CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
“Just barely,” the priest countered. Then, continuing to address those gathered in the hall, he said, “The fact that the countess is unrepentant is proof of her guilt. In burning the witch, all of our souls will be cleansed and purified.”
Giving her no time to refute the hideous accusation, Abbot Theodore rose to his feet. Filled with a horrible premonition, Laoghaire’s entire body tensed. She assumed there was nothing to come between her and a pile of kindling.
“Lady Angus, you have been found guilty of witchcraft and the practice of the unholy arts,” the abbot proclaimed. “This court is now ready to pass sentence.”
On the heels of the abbot’s announcement, an expectant hush fell over the hall.
“To purify your soul and to free us of your demonic taint,” the abbot intoned in an ominously impassive voice, “you shall suffer the punishment of death by conflagration.”
Laoghaire’s mouth went dry as the room began to spin, her vision blurred. She knew there would be no appealing the verdict, and no mercy would be shown to her. At the conclusion of the official proceedings, she would be dragged out of the chapter house and burned on a pyre.
“I am an innocent woman,” she steadfastly maintained. “As such—”
“Take her away,” Father Giroldus said over the top of her voice, motioning for the deputies to step forward.
“As granted me by Scottish law,” Laoghaire continued, raising her voice so she could be heard by all present, “I demand the right to prove my innocence.”
“You have been condemned as a witch. Therefore, you have no rights,” Father Giroldus declared indignantly.
“Ye may have condemned me, but I still have the right to request a trial by combat.”
Clearly taken aback, Father Giroldus gaped at her, wide-eyed.
He undoubtedly knew that judicial combat was a time-honored legal practice in which a defendant’s innocence, or guilt, was decided by single combat between defendant and accuser, either of whom could pick a worthy champion to fight their cause.
Having regained his composure, the priest said, “If you do not burn, the devil will thrive unchallenged.”
“And are ye prepared to challenge the king’s law?” she retorted, determined to stand her ground.
Father Giroldus’s eyes gleamed darkly. With an incensed huff, he scurried over to the abbot. Long moments passed as the two men engaged in a whispered discussion. Though she could not hear what was said, their debate appeared heated.
Looking none too pleased, Father Giroldus finally stepped away from the abbot. Then, standing before her, he said, “Laoghaire de Ogilvy, countess of Angus, the court grants your request to trial by combat.”
For the last several hours Laoghaire had been listening to the repetitive plop of water from some unseen recess, the staccato echo maddening. Although given that her stomach had begun to growl with great ferocity, she assumed that sound would soon eclipse the annoying drip.
“Can they not find it in their hearts to bring me a morsel to eat?” she murmured dejectedly, having imbibed her last meal before the farcical trial.
To add to her distress, a meager band of late afternoon sunlight shone through the clerestory window, casting moody shadows across the undercroft’s main chamber. No one had thought to bring her torch or candle.
Before long it will be as dark as the grave in here, she ruminated, the irony of that thought not lost upon her.
Needing to stretch her muscles, Laoghaire scrambled to her feet.
She then began to pace restlessly back and forth in front of a sarcophagus.
While she tried not to dwell on her dire predicament, she nevertheless feared that she was gazing upon the shady side of death, her hours numbered.
It was an unnerving realization, one that caused her heart to pound dully, as though a large stone had somehow gotten lodged behind her breastbone.
Barring a miracle, she knew there wasn’t enough time for Iain to make the journey from Castle Balloch, her request for judicial combat having gained her only a temporary reprieve.
With no champion to defend me, I am as good as dead.
Admittedly frightened, Laoghaire’s throat tightened while she struggled to draw air into her lungs. It wasn’t the idea of death that incited her terror; it was the thought of being burned alive that filled her with a dread unlike any she’d ever before experienced.
Could they have devised a more agonizing way to kill me?
Still pacing, her ears pricked at hearing a dog bark in the distance. Somewhere much, much closer she heard the squeal of a rat as it scurried in the shadows.
“I don’t know which is worse,” she muttered. “Having to sleep with the dead or the rats.”
“I would think the rats.”
Startled to hear a woman’s voice, Laoghaire immediately stopped her pacing and spun toward the stone stairs that led to the church above.
At seeing Melisande Jardin standing on the other side of the chamber—holding a cloth satchel in one hand and a leather costrel in the other—Laoghaire’s eyes went wide.
Appearing ill-at-ease, Melisande stepped closer. “I have brought you food and wine.”
“Thank ye.” Taking the proffered items, Laoghaire wondered at the other woman’s motive for coming to the undercroft.
Has she come to gloat?
No sooner did she think that than Laoghaire discarded the uncharitable thought, able to see from Melisande’s troubled expression that she took no joy in being there.
After sparing the gloomy chamber an appraising glance, Melisande said, “I am appalled that an earl’s wife would be so ill-treated.”
Laoghaire simply shrugged as she set her provisions on the sarcophagus. “I have fared well considering the dire charge leveled against me. But I would have ye tell me about Galen,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.
“By the grace of God, he still clings to life.”
Relieved, Laoghaire blinked back grateful tears.
Not wanting the other woman to witness her emotional reaction, she busied herself with opening the cloth satchel.
Snatching hold of a hunk of bread, she tore off a piece and stuffed it into her mouth, too hungry to be concerned with the niceties of proper etiquette.
“The monks must think I can conjure a plate of food out of thin air,” she said mockingly before she reached for a wedge of cheese.
“We both know that you are no witch.”
Stunned by what she just heard, Laoghaire stopped chewing as she stared at the other woman. All along she had assumed that Melisande was aligned with her mother.
Perchance I misjudged her.
As though she could read Laoghaire’s thoughts, Melisande continued and said, “The trial was naught but a travesty. That said, you were clever to demand trial by combat.”
“More desperate than clever,” Laoghaire admitted.
“Be that as it may, I have been informed that the sheriff, Simon Blàrach, has agreed to stand as the court’s champion.”
“I’ll wager it took little to persuade him,” she snickered. Unwittingly, she’d made an enemy of Sheriff Blàrach, and he would undoubtedly exact his revenge with a gleeful heart.
Quickly proving to be a fount, Melisande said, “Because tomorrow marks the feast of St. Theodore, for whom the abbot is named, judicial combat will take place the day after.”
Sweet Mary! That means that Iain could possibly arrive in time to defend me!
Too overcome to speak, so great was her relief, Laoghaire slapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a giddy sob. Granted, ’twas naught but a sliver of hope. But that was far more than she’d had previously.
“Sir William de Graham would make a worthy champion, do you not think?” Melisande shyly suggested.
“Aye,” she agreed. “However, I prefer that my brother, the laird of Clan MacKinnon, champion my innocence. None can best him in battle, and that weasel Blàrach will quickly regret taking up the sword.”
Assuming Iain arrives in time to defend me. If no champion was forthcoming, the original sentence would immediately be carried out and she would be burned at the stake.
Despite the crypt’s shadowy light, Laoghaire suddenly discerned a change in Melisande’s countenance.
There was a noticeably sheepish expression on the other woman’s face—her cheeks flushed, her eyes downcast. Intuiting that the real reason for the visit was about to be revealed, Laoghaire stood silent, waiting.
“I have a confession to make,” Melisande said at last, wringing her hands together. “But before I do so, I must secure your promise not to seek reprisal against my mother.”
Taken aback by the caveat, Laoghaire made no reply. She already knew that Dame Winifred orchestrated her treacherous plot in the wake of Galen’s unexpected illness.
What more can Melisande possibly add to the sordid tale?
While it went against her innate sense of justice, Laoghaire nevertheless acquiesced with a grudging nod.
“Ye have my word. Besides, I am in no position to exact my revenge,” she added, as she gestured to the sturdy walls of her makeshift prison, pragmatic enough to know the matron was beyond her reach.
Having garnered the vow, Melisande opened the silk purse that hung from her belt and removed a small, dark-colored vial.
“Earlier today, when I entered Lord Angus’s chamber, I came upon my mother administering a potion to him.
Although I pretended to have seen nothing untoward, my mother became quite flustered, and in her agitation, she hid the vial under his pillow before she fled the room. ”
“Is that the vial she hid?” Laoghaire asked, shocked by the revelation.
With a grave expression, Melisande nodded her head. “It contains milk of poppy.”
Sweet Jesu! No wonder Galen has remained in a corpse-like state. The milk of poppy is the reason why he has yet to revive.
“B-but why would she do such a thing?” Laoghaire sputtered, at a loss to understand why Dame Winifred would want to keep Galen on the brink of death.
“My mother has never relinquished the hope that I might . . . might one day become Galen’s wife,” Melisande hesitantly confessed. “And when you unexpectedly arrived at the encampment, I believe she . . . she seized the opportunity, thinking it would be . . .” Her voice faded into silence.
“It would be her last chance to get rid of me,” Laoghaire said softly.
“Clearly, my mother’s unrealistic hopes tainted her judgment.”
“‘Tainted her judgment!’” she exclaimed, outraged by the matron’s duplicity. “She intends to have me killed for a witch so ye can marry my husband!”
“Once Lord Angus revives and learns what transpired during his illness, do you think he would ever want to marry me?” Melisande whispered, barely able to get the words past her trembling lips. “He desires you, not me. I found that out weeks ago, but . . . but my mother refuses to accept it.”
“Given the dire nature of yer mother’s actions, will ye testify before the court that—”
“No! I will not!” Melisande interjected in an impassioned tone of voice. “In spite of her sins, I will not testify against my own mother.”
In the face of that resolute objection, Laoghaire reluctantly acknowledged that she’d hit an impasse. “’Tis a fiendish plot that has been hatched,” she murmured, certain that after she was burned at the stake, Galen would then miraculously recover.
“My mother is no fiend. She is, however—” Melisande hesitated, and it was obvious that she sought her words with measured care—“greatly misguided.”
Laoghaire withheld comment. Although enraged by the older woman’s deadly scheme, she knew that now was not the time for recriminations. Now was the time to elicit Melisande’s assistance.
Putting aside her enmity for the mother, she said, “If we are to save Galen, we must act quickly.”
“Tell me what you would have me do,” Melisande replied without hesitation.
“I want ye to have Sir William guard Galen’s chamber. He is to permit none but ye to enter. Remain at his side until he revives from his dark stupor,” Laoghaire instructed, well aware that she was putting her trust in a woman who, until very recently, had been a rival for her husband’s affections.
With a look of steadfast resolve, Melisande solemnly nodded her head.
“There is one last thing.” Laoghaire deliberately paused to ensure she had the other woman’s full attention before she said, “While I will not seek retribution against yer mother, I demand that she live out her remaining days in a nunnery. And I suggest she depart from this monastery immediately, as my brother will not hesitate to avenge me at the point of a sword.”
A look of stark fear came over Melisande. “Would the laird . . . would he blame me for—”
“Ye have nothing to fear,” Laoghaire assured her. “The sins of the mother are not yours to bear.”
Just then a bell tolled, both of them giving a start at hearing its sonorous ring.
“’Tis the bell for vespers,” Melisande said, as she hurriedly stuffed the vial into her purse. “I must take my leave.”