Chapter 3 #2
“Told you.” Cormac let his shirt fall.
“I’m sure your ma has willow bark for the pain.”
Cormac stood. “Night, Aoife.”
“Night.”
They parted ways. Aoife’s route home took her past the now silent square, though she was careful not to get too close.
Aoife’s stomach clenched. The Eldrossi despised everything about the people of Inis Morra: their culture, their customs. Seeing them as less than. Seeing them as savages. Why were they even here if they hated them?
It was bad enough they’d come in and taken over the country, demanding payment in food and resources for almost nothing in return. Now, even their mourning was forbidden.
***
Aoife whispered to the Sheedar as she crossed the running water, a habit her mother had taught her before she could even walk. Morgane was already there, singing as she washed her clothes in the river. Katell and Gwen were deep in conversation as Aoife arrived.
“They’re talking about the Athraith,” Morgane leant over to inform Aoife. “My husband saw it yesterday, up by the forest when he was collecting firewood.”
Aoife’s hands stilled in the water.
“He swore it was taller than a house,” Morgane insisted.
That depended on the size of the house.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Katell said. “I saw it a few years ago; it was no bigger than a regular horse.”
Morgane shrugged. “That’s what my husband said, taller than a house. Those were his exact words.”
“Why do you think it came?” Aoife asked, trying not to give anything away in her tone. Her encounter with the Athraith wasn’t something she was ready to share.
“It’s an omen, no doubt about that.” Morgane said as she scrubbed a troublesome stain against a rock.
“It was for Dromdara,” Katell said.
“Then why didn’t it appear at Dromdara?” Morgane asked. “No, it’s a sign of something still to come.”
Gwen shook her head. “It’s here for one of our young people.”
Aoife thought about what Cormac had said. “Is it true they carry people off to the Otherworld?”
“It sure is. My grandmother told me,” Gwen replied, leaning closer.
“The Athraith were plentiful once, but their numbers dwindled so they were forced to find mates among humans. They take human form to charm their chosen, luring them to ride on their backs. Then they carry them away to the Otherworld. Never to be seen again. Happened to my grandmother’s best friend, she said. ”
“You’ve nothing to worry about,” Morgane chuckled, looking at Aoife’s stunned expression. “It’s the one who sees it should worry.”
“Maybe you should lock your husband at home for a few days,” Katell said with a smile.
“The Athraith can have him.”
The women laughed.
Should Aoife worry? Was the Athraith there to carry her off to the Otherworld?
The thud of boots hitting stone drew everyone’s attention, branches breaking as a figure rushed towards them.
Cormac arrived, breathless. “Aoife. Your father. They caught him poaching at Blackthorn Hall. The guard has him.”
Aoife dropped the wet sheet she was wringing. “Where are they taking him? To the magistrate?”
Cormac shook his head, urgency in his eyes. “No. Lord Halverton demanded that the hearing take place immediately. On his estate. Says it’s only right, since that’s where the crime was done.”
Aoife’s stomach lurched. Stories of the punishments Halverton dished out ran rampant through the village.
She didn’t wait to think, only followed Cormac at once, feet slapping over the damp grass.
“I’ll fetch your washing,” Morgane shouted after her. The words didn’t register.
A murder of crows burst up from the hedgerow as they passed, wings black against the grey sky. Aoife’s heart hammered. Fear twisted with frustration. Why had her father done it? They had been managing. He had risked everything for a piece of meat.
The magistrate’s carriage rattled by, overtaking them on the road. Aoife’s throat tightened. “We’ll never make it in time.”
The distance dragged at them, breath burning in her chest, legs already heavy. A mile on that road was nothing on a fair day; today it took too long, every step stealing time she did not have.
When they reached the gates of Blackthorn Hall, they could see a crowd had already gathered.
The house loomed over them as they reached the end of the long path to the pale manor.
The gravel square below the manor was raw and bare, its centre broken only by the whipping-post, dark with old stains. Beyond it stretched a bald patch of grass where the villagers were herded to stand, as if their silent observation were another part of the sentence.
A double staircase rose to the front door, a stage for judgement. Lord Halverton stood at the top, surveying the people below with a look of idle boredom.
The sunlight struck his face, throwing the right side into cruel relief, scars twisting the skin into ridges. No one knew how he had earned them. The villagers whispered he must have been a fierce warrior, a dangerous man.
His hands, resting lightly on the balustrade, were pale and immaculate, untouched by labour. In jarring contrast to the gaunt villagers staring up at him, he was well-fed and cushioned in comfort.
His gaze found hers. She quickly averted her eyes, heat creeping up her neck as she pushed her way to the front of the small crowd, an unwelcome awareness curling low in her belly as he singled her out.
When she dared another glance, he was still looking at her.
His attention intimate, as if the crowd between them did not exist. She looked away as she reached the front.
The magistrate read out his judgement. “Ten lashes, followed by a week in the cells.”
Her stomach turned. Her father was not a young man. The flogging alone could kill him. If it didn’t, a week in the cells might. He needed to be strong, to work, to keep Eoin and Maire alive. There was only one option.
She stepped forward and threw herself in front of him. “I invoke the law of surety.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“No, Aoife,” her father said hoarsely. His face told her he knew it was too late.
Aoife was watching the magistrate. It was his choice whether to accept her volunteering to take the punishment in her father’s place. There was no way to take it back.
She could withstand the flogging. It would be brutal but survivable.
The magistrate gave a curt nod. “Accepted.”
The men holding her father released him; she reached for him, grabbing his hand.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, looking him in the eyes so he’d know she believed it.
His fingers were yanked from hers as he was pushed away towards the huddled group of villagers. Cormac reached for him, placing his hand on her father’s shoulder to stop him from rushing to her.
Guards moved to seize her when a voice rang out above them.
“Wait.”
She looked up. Lord Halverton stood at the top of the staircase, his unblinking gaze locked on her. The light caught his eyes, the gold flashing dangerously.
He descended slowly, each step measured and predatory. Silence fell. No one dared to breathe, let alone speak.
He stopped before her, towering several inches taller, his presence filling the space. His hand lifted, a finger tilting her chin upward until she was forced to meet his gaze.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.
Her name lodged in her throat. Still, she forced the word out.
“Aoife.” She said. Quiet, but steady.
Halverton turned her face with a tilt of his hand, examining her as though she were an object on display. His thumb grazed her jawline, his fingers warm against her cool skin.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, so quietly she was sure only she heard.
Then he stepped back, his voice rising so all could hear. “As the offence happened on my land, I believe I have the final say over the punishment. Is that not correct?”
The magistrate stiffened. “Technically, yes, but as the local guard discovered him, it falls under my purview—”
Halverton raised a hand. The magistrate fell silent.
“I will take charge of her punishment,” Halverton declared. “The guards and the magistrate are dismissed.”
The local men hesitated, but Lord Halverton’s soldiers marched forward, surrounding Aoife.
Cormac and the villagers stayed where they were.
Halverton’s gaze returned to Aoife. “You have a choice,” he said. “Come live in my house as penance for your father’s actions, or take fifty lashes and a week in the cells.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd. Her father cried out; Cormac’s arm went around him for support.
Aoife’s throat closed. Fifty lashes was unheard of. Fifty was death.
He smiled faintly. “If you come with me, you will not live as a prisoner. You will live as a lady. You’ll want for nothing. But you will never leave.”
Her voice failed her. He leant in closer.
“I cannot take my eyes off you,” he said. “The moment I saw you, I knew I must have you.”
It wasn’t flattery but coercion, the icy stare of an older man who held all the power.
Her father pulled himself away from Cormac to throw himself at Halverton’s feet. “Please, my lord, I beg you, don’t do this.”
“Silence,” Halverton said, cutting him off with a flick of his hand.
His eyes returned to Aoife. “I will give you a day to decide. Tomorrow, I will come to collect you.”