CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Step lively, witch!”
“Ye can rot,” Laoghaire muttered under her breath as she was forcibly led to the pyre in the abbey forecourt, a deputy on either side of her.
Hit in the face with a burst of sunlight, she narrowed her eyes while she looked heavenward.
The sky was a dazzling shade of blue, against which soft, fleece-like clouds gently floated.
Having spent the last two days in the darksome crypt, the radiant scene was nearly too much for her to bear.
Or perhaps her eyes ached because she’d spent the previous night weeping, heartsick that she was to go to her death without having bid her beloved farewell.
Not only had she received no word as to Galen’s condition, but when she earlier begged the two deputies for any news that they might have, both men refused to answer her pleas.
Although they took great delight in informing her that she had until the seventh hour to find a warrior to champion her cause; otherwise, the pyre would be lit.
Ignoring the large crowd of onlookers who’d gathered to witness the spectacle, Laoghaire peered at the sundial that was affixed to the right of the church door. To her escalating terror, she could see that the seventh hour was only thirty minutes away.
And Iain has yet to arrive at the abbey.
It dawned on her then that she was being led from the world of the living to the land of the dead.
Jostled rudely by the crowd, she tripped on the hem of the long, white linen chemise that she’d been made to wear. When she gracelessly pitched forward, she was unceremoniously jerked back onto her feet.
“Make way for the condemned!” one of the deputies shouted.
On hearing that strident order, the throng parted, like the sea in the old biblical tale, and Laoghaire caught her first glimpse of the pyre which had been erected in front of the church.
Comprised of a dense pile of saplings and kindling, there was a sturdy pole thrust into the middle of it.
Affixed to the stake was a small platform, just large enough for a person to stand upon.
Horrified, she gasped aloud.
The sheriff, Simon Blàrach, garbed for battle in chain mail with a sword belted around his waist, stood waiting by the pyre.
Turning his head, he peered at her with a pitiless gaze.
A slant of sunlight struck the metal nasal on his helmet, and she thought it made him look like some grotesque gargoyle.
I am surrounded by monsters. Moreover, she could feel the heightened excitement that emanated from the crowd as they pressed closer to her.
“You are to wait before the pyre!” one of the deputies barked at her, gesturing with a gauntleted hand for her to assume the commanded position.
After she complied with the order, Laoghaire looked out onto the hate-filled faces of those who’d gathered to watch the execution.
She was taken aback to realize that most of them wanted to see a woman burned alive.
She was the day’s entertainment, and she suspected that many would derive immense pleasure from the gory scene, cheering and cackling as her ashes rose into the sky and were scattered with the wind.
If only I were a witch, I’d haunt and bedevil every last one of them. Drive them all into an early grave, I would.
Just then, the church doors swung wide open and a procession of chanting, black-cowled monks emerged from the sanctuary.
At the head of the column a monk slowly swung a censer, filling the air with a thick, cloying fragrance.
Following directly behind him, another monk held a silver crucifix aloft.
Their arrival instantly silenced the crowd.
Appearing the very image of solemn, Christian humility, the monks made their way to the pyre, whereupon they positioned themselves in two rows, with Abbot Theodore standing prominently in front of them.
Once the chanting concluded, Father Giroldus broke away from his robed brethren and approached her.
“I suppose ye’ve come to cast the first stone,” she taunted, knowing full well that of the two of them, the rotund priest was the evildoer.
“Only a witch would mock the words of our Savior,” Father Giroldus snarled, his lips twisted in an ugly sneer. Then, in a loud voice that reverberated across the forecourt, he said, “Laoghaire de Ogilvy, countess of Angus, do you have a champion for your cause?”
She glanced anxiously at the sundial, and was able to see that time was fast running out. “He will be here soon,” she answered with more conviction than she felt. “The seventh hour has not yet arrived.”
“But rest assured, it will come.”
“And ye can’t wait, can ye?” she retorted, able to see that the priest had a lust for fire. “The last thing ye want is for my champion to arrive and to prove my innocence at the tip of a sharp sword.”
“The court proved that you serve Lucifer, and no champion will be able to disprove it.”
“Then, light the pyre and be done with it,” she muttered, the words spewing from her lips uncensored. But even in that moment of defiance, Laoghaire knew that she didn’t want to die.
I want to live out my days at Galen’s side. And to spend each night wrapped in his embrace.
“I am not entirely without compassion,” the priest had the gall to tell her.
“Should you make a full confession, you will be offered the benefit of strangulation prior to the pyre being lit. And by renouncing your sins, you may go to your death certain in the knowledge that you are worthy of God’s mercy. ”
“I’ve committed no sin,” Laoghaire said adamantly. “Therefore, I have nothing to confess.”
The throng—which by now had formed a tight circle around the pyre—suddenly began to shout, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
The heartless chant rang in her ears. A hideous death knell.
“Aye, burn me!” Laoghaire shouted back at them, refusing to show any fear. “’Tis a beautiful day for a bonfire.”
“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
Vexed by the insistent echo in his ears—which sounded like the fearsome howl of some deranged, hell-born beast—Galen attempted to open his eyes. No sooner had he done so than his lids fluttered closed, the stupor proving a difficult foe to best.
Determined to rouse himself, he once again clawed his way to the brink of wakefulness.
After a hard-fought battle, he emerged the victor, finally able to awaken from his incognizant repose.
But his victory came with a price, his head throbbing with a thundering pain, one that was equally matched with the hunger pangs in his belly.
Somewhat anxiously, he peered around the room, hoping to see his lady wife.
“Laoghaire,” he uttered hoarsely, his need for her eclipsing all else.
But the person he most desired to see was not there. Instead, another woman hovered over the top of him.
“Thank God you have awakened,” Melisande murmured, tears falling unchecked down her cheeks.
While he was surprised to find her there, he was even more bewildered by his surroundings, his eyes taking note of the plain crucifix above the door, the small window set into a stone wall, and the simple, three-legged stool beside the bed.
None of which was familiar to him. That he didn’t recognize the spartan chamber unnerved him.
With some difficulty, he managed to raise his head off of the pillow. All too soon the room began to swirl before his eyes, and he decided it might be best not to make any more sudden movements.
“Where am I?” he asked.
Seating herself on the stool, Melisande said, “This is St. Dunstan’s abbey.”
Galen looked at her sharply. “An abbey?” he repeated, her answer making no sense to him. “How long—” he paused, momentarily distracted by sound of his own voice, which sounded weak and slurred. “How long have I been here?”
“We brought you to the abbey three days ago. After you fell from your horse,” Melisande added, perhaps hoping to nudge his memory.
Three days!
While the memory was not altogether clear in his mind, he vaguely recalled falling from his destrier . . . just before his world turned to darkness.
“Where is Laoghaire?” he asked, puzzled by her absence.
Almost immediately, the color blanched from Melisande’s face. “She has been condemned for a witch.”
For a stunned moment, Galen wondered if he’d heard correctly. But when he saw Melisande’s obvious distress, he knew his ears had not deceived him.
“Mother of God, no!” he exclaimed, stricken with a terror unlike any he’d ever known. His anguish was so great that it felt as though his heart had just been pierced by a barrage of sharp arrowheads.
“How? When?” he asked, unable to speak in full sentences.
Somewhat guiltily, Melisande bowed her head and stared at her hands, which were clenched together tightly in her lap.
She then proceeded to tell him a tale that reeked of villainy at every turn, Galen shocked to learn that in addition to lacing his wine with henbane, Dame Winifred had also force-fed him milk of poppy to ensure that he remain unconscious.
All of which was done so she could falsely accuse Laoghaire of having used witchcraft to put him in a dark stupor.
But even more astounding was to learn that the matron had been aided in her evil plot by the debauched priest, Father Giroldus.
Ignoring the pain that ricocheted back and forth across his skull, Galen pushed himself into a seated position. “So, the priest is in league with your mother, is he?”
Melisande shook her head, disavowing him of the notion.
“Father Giroldus knew nothing of my mother’s scheme.
That said, he was very quick to give credence to her accusation against the countess.
I think . . . I think that is why my mother was .
. . was so keen to have you brought to St. Dunstan’s,” Melisande hesitantly added, clearly reluctant to speak of the matter.
“Because she knew she had an ally here,” Galen said, the pieces starting to fall into place. Damn the priest! “Rest assured, there will be more than one score settled this day.”
“I think you should know that the countess promised no reprisal would be taken against my mother,” Melisande made haste to inform him. “Furthermore, my mother has already departed for St. Bride’s nunnery, where she will live out the remainder of her days doing penance for her grievous actions.”
Galen silently cursed, annoyed that the matron cunningly sought sanctuary at a nunnery, enabling her to escape prosecution.
As with Father Giroldus—who took on the role of court’s inquisitor with the abbot’s blessing—the true culprits were beyond his reach.
That left only Simon Blàrach, who knowingly gave false witness against Laoghaire.
“What time is judicial combat set to commence?”
Melisande gaped at him, as though he’d just uttered something unintelligible. “It is to begin at the seventh hour. But, my lord, surely you do not mean to—”
“Laoghaire is all that I hold dear in this world,” he rasped between clenched teeth. “And I will not have her suffer here one moment longer.” He’d learned at a tender age just how savage a place a monastery could be.
Biting back a grunt of pain, he threw back the woolen coverlet. He called out for his squire, and was surprised when Sir William de Graham answered the summons.
“Bring me my sword and armor!” he commanded.
“My lord, you have not yet fully recovered,” Melisande protested. “Surely, you are too weak for combat.”
Then, I must hope and pray the minstrels are indeed right—that love can strengthen a man beyond measure.