Chapter 4 #2
A sound rose up from the crowd, something that was between a groan and a shout. The captain scowled at them all and they fell silent after a moment of grumbling. He gestured for her to continue.
She frowned. “My husband and I came to this town to build a quiet life for our family. He was a soldier who lost his left arm in the war. With the money he received from the crown for his service, we bought a parcel of land near the house he inherited from his father.” Her fingers clenched in her skirts.
“I had nothing to do with his death from the red fever. Or his mother, who I also loved. After his death…” She drew a harsh breath.
“After his death, I used my skill at healing to feed myself and my daughter. There is no magic in what I do. I met my husband tending to his wounded arm at the Academy hospital, and I used that skill here. I worship the one God, and I truly believe that he will save me from judgment today.”
She did. That was the awful thing. Rowan had tried to talk her into moving away from Jarn before, but her mother insisted that the people here needed a healer. That God had led her to Jarn for that purpose. Her mother had a purer heart than she did.
The captain looked around at the crowd, gauging the response. Rowan felt a surge of hope at the expression on his face. No one could possibly disbelieve the sincerity of her mother’s words. The captain had just opened his mouth to speak when a man in the back cried out.
She whipped around to see who it was and was surprised to find that it was one of the witch hunter’s own men. One of his arms was raised to signal for help. His other arm supported Master Urich who was slouched over, weeping.
“Captain,” the young soldier called out. It was the handsome one who she had thought was kind. “You need to hear this.”
The crowd parted, and the soldier pulled Urich to the front.
The captain crossed his arms and looked annoyed at the interruption. “What is it?”
“My mother,” Urich cried, his voice hoarse. “I found her dead in her home this morning. She was lying on the floor still clutching her mug, tea and blood all over her dress.” He surged forward, surprising the young guard and shaking him off. “She did it.”
He pointed right at her mother, who rose slowly to her feet. The soldier caught Urich’s arm to pull him back, but Urich continued to shout.
“There was a basket of potions on her doorstep. An open jar on the table. It was because I testified against her. She killed a poor old woman in revenge.”
Mistress Ethel… Rowan felt a pang of guilt. With all of the trouble, she’d forgotten to send someone to check on her. Her mother’s gaze found hers and must have seen the horror on her face.
Rowan stepped forward. She would tell them. She would tell them she was the one who delivered the basket, but it was days ago before the trial ever started. If the basket was still on her porch, then Mistress Ethel had died before the trial had ever started.
Before she could take another step, her mother jerked her head to warn her off and turned to the captain. She said something that Rowan couldn’t hear. The captain frowned, clearly startled by whatever it was.
The mayor, sensing his moment, shouted above the crowd. “She must be stopped before she can do more damage. My vote is guilty.”
The priest stood. “I vote guilty as well.”
“This is a trial of law.” The captain turned to face the mayor. “There are procedures.”
But it was too late. Rowan knew it was too late.
The mayor leaned over and slammed down the trial rod. “She will be branded a witch and exiled from Jarn.”
As if by some signal, the witch hunters moved to the front of the crowd, forming a protective ring around her mother, keeping the crowd from taking justice into their own hands. Rowan didn’t know why they bothered. Their justice was awful enough.
She was jostled and nearly lost her footing, but she managed to move forward, almost reaching the stage.
She tried to slip past Jon but he caught her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her back.
She fought, but the smith was too strong.
He pressed her face against his chest. “Come now, chicken. You don’t need to see this. ”
She needed to stop it. Surely, it wasn’t too late.
She kicked Jon’s shin, and he released her. She darted into the crowd, which had turned frantic with bloodlust. She’d almost squeezed her way up to the front when she heard her mother scream.
And then she fell through a gap in the crowd to the hard, dirt-packed ground.
The dark-haired witch hunter was almost directly in front of her, sword drawn, warning off the crowd.
He saw her fall and cursed viciously. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her to her feet and shoved her behind him, toward the captain who stood on the stage holding the glowing iron that he’d just used to brand her mother.
Her beautiful mother. Who believed God had sent her to this place to help these people. Who was kind to everyone. Who was kneeling on the rough floorboards, writhing in pain.
“No,” she screamed. “No!”
She ran forward, clawing her way onto the stage. The captain tossed the iron aside and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back. She elbowed him in the gut, and he grunted. “Stop. It’s done.”
“No.” She twisted, kicking him in the thigh, punching his chest. The dumb beast absorbed the blows, only flinching when she tried to knee him in the groin. “It’s done, child. Let her be.”
What kind of monster was he?
“She needs help.”
“She needs to repent so she can be released.”
She choked on a sob. “She can’t repent what she hasn’t sinned.”
His arms tightened around her. “She was found guilty and branded. The law says—”
“To hell with your law.”
The witch hunter seemed startled by her curse, but she didn’t care. Who was he to tell her that this abomination was just?
“You need to get a hold of yourself.” His voice hardened. “You won’t do her any good like this. She was just accused of murder. If she’s tried for that, they’ll do worse than brand her. We need to get her out of here.”
That broke through some of her blind panic. She looked at her mother, who needed help and had no one to tend to her. She could see the ugly burn on her forehead. She could smell the charred flesh. “Let me help her.”
The captain finally released her, and she fell to the floor beside her mother.
She didn’t know what to do. Her mother had never trained her for this. She took the clean handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to the wound. Her mother flinched, giving a pitiful choking whimper. The cloth shifted, stripping away a patch of skin. Dear God…
No.
Not God.
What God would approve of this? None she wanted to know.
She looked up for help, but there was none to be found, only the witch hunter standing there in his fancy uniform with his shiny sword and that stupid gold braid on his shoulder. He looked furious, staring down at her with a thunderous expression on his face, his jaw set, his eyes hard.
“Remember this, Rowan. Don’t let this be you.”