Chapter 19
William sat in the cellar alone. He did not know where his daughter was.
He did not know what would happen when they came for him again.
He opened and closed his hand—mangled the day before, now mended and whole.
This would not go well for him. He kept it wrapped in the bloodstained bandage, hoping no one decided to check on it.
He tensed as the racket started up again—screaming, strange animal noises.
He stared at the narrow slats of sunlight streaming between the boards covering his hole.
What was happening up there? He was afraid to contemplate it.
Something odd had been going on since sometime in the night.
It had started with food being dropped into his hole.
Two loaves of fresh crusty bread, a large chunk of meat, five apples, a bag of nuts, a sausage, a hot cooked eel, and an onion.
Much better fare than any prisoner deserved—and all of it strangely damp but edible after William brushed the dirt off.
Then the screaming had started. At first it had been some far-off screams he’d paid no mind to, but soon they’d drawn closer, punctuated with squawking ducks, bleating sheep, and, near his hole, a savagely growling dog that had soon been silenced by someone beating it.
It had whimpered in pain for some time near his hole before it had either died or been removed.
Then later there had been a pounding above him that had set the earth shaking.
Dirt had crumbled from the walls and ceiling of his hole, and he’d feared he would be buried alive. A stampede.
Whatever was happening in the world above, it kept the villagers sufficiently occupied to forget about him for a very long time.
He’d had plenty of time to think and worry.
He’d given the witchpricker one name. Roderick MacDonell.
He’d vowed he knew of no other MacDonell witches, and the witchpricker had seemed to believe him.
He’d taken Deidra and sent William back to the cellar, presumably so they could verify his story, or take Roderick into custody…
. Who knew? William couldn’t fathom what might happen.
His only hope was that if he had to burn, Roderick would burn with him.
The hole in the ceiling opened. “Will? Are you down there?”
William shielded his eyes. “Bloody Christ—Drake? Is that you?”
“Wait—I’ll get something to lower down to you.”
“Drake?” But there was no answer. He closed his eyes, profound relief washing over him in waves.
His brother was not dead. If Drake was alive and able to rescue him, it meant one thing—Rose was behind this.
His heart contracted with painful fear and longing.
He should have known she’d not sit by complacently, waiting for her father to die.
A wooden ladder was lowered down to him a few minutes later. William climbed out of the hole, squinting the whole while. As soon as he was clear of the hole, his brother grabbed him and embraced him hard. William clasped him back, his eyes so dazzled by the sunlight that he could hardly see.
“Deidra—where is she?”
“Down this way, we think. Come on.”
And he raced off. William jogged after him, blinking at the sights around him in disbelief. It looked as if a storm had hit the village. The debris-littered streets were devoid of people, the cottages shut up tight, shutters closed fast.
“What happened?” William asked.
“I know not,” Drake called over his shoulder.
At the far end of the village a small group gathered before a cottage—the same cottage where he had previously been tortured.
Animals surrounded the cottage—ducks, sheep, horses, cows.
All lounging. William’s gaze was immediately drawn to the red-haired woman leaning heavily against a balding blond man, also in contemplation of the cottage.
“Rose!” William called.
She turned her head toward him. It was Wallace who held her. She took several steps toward him, then he caught her up in his arms. He embraced her as tightly as he dared, knowing she suffered from Drake’s wound. “You did it, Rose,” he whispered into her hair.
She clung to him, her breath warm on his neck. “Thank God you’re alive.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I feared we were too late.”
“We have a bit of a problem,” the earl of Kincreag interrupted. William released Rose reluctantly, keeping an arm around her to support her. She leaned heavily against him.
The earl nodded to the cottage. “Have a look.”
William left Rose and went to the open door of the cottage, passing through the mob of loitering animals. They took scant notice of him.
The interior of the cottage was dim, but his eyes adjusted quickly.
The witchpricker sat on a bench, Deidra beside him.
He looked much different than he had the last time William had seen him.
His face was pale, and his sparse gray hair was sticking up in tufts about his head.
His fine black robes were torn and filthy.
He held a dirk to Deidra’s neck, his wild gray eyes fixed on something in the far shadows.
William turned his head, peering into the dark, and took an involuntary step back at the sight that greeted him.
Three wolves sat in a line, tongues lolling from their mouths, staring at Luthias Forsyth. They seemed to be smiling, daring him to do something with the dirk.
“Make her call them off!” Luthias cried. Sweat trickled down his temples.
Deidra gave William a worried look. “I’m sorry I told, Da, but I was afraid he’d hurt me.”
“It’s all right, Squirrel.” William took in the terrified witchpricker, the animals crowded around the cottage, and the waiting wolves. Something strange and sick and proud turned in his chest. “What happened here? Did you ask the animals for help?”
She nodded hesitantly. “He says he’ll kill me if the wolves come near. But I think he’ll kill me if I make them go away. You, too. The one I sent to guard you was killed.” Her bottom lip wobbled, and her eyes filled with tears.
His daughter. Jesus God. She’d set the animals on the village and had probably kept them both alive long enough for Rose and Drake to arrive with reinforcements.
He’d not understood. He’d thought he’d understood.
Communing with animals. They surrounded her, protected her, did her bidding.
They’d brought him food, and at least one had been killed for it.
It made him weak to think of what she was capable of and how others would perceive this act.
“Where are the villagers?” William asked.
“They ran,” Luthias said, lip curling. “They deserted me. I know not where.”
“Da,” Deidra said, a whimper in her voice, her eyes bright. “I want to go home.”
One of the wolves fidgeted and whined. The witchpricker’s eyes widened.
“Mr. Forsyth, if she sends the wolves away, will you put down the dirk and release her?”
The witchpricker looked at him incredulously. “Are you mad? This is a dangerous witch. It is not in my authority to question a child, even if she is a witch, but it is in the king’s. He will be most interested to make her acquaintance.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” William unwrapped the bloodstained linen from his hand, exposing a perfectly functional hand.
The witchpricker gasped, his gaze darting to William’s other hand, as if this might be a trick and he’d find the other the mangled mess. William held them both up for his inspection.
“How is this possible? Your hand was ruined.”
“Aye, I know. Do you understand, Mr. Forsyth, what you’re dealing with? Let the child go or you will not leave here alive.”
The witchpricker’s thin throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I will not stop my fight against the enemy, against God’s enemies, until there is no more breath in my body. Satan will not prevail so long as I live!”
Splendid. Perhaps it was better if the man was dead. Then he couldn’t run to the king or regroup the villagers to lynch them all.
William felt someone beside him and looked down. Rose had joined him, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
She touched his arm and gazed up at him with worried eyes. “Jamie MacPherson is coming.”
William stepped away from the door to look.
MacPherson rode up the street with a handful of men, looking about him with the same bewilderment William had felt.
When he saw Kincreag, then Drake, his gaze cut to William and Rose.
His nose was a swollen, misshapen mess, the skin around it mottled purple and black.
He pulled his dag out and trained it on William. “Who did you kill, aye?” The gun barrel stabbed the air at Drake before leveling on William again. “Who did you kill to save him?” His voice was thick and nasal.
“Put the gun away, MacPherson,” Lord Kincreag said, annoyed.
“Stay out of this, my lord—”
The earl stepped forward, his black eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m in it, MacPherson. Now put the gun away before I make you verra sorry.”
MacPherson pointed the dag at Kincreag. “No! The bastard killed my father and dammit, he will pay!” He dismounted, gun aimed at William again. “You will fight me, Wizard, just like we agreed.”
William held out his hands, placating. “I don’t want to fight you, MacPherson.” He had other worries right now—his daughter in the hands of a zealous witchpricker was primary.
“Not your decision.” MacPherson closed the distance between them until the barrel of his dag nearly touched William’s forehead. His lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyes wild. “I wonder, if I shot you here, could you heal yourself?”
William said nothing. His heart beat swiftly and his muscles tensed, waiting for MacPherson to make a move.
MacPherson pressed the barrel into William’s forehead. “I’ll make certain you’re dead, Wizard. I’ll cut off your head and burn it.”