Duncan stared up at her from the library desk. “What did ye say?”
Though her heart was hammering, Anne calmly repeated her words. “Ena’s innocent. If there be fault, it’s mine. She only helped because I requested it.”
“And what did ye request?”
She knew what he was hoping she’d say. But, though determined to rescue Ena no matter the price, Anne wouldn’t easily give him what he wanted. “Why to save Niall, of course. What else would there be? Ena and I use our skills for good, not evil.”
“White or black magic, it’s all the same. It’s still witchcraft.”
“There was no witchcraft. It was only natural healing.”
Duncan leaned forward. “One of ye is a witch. Which one is it, m’lady?”
Anne knew he wanted it to be her. For some reason, he needed her out of the way, had seen her as a threat from the start. But why?
Ena was old, near the end of her life, while Anne was young with many years ahead of her. She loved Niall, had the hope of a joyous, fruitful relationship with him. By all that was logical, Ena should be the one sacrificed.
But Anne couldn’t do it. Like her Lord and Savior, if need be, she’d lay down her life for a friend. And there was still hope Iain would arrive in time to save them both, but only if Anne bought that time by diverting Malcolm’s witch madness to her.
She graced Duncan with a look of cool disdain. “Ena’s innocent. It’s I who’s called the Witch of Glenstrae.”
An eager light flared in Duncan’s deep blue eyes. “Then ye admit it? Admit ye’re a witch?”
“I’m called the Witch of Glenstrae,” she repeated with exaggerated patience.
“And ye’ll admit this before witnesses?”
“It’s true. It’s nothing I’d willingly seek out, but nonetheless, it’s what I’m called.”
Duncan rose from his chair and hurried to the door. “Fetch the preacher and a clerk,” he ordered the guard standing outside. “Make it quick. We’ve a confession to witness!”
Anne walked to the open window. She gazed out upon the heath and bracken-strewn hills surrounding Loch Awe. In the sunset, the light glinted off the lake like molten gold. The swans, sailing upon it in graceful elegance, were wreathed in a luminous brilliance. Overhead, a goshawk soared in the deepening twilight, its faint, raucous cry piercing the summer silence.
It was all so beautiful, she thought with a bittersweet pang, and she might’ve just forfeited the right ever to see it again. Och, Niall, she silently cried. What will ye think if I die before ye recover? Will ye hate me for leaving ye, or curse me for my weakness? If only I could see ye one last time, kiss ye, hold ye in my arms! I’d whisper in yer ear, though ye heard me not, that I love ye and tried hard to fight. So verra, verra hard . . . to the bitter end.
Like the jaws of a trap closing about her, Malcolm, with an ominous-looking black leather case, hurried in. He was followed by a nervous little clerk. After a moment of whispered consultation between the preacher and Duncan, Malcolm’s mouth twisted in a triumphant smile. He directed the clerk to take his seat at the desk, then motioned to Anne.
“Come here, woman. By yer own admission, yer fate’s sealed. Cooperate with us, and we’ll spare ye the torture.”
“How kind,” Anne muttered under her breath as she gathered her skirts and came to stand before them. She eyed the preacher calmly. “And how may I help ye?”
“Don’t play games with me, wench,” Malcolm snarled. He jerked her to him. “Repeat yer confession, word for word as ye spoke it to our tanist. That’s all I want from ye.”
“Let her go, Malcolm!” Duncan snapped. “Until her confession’s duly transcribed and signed, she’s still lady of this house. Then ye can do with her as ye wish.”
“All I want is her tried and burned.”
“As do I,” the tanist soothed. “As do I. But the letter of the law must be followed or the Campbell will have our heads if, and when, he recovers.” Duncan motioned to Anne. “Sit, lady.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I prefer to stand and face my tormentors eye to eye.”
He shrugged. “Have it yer way. Transcribe all that’s said from now on,” Duncan instructed the clerk. He turned back to Anne. “Ye’ve admitted ye’re the Witch of Glenstrae. Is that true?”
Her heart gave a jump and hung in her throat. Dear Lord, here it comes! She schooled her features into an impassive mask, refusing them the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “Aye, that’s what I’m called.”
“Did ye get that? Did ye write that down?” Malcolm glanced over at the clerk, who was scribbling furiously.
The man looked up and nodded.
Duncan scowled at Malcolm then turned again to Anne. “As a witch, what crimes have ye committed?”
Anne stared at him, momentarily taken aback. “What? Must I now confess crimes to satisfy ye? Wasn’t my admission enough?”
“We must know it all!” Malcolm snarled. “Did ye poison the Campbell, father and son?”
She shook her head, refusing ever to be party to that accusation. “Nay. Never!”
“She lies!” the preacher cried. “Write it down,” he ordered the clerk. “She’ll confess to it soon enough.”
“Nay.” Anne moved to stay the clerk’s hand. “Write that on the confession, and I’ll never sign it. I won’t hurt Niall with falsehoods such as that.”
An evil grin twisted Malcolm’s face. “Ye’ll not speak so bravely after I show ye the contents of my case.” He lifted the black bag onto the desk. “Shall I show it to her?” he asked Duncan.
The tanist eyed Anne. “Nay, not yet. The alleged poisoning isn’t important. There are other crimes.” Duncan leaned forward. “Did ye put a curse upon our cattle? Give them the murrain?”
“Nay.”
His mouth tightened in irritation. “Did ye bring a stillborn bairn back to life with yer witch’s powers?”
Fiona’s child, Anne thought achingly. How long ago that day now seemed. It had changed her life, brought her to this moment. But in the same token, it had also brought her to Niall.
“I don’t know if the babe was truly dead,” she forced herself to reply, “but I breathed into her mouth, and she moved and cried. I used no witch’s powers, only the breath in my body.”
“So ye did bring a bairn back to life,” Duncan persisted.
Anne sighed. “Mayhap I did. What does it matter?”
Duncan turned to the clerk. “Note she brought a stillborn back to life.” He riveted his cold blue gaze upon her. “And will ye not admit to bespelling Niall Campbell? To winning his heart and soul?”
The tanist leaned close, a strange light in his eyes. “Tell us how ye did it, how ye lured him to yer bed.”
Nausea welled in Anne. She had done no such thing, but she wouldn’t have her and Niall’s feelings for each other dissected on parchment for all to read. It was too much!
“What goes on between a man and woman is a private thing.” Anne glared at him with all the righteous indignation she possessed. “Ye’re his uncle, his family. How can ye do this to him?”
A murderous look flared in Duncan’s eyes. “I do this to protect him against ye, lady. My nephew doesn’t know his mind anymore and is hardly fit to rule the clan. When it comes to ye, he has turned against his own family. Do ye deny it?”
It was so unfair, how he twisted everything, Anne thought miserably. But, for Niall’s sake, if nothing else, she’d fight him every step of the way. “And I say, mayhap his family has turned against him, each one for personal reasons, all selfish and unworthy.”
Duncan’s fist slammed on the desk. “Curse ye, woman! My patience with ye is at an end!” He glanced at Malcolm. “Show the witch yer bag. Mayhap that’ll still the sharpness of her tongue. And if not,” he sneered, turning the full force of his contemptuous gaze back to her, “mayhap she’ll need a wee taste of the instruments.”
Malcolm shot her a sly smile. With the utmost care and deliberation, he undid the latches and released the belts of the case. Then, one by one, he laid out each piece of cold, black metal upon the desk.
Anne tried not to look, but her gaze froze in horror at the magnitude of man’s imagination when it came to torture. How could anyone endure for long under their gruesome application? Was Ena even still alive?
Anger swelled in her. “Ye’re a madman, the devil himself, to inflict willingly such pain upon another human being! And ye call yerself a man of God! Why, ye’re lower than the least of all the creatures ye claim to serve!”
Malcolm slapped her across the face. Anne recoiled, then instinctively lurched forward before something the Lord had once said filled her mind. If her words couldn’t move the preacher, perhaps her actions could. She dragged in a shaky breath, then slowly offered him her other cheek.
Malcolm’s eyes widened. He purpled in rage and lifted his hand to strike her again.
Duncan pulled Anne back. “Enough, Malcolm. Ye border on being played the fool. And ye, madam,” he snarled in her ear as she struggled to free herself, “I’d advise not to press yer luck. I’d be sorely saddened to have ye led out of here in chains, though Malcolm would no doubt like that.”
Duncan was right. They’d do what they wanted with her. Her only recourse was to buy time. No one but Iain could help her now.
“Aye,” she replied. “Just keep that man away from me.”
“Ye’ve seen enough, I’ll warrant,” Duncan whispered soothingly. “Ye’ll sign the confession now, won’t ye?”
Exhaustion flooded Anne in a sudden, mind-wearying wave.
Och, what was the use? There was naught else she could do, not now at any rate. Better to give them what they wanted and bide her time, lulling them into an illusion of victory. But she wouldn’t ever admit to betraying Niall.
“Let me see the confession.”
Duncan released her and handed over the parchment. Anne scanned the words, noting the only crimes transcribed were her admission to being the Witch of Glenstrae and that she had brought Fiona’s babe back to life. The irony of it sickened her. A name and the saving of a life might be all it took to condemn her to the stake.
Anne signed the document. “There.” She handed the parchment back with a disdainful flourish. “Is that enough to win Ena’s freedom?”
Malcolm chuckled snidely.
Anne whirled around. “What, pray tell, is so amusing?”
His eyes gleamed with a crazed light. “Foolish woman. Old Ena was never our true quarry.”
Anne’s gaze swung to the tanist. A triumphant smile glimmered on his lips. She should’ve known. A sickening, trapped feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach. She should’ve seen it coming.
“But why? What have I ever done to ye?”
“It’s quite simple, really. Yer growing influence over my nephew stood in the way of our plans for the takeover of MacGregor lands.” Duncan’s smile turned pitying. “Innocent victim though ye be, I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“So ye’ll die, witch,” Malcolm interjected gleefully, moving to Duncan’s side. “Die, burned at the stake.”
As Anne stared at the two men standing together like some evil, impregnable wall, horror slithered down her spine. How could she hope to prevail against men such as these? They were too crafty, too powerful, and far too cruel for any one person to defeat. She had been lost from the start.
Despair filled her. Her legs wobbled, barely able to support her. Anne clutched at the table. Dear Lord, why have Ye delivered me up to them? Indeed, they have us all within their power—Niall, Ena, myself—and any other who ever dares go against them. By fair means or foul, they’ll see us all dead.
The realization triggered something in Anne, stirring back to life that tiny ember of faith and trust in God that her despair had nearly extinguished. The Lord hadn’t deserted her. He’d yet lead her through this, if only she clung fast to Him.
“Ye’ll never win!” she cried. “Though ye burn my body, ye’ll not break me. My spirit will only come back to fight ye anew, joining with all the others who’ll rise to the cause until ye’re defeated at last. Ye don’t do the Lord’s work, and never have. Ye’re wrong—wrong to the marrow of yer bones—and even death won’t still the voices against ye!”
Anne paced the confines of her small cell, struggling yet again against the renewed panic clamoring beneath her thin veneer of self-control. Indeed, there was little in the dimly lit room of sweating stone and heavy, moldy air to distract her from it. Her gaze scanned the cell—the dank, dirty straw covering the floor, the filthy pallet in the corner, the oily torch sputtering erratically near the thick oaken door.
Her trial had been held the day after the signing of her confession. It had been anticlimactic. Her signature on the parchment had already judged and condemned her. The law, however, required she be given the opportunity to recant. Anne briefly considered it.
In the end, she stood by her confession, for it was the only truth in the whole sordid mess. Though she passionately defended herself, demanding to know why the charges were grounds for witchcraft, her judges refused to listen. Recant was all they said. When Anne refused, irreverently calling them narrow-minded oafs with whey for brains, they sentenced her to death at the stake in the village commons at noon the next day. Anne was tempted to ask why they didn’t just drag her out then and there, and see the deed done.
But as she stalked the wet, black hole that was her final dwelling place, Anne realized why they had given her this last night on earth. They knew she’d not sleep. They knew the torments that would assail her, the fear, the sense of helplessness, the utter loneliness. And they wanted it for her. It was all part of her punishment.
Och, if only I could speak to someone, Anne thought in despair. Agnes . . . Caitlin . . . Iain. But the two women had been forbidden to see her, and Iain, it now seemed, might not make it to Kilchurn in time.
Well, at least Ena had been spared. There was comfort in that. She had saved Ena. And Iain, once he arrived, would take matters in hand. Her friends—and Niall, if he survived the foxglove—would at least be safe.
But there was no hope left for her.
Once more the wild fear coiled within her. Anne quickly changed the course of her thoughts. The Lord Jesus was with her, and would be to the end. She only hoped she had the courage to persevere, to hold to her faith and never, ever, let despair steal her God from her.
“But only if Ye’re with me, Lord,” she whispered. “I can’t do this—no one could—alone. Stay with me, Lord, and help me keep the faith.”
She must maintain control. It was all the power she had left over her life. She’d not go to her death groveling and in tears. Niall, whether he lived or died, deserved better than that.
Niall . . . Anne turned the beloved name over and over in her mind, hearing it in a voice without words. Och, how she loved him! Was he better? Were Agnes and Caitlin protecting him from the traitor, the poisoning? If so, he’d regain his senses soon.
Not soon enough to save her, but soon enough to resume the fight against the traitor and flush him out once and for all. Anne only hoped they’d spare him the news of her death until he was stronger. She didn’t want anything to impede his recovery. It wouldn’t help her anyway. There seemed nothing—leastwise on this earth—that could help her now.
The sound of footsteps, of two people, echoed in the hollow tunnel of stone that was the corridor. Hope spiraled within her. Were they allowing her a visitor? Was it Iain?
An iron key clanked. The lock turned, and the heavy door swung open. Anne took a hesitant step forward.
It was only Nelly, her head lowered and oddly canted to the left, bearing a tray that held a small covered pot and a spoon. Without looking up at Anne, the serving maid walked across the room and placed the tray on the floor next to her pallet. It was the only logical spot; there was nowhere else to sit.
Despite Nelly’s seething animosity toward her in the past, Anne forced herself to walk toward her. The dark-haired maid was the first person allowed in since she had been so unceremoniously deposited here after the trial. Even a word or two about how Niall was doing would be heaven to Anne.
“Nelly.” She hesitantly touched the other woman’s arm.
The maid kept her back turned. “Aye?” she muttered in a low, sullen voice. “What do ye want?”
Anne swallowed hard. “Please, Nelly. How’s Niall? Is he better? I only want to know how he fares . . .”
“He fares well enough.” Nelly gestured toward the tray. “Ye won’t like yer supper. It’s nettle soup, flavored only with lard and gristle. The preacher insisted we make it for ye.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Anne sighed. “A royal feast wouldn’t tempt me tonight. But thank ye for yer consideration.”
“How can ye be so calm, so kind, when ye’re to burn on the morrow?” Nelly whirled to face her.
Anne gasped. A blackened eye and large, purpling bruise marred the left side of the serving maid’s face.
“Nelly! Who did this to ye?”
The woman jerked back, terror widening her eyes. “N-no one,” she stammered. “It was . . . it was an accident. I fell down some steps and struck my face.”
“Nay, lass.” Compassion filled Anne. “It isn’t that kind of injury. Ye forget I’m a healer. I know the signs of a beating when I see them. And I ask ye again. Who did this?”
The serving maid’s past mistrust and hostility crumbled in the face of Anne’s gentle concern. She buried her face in her hands. “Och, what have I done? I’ve nearly killed the Campbell and will soon have yer soul on my conscience as well. And all to gain the gratitude of a man who seeks to steal the chieftainship.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Yet this is how he thanks me.”
“Who is he?” Anne kept her voice low so the guard waiting outside wouldn’t hear. “Why did he beat ye?”
Nelly raised her tear-streaked face. “Why? Because I failed to slip more foxglove into the Campbell’s food, of course. But Caitlin wouldn’t let anyone near it. Besides, once I found out Sir Niall was near death because of me, I lost heart for the task. Though he wouldn’t take me as mistress, he never failed to treat me kindly.”
A dark, angry expression twisted her swollen features. “Not like him, who only meant to use me, beating me half to death when I only once failed him. Och, how I hate him!”
Rising excitement rippled down Anne’s spine. Her pulse accelerated wildly. The traitor! Nelly was in league with the traitor! Her grip tightened on the serving maid’s arm. “Who is he, Nelly? Tell me his name!”
“H-his name?” Nelly repeated, her anger gone as quickly as it had come. Sudden realization of what she had revealed dawned in her eyes. With a quick movement, the maid wrenched free from Anne’s grasp. “Nay,” she said, her eyes glazing over in panic. “I cannot tell ye that. He’d kill me for certain.”
“Nelly, please!” As the other woman backed away, Anne’s hands lifted in supplication. “Tell me his name. Niall will protect ye.”
“No one can prevail against him. No one. He’s too clever, too powerful.” Nelly stumbled into the cell door.
Anne stood there trembling. “Please, Nelly!”
With one last, frantic glance, the serving maid turned and fled. Anne darted across the room after her and slammed into the unyielding bulk of the guard. Cold, implacable eyes stared down at her. He shoved her back into the cell with enough force to make her fall. Anne struck the dirt floor with a painful jolt. She sat there for a long moment, staring up at him.
“Ye won’t escape yer just punishment, witch. Leastwise, not while I’m on duty,” the burly man snarled. “And not another word out of ye this eve or I’ll be forced to take the lash to ye.”
Anne scooted away and, after a moment more, he backed from the cell, slamming and locking the door behind him. His hurried footsteps pounded down the corridor. A moment later, heavy silence descended upon the dungeon.
A heavy silence shattered only by the gut-wrenching sobs of the dungeon’s solitary prisoner.
They came for Anne an hour before midday, binding her hands behind her. The guards, clansmen she had met many times in the two months since she had come to Kilchurn, couldn’t quite meet her calm, steady gaze. Gently, almost respectfully, they led her from the dungeon and through the keep.
Outside was blindingly bright, especially after the cell’s dimness. Anne squinted in the sunlight until her eyes readjusted, grateful for the heat that eased the cold ache in her bones. The cart that would take her to the village commons waited in the outer bailey. Duncan and Malcolm were already mounted, the tanist in tartan trews, the preacher in blue serge and plain black bonnet.
Anne climbed into the wooden conveyance and glanced back at the keep. High in a stone-cut window, she saw the pale, strained faces of Agnes and Caitlin. She tossed her head in defiance and smiled up at them. The driver flicked his whip over the pony’s back, and the cart lurched forward.
It was a glorious, ripe summer’s day, birds soaring overhead, a freshened breeze rustling the trees. Anne took it all in, knowing the beloved sights would be her last; she drew on them for sustenance, for courage to face what lay ahead. She thought of God, of Glenstrae and Castle Gregor, of those carefree days of her girlhood.
She harked back to the eve she had first met Niall, of her anger at him—and her hatred. Everything, after the last few anguished days, seemed like another lifetime. Even her words to Niall, barely a week past, when she had stood there in the forest beside her ravaged herb garden.
“I’d sooner have a few months in yer arms, even if it killed me, than a lifetime without ye.”
She had spoken those words to ease his fears of childbirth, but they had been prophetic in another, more horrible way. The truth of them hadn’t dimmed, though. She loved him and was glad, so very glad, for the time they’d had. If only he’d remember those words, find the same comfort they now gave her.
A crowd had gathered in the commons. They were strangely quiet, shuffling uncomfortably, wearing almost shamefaced expressions.
Anne’s gaze swept over them. A soft smile touched her lips. They were good, kindhearted, hardworking folk. Without the Lord to guide them, they couldn’t help their weaknesses and superstitions. In a sense, they were as much victims of the ignorance and manipulations of their leaders as she was.
Och, dear Lord, Anne uttered a fervent little prayer, would that Niall recover to lead them again. He alone can give them the guidance, the wisdom they so sorely need.
The cart rolled to a halt. Only then did Anne notice the stake, its base piled high with bundles of fagots. For an instant her courage fled. Then the guards lifted her down. With a proud tilt of her chin, when her feet touched ground Anne shrugged away their hands. She strode to the stake.
A narrow path had been cleared through the piles of fagots, and a small step placed at the base of the stake. She climbed it, then turned. The guards moved beside her, tying her in place and crisscrossing the ropes across her chest. Anne’s breath began to come in ragged little gasps. She fought to steady herself.
The fagots were moved to fill the path before her. A guard, holding a flaming torch, stepped forward. Anne swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. With only the greatest of efforts did she still the sudden tremors that wracked her body. She saw Duncan look to Malcolm and nod.
The preacher stepped forward and unrolled a parchment with a slow, practiced hand. He paused to scan the crowd, waiting until he had their full attention. Then he read Anne’s confession, carefully enunciating each and every word. Next came the scroll bearing her sentence.
Anne wondered when Malcolm’s droning would end. At last the preacher rerolled the second parchment. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she glared at him with a withering scorn. His triumphant gleam faded.
“Vile puppet, inhuman creature!” Anne cried, her voice carrying to the furthest reaches of the crowd. This was her last chance to fight back against the cruel practice, and fight she would. “How dare ye call yerself a holy man and still condone such an atrocity? An atrocity condemned by the chief himself, who refuses to allow burnings on Campbell lands.”
“The w-will of God and the church is reason enough for yer death,” Malcolm sputtered. “How dare ye question such a holy edict? Yer defiance of church law in itself confirms yer heretical origins!”
Anne laughed, her head held high. “And since when is it heretical to love God, to save life, to ease the suffering of others? Answer me that, Preacher.”
“That issue has been dealt with!”
“Yet never fairly resolved,” she stubbornly countered.
“Aye,” a rough male voice, unsteady in its hesitation, rumbled from the back of the crowd. “Since when has the easing of pain and misery been grounds for witchcraft? Answer the lass, Preacher.”
“Her witch’s powers gave her the healing skills.” Malcolm raised a scroll above his head. “Her signed confession attests to that.”
“And how long did ye torture the lass to get that out of her?” another clansman demanded.
“Aye, how long, Preacher?” yet another shouted.
“Answer them, Malcolm,” Anne prodded softly, as the wide-eyed preacher glanced about him. “Tell them about Ena as well.”
Malcolm stared at Anne, frozen by the relentless gaze she held him in. His mouth moved, but no words issued forth.
Duncan noted his hesitation, the growing look of fear on his face. The crowd began to mutter uneasily, move about. Though many looked willing to see her burn, there were others . . .
The moment must be seized. Now, before the people’s resolve broke. Duncan signaled the guard holding the torch. “Light the fires. Burn the witch.”
The man threw the flaming brand on the fagots directly before Anne. The torch fell into the bundles of dry kindling. With a puff of smoke, the wood burst into flame.
“Nay!” Anne screamed. “It’s wrong what ye do! It’s evil!”
Even as she spoke, the heat rose to a painful, smothering intensity. The fumes engulfed her. She gagged, then choked.
It was too late. It was over. Anne bit back a shuddering sob. She closed her eyes as desolation overwhelmed her once and for all. Och, Lord, forgive them all, she prayed, her thoughts turning one last time to her Savior. And help Niall.
Niall . . .
Och, Niall, my heart’s true love, she silently cried. I tried. Truly I did. Forgive me . . .