Page 92 of Sins of the Highlander

At first she’d thought it a good thing that Elspeth Stewart had taken herself out of Caisteal Dubh by some nefarious means. But now it was evident that the witch had sunk her claws into the laird’s soul so deep, he could barely be restrained from following her to his doom.

Hamish had carried the unconscious MacLaren up to his chamber, and Mrs. Beaton had left Margot to sit with him. After Hamish left, Mrs. Beaton strapped the laird to the bed to prevent his escape. Margot was under instructions to spoon in the tea laced with henbane whenever he stirred. With any luck at all, the MacLaren could be kept in drug-induced oblivion for days.

Long enough for Mrs. Beaton to see Elspeth Stewart was gone for good.

Mrs. Beaton’s gaze swept the sanctuary. The priest was nowhere to be seen.

“Father Kester!” she called again, her tone strident with irritation.

The priest appeared from the sacristy and walked toward her, folding his hands into the capacious sleeves of his robe. “Peace, Mrs. Beaton. This is the House of God. He’s no’ pleased by the sound of a voice raised in anger.”

“Aye, and I’ll warrant He’ll no’ be pleased if ye let a witch escape His justice either.”

“But Providence has protected us. She’s gone. Elspeth Stewart is no longer within our walls.”

“Aye, but she still troubles the House of MacLaren. Even now our laird raves on his bed, half out of his mind with her curses.” And henbane. “Ye must follow the witch and see this thing through to its divine end if there’s ever to be peace in this place.”

Father Kester frowned. “I was watching from the ramparts with everyone else. She’s under the Stewart’s protection now. Even if Lady Elspeth is a witch, it’s up to Alistair Stewart’s priest to convince him to give her up for judgment.”

That wasn’t likely to happen. It was a rare father who would surrender his own child to the flames.

“Mayhap ye noticed that she’s no longer in Drummond’s good graces,” Mrs. Beaton said. “I’ve no doubt there’s a marriage that willna go forward.”

“How d’ye know this?”

Didn’t the man have eyes? “If there was still going to be a wedding, Drummond would have been riding beside his betrothed, would he no’? Instead, he and his men hung back and left the field only after the last Stewart man had quit. There’s no love lost there, or I’m mistook.”

“Hmmm,” Father Kester said.

Honestly, would she have to put every single thought into the man’s head for him?

“Dinna ye see? Ye must go to Lord Drummond,” she said with urgency. “Tell him the Almighty calls him to hold a witch trial for Elspeth Stewart, and see if he’ll no’ jump at the chance to aid ye in your righteous cause.”

“We’ll need witnesses,” Father Kester said doubtfully.

“And we’ll have them. Leave that to me.” Mrs. Beaton had half-a-dozen serving girls she’d brought with her from Beaton lands when she took this position. They owed her their living. She could twist them into giving whatever testimony was wanted. “Go ye now, and I’ll be but half a day behind with all the proof ye’ll need.”

***

Travel was a muckle of trouble. From the moment the castle gates closed behind him, Father Kester felt the sky lowering on him. The world was too big, too wild a place for a man of peace to take comfort in it.

Give him the tranquility of a monastery, the quiet of a scriptorium, the diligent hum of scholarly pursuits, and he was a happy man. Instead, Father Kester bounced along on his mule, sure the beast was trying to step in every hole along the way.

He was more surprised than anything when he overtook the rear of the Drummond column, which was traveling at the pace of their wagons and baggage. A man of the cloth was welcomed most everywhere, but he was further surprised when he was hustled into Lord Drummond’s tent after he made his first request to speak with the laird. Evidently, anything related to Elspeth Stewart was of keen interest to the Drummond.

While Father Kester laid out his case for the witchery of Elspeth Stewart, Lord Drummond listened with the intensity of a fox eyeing a rabbit hole. When he was finished, silence descended for the space of several “Our Fathers.” Finally, the laird rose from his chair and paced for the length of a few “Hail Marys.” Father Kester began to fear Lord Drummond harbored tender feelings for the lass and might do him hurt to silence him.

“Ye’re certain ye can convict her?” Drummond asked, his voice like the whisper of snakeskin through dry leaves.

“With or without her confession, aye,” Father Kester said. “There is enough evidence.”

“Ye’ll no’ shrink from burning her?”

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” he quoted. “I’m a man inclined to mercy, but I must please God rather than myself.”

After he was ushered from the presence of the laird with the injunction not to speak of his purpose to anyone until Lord Drummond gave him the sign, he began to wonder what might happen after the trial.

Perhaps Father Kester would be given charge of a monastery. A group of monks would be so much easier to manage than a castle full of sinners. Being able to pick and choose who would copy scripture all day and who was fit only to weed the turnips would be a lovely post indeed.