Dragonclaw (36 page)

‘Probably heard us coming,' the other soldier replied, and then exclaimed, ‘O' course! That's what we can tell the Grand-Seeker. The foul witch would have escaped if we had no' heard something suspicious and come to investigate.'

‘I dinna hear anything.'

‘Fine, ye can tell her that if ye want. I heard a noise, though, and came running, in time to stop the witch from escaping again but too late to save the Grand-Questioner.'

‘She must be awfully powerful, to kill Baron Yutta.' Again there was apprehension in the soldier's voice.

His companion spat noisily on the floor. ‘Sooner we feed her to the
uile-bheist
o' the loch, the better as far as I'm concerned. Shame, though, she was a bonny lass.'

‘No' so bonny now.'

‘Och, I wouldna touch a witch, no matter how bonny. Happen my crown jewels would shrivel up and fall off and then where would I be?'

Isabeau was passing in and out of darkness, a strange roaring in her ears. The soldiers' coarse laughter came in undulating waves, sounding bizarre and demonic. She tried to curl up, and found herself unable to move, cold iron at her wrists and ankles.

‘She's moving.' The light came closer so she moaned and turned her head from side to side. ‘He made a bloody mess o' her hand. Take a look.'

‘Death to all witches,' the other said piously.

‘She's only a lass. Canna be much aulder than my sister, who's only fifteen. In Truth, that must hurt! Nasty.' He released the vice, and as blood rushed through to her mangled fingers, Isabeau screamed and fainted again.

 

When she drifted back into consciousness, Isabeau was lying on the floor, a blanket thrown over her. She shifted a little, glad to find she could move, and huddled into the coarse material, bitter cold striking up against her naked flesh. For a moment she could not remember what had happened but then she saw a cloak-shrouded figure on the floor and the memories came flooding back. She wished they had not. When she tried to curl up against the memories, all her body screamed in protest and she gave a faint sob.

‘Quiet, witch,' Blyn's gruff voice said. ‘Do no' move or speak, else I shall knock ye unconscious again. Your trial has been brought forward, for ye are far too dangerous to be allowed to live another night.'

Isabeau was so dazed and in so much pain that she could make little sense of what the hooded guard was saying. All she wanted was to sleep again, and she closed her eyes with a sigh. She heard feet tramping about her, and more voices, then there was silence. She must have slept a little, for next thing she knew she was jerked awake by the acrid stench of smelling-salts under her nose.

‘Come, it is time for your trial. Get up.'

Isabeau opened her eyes and shrank back in fear when she saw the sinister hood of the guard. ‘Do no' put on the bairn act wi' me,' Blyn said. She shook her head, her blue eyes dilated with terror. He gave her something to drink, and it burnt down her throat like fire. Her gaze cleared, and the weakness receded a little. Sick with trepidation, she looked down and felt her stomach convulse. Her left hand was a bloody mess, more like an otter's flipper than a hand. The fingers and thumb were all smashed near the joint, splinters protruding through the swollen and blackened flesh. Isabeau knew enough about healing to realise she would be crippled, at the very least. At worst, she would lose her hand, especially if it were not treated soon.

‘We'll have to get that strapped up,' Blyn said. ‘Canna have ye bleeding all over our laird's castle. Ben, get the leech!'

Isabeau managed to sit up, leaning against the leg of the rack. She stared with fascination at her hand. After a long wait the leech, a fussy little man with a tasselled cap on his head, came sidling in, looking with distaste at the blood-stained instruments of torture. ‘No need to bleed the witch, since she's going to be executed tonight anyway. I'll just get her cleaned up.'

‘I am no' a witch,' Isabeau said clearly.

The hooded guard and the leech exchanged disbelieving looks, then she was made to drink some foul-tasting liquid that made her head spin. The leech cleaned her wounds carefully, roughly splinted her fingers, and bound the whole lot up in bandages. ‘That should stop the bleeding for a while,' he said, packing up his bag again. ‘Long enough to get her through the trial, anyway. Why they bother I do no' ken, for it's clear she be a witch, murdering the Grand-Questioner like that, chained and bound as she was!'

‘I dinna kill the Grand-Questioner!' Isabeau said desperately. ‘It was an accident. The wheel just fell loose.'

Again they exchanged glances over her head, then the guard said with a ponderous laugh, ‘Tell that one to the judges!'

Just then the door of the torture cell swung open and a contingent of Red Guards marched in. Blyn immediately stepped back and stood with his arms crossed over his massive chest.

‘Can she walk?' a Guard demanded, and the giant grunted in response.

They hauled her up, and after a few moments Isabeau was able to stand. ‘I need to wash and tidy myself,' she said, staring the Red Guard in the eye. After a moment he nodded, and she was taken to the Grand-Questioner's room, where her pack still lay on the table. It was difficult to wait until he had closed the door behind her, but as soon as they were gone, she flew to it and rummaged through. Heart pounding, her fingers closed over the magic pouch and she grasped it to her breast, giving fervent thanks to Eà.

The recovery of the talisman gave her fresh life, for only the Grand-Questioner had examined her pack and he was now dead, his knowledge gone with him. If only Isabeau could manage to convince her judges of her innocence, or escape again!

With renewed hope, she went through her pack and found the little bottle of
mithuan
she carried there. By clenching the bottle between her knees, she managed to wrench the top off and drank down several mouthfuls, feeling it race through her system, bringing with it new strength and a lessening of the pain. Slowly she washed her face and as much of her body as she could reach, trying to remove the stink of Baron Yutta's touch and the filth of her night in the cell. She could not wash her hair, but she shook out the straw and lice as well as she could with only one hand, and twisted the long rope into a rough knot at the back of her head. As her wits returned, so did her memories, and she cried as she washed, the tears slow and hot and shamed.

Once she was as clean as she could make herself, she dug out a little jar of ointment that smelt strongly and burnt like fire when she rubbed it on, relieving the pain in her joints greatly.

Pausing often to rest, she dressed in the grey gown that she carried in her pack and pulled the demure white cap over her hair, tucking as much of her hair as she could beneath it. She hung the pouch, laden with its precious cargo, inside her dress, next to her skin.

As she prepared herself she went over her story, searching for flaws and polishing up details until she felt certain she could lie convincingly. She had no compunction about lying, despite her vows, for she knew death was the reward for truthfulness, and Isabeau had no wish to die just yet.

She was marched out of the cell block and into the courtyard where she was hoisted into a cart drawn by a huge old carthorse. Because of the injury to her hand, the guards did not bind them, but secured her firmly to the cart with a rope around her neck. Isabeau braced her injured hand against her, as the cart rumbled out of the courtyard and into the streets of the town.

Immediately Isabeau was aware that her trial was not going to be a quiet little affair. The streets of Caeryla were lined with people, some who booed her and threw rotten fruit at her, some who looked on with anxious pity. Unable to deflect the missiles with her magic for fear of betraying herself, Isabeau endured in silence, holding her head high.

‘Bloody witch!' the crowd catcalled. ‘Evil sorceress.'

Isabeau did her best to look like a simple country lass who did not understand what was happening to her, but inside she burned with rage, wanting to let fly with fireballs, as she had done during the battle with the Red Guards after her Test.

The carthorse strained to pull the weight of the vehicle up the steep cobbled streets to the castle, which was perched on a high crag of land overlooking the town and the misty waters of the loch. Several times Isabeau was almost thrown to the floor as the cart lurched over the stones, but she managed to retain her balance, biting her lip bloody against the pain in her hand. A young boy threw a tomato at her and caught her full on the cheek, causing the crowd to jeer, but she shook it off and stared defiantly at the people. One young man, dressed in a bright blue jerkin, looked at her with a start of recognition, and Isabeau turned to watch him as the cart rolled on, sure that she had seen him somewhere before too. The thought only increased her unease.

At last they were inside the castle walls, and the guards were pushing her into the great hall where public trials were performed. The walls were lined with curious onlookers, and on a beautifully carved seat on a dais sat a young boy, no more than seven years of age and very dark, with black hair and eyes and smooth olive skin. Isabeau curtsied to him and bowed to the judges—two men and a woman in crimson. With a chill of the blood she recognised the witch-sniffer Glynelda, and was glad that the Grand-Seeker had never really seen her. That was her only hope.

A herald stood up and made a long formal greeting to lords and ladies both, then read the charges, couched in convoluted terms. Tired and aching in every joint as she was, Isabeau could hardly understand them, and so when she was asked what she said in response, faltered. ‘I'm sorry, but I dinna understand wha' it is ye be saying.'

The crowd murmured, laughing a little and Isabeau flushed. The Laird Serinyza leant forward and said in a high, clear child's voice, ‘Ye are accused o' witchcraft.'

Isabeau shrank back. ‘Me? Witchcraft?' She let tears well up. ‘But I'm naught but a country lass, my lord. I be Mari Collene, from Byllars, and my family be well known in our district for piety and lawfulness. Indeed, my da once saved our laird from drowning, and so we be allowed in the keep, to bring our goods and chattels in for bartering.'

As she had hoped, the naturalness of her story had an impact on the crowd, who muttered among themselves. Once again she thanked Meghan's obsession with secrecy, which meant Isabeau's story was virtually watertight. There was a Collene family in Byllars, a small village in the highlands, and a Collene had saved the local laird from drowning, resulting in the said privileges Isabeau had just quoted. The Collene family even had a skeelie who was always off somewhere hunting herbs and who usually had a grandchild or two about her. The family was written in the district records and there were several granddaughters named Mari, which was why Meghan had picked that name for her ward. Isabeau had been practising this story since she was a babe in arms.

One of the judges leant down and fixed her with a stern eye. ‘Ye are accused o' stealing a horse by the foul practice o' witchcraft, young woman, and o' rescuing an enemy o' the state. Ye then resisted arrest and several times attempted to escape our rightful custody, again by the use o' your foul sorceries. As if these crimes are no' heinous enough, ye are also charged with the murder o' the Baron Yutta, Grand-Questioner o' the Anti-Witchcraft League. What do ye say to that?'

‘I never stole no horse,' Isabeau sobbed. ‘None o' it's true! Och, please believe me, m'laird. I've been beaten and tortured and locked up, and I've committed no wrong-doing!'

‘Ye rode into Caeryla on a fine blood stallion. Do ye expect us to believe a simple country lass like yourself would own such a thing?'

‘Och, no, your lairdship. The horse is no' mine.' The words caused a sensation, but Isabeau went on bravely. ‘But the horse did used to be my da's until he was stolen, many a long year ago.'

‘Are ye now accusing
me
o' stealing?' the Lady Glynelda said in tones of such ice that Isabeau began to stammer and falter in earnest.

‘No, no, my lady, I would never say such a thing, no. But happen ye did buy the horse from someone who bought it from someone who did, that's all I'm saying.'

‘Ye ken that the stallion Garlen once belonged to the Banrìgh herself, and is o' the very best stock?' the Grand-Seeker said in contemptuous tones, but Isabeau nodded eagerly.

‘Och, aye, he's a fine stallion, my lady, o' the Angharar bloodline.' Isabeau then rattled off the bloodlines of the horse, thankful both for the guards' conversation she had overheard, and her own excellent memory. Again she could tell she had impressed the crowd, although the judges remained sceptical. They asked her more questions about the bloodlines, hoping to trip her up, but Isabeau was very careful, and grateful for her thorough knowledge of horses. All the horses on the island were descended from those brought in the Great Crossing, since horses were not native to Eileanan, but only a few were descended from Cuinn Lionheart's six great stallions. It was from that stock that Lasair was descended, bred on the wide plains of Tìreich by the great Horse-Laird Ahearn himself.

‘And how does a country girl ken this much about horses?' the witch-sniffer asked. ‘It is obvious she is a professional horse thief.'

‘I'm no horse thief!' Isabeau cried angrily. ‘Och, I beg your pardon, my lady, but the Collene family is a respectful family and nobody has ever said such a thing o' us. No, my da is employed in the laird's stables, and we do be horse trainers and breeders for many generations.' This last part was not true, the real Collenes being huntsmen, but Isabeau thought she could get away with that one. ‘Lasair was given to my da as a wee foal, as a boon gift for the saving o' the laird's life.'

‘What did ye call the stallion?' the seeker said, frowning.