Child of the Mist (37 page)

Duncan stared up at her from the library desk. He couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say?"

Though her heart was hammering, Anne calmly repeated her words. "Ena is innocent. If there be any fault, 'tis mine. She only helped because I requested it."

"And what did you request?"

She knew what he was hoping she would say. But, though determined to rescue Ena no matter the price, Anne would not easily give him what he wanted.

"Why to save Niall, o' course," she replied, her glorious silver eyes glaring with defiance. "What else would there be? Ena and I use our skills for good, not evil."

"White or black magic, 'tis all the same. 'Tis still witchcraft."

"There was no witchcraft. 'Twas only natural healing."

Duncan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. ''One o'you is a witch. Which one is it, m'lady?"

Anne knew he wanted it to be her. For some reason, he needed her out of the way, had seen her as a threat from the start. But why?

Ena was old, near the end of her life, while Anne was young and had many years ahead of her. She loved Niall, had the hope of a joyous, fruitful relationship with him. By all that was logical, Ena should be the one sacrificed.

But Anne couldn't do it. She couldn't abandon the old healer to such a horrible fate. And there was still hope Iain would arrive in time to save them both. But only if Anne bought that time by diverting Malcolm's witch madness to her.

She graced him with a look of cool disdain. "Ena is innocent. 'Tis I who is called the Witch o' Glenstrae."

An eager light flared in Duncan's deep blue eyes. "Then you admit it? Admit you are a witch?"

I am the Witch o' Glenstrae," she repeated with exaggerated patience.

"And you'll admit this before witnesses?"

"'Tis true. 'Tis what I am called. Why should I be ashamed to admit it?"

Duncan rose from his chair and hurried to the door. "Fetch the preacher and a clerk," he ordered the guard standing outside. "Make it quick. We have a confession to hear!"

Anne walked to the window. She gazed out upon the heath and bracken-strewn hills that surrounded Loch Awe. In the sunset, the light glinted off the lake like molten gold. The swans, sailing upon it in graceful elegance, were wreathed in a luminous brilliance. Overhead, a goshawk soared in the deepening twilight, its faint, raucous cry piercing the summer silence.

It was all so beautiful, Anne thought with a bittersweet pang, and she might have just forfeited the right ever to see it again.
Och, Niall,
she silently cried.
What will you think if I die before you recover? Will you hate me for leaving you, or curse me for my weakness? If only I could see you one last time, kiss you, hold you in my arms! I'd whisper in your ear, though you heard me not, that I love you and tried hard to fight. So very, very hard . . . to the bitter end
.

Like the jaws of a trap closing about her, Malcolm, with an ominous-looking black leather case, hurried in. He was followed by a nervous little clerk. After a moment of whispered consultation between the preacher and Duncan, Malcolm's mouth twisted in a triumphant smile. He directed the clerk to take his seat at the desk then motioned to Anne.

"Come here, woman," he ordered imperiously. "Your fate is sealed by your own admission. Cooperate with us and we will spare you the torture."

"How kind," Anne muttered under her breath, as she gathered her skirts and stood before them. She eyed the preacher calmly. "And how may I help you?"

"Don't play games with me, wench," Malcolm snarled. He jerked her to him. "Repeat your confession, word for word as you spoke it to our tanist. That's all I want from you."

"Let her go, Malcolm!" Duncan snapped. "She is still lady o' this house until her confession is duly transcribed and signed. Then you can do with her as you wish."

"All I want is her tried and burned."

"As do I," the tanist soothed. "As do I. But the letter o' the law must be followed or the Campbell will have our heads if, and when, he recovers." Duncan motioned to Anne. "Sit, lady.''

She shook her head. "Nay, I prefer to stand and face my tormentors eye to eye."

He shrugged. "Have it your way."

"Transcribe all that is said from now on," Duncan told the clerk. He turned back to Anne. "You've admitted you're the Witch o'Glenstrae. Is that true?"

Her heart gave a jump and hung in her throat.
Holy Mary, here it comes!
She schooled her features into an impassive mask, refusing them the satisfaction of seeing her fear. "Aye, that is what I'm called."

"Did you get that? Did you write that down?" Malcolm glanced over at the clerk who was scribbling furiously.

The man looked up and nodded.

Duncan scowled at Malcolm, then turned again to Anne. "As a witch, what crimes have you committed?"

Anne stared at him, momentarily taken aback. "What? Must I now confess crimes to satisfy you? Wasn't my admission enough?"

"We must know it all!" Malcolm snarled. "Did you poison the Campbell, father and son?"

She shook her head, refusing ever to be party to that accusation. "Nay. Never!"

"She lies!" the preacher cried.

"Write it down," he ordered the clerk. "She'll confess to it sooner or later."

"Nay." Anne moved to stay the clerk's hand. "Write that on the confession and I'll never sign it. I won't hurt Niall with falsehoods such as that!"

An evil grin twisted Malcolm's face. "Youll not speak so bravely after I show you the contents o' my case."

He lifted the black bag onto the desk. "Shall I show it to her?" he asked Duncan.

The tapist eyed Anne. "Nay, not yet. The alleged poisoning isn't important. There are other crimes."

Duncan leaned forward. "Did you put a curse upon our cattle? Give them the murrain?"

"Nay."

His mouth tightened in irritation. "Did you bring a stillborn bairn back to life with your witch's powers?"

Fiona's child,
Anne thought achingly. How long ago that day now seemed. It had changed her life, brought her to this moment. But in the same token it had also brought her to Niall.

"I don't know if the babe was truly dead," she forced herself to reply, "but I breathed into its mouth and it moved and cried. I used no witch's powers, only the breath in my body."

"So you
did
bring a bairn back to life," Duncan persisted.

Anne sighed. "Mayhap I did. What does it matter? You've enough to convict me on the admission o'my name."

Duncan turned to the clerk. "Note she brought a stillborn back to life."

He riveted his cold blue gaze upon her. "And will you not admit to bespelling Niall Campbell? To winning his heart and soul as well as body?"

The tanist leaned close, a strange light in his eyes. "Tell us how you did it, how you lured him to your bed."

Nausea welled in Anne. Was even the intimacy of their coupling to be revealed? Dissected on parchment for all to read? It was too much!

"'Tis private, what goes on between a man and woman." Anne glared at him with all the righteous indignation she possessed. "I will
not
lay it out for all to leer and laugh over. You're his uncle, his family. How can you do this to him?"

A murderous look flared in Duncan's eyes. "I do this to protect him against you, lady. My nephew doesn't know his mind anymore and is hardly fit to rule the clan. When it comes to you, he has turned against his own family. Do you deny it?"

It was so unfair, how he twisted everything, Anne thought miserably. But she'd fight: him every step of the way, for Niall's sake, if nothing else.

"And I say, mayhap his family has turned against him, each one for personal reasons, all selfish and unworthy."

Duncan's fist slammed on the desk. "Damn you, woman! My patience with you is at an end!"

He glanced at Malcolm. "Show the witch your bag. Mayhap that will still the sharpness o' her tongue. And if not," he sneered, turning the full force of his contemptuous gaze back to her, "mayhap she'll need a wee taste o' the instruments."

Malcolm shot her a sly smile. With the utmost care and deliberation, he undid the latches and released the belts of the case. Then, one by one, he laid out each piece of cold, black metal upon the desk.

Anne tried not to look, but her eyes froze in horror at the magnitude of man's imagination when it came to torture. Blessed Mother, she thought, how could anyone endure for long under the application of those? Was Ena even still alive?

Anger swelled in her. "You're a madman, the devil himself, to inflict willingly such pain upon another human being! And you call yourself a man o' God! Why, you're lower than the least o' all the creatures you claim to serve! You'll roast in hell for this!"

He slapped her across the face. Something inside Anne exploded. If not for Duncan's quick response, she would have attacked the preacher. Instead, she was pinned within the tanist's iron clasp.

"Calm yourself, madam," he snarled in her ear as she struggled to free herself. "I'd be sorely saddened to have you led out o' here in chains, though Malcolm would no doubt like that."

She dragged in a breath. Duncan was right. They would do what they wanted with her. Any physical defiance on her part would be answered with even harsher retaliation. Her only recourse was to buy time. Only Iain could help her now.

"Aye," she replied, "your words are true. But keep the man from me. If he dare touches me again . . ."

"You've seen enough, I'll warrant," Duncan whispered soothingly. "You'll sign the confession now, won't you?"

Exhaustion flooded Anne in a sudden, mind-wearying wave. Och, what was the use? she thought. There was naught else she could do, not now at any rate. Better to give them what they wanted and bide her time, lulling them into an illusion of victory. But she wouldn't ever admit to betraying Niall.

"Let me see the confession."

Duncan released her and handed her the parchment. Anne scanned the words, noting the only crimes transcribed were her admission to being the Witch of Glenstrae and that she'd brought Fiona's babe back to life. The irony of it sickened her. A name and the saving of a life might be all it took to condemn her to the stake.

Anne signed her name. "There." She handed the parchment back to Duncan with a disdainful flourish. "Is that enough to win Ena's freedom?"

Malcolm chuckled snidely. Anne whirled around.

"What, pray tell, is so amusing about that?"

His eyes gleamed with a crazed light. "Foolish woman. Old Ena was never our true quarry."

Anne's gaze swung to the tanist. A triumphant smile glimmered on his lips.

"Aye, Malcolm. That she was."

She should have known, Anne thought, a sickening, trapped feeling coiling in the pit of her stomach. She should have seen it coming.

"But why?" Anne cried. "What have I ever done to you?"

"'Tis quite simple, really. Your growing influence over my nephew stood in the way of our plans for the takeover of MacGregor lands." Duncan's smile turned pitying. "Innocent victim though you be, I couldn't allow that to happen."

"So you will die, whoring witch," Malcolm interjected gleefully as he moved to Duncan's side. "Die, burned at the stake."

As Anne stared at the two men standing together like some evil, impregnable wall, horror slithered down her spine. How could she ever hope to prevail against men such as they? They were too crafty, too powerful, and far too cruel for any one person to defeat. She'd been lost from the start.

Despair filled her. Her legs wobbled, barely able to support her. Anne clutched at the table, gripping it in frantic desperation.

Ah, curse them,
she silently cried,
for they have us all within their power. AllNiall, Ena, myselfand any other who ever dares go against them. By fair means or foul, they will see us all dead
.

The realization triggered something in Anne, stirred that tiny ember of pride, of honor, and justice that her despair had nearly extinguished. Her silver eyes flashed. Her mouth tightened in grim defiance.

"You'll never win!" she cried. "Though you burn my body, you will not break me. My spirit will only come back to fight you anew, joining with all the others who'll rise to the cause until you're defeated at last. For you are wrongwrong to the marrow o' your bonesand even death won't still the voices against you!"

Anne paced the confines of her small cell, struggling against the panic that clamored beneath a thin veneer of self-control. There was little in the dimly lit room of sweating stone and heavy, moldy air to distract her from the rising fear. Her gaze scanned the cellthe dank, dirty straw that covered the floor, the filthy pallet in the corner, the malodorous, oily torch that sputtered erratically near the thick oaken door.

Her trial had been held the day after the signing of her confession. It had been anticlimatic. Her signature on the parchment had already judged and condemned her. The law, however, required she be given the opportunity to recant. Anne briefly considered it.

In the end, she stood by her confession, for it was the only truth in the whole sordid mess. Though she passionately defended herself, demanding to know why the charges were grounds for witchcraft, her judges refused to listen. Recant was all they said. When Anne refused, irreverently calling them narrow-minded oafs with whey for brains, they sentenced her to death at the stake in the village commons at noon the next day. Anne was tempted to ask why they didn't just drag her out then and there and see the deed done.

But as she stalked the wet, black hole that was her final dwelling place, Anne realized why they'd given her this last night on earth. They knew she'd not sleep. They knew the torments that would assail her, the fear, the sense of helplessness, the utter loneliness. And they wanted it for her. It was all part of her punishment.

Och, if only I could speak to someone,
Anne thought in despair.
Agnes . . . Caitlin . . . Iain
. But the two women had been forbidden to see her, and Iain, it now seemed, might not make it to Kilchurn in time. Her only friends and soon they, too, would be gone.