Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Stand there. Do no’ interfere, or you will be turned from the chamber.”

Malcolm nodded and pushed his way into the crowded hearing room. Night had fallen; torches flared around the perimeter of the place. Not so large a chamber as he’d anticipated, it must once have been a receiving hall, now well altered. Across the far end stretched an elevated platform hedged by a railing. There sat three men facing those who crowded in. The air reeked of too many bodies, and of fear.

Was this where Tansy would receive her hearing? Had she already endured questioning? By heaven, had she confessed?

If she had, Malcolm could not imagine anything he might do to win her free. A confession was a confession and represented certain doom.

Upon that thought, two guards brought in a woman, who shuffled between them. Malcolm’s heart leaped painfully. Tansy? Only it was not she.

It looked like her—or as Tansy might appear some years hence. Her hair did, flowing loose and black about her diminutive face, awash with torchlight, and even the angle of her black eyebrows.

Not his Tansy, though. But whom?

This woman had clearly been through questioning. Now, unable to walk on her own, she dragged her way between the two guards. Deposited at the rail, she gripped it with both hands, in an effort to stand upright.

Malcolm pressed forward, earning glares and mutters from those around him. He ignored the dissenters. Something about this woman drew him—recognition? Nay, enchantment.

As he drew nearer he saw the marks on her—burns to both her cheeks, to her frail hands, to the skin revealed at her throat through gaps in her no doubt hastily assumed clothing. For an instant, across the distance, her eyes—clear and silver—met his.

Tansy’s eyes.

It felt like a blow to the gut. He gasped and fell back a pace.

One of the men on the dais cleared his throat. “In the matter of Mistress Bellrose MacArdle, accused of witchcraft, we have obtained a confession.”

Bellrose? Aye, and the clerk had said there was another. But how could it be?

The speaker glared at the woman at the rail, who returned his look stoically. She had just survived questioning harsh enough to elicit a confession. Malcolm, who had himself endured the irons at Latham’s hands, knew what that meant. Yet he sensed strength in her, like a banked fire.

The speaker continued, “This Commission has been set up to do the King’s work. It is also God’s work. The eradication of evil lies close to our exalted King’s heart, and he has instructed us to spare nothing in our pursuit of truth and justice. We are no’ here to make false accusations. Many a confession heard in this place has led to the seizure and pursuit of other witches. This is as it is meant to be.”

The speaker fell silent; the crowd muttered. The woman at the rail swayed and steadied herself. Her fingers turned white.

As casually as if he spoke of the price of ale, the justice continued. “This accused has confessed to both witchcraft and murder.”

The crowd buzzed. The woman at the rail did not so much as blink.

“She is a powerful witch, and has admitted to influencing others. Under severe questioning, she revealed the existence of a pact with the devil, who supplies to her that power. She has given us a list of those she has harmed. She has accepted the consequences of her sins.”

He leveled an eye on the woman at the rail. “Woman, do you confirm this?”

She nodded. Her eyes burned in her face like silver flame.

“Speak it out for the register.”

“I do so confess.”

Malcolm shuddered. Her voice, soft and roughened by pain, nevertheless struck a chord with him.

“You do, here before witnesses, confirm that as a powerful witch you ha’ spread your influence far and wide? You ha’ forced others to do your bidding?”

“Aye, so I have—others who are innocent.”

“Bring in the other accused.”

A door at the rear of the chamber opened; Tansy Bellrose Gant was brought in, also hedged between two men. All the breath fled Malcolm’s body, and he pressed forward again.

She appeared unharmed. Weak surely, and filthy, her hair tangled and a flush in her cheek that drained away abruptly as she took in the setting. Her gaze swept the room, though she did not at first see Malcolm. It darted to the justices before fastening on the woman at the rail. Her lips parted and her legs failed her. She sank to the floor.

Inexorable, the guards hauled her up again and directed her also to the rail.

“Tansy Bellrose Gant,” the justice intoned, “you are here to listen to your judgment.”

****

Tansy grasped the rail in front of her with fingers that felt nothing. Neither could she feel her feet on the planks of the floor or her heart beating in her chest. She seemed to be outside her body, outside herself, aware of very little except staring faces.

And the woman next to her, near enough almost to touch.

Mother.

She’d been so sure she went for questioning, to fire and pain—being thrust instead into this place seemed incomprehensible. What had the man in the gray wig said? She was to hear her sentence. But she had not yet been tried.

Or heard. What could she say to sway anyone, with her sentence already decided?

After one swift glance, her mother had not looked at her. She stood unflinching and unmoving as a woman made of iron.

But Tansy could feel her: tangible weakness, a faint thread of power. Intent.

“Tansy Bellrose Gant, you have been accused of witchcraft and of murder. Do you understand those charges?”

“Murder? I ha’ killed no one.” Unless Latham lay dead. A curse on him if he did, and well deserved. She hoped he burned in eternal hellfire.

The justice pressed his lips together. “Do you know this woman beside you?”

“She is my mother.”

Amid the throng of onlookers, someone stirred abruptly. Tansy looked toward the movement and saw Malcolm there, his face white among those of the other onlookers. Ah, impossible! Yet gratitude washed over her. She might well be going to die, but at least she’d had the gift of seeing him one last time.

“This woman, Bellrose MacArdle, has confessed to being a powerful witch. It is she and her kind whom the net spread by our worthy King is set to catch. She has stated she is able to”—he peered at the sheet of foolscap in front of him—“curdle milk, cause animals to be born with two heads, fly, curse her enemies with sickness, and bend others to her will. Her power enables her to act through the bodies of others, usurping their immortal souls, which she claims she has done to you without your knowledge. When charged with it under questioning, she confessed to the murder of a score of men including Master Donald Latham, of whose death you stand accused. What do you say?”

For an instant, all sense fled Tansy’s mind. Beside her, Bellrose twitched violently; Tansy could feel her will. Comprehension descended on her like a shower of stones. Sacrifice. Her mother had spoken that word in the pit, had she not?

Now Bellrose’s voice came whispering into Tansy’s mind. Daughter, let me do this for you. I am already lost.

Beneath the impact of those words, Tansy crumpled and fell to the floor. Bellrose let go of the rail, stooped and raised her up again. They stood clasping one another—linked—and Tansy felt Bellrose’s strength and determination.

Courage, child.

But you will die!

And you will live. I gave you the gift of life once before; take it from me again.

“Step away from her. Step away from the witch.”

The room became loud with voices. Two of the guards started forward, and Bellrose stepped quite deliberately away from Tansy.

The justice bellowed for silence before continuing. “This woman, Bellrose MacArdle, does admit she used you and others, without their knowledge, to accomplish her foul deeds. She did confess this freely and clearly and on condition that you, Tansy Bellrose Gant, being innocent, should be released from this place and your accusation dismissed.”

“No,” Tansy whispered beneath her breath. “No—”

Hush, child.

The second of the justices scribbled firmly on the sheet that lay on the bench before him, and called out, “The prisoner, Tansy Bellrose Gant, is dismissed.”

The guard at Tansy’s right gestured roughly for her to leave the rail. Unable to move, she remained where she stood, everything within her protesting.

She felt a push from her mother, Bellrose’s will shooing her away.

A stir in the crowd drew Tansy’s attention to the tall man with the black hair, fast approaching through the crowd—Malcolm, his gaze fixed on her. He made his way to the rail and, after shooting one look at Bellrose, held out his hand. Tansy reached for it even as her heart broke in her breast.

As soon as their fingers met, she felt Malcolm’s strength. It flooded through her, lifted her. A woman in a dream, she stepped down and allowed him to swing her off her feet and up into his arms, to bear her away.

But she craned her neck looking back—back—and met her mother’s gaze. Silver on silver, woman on woman, heart to heart.

Remember I love you.

Which of them whispered the words? Tansy never knew.