Chapter Thirty-Two

Tansy Bellrose Gant lay upon her back on the filthy floor of the pit, staring upward through unseeing eyes. A measured amount of light filtered down to her; it changed not with day or night, for neither reached this subterranean vault, but with the activity of the guards. When they came and went, they carried torches which shed radiance like mercy. When they spoke to one another she could hear their voices, though she could not always discern their words.

They had fed her yesterday—or had it been the day before? They’d thrown scraps of food down to her through the grate, but she’d touched none of them, most of which fell on a floor so rife with dirt she could not imagine putting anything that touched it into her mouth.

She no longer felt hungry anyway. But she wanted water with a thirst akin to madness. Later, they’d lowered a flask. The water inside tasted stale and musty, but she didn’t care. She drank it all and wished for more.

Other than those dubious attentions, she might as well be forgotten. No one spoke to her or even glanced down through the grate when passing. Her condition steadily worsened. The shivering ceased, but the pain in her throat became a fire, and she burned with fever.

Mayhap, she thought now as she lay nearly too weak to move, staring upward, she would perish of illness here and never emerge from this place, save as a corpse.

And that might not be so bad—better, no doubt, than the fate to which Latham would subject her if he hauled her out.

She wondered why he’d left it so long. She would not expect a man such as him to postpone retribution. Softening her, so he’d told Catha. Or perhaps he wanted her to feel this helplessness, the creeping weakness, the certainty she would die in this hellish place.

She’d tried again and again to reach for her magic—to fashion a weapon from the only resource available to her—only to discover it no longer remained. Nay, but that was a lie: it remained with her yet, but it flickered, low as a flame nearly snuffed, and could not so much as stir the air of this place.

And she’d begun to suffer visions, things she knew could not be true. At first it had been mere snippets of dreams—or they might be memories, for she did not truly sleep. Glimpses of her father and Bessie—of Slurt in springtime, its bonniest season. She felt certain once, before she opened her eyes, that Malcolm shared her cell and bent over her, saying her name again and again.

Tansy, Tansy, Tansy.

Her heart broke when she opened her eyes and found herself alone.

But was she? Unquestionably; even the rats shied from this place—though, as her ravaged limbs could testify, the fleas abounded. Yet she became more and more convinced she shared the cell with someone. A shadowy form lingered in the corner, in the gloom where the light from the grate failed to reach. A dark personage, lurking. That, or an illusion.

But could one feel the company of an illusion? Perhaps what she sensed was the shade of someone who had died here—as many must. The scent of death fairly hung in the place.

From somewhere she found the strength to lift her head and stare into the corner. Its occupant stirred, and she caught a glimpse of a woman. Small and slender, she had long black hair, all tangled, and bore a number of wounds, none of them tended. Her face wore a grimace that bared small, white teeth, and her eyes shone silver in the gloom.

That is me. I am seeing myself. Only the woman looked older than she; faint lines marked her face, and an indefinable foreignness set her apart.

I am seeing myself in the future. Mayhap that means I will survive.

Difficult to imagine it at this moment. She tried to speak, to croak out a question to the woman, but words failed to form in her aching throat.

Am I going to die?

And a whisper floated into her mind. Nay, Daughter, not quite yet.

****

“Tansy! Tansy, are you there?”

Catha’s voice issued from above and summoned Tansy from a very deep dream. She’d been with her mother, a woman she did not even recall, the two of them in this cell together. Or perhaps it had been a cell similar to this. Tansy only knew she’d tasted fear, bright and immediate as flame.

But she awoke from one dream into another, because she thought she saw Catha peering down at her through the grate. With all the light above and behind her, Tansy had trouble seeing her features, but her golden hair made a bright halo by which Tansy identified her.

“Are you there?” Catha repeated. Fear rode her voice, and Tansy realized Catha could see nothing but darkness in the pit.

Against the pain in her throat she replied, “Aye.”

Catha exhaled a gust of air. “Jesu! Listen to me. I ha’ no’ much time. I bribed a guard to let me speak wi’ you.”

“Then speak!”

“Latham wishes to put you to death as a witch. He wants to do it here in the forecourt of the keep.”

The terror that had dwelt inside Tansy for days uncounted reared up, lending her the strength to scramble to her feet. “And will he?”

“I do no’ ken. I believe I persuaded him—” Catha’s voice broke.

“To release me?”

“Nay—but to what I hope will be a better course, better for you, that is. I ken how cruel he is. You saw what he did to Mercien. You can but imagine what he will put you through before he allows you to die.”

“Aye.” Tansy swayed on her feet.

“He is no’ yet recovered from your attack on him, and he is angry. But I begged and pleaded and reasoned wi’ him and got him to agree…”

“To what?”

“Instead of putting you to death here, he will send you to the Royal Commission.”

“What?”

“To the King’s Commission at Aberdeen.”

Tansy’s legs promptly failed her. She fell into the straw. “Nay.”

“’Tis better, do you no’ see?”

“Nay, I do no’! Nay, nay, nay!”

“Tansy, but list to me. Your trial there will be in the open, observed by many—not the horror Latham might provide you here. There will be certain protocols and men of reason. You may well be found innocent.”

“Witches are no’ found innocent. They are found guilty there and put to the death.”

“You are no’ a witch. Do you hear me? You are no’. You will tell them you are but a simple lass who has been falsely accused. Do you no’ see, Tansy—there you ha’ a chance. Here, you ha’ none.”

“Malcolm. Malcolm will come for me. He promised.”

“He may well try. He would need an army to storm this place. At the Commission…”

“Malcolm can accomplish anything.” His love for Tansy could. She found she believed that down to her soul. Love would save her.

“Aye, then mayhap he will follow after you to Aberdeen.”

“What of our agreement? Latham needs to die.”

“Whisht!”

“If he sends me off, you will be left here wi’ him—you will be forced to wed wi’ him.”

After a moment’s silence, Catha replied, “I ken. I am willing to accept that fate, in order to gi’ you a chance.”

But being sent to the Commission gave Tansy no chance—she would be back where she’d started. Aye, and mayhap her fate lay in the heated irons and leering faces of that forum. To die in agony and never see Malcolm again.

“I am sorry,” Catha whispered, sounding stricken. “I thought it best. Do no’ hate me.”

“I do no’.” Would Catha’s destiny be any less terrible than hers? Marriage to Latham, prey to his myriad cruelties lifelong. Perhaps the agony of the flames made a better—and certainly cleaner—choice.

Once the flames burned her up, she would feel no more, yearn no more, ache no more. But she would still love Sir Malcolm Montgomery, always and forever.

“I maun go,” Catha gasped, and disappeared from the grate.

Perhaps I dreamed her. Just another troubling vision.

She spoke to the shadow in the corner. “Did you hear that? Was she truly there?”

No reply, which did not help Tansy reach a conclusion.

“Help me,” she whispered to no one in particular. “Give me the strength I need to kill Latham before I die.”