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‘I have powerful friends in England, men of God who have set me to this task.’
‘But you are not in England now, you are in the Highlands, and your so-called friends are nowhere to be seen. Have you any idea what I can do to you with just one word to my clansmen? Any one of them would take your life in an instant, for here, us Campbells hold sway.’
‘Aye, I have heard of your family name. Your father Fergus, your uncle, ruthless criminals all.’
Duncan put his hand to the hilt of his sword. He leant into the man and hissed in his ear. ‘One night, in the not too distant future, you will find out just how black-hearted the Campbells really are. Listen well, witchfinder, for the creak of the door in the night, a rattle in the shutters. You will ask yourself, is it Duncan Campbell come for me or something worse? If you come after my son or my family ever again, mark me, by the time I am finished with you, there will be nothing left, not even a scrap for worms to feast on.’
‘Are you threatening me, Campbell?’
‘Did I not make that clear enough? Let me be direct, then. You can continue to spout your bile and hatred in the Highlands and feel my sword in your bowels, or you can return to England alive, enriched by the suffering you have inflicted on innocent men, women and children. When you get there and crawl back into whatever miserable hole you slithered out of, be sure to spend the rest of your life on your bony knees, praying for God to deliver your soul. If I were you, I would also pray it is a long life, for when yours ends, Thomas Crouchley, it is fire and brimstone for you, my friend. After what you’ve done in this life, when it ends, you are bound for eternal damnation, no matter how many prayers for forgiveness you may cry out into the night.’
Duncan pushed Crouchley violently to the floor, where he landed hard, with a crack of bone and a howl of pain. The man scurried backwards, away from him, but he kept coming.
‘Soon, people will see you for what you really are, and they will turn on you, as you have encouraged others to do. Then it will be you who feels the pinch of the noose or the lick of the flames.’
Duncan kicked him squarely in the ribs, and the man crawled and grovelled, but Duncan did not stop. He kicked him all the way to the door of the hall and all the way out into the yard. The witchfinder slithered through the mud to his horse as Dunslair’s occupants watched. His companions did not help him mount. They just looked fearfully at the Laird, towering and terrifying in his anger.
Duncan spat on him and then turned to the witchfinder’s men. ‘Drag this streak of shit from my keep before I end him.’
***
Murray had been following Meyrick for days in the hope he would lead him to the man pulling his strings, but the young man seemed to have no purpose to his travels. Eventually, he had gone to ground at an inn, drinking himself to a stupor and muttering about witches and being cursed to hell. The innkeeper, a man who liked coin, not confidences, had informed Murray that the young man was intending to leave at first light, looking for a boat to make the sea crossing to Sgathach Dun.
It was now dawn. The woods were thick and deserted, not a soul in sight, no interruptions. Meyrick had stopped to rest his horse and stood staring off at the river blocking his onward path.
Murray grabbed him from behind and threw him down a steep, grassy bank. He jumped down next to him and threw a sword at his feet as Meyrick glared at him, shock turning his face pale.
‘Duncan Campbell is broken-hearted at losing his son and holds you responsible,’ said Murray.
‘Conall’s dead?’ spat Meyrick, with murder in his eyes.
‘No, he is gone to safety and Kenna with him.’
Meyrick started to laugh, but it turned into a sneer, his face crumpling in anguish. On and on, he laughed, madness swirling in his eyes. Perhaps it was not right to kill a lunatic, but Meyrick would just keep coming, like a mad dog, and Kenna and Conall would never be safe while he lived.
Murray regarded him with contempt. ‘Duncan Campbell has scruples about killing an unarmed man in cold blood and, though you have deprived me of a brother, so do I. So you will fight.’
‘What?’
‘Fight for your life, but first, tell me who paid you to take Conall. Who paid you to condemn Kenna?’
‘I believed Kenna was a witch, that is all. No one paid me, I swear.’
‘No one believes that, least of all me. Fight.’
Meyrick kicked the sword away. ‘I won’t fight you because I’d lose.’
Murry retrieved it and tossed it to him again. ‘You will fight, or I’ll kill you slowly. Maybe I’ll light a fire.’
Fear crept across Meyrick’s face, though he tried to hide it.
‘I need you to tell me about Conall’s kidnapping. Did you arrange it?’
‘Aye, I did,’ he spat.
So Meyrick wasn’t even bothering with remorse to save his life. His tone was proud. He relished the chance to brag about his schemes.
‘Why the Moncurs?’
