Child of the Mist (38 page)

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 friendsand Niall, if he survived the foxglovewould 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. 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 on earth that could help her now.

The sound of footsteps, of two people, echoed in the hollow tunnel of stone that was the corridor. Wild hope spiraled within her breast. Were they allowing her a visitor? Was it Iain?

An iron key clanked. The lock turned. The heavy door swung open. Anne took a hesitant step forward, her breath caught in her throat.

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 to see her since she'd been so unceremoniously deposited here today 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 o' me?"

Anne swallowed hard. "Please, Nelly. How is Niall?

Is he better? I only want to know how he fares."

"He fares well enough." She jerked away. "I must go." Nelly gestured toward the tray. "Ye willna like yer supper. Tis 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 my appetite tonight. But thank you for your consideration."

"How can ye be so calm, so kind, when ye're to burn on the morrow?" Nelly cried, whirling to face her.

Anne gasped, hardly hearing the woman's question. A blackened eye and large, purpling bruise marred the left side of the serving maid's face.

"Nelly!" she whispered. "Who did this to you?"

Nelly jerked back, terror widening her eyes. "N-no one," she stammered. "'T'twas an accident. I fell . . . fell down some steps and struck my face."

"Nay, lass," Anne corrected her gently, "'tisn't that kind o' injury. You forget I'm a healer. I know the signs o' a beating when I see it. And I ask you again. Who did this?"

The woman's past mistrust and hostility crumbled in the face of Anne's gentle concern. She buried her head in her hands. "Och, what have I done, what have I done?" she wept. "I have nearly killed the Campbell and will soon have yer soul on my conscience as well. And all to gain the gratitude o' a man who seeks to steal the chieftainship." She gave a bitter laugh. "And this is how he thanks me."

"Who is he?" Anne demanded, keeping her voice low so the guard waiting outside wouldn't hear. "Why did he beat you?"

Nelly raised her tear-streaked face. "Why? Because I failed to slip more foxglove into the Campbell's food, o' course. But Caitlin wouldna let anyone near it. Besides, once I found out Sir Niall was near death because o' me, I lost heart for the task. Though he wouldna 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? Och, Lord, 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 canna tell ye that. He'd kill me for certain."

"Nelly, please," Anne implored, her hands lifting in supplication even as the other woman backed away. "Tell me his name. Niall will protect you."

"No one can prevail against him. No one. He is too clever, too powerful."

Nelly stumbled into the cell door.

Anne stood there trembling, a look of entreaty on her face. "Och, please, Nelly."

With one last, wild 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 willna escape yer just punishment, whoring witch. Not while I'm on duty leastwhiles," the burly man snarled. "And not another word out o' ye this eve or I'll be forced to take the lash to ye."

The thought seemed to please him. His mouth lifted in a suggestive leer. "But mayhap ye want that, whore that ye are. I'd have to strip ye naked to lash ye properly." He took a step toward her. "Would ye like that? Tis yer last night on earth. Do ye desire to spend it with a man?"

Anne scooted away, shaking her head. "Nay," she cried, struggling to keep the fear and loathing from her voice. "Lay one finger upon me and I'll call down a curse that'll shrivel your manhood to a useless little worm for the rest o' your days! Just one finger, you brutish knave, and 'twill be all over for you!"

The leer melted from the guard's face as the realization he was dealing with a confessed witch eased to the forefront of his dim-witted mind. Fear widened his eyes. He backed out of 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'd met many times in the two months since she'd come to Kilchurn, couldn't quite meet her calm, steady gaze. Gently, almost respectfully, they led her out of the dungeon and through the keep.

Outside was blindingly bright, especially after the damp darkness of her cell. 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 was waiting 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 back 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, drawing on them for sustenance, for courage to face what lay ahead. She thought of home, of Glenstrae and Castle Gregor, of those carefree days of her girlhood. They seemed so very long ago.

She harked back to the eve she'd first met Niall, of her anger at himand her hatred. That, too, seemed so long ago. Everything, after the last few anguished days, seemed like another lifetime. Even her words to Niall, barely a week past, when she'd stood there in the forest beside her ravaged herb garden. "I would sooner have a few months in your arms, even if it killed me, than a lifetime without you."

She'd spoken those words to ease his fears of childbirth, but they'd been prophetic in another, more horrible way. The truth of them hadn't dimmed, though. She loved him and was glad, oh, so very glad, for the time they'd had. If only he'd remember those words, find the same comfort they 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, hard-working folk. They could not 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, Anne uttered a fervent little prayer, would that Niall recovered to lead them again. He, alone, could give them the guidance, the wisdom they so sorely needed.

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, Anne shrugged away their hands when her feet touched the ground. 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, 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, stilling the sudden tremors that wrecked her body with only the greatest of efforts. She saw Duncan look to Malcolm and nod.

The preacher stepped forward, unrolling 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 scroll. He lifted his gaze to meet hers and slammed straight into silver eyes filled with a withering scorn. His triumphant gleam faded.

"Vile puppet, inhuman creature!" Anne cried, her voice carrying to the furthest reaches of the crowd. "How dare you call yourself a holy man and still condone such a cruel practice? A practice condemned by the chief himself, who will not allow burnings on Campbell lands?"

"The w-will o' God and the Church is reason enough for your death," Malcolm sputtered. "How
dare
you question such a holy edict? Your defiance o' Church law in itself confirms your heretical origins!"

Anne laughed, her head held high. "And since when is it heretical to save life, to ease the suffering o' others by the healing arts? Answer me that, Preacher."

"That issue has been dealt with!"

"Yet never answered," she firmly countered.

"Aaye," a rough male voice, unsteady in its hesitation, rumbled from the back of the crowd. "Since when has the easing o' pain and misery been grounds for witchcraft? Answer the lass, Preacher."

" 'Ttis her witch's powers that gave her the healing skills," Malcolm hurried to explain. He raised a scroll above his head. "Her signed confession attests to that."

"And how long did ye torture the lass to get that out o' her?" another clansman demanded.

"Aye, how long, Preacher?" yet another shouted.

"Answer them, Malcolm," Anne prodded softly, intruding into the preacher's wide-eyed glance about him. "Tell them about Ena as well."

Malcolm stared at Anne, frozen by the icy gaze she held him in. His mouth moved, but no words issued forth.

Duncan noted the preacher's 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 upon the fagots directly in front of Anne. The torch fell into the bundles of dry kindling. With a puff of smoke, the wood burst into flame.

"Nay!" Anne screamed. " 'Tis wrong, what you do! 'Tis 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 the despair overwhelmed her once and for all.

Och, Niall, my heart's true love,
she silently cried.
I tried. Truly I did. Forgive me
. . . .