “I . . . I . . .”
After what seemed an eternity of her stuttering, Sir Evan turned back to the men-at-arms. “Confine the witch to suitable chambers within the keep and set a guard on her.”
“And give her hot food,” Gillian chimed in, powersof speech returned. She slid Sir Evan a grateful look for his fast thinking. “And a warm blanket,” she added.
Sir Evan nodded to the men-at-arms to make it happen, and they led the old woman away.
