Chapter 18
Luthias Forsyth stared at the witches before him.
A tall, brawny man—a Highland chief—and a child.
He sighed. Force was not allowed to induce children to talk.
And children were the easiest to question.
But there were rules in place, and Luthias always followed them, even when he didn’t agree with them.
A village elder stood at his shoulder, whispering advice to him. Luthias silenced him with a look.
A man of his vast experience certainly didn’t need a village rustic interfering in his work, telling him how to induce a witch to talk.
The interrogation of witches should only be undertaken by a professional such as himself.
There were steps to be followed. Witches never acted as you expected them to.
The only thing they could be counted on to do was lie.
The wizard continued to stare at him, his face expressionless, the child hiding behind his legs. He was a formidable man, tall and muscular. Though his inky black hair was liberally salted with gray, he was neither old nor feeble. Luthias would need muscle to conduct this interrogation.
Luthias removed his soft wool cloak, hanging it on a wooden peg.
He smoothed his hands over his thinning hair and palmed the front of his robe.
Eyes closed, he took deep, soothing breaths.
One must always be calm and in control of one’s faculties when confronting one of Satan’s minions. They had such power.
He motioned to the burly villagers serving as guards.
They brought the wizard to the table and forced him to sit.
He did not appear frightened as he looked Luthias over curiously.
The bold perusal sent a flash of anger through him that he fought to stifle.
The devil was insolent and sought to intimidate him.
This was nothing new. It was only the beginning of yet another battle between Luthias and the devil.
It was God’s will. God permitted evil—though he did not wish it—for the perfecting of the universe.
And Luthias was God’s tool, just as the instruments of torture were merely Luthias’s tools for achieving his ends. It was a hierarchy that Luthias rejoiced to be a part of.
The wizard spoke. “Why are you keeping a child prisoner?” His arm encircled the child, holding her to his side. “She has done nothing.”
Luthias did not answer. He poured a measure of witch broth from the flagon on the table and offered it to the wizard. “Prithee, drink.”
The wizard peered into the cup as though it were poison. “What is it?”
“It is the witch broth.”
“Witch broth?”
“Aye, it was made from the gathered ashes of a witch after she was burnt at the stake. It will prevent you from casting a spell upon me during our session. Go on. Drink up.”
The wizard would not take the cup from him.
When Luthias pressed it at him, he swiped hard, knocking the cup from Luthias’s hand and spilling the precious brew in the dirt.
He glowered, completely unrepentant, as if Luthias were beneath contempt.
Furious heat suffused Luthias’s face. “I think me this session will be long and tedious.”
“Let the child go. She is innocent.”
“That is not what I was told. I was informed she communed with animals.”
The wizard’s expression gave away nothing. Luthias scrutinized the wizard and his witch-child. Perhaps he could make use of the wizard’s concern for the child.
“Mayhap I will release her. If you cooperate.”
The wizard’s jaw bulged. “Verra well.”
Luthias withdrew the parchment from his robes. He unfolded it. “William MacKay of Strathwick,” he said, looking at the wizard over the top of the parchment, “it says here that you cure all manner of sickness.”
Strathwick nodded, his eyes hard, implacable.
“How is it you came by these miraculous powers?”
“It is merely a knowledge of plants and herbs. Nothing more.”
Luthias sneered. “The Lord cures our bodies through fasting and prayers, not through weeds.” He studied Strathwick’s impassive face. “That is the papist way of things. Be you a heretic as well as a witch?”
“Is there a difference in the eyes of men such as yourself?”
Luthias gritted his teeth and decided on the direct approach. “Who seduced you into witchcraft?”
“No one. I’m not a witch. Just a healer.”
“What of the MacDonells of Glen Laire? I hear that is a nest of witches and that is from whence you came. Tell me which of the MacDonells are the devil’s minions.”
“There are no others. Not even this child. Only me, and I’m all yours.”
The rapid scratching of the scribe’s quill against parchment as he recorded the questioning filled the long silence that followed. Luthias glared accusingly at Strathwick. The wizard only returned the stare. Emotionless.
Luthias sighed and moved to the table where his instruments were laid out neatly.
The sharp steel prongs of the spider gleamed in the torchlight.
His hand hesitated over it, then passed on to the turcas.
He longed to rip Strathwick’s fingernails off with it.
To make him scream. To see if tears would fall from his stoic eyes.
He had read many treatises on witchcraft that said witches did not cry, but he’d found that not to be so.
Some said it was saliva they smeared on their cheeks, not true tears.
But Luthias had seen them weep. He liked when they wept.
That’s when Satan lost his hold on them and the truth poured out. When he was doing God’s work.
He glanced at Strathwick, who watched warily. The skin of his neck was red. Ah, not so devoid of emotion after all. He feared Luthias’s methods of encouraging him to talk. The witch-child peeked out from behind her father’s shoulder. Or perhaps he only feared for the child? Time to find out.
He decided on the penniwinks. He motioned to the guards.
Eagerly, they rushed forward to restrain Strathwick, pushing the child back against the far wall.
Luthias guided Strathwick’s hand inside the iron glove, then secured it.
The wizard allowed this, unresisting. He chose the smaller wooden mallet. The larger one was for the boots.
“Now,” he said, smiling. “I will repeat my question. What witches reside in Glen Laire?”
Strathwick shook his head as if he hadn’t any idea what Luthias could possibly be referring to. So calm, so composed.
Luthias brought the mallet down hard, driving a wedge into Strathwick’s finger.
He heard the bone snap, and blood spurted onto the table.
The child shrieked. A righteous fire flared through him.
He felt drunk from it. Strathwick inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw rigid, but he made no other sound.
Luthias brought the mallet down again and again, punctuating each blow with a question.
And every time the wizard’s answer was the same.
The child cried through it all. “Da! Make him stop! Make him stop!”
“I’m fine, Squirrel,” Strathwick said, his voice tight, his baleful gaze fixed on Luthias.
Luthias started to bring the mallet down again but paused.
Strathwick had braced himself for the blow and was clearly irritated to be kept in suspense of the pain.
Luthias regarded his subject thoughtfully.
The man’s hand was a bloody useless lump.
If he were to live—which he would not, of course—it would have to be amputated.
His face was lined with pain, and his hair was damp with sweat, but he’d not made a single sound of pain beyond harsh breathing throughout.
This wizard was powerful. He would not crack.
Luthias set the bloodstained mallet aside. “Come here…Squirrel is your name?” What a stupid name for a child. But fitting for one who communes with animals.
The child looked at her father with enormous blue eyes. A pretty child, with glossy black curls, plump cheeks, and sinfully long black lashes. A daughter of Eve; the first deserters of Divine Law, as St. Clement called them. In a few years she would bespell grown men to evil.
“What do you want with her?” the wizard asked, his voice rough with pain.
“If you will not talk, perhaps she will.”
When the child would not come, Luthias snatched her wrist, dragging her from where she hid behind her father’s chair. She dug in her heels, and the wizard began to bellow, trying to stand, though the villagers and the penniewinks held him fast.
“I’ll talk,” he said, his voice cracking with pain and defeat. “Just leave her alone.”
After Rose dressed, took her father back to his room, and gave Hagan explicit instructions on caring for him—the Irishman seemed rather in awe of her now and more inclined to listen—she went in search of Hilda.
Rose was doing her utmost not to dwell on William and his desertion, so she turned her mind to Tira.
What had gone wrong? She thought that perhaps she’d been mistaken: Perhaps she hadn’t heard the woman’s voice.
It still did not explain why she’d suffered with her aunt’s pain, but still, maybe she hadn’t truly healed her.
But now she knew that was not true. So what had happened?
Hilda had been the only other person present at the birth, and despite what she’d told Roderick, Rose wanted to question the woman herself.
There was also the nagging question of what had happened to her father.
Everyone had concluded that he’d been attacked because Hagan had heard someone and William had been seen leaving her father’s chambers.
But Rose did not credit this. She assumed her father had been attacked because of the gray film she’d seen around his brain.
The only other time she’d seen such a thing had been when delivering Liam.
Suffocation. There had been no marks on her father’s neck to indicate a strangling, but he’d been feeble from his illness.
A pillow pressed over his face would have done the job just as well.