Chapter 23
Isobel’s journey to Hawkirk was uneventful.
She’d not been bothered by any broken men, and the few times she’d stopped to ask directions, the farmers had been very helpful.
She’d arrived in Hawkirk in the evening and rented a room.
She wore a scarf over her hair and her mantle hood pulled low over her face, just in case someone recognized her, but so far no one had said a word.
They were too busy talking about the withcraft trial.
The man accused wasn’t a witch exactly—though he was accused of consulting and aiding a witch.
The problem was, he wouldn’t give her up.
Everyone agreed he was still enchanted. It was obvious, they claimed.
That very day the smith had burned him with a hot iron and he just smiled and laughed.
He couldn’t even feel pain. The devil’s work, it was.
Such talk made Isobel ill. When she inquired about the prisoner, she was told he was locked up for the night. She’d be able to view him on the morrow when the smith took the tongs to him. Would she like a basket packed for her—in case the questioning went on overlong, and she became hungry?
Isobel declined and retired to her rented room.
She spent a restless night pacing the floor, wringing her hands and praying to God for divine intervention.
Come morning, she was no closer to a plan than she’d been when she arrived.
The dawn found her waiting outside the smithy with a crowd of other villagers, many carrying baskets packed with refreshments, waiting for the witch to arrive and the amusement to begin.
Isobel had debated whether or not to come armed. She couldn’t fire a gun—did not even know how to reload. But in the end she brought the whole satchel anyway. She might as well be prepared for anything.
Isobel backed to the edge of the crowd when Ewan Kennedy arrived on the scene. He stood apart from the others, looking very grave and dignified. Soon men drifted to him, to speak quietly and respectfully to him.
A surge of hatred shot through Isobel. He played the part of martyr well, acting as if he was only grudgingly forgiving the villagers for wrongly accusing him, for believing the witch’s lies.
Isobel wished then that she did have the power to give the evil eye—for she’d strike him down in his tracks for letting an innocent man suffer for his crimes.
“Here he comes,” someone shouted.
Quiet fell over the crowd and they all turned.
Isobel turned with them and saw a group of men coming up the street.
She covered her mouth, biting her finger through her gloves to keep from making a sound when she saw Philip.
Though his face was unmarked, he looked haggard, whiskers covering his jaw and dark circles beneath his eyes.
The shirt he wore was too small and bulky from the bandages beneath it.
Colin was with him, looking very grave and important.
He was dressed as a lowlander, in leather breeches, doublet, and a cap tilted rakishly on his blond head.
Isobel’s attention went back to Philip. The relief she felt at seeing him alive and walking under his own power was tempered by the fact he was about to be tortured.
Again. They sat him on a stump and removed his shirt.
His upper torso was wrapped with bloody and fluid-crusted linen, and when they began removing it, he hissed with pain.
It had dried to the wounds, and skin ripped off with the cloth.
All sound from Philip stopped as he went rigid.
Isobel raised her horrified eyes to his face, unable to bear watching him suffer, but unable to stop it.
Her breath caught. He stared into her eyes, his so mournful it nearly broke her heart.
Then he looked away and his gaze did not pass her way again.
She wondered if she’d imagined it, then decided she’d not.
If he’d not mentioned her name throughout his torture yesterday, he certainly wouldn’t give her up now.
The smith was at his forge, rolling a pair of tongs around in the fire. An elder with a long beard and tall black hat came to stand before Philip.
“Must we do this again today?”
“You can just let me go,” Philip suggested. When the elder only stared at him reprovingly, Philip sighed. “Let’s get on with it then.”
“Tell us the name of the witch, and we will set you free. It’s that simple.”
Isobel’s breath hitched in her chest. Set him free? She started forward when Philip said loudly, “That’s a lie—you’ll burn me no matter what I tell you.”
She paused. Would they lie? They were elders, church members who administered the village. Surely they didn’t tell blatant lies such as that.
The elder stroked his beard, watching Philip. “We are not lying. Tell us her name, and you are free to go.”
Philip rose suddenly from the stump. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? There is no witch, and no matter what you do, I’ll not say different.”
The elder backed up quickly. Two men stepped forward, grabbing Philip’s arms and forcing him back to the stump.
They remained holding his arms. His bare chest gleamed with fresh blood and scabs from where they’d burned him the day before.
They’d burned him at least a dozen times, all over his torso.
Isobel choked, her eyes blurring. The smith was coming forward, carrying tongs that glowed crimson. Philip turned his face away, his jaw hard as he braced himself.
Isobel held her breath, unable to look away as the tongs drew closer to him. She couldn’t do it—she couldn’t just stand here and watch. She threw back the hood of her mantle and pushed through the crowd. “Stop!”
The crowd parted for her. The smith stepped back, withdrawing the tongs and frowning at her. Philip turned, trying to stand, his eyes furious.
“Stop this at once!” She moved in front of Philip and turned to the elder. “You said you would set him free if you had the witch. Well, here I am!”
“That’s not her—she’s lying,” Philip said. “Go away you stupid woman and leave me alone.”
The elder looked her up and down, frowning slightly, then turned to Ewan Kennedy. “This is she, is it not?”
Ewan Kennedy nodded, his face paling. “Aye, she’s the one.”
“No—you’ve got it all wrong,” Philip was saying. “She’s not a witch. I’m the witch. I bewitched her.”
No one paid him any mind. All eyes were on Isobel. She held the elder’s gaze steadily. “You said you’d set him free.”
“If he revealed your name. He still has not done so.”
Isobel turned to look at Philip expectantly.
He shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“I am Isobel MacDonell, daughter of Alan MacDonell of Glen Laire and betrothed to the earl of Kincreag. Now set him free.”
The elder sighed regretfully. “Well, I would, Mistress MacDonell, except we all heard him confess to being a witch.”
Isobel shook her head incredulously. “No—he was just saying that, to protect me. He’s not a witch. I am.”
“She’s insane, actually,” Philip said. “I canna get rid of the stupid cow, following me about everywhere. She’s harmless, though, I vow it. Not a witch at all.”
“It looks as if we have two witches,” Colin said. “And they’ve both confessed. I’d say the trial is over.”
The elder nodded thoughtfully. He gestured to someone, and, moments later, Isobel’s arms were grabbed and her satchel confiscated. She looked at Philip, and he was shaking his head at her, glowering furiously.
“Take them to the cellar while we vote,” the elder said. The other elders who had been gathered at the forge set off toward the tavern, black hats of various heights bobbing.
Isobel and Philip were shoved in the opposite direction. Philip didn’t say a word to her until they were forced down into a moldy cellar and tied to a pole, their backs to each other. When the others left and the lock clanked, he said, “Was that your plan? Because it was bloody brilliant.”
“He said he’d set you free!”
“And you believed him?”
Isobel’s throat tightened and her eyes burned. When she could finally speak again her voice was hoarse. “They were going to hurt you…I didn’t think…I just…”
He didn’t reply but she fancied she could hear him shaking his head in the dark. She’d really mucked this up. It seemed her suspicions that she was the other witch in her vision were right. She and Philip would burn together.
Their hands had been bound behind their backs, but they were secured to the stake with rope wrapped around their upper bodies, their backs to each other.
Isobel felt Philip’s hands seeking hers around the stake.
She clasped his fingers in response. They’d removed her gloves and the warm touch of his skin was reassuring somehow, despite their dismal situation.
“Isobel,” he said wearily, the sarcasm gone from his voice, “why did you come? You’re supposed to be at Lochlaire, getting married.”
“Gillian gave me your ring, I had a vision.”
“So you came to save me.”
“I guess I didn’t do so well.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “You were verra brave to come forth like that.”
She shook her head, tears blurring the dark. “No, I’m a coward—I couldn’t bear to watch them hurt you. Perhaps if I’d just waited, we’d not be here.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m glad you mentioned the earl. They might not care about burning a knight, but they’ll think hard before burning a countess.”
“Do you think that will save us?”
He was quiet for a long while, then he said, “I think it will stall your burning, aye. Time enough for your uncle and the earl to hear of it and come.”
Isobel understood what he didn’t say. It wouldn’t stop them from burning Philip—and the fact of it was, she was a witch, and countess or no, she was in deep trouble.