Chapter 12 #3
A burly, red-faced man came forward with an accusation of witchcraft. Two men dragged an old woman forward, thrusting her in front of Sir Evan. She was haggard and filthy, dressed in rags. Sir Evan’s nose wrinkled at her stench, but otherwise he appeared immune to the woman’s distress.
Her accuser recited a list of grievances, among them drying up his cow’s milk, causing his young child to die of pox by giving him the evil eye, and necromancy. The last charge caused Gillian’s heart to skitter uncomfortably.
Sir Evan leaned toward the solicitor, and they conversed quietly. Finally Sir Evan straightened. “Your grievances are noted. Lord Kincreag tries all cases of witchcraft.”
Gillian looked at Sir Evan in surprise. That was most unusual.
Previously, only the king could try a witch, but a law had been passed several years ago giving power to villages to form committees to try, sentence, and execute witches.
As long as the witch was a commoner, most nobles were happy to leave the trying and burning to the committees.
The man turned away, but the woman resisted attempts to remove her. Her watery brown eyes fixed pleadingly on Gillian.
Gillian hesitated, fidgeting in her seat and glancing anxiously at Sir Evan, but he’d already forgotten the old woman and motioned the next petitioner forward.
The old woman called out, “Help me, my lady, I am innocent of these charges. I beg yer sweet mercy. I did none of these things—I only saw the ghost, my lady. I didna summon her, I vow it!”
Sir Evan jerked his arm toward the men-at-arms stationed on either side of their table. “Get her out of here.”
Gillian stood abruptly. “Wait!”
The men-at-arms froze, looking from Gillian to Sir Evan. Sir Evan turned in his chair to look up at Gillian expectantly.
Gillian sat down and licked her lips. She gave the old woman a kind smile. “Tell me of this ghost.”
The old woman’s arms were released. She came back to stand before Gillian. “The late countess, my lady. She walks the cliffs, restless in her death. I was frightened, my lady! I did not summon her or try to speak with her—I just ran!”
Gillian’s eyes felt stretched wide with horror. Sir Evan stared at the woman, his jaw rigid. He motioned to the guards again to remove her, but this time the guards hesitated, looking to Gillian for confirmation.
“Where will they take this woman?” she asked the knight.
“She’ll be stuck in the thieves’ hole until Lord Kincreag returns.”
“What?” Gillian cried. Knowing what she did about Nicholas, she felt certain he would not charge this woman with witchcraft.
And it was wrong to shove an old, feeble woman in a dank hole when she was innocent.
And even if she wasn’t . . . Gillian couldn’t help thinking of her mother, certainly a witch, but a white one, being mistreated and burned.
“I forbid it.”
The first real emotion passed over Sir Evan’s face—surprise, and something else, something cagey. He inclined his head deferentially. “My lady? Your ruling?”
Sudden panic choked Gillian. Ruling? What ruling? She held a life in her hands, and she couldn’t think of what to do. “I . . . I . . .”
After what seemed an eternity of her stuttering, Sir Evan turned back to the men-at-arms. “Confine the witch to suitable chambers within the keep and set a guard on her.”
“And give her hot food,” Gillian chimed in, powers of speech returned. She slid Sir Evan a grateful look for his fast thinking. “And a warm blanket,” she added.
Sir Evan nodded to the men-at-arms to make it happen, and they led the old woman away.
Gillian sank back into her chair, shaken by the confrontation. Would Nicholas be displeased with her for interfering? She feared she’d handled the whole thing poorly and had made a bad impression on Nicholas’s people. That’s what happened when earls married so far beneath them.
When court finally adjourned for the day, Sir Evan led her from the hall into a solar. Servants bustled in serving her wine and cakes.
Gillian toyed with her little iced cakes, still a bit queasy from her outburst. Sir Evan stood near the door like a sentry while she sat eating. It felt ridiculous.
“Sir Evan? Would you join me?”
He came forward but didn’t sit down. He positioned himself in front of her, hands behind his back. And just stood there, staring blankly at something above and behind her head. His square-jawed face was granite, as if carved from the cliff Kincreag sat upon.
“Prithee, sit with me.” She motioned to the chair opposite her. “Have some wine and cakes.”
“I cannot.”
She considered him, lips compressed thoughtfully. “I order you to.”
He sat.
She smiled, then immediately felt silly and mean-spirited.
“I want to thank you for aiding me out there . . . I was lost . . . I am hopelessly lost. I don’t know how to be a countess. I feel terrible ordering you around.”
His bland stare became interested. “I’m here to serve you, my lady. There’s no need to feel terrible. And you did well out there.”
Gillian sat up straighter, pleased by his praise. “Do you think Lord Kincreag will be angry with me?”
“No.”
A great weight lifted from Gillian’s chest until he added, “This time. In the future, ruling when he’s absent could put him in a very difficult situation. Have a care.”
“But I didn’t rule.”
“That was for the best, but I thought for a moment that you meant to.”
He was right. She might be a countess, but that gave her no authority in Kincreag’s courts. A flush stole into her cheeks as she nodded vigorously, wanting him to see she understood and took his advice seriously.
“Have you any more advice for me? Anything else a countess should know?”
“Lord Kincreag could give you better counsel than I, my lady.”
“Of course.” She ate a cake. Sipped some wine.
The silence between them drew out. He sat stone-faced across from her, not drinking or eating or looking at her. She peered closer to be sure he was breathing. What a bore. Maybe she should command him to sing for her. And dance a jig.
“There is something else I’d like to ask you.”
His empty gaze fixed on her. “My lady?”
“Did you know my maid, Aileen?”
“The suicide?”
Gillian leaned forward. “Are you certain it was a suicide?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Why? What is the evidence?”
He paused, his brows lowering, then said, “The poison was in her possession.”
“Perhaps someone murdered her and made it look like a suicide.”
“Who would want to murder a maid?”
“Maybe a jilted lover.”
“She had no lover.”
“A secret lover.”
Sir Evan regarded her silently, as if she were a conundrum he had no idea how to approach.
He shifted slightly in his chair, then said, “It’s fine to amuse yourself with such fancies, my lady, but these are not things a countess concerns herself with.
Lord Kincreag and myself have experience in these matters.
You must trust that we know what we’re doing. ”
Gillian leaned back in her chair and picked the icing off her cake, properly chastised. “Forgive me. It’s just . . . I’d only just met her, and she seemed so nice.”
“She was a strange lass—or so the other servants say. Kept to herself, was a bit too fond of the bottle. It’s a miserable life most commoners lead, especially unmarried women. It’s not surprising many of them take their lives to end the drudgery.”
“No, I suppose not. Forgive me for my ignorance.”
He inclined his head. “Forgiven.”
Gillian gave him a tight smile and vowed to never need his help again.
Gillian woke the next morning ready to explore Kincreag.
She decided to start with a visit to her dollhouse.
She fetched a candelabra and a tinderbox, and made her way through the mazelike rooms and corridors of the castle.
She lost her way a few times and had to backtrack, but eventually she found it.
She paused at the entrance to the darkened room, her heart thumping.
Memories of her first night here, of the strange whispers and the cold draft, assailed her.
She scanned the room hesitantly. Thin streams of sunlight filtered through the edges of the shutters, casting the white lumps that filled the room in hues of dark gray.
It was just a room, Gillian told herself firmly, and if she wanted to repair the dollhouse, she would have to brave it.
If she got any headaches, she would have the men-at-arms move it to another room in the east wing and tell Nicholas later. With any luck, he would never know.
The room was very large, a sort of small hall, or meeting room.
She removed the sheet from the nearest flat surface, a wooden sideboard, and set her candelabra down.
She opened all the shutters and lit more candles.
Her fear dissolved as the dark shadows disappeared.
By the time she finished, the room was alight and she’d not had a single pang in her temples.
When all the sheets were removed, she realized this was some sort of solar.
Four chairs sat in a semicircle in one corner.
On the seat of each chair was a musical instrument—a lute, a fiddle, a flute, and a harp.
The instruments rested on the chairs as if their musicians had only left them there a moment ago.
Gillian wondered if this was the late countess’s solar. Had she listened to music while she’d embroidered? Did her ghost really walk the cliffs? Gillian longed to see for herself. It infuriated her that it would be possible if not for this curse.
She yanked the sheet off the dollhouse and gazed at the work of art before her, wondering who had actually built it. Had Nicholas’s son been old enough to play with it? Had Nicholas sat with his son and watched him explore the dollhouse’s many wonders? Was that why he now hated the sight of it?