A murder of crows burst up from the hedgerow as they passed, wings black against the grey sky. Aoife’s heart hammered. Fear twisted with frustration. Why had her father done it? They had been managing. He had risked everything for a piece of meat.
The magistrate’s carriage rattled by, overtaking them on the road. Aoife’s throat tightened. “We’ll never make it in time.”
The distance dragged at them, breath burning in her chest, legs already heavy. A mile on that road was nothing on a fair day; today it took too long, every step stealing time she did not have.
When they reached the gates of Blackthorn Hall, they could see a crowd had already gathered.
The house loomed over them as they reached the end of the long path to the pale manor.
The gravel square below the manor was raw and bare, its centre broken only by the whipping-post, dark with old stains. Beyond it stretched a bald patch of grass where the villagers were herded to stand, as if their silent observation were another part of the sentence.
A double staircase rose to the front door, a stage for judgement. Lord Halverton stood at the top, surveying the people below with a look of idle boredom.
The sunlight struck his face, throwing the right side into cruel relief, scars twisting the skin into ridges. No one knew how he had earned them. The villagers whispered he must have been a fierce warrior, a dangerous man.
His hands, resting lightly on the balustrade, were pale and immaculate, untouched by labour. In jarring contrast to the gaunt villagers staring up at him, he was well-fed and cushioned in comfort.
His gaze found hers. She quickly averted her eyes, heat creeping up her neck as she pushed her way to the front of the small crowd, an unwelcome awareness curling low in her belly as he singled her out. When she dared another glance, he was still looking at her. His attention intimate, as if the crowd between them did not exist. She looked away as she reached the front.
The magistrate read out his judgement. “Ten lashes, followed by a week in the cells.”
Her stomach turned. Her father was not a young man. The flogging alone could kill him. If it didn’t, a week in the cellsmight. He needed to be strong, to work, to keep Eoin and Maire alive. There was only one option.
She stepped forward and threw herself in front of him. “I invoke the law of surety.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“No, Aoife,” her father said hoarsely. His face told her he knew it was too late.
Aoife was watching the magistrate. It was his choice whether to accept her volunteering to take the punishment in her father’s place. There was no way to take it back.
She could withstand the flogging. It would be brutal but survivable.
The magistrate gave a curt nod. “Accepted.”
The men holding her father released him; she reached for him, grabbing his hand.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, looking him in the eyes so he’d know she believed it.
His fingers were yanked from hers as he was pushed away towards the huddled group of villagers. Cormac reached for him, placing his hand on her father’s shoulder to stop him from rushing to her.
Guards moved to seize her when a voice rang out above them.
“Wait.”
She looked up. Lord Halverton stood at the top of the staircase, his unblinking gaze locked on her. The light caught his eyes, the gold flashing dangerously.
He descended slowly, each step measured and predatory. Silence fell. No one dared to breathe, let alone speak.
He stopped before her, towering several inches taller, his presence filling the space. His hand lifted, a finger tilting her chin upward until she was forced to meet his gaze.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.
Her name lodged in her throat. Still, she forced the word out.
“Aoife.” She said. Quiet, but steady.
Halverton turned her face with a tilt of his hand, examining her as though she were an object on display. His thumb grazed her jawline, his fingers warm against her cool skin.
