The Lady of Secrets (7 page)

She stepped out into the hall, offered the boy a reassuring smile, but refused to answer any of his anxious questions. She sent him down to fetch Seraphine, and when her friend approached, Meg asked, “How fare matters below?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” Seraphine said in a disgruntled tone. “No one has left to go after old Mère Poulet, but that is due less to my charms than that blasted English doctor. He has been lavish with his coin, buying wine for everyone.”

And no doubt would soon have the entire village befuddled with drink and all the more dangerous for it. Passions always flamed higher when fueled by spirits. Damn the wretched man, Meg thought. She needed to resolve this situation and do it quickly.

In a few terse words, she told Seraphine what she required. Seraphine frowned in bewilderment and then shrugged, hastening to fulfill her request.

Meg proceeded to extinguish most of the candles until only one remained. Bridget had gone quieter without her grandmother to witness her performance. She had dragged the coverlet up to her nose, watching Meg’s every move.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Cast a spell to cure you, I trust.”

“Will it hurt?” It was a frightened child’s question. Meg gazed into Bridget’s wide wary eyes and her urge to throttle the girl abated a little.

“No, my spell is a very powerful one, but it will ease your suffering and clarify your mind.”

Seraphine returned to the room and passed the object she had been sent to retrieve to Meg, slipping it into her hand. Seraphine was bursting with curiosity, longing to stay to see what Meg was about. But Meg shooed her friend back downstairs.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“I guess so,” the girl whispered. “But what about the hot water and the garlic? Should we not wait for Grandmère to fetch them?”

“Er—ah, no,” Meg said. “I won’t need the garlic until later. Far better that we begin at once, don’t you think?”

Bridget nodded in reluctant agreement even though she was clearly dreading the prospect.

Meg positioned herself before the remaining lit candle, fully aware of the eerie glow it would cast over her face. She wracked her mind for the memory she seldom visited, that of Cassandra Lascelles standing over her steaming copper bowl.

Meg had gleaned little by way of love, wisdom, or guidance from her late mother. But there was one thing Cassandra had taught her: how to perform the part of a witch.

Meg spread wide her arms and intoned an incantation in the ancient language of the daughters of the earth, long lost to the present world. She sang out the words at random, nothing but a jumble.

Bridget lowered the coverlet to her chin, her eyes saucers
of blue as she watched Meg. Meg held one fist high above the candle, slowly uncurling her fingers. She switched to French, addressing Bridget.

“I have here a lock of hair taken from the head of thine enemy. If this be the hair of the true witch that torments thee, when this lock is burned in the flame of the consecrated candle, then shall ye be free.”

Bridget sat up straighter, scarce breathing as Meg held the lock of hair to the candle flame. Meg muttered a few more nonsense words, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of burning hair.

She held the wisp of hair until the flame came close to scorching her fingers. Snatching back her hand, she declared, “There, it is done. The spell is broken.”

Bridget released her breath. “I believe I do feel better.”

“Truly? Because if I made a mistake, if the hair I burned was not that of the true witch—”

“Oh, yes. It had to have been. Look. I can even sit up now.” Bridget wriggled upward, bracing her back with the pillow. “I am so grateful to you, milady. I hope I shall be well now, but what is to prevent la Mère Poulet from cursing me all over again?”

“La Mère Poulet?” Meg feigned a blank look. “She was not the witch tormenting you. It was not her hair that I burned.”

“Then … then who?”

“The hair belonged to Denys Brunel.”

“Denys?” Bridget gasped and shook her head. “No, it cannot have been. It was la Mère Poulet. I saw her, hovering above me on the ceiling.”

“A mere illusion, conjured up by Master Brunel. It appears he is a most skilled young warlock, but he did not fool
me. I have long suspected him. Now I must go tell the others and see that the boy is arrested for witchcraft.”

Meg started toward the stairs.

“No!” Bridget flung off the covers. The girl who had claimed she was too weak to stand leapt off the mattress. She ran after Meg, clutching her arm.

“No, you can’t accuse Denys. No one will believe you.”

“Of course they will. The entire inn will have witnessed my friend, Madame la Comtesse, snip a lock of Denys’s hair and fetch it to me.”

The girl’s fingers dug into Meg’s arm. “That stupid test proves nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Certainly Denys will have to be examined more thoroughly. When he is in custody, they will strip him naked, search him for witch marks. Any moles or freckles they find, they will have to pierce with pins.”

“Stop it!” Bridget cried. “Denys would never hurt me. He is no warlock.”

“I am sure he will be reluctant to admit that he is, so they will have to torture a confession out of him.”

“What? No, they c-can’t.” Bridget pressed her hand to her mouth, looking as though she would be ill.

“Oh, yes they can. I have heard the boot is most effective. It is an iron clamp they fasten to the leg and then tighten the screws until bones are crushed. Denys will never be able to walk again, but that is of little concern since he will be hung as soon as he confesses, which he will do. No one can endure the agony of the boot.”

“No! They can’t do such a horrible thing to him. Not to Denys.”

“Why not?” Meg leveled a hard look at her. “Is not that what you wished done to old Mère Poulet?”

Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. “She is a nasty, spying old hag. She saw me and Denys—” She jammed her fist in her mouth.

“Yes?” Meg prompted. “She perhaps saw you and your young swain making love and you feared she would tell. Was that a good enough reason to want a poor old woman dead? Especially when your secret is bound to be known soon enough.”

Meg trained her gaze on the girl’s midriff. Bridget clutched her arms over her womb. Her tears spilled over, cascading down her cheeks.

“I didn’t want her dead, just gone. I never thought they would kill her, just drive her out of the village before she could tell. Grandmère caught me being ill and she started to suspect. She and Papa would be so angry. I had to come up with some kind of tale, something to keep them from finding out. I never meant it all to go so far. I just needed more time to figure out what to do.” Her voice thickened, choking with tears.

Bridget sank down to the floor, drawing her knees up to her chin. She buried her face against them, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

Meg tried to harden her heart against the girl, tried to remember how much misery and suffering Bridget could have caused with her deception. But she looked so young, lost, and frightened.

Meg hunkered down beside Bridget. She placed her arm around the girl, a little awkward at first. Meg had learned nothing of mothering from Cassandra Lascelles, but Ariane Deauville had taught her a great deal.

Meg gathered the girl closer, rocking her in her arms.

“I—I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,” the girl snuffled against her shoulder. “I—I was just so scared.”

“I know.”

“I never intended for it to go so far. But once I had begun, I didn’t know how to stop.”

“Fortunately all still may be remedied if you but have the courage.”

“But—but I don’t know what to do,” the girl wept. “What am I to do?”

“The bravest thing that you can,” Meg said gently. “Tell the truth.”

T
HUNDER BOOMED AND THE SKY CRACKED OPEN, DISLODGING
a hail of rain. The water cascaded over the inn, obscuring all view of the lane leading through the village. Sir Patrick Graham lingered by the window watching as a flare of lightning lit up the darkness. He far preferred the sounds of the storm raging outside to the din of coarse voices that had filled the taproom up until an hour ago.

The chamber was mercifully empty now. When the truth of the Tillet girl’s bewitchment had been exposed, the villagers had staggered homeward, as baffled and deflated as an army that had assembled for a battle that never came.

Graham had been astonished by the outcome himself. When Margaret Wolfe had helped the trembling Bridget down the stairs to make an announcement, Graham had expected the worst, that a witch hunt was about to be launched and there would be nothing he dared do to interfere. Worse
still, he feared he would be unable to prevent Armagil from trying to do so. His friend had been even deeper in drink by that point.

Graham had held his breath along with everyone when Bridget Tillet began to speak in a halting, timid voice. One had to strain to hear the girl’s confession of her own guilt. The claim of bewitchment had been a hoax, a lie to hide the fact the girl was with child.

Graham could not begin to imagine the courage it must have taken Bridget to face the entire village and admit such a thing. He might have admired the girl for it, except that he would have wagered his last shilling the chit was neither a particularly brave or honest girl. He was sure that the girl’s extraordinary confession was somehow due to the quiet woman who had stood behind Bridget, her hand resting on the girl’s shoulder.

How on earth had Margaret Wolfe brought this about? It was almost as if she had placed some kind of spell upon the girl.

After Bridget’s confession, there had been cries of outrage and anger, mostly from the girl’s family. The rest of the villagers had slunk away. Many of them would be nursing a sore head tomorrow, thanks to Blackwood’s liberally supplying everyone with wine.

Armagil had done much to lighten the mood even before the Tillet girl had emerged to make her announcement. Refilling glasses, clapping a shoulder here, trading a jest there. These dour, suspicious villagers had soon been in a fair way to forgetting that the doctor was both a stranger and an Englishman to boot.

That didn’t surprise Graham. When Armagil chose to exert himself, he possessed a bonhomie that Graham lacked.
Sir Patrick could not even remember at what point he had lost all taste for the pleasures that others enjoyed, when life had become merely a question of survival.

He crossed the taproom to where Armagil occupied the table farthest from the hearth, as was the doctor’s habit. Blackwood had finally succumbed to the effects of the wine he had imbibed. He slumped forward, his head pillowed on his arm.

If his friend had one failing, Graham thought, it was a tendency to overindulge in strong spirits. But Graham could not condemn Blackwood for it. He supposed each man must find his own way of dulling the sharp sword of memory, of coping with burdens imposed by the past.

“My poor Gil,” Sir Patrick murmured. “Time to get you to your bed, old fellow.”

He hesitated before touching Blackwood. Armagil could be dangerous if roused too suddenly, especially if Gil was in the throes of one of his nightmares. But the doctor emitted soft snores, his expression one of such rare peace, Sir Patrick envied him. If he could have ever achieved such a state of insensibility in the bottom of a bottle, Graham might have been tempted to try it.

Another clap of thunder sounded just as the inn door cracked open. A short, coarse-featured young man burst inside and slammed the door closed behind him. He brushed back his hood. Despite the protection of his woolen cloak, he was soaked through, his coppery hair plastered to his brow.

Alexander McMahon stole a wistful glance toward the crackling fire, but the serving man knew his duty well. He strode straight to his master and made Sir Patrick a low bow.

“Mooshieur.”

Patrick winced. Alexander’s mangling of the French language
was painful to the ear and the information the man brought him too vital to risk any incomprehension. The innkeeper and his family had withdrawn to the region of the kitchens. Patrick still stole a cautious look about him. The need to get Armagil up to his bed forgotten for the moment, Graham pulled his servant closer and addressed the man in his native Scots dialect.

“What have you learned?” he demanded.

Alexander paused to slick wet hair back from his brow. “I did as you bade me, Sir Patrick. I followed the lady and her companion when they left the inn.”

“And?”

“They haven’t gone far. There is some sort of shed behind the inn. The landlord told them they might bed down there for the night, rather grudgingly I thought. I fear the sorceress makes him uneasy. She seems to have that effect on most of the folk hereabout. On me as well.” Alexander shuddered. “They do say this lady has the sight. Her eyes can pierce a man’s soul and strip all his secrets bare.”

If that were so, Patrick thought, it was a most dangerous gift for a woman to possess. Especially for a man like himself who had so much to conceal.

When he had first realized he would be forced to seek out this Lady of Faire Isle, he had no idea what he would find. Perhaps that the famed lady was no more than a myth, or if she did exist, she would prove to be some malicious old crone or a mad hermit, or even a Circe, seductive and sinister.

The tall shameless beauty who flaunted herself so brazenly in masculine garb had seemed far more likely to prove a legendary sorceress than Margaret Wolfe with her short stature and solemn, unassuming manner.

And yet there had been a moment upstairs in the bedchamber
when he had experienced a small taste of her power. When her gaze had locked with his, he had experienced a jolt. An odd presentiment had come over him, as though in that instant, some connection had been forged between them, the thread of their lives destined to intertwine for good or ill.

Sir Patrick moved his hand from his brow to his chest, making the sign of the cross. That was one blessing of this long hard journey through France. In England, he had to spend every waking hour concealing who and what he was. But at least here he was not obliged to hide his faith.