Witch Hunter

by Lyn Armstrong

  “This is a sign they are guilty,” he continued.

  Lachlan closed his eyes, taking the moment to rest. If only he could close his ears as well.

  “Why are you so calm?” Grigor’s shrill voice intruded.

  Without opening his eyes, he replied, “They will allow us access soon enough. It will be folly for them not to.”

  “I want to get this investigation over with so I can claim Baird’s Glen.”

  Lachlan opened an eyelid to find Grigor smirking at him. He ignored the remark. This warthog was not going to spike his temper.

  A clanking sound of metal interrupted his thoughts and Lachlan pushed from the wall to await the portcullis to rise.

  A part of him was eager to see Lady Rhiannon again. Was she as beautiful up close as she was from afar? Would her voice be high or smooth? What color were her eyes? Blue, green or brown? He drew a deep breath and clenched his fists. He must stop these flippant thoughts. Lady Rhiannon was the accused. He had to keep his thoughts free of all attraction, no matter her beauty. He must find proof she was a witch or else she would become Grigor’s prisoner, and who knew what torture he would put her through?

  The gate slammed into its place and a man walked forward. His smile was welcoming but his eyes held a black grimness. He wore the Roberts’ green and blue tartan on a banner across his chest. His blond hair was tied back, revealing a square, hairless chin. His broad shoulders looked as if he could cut a man in two with one swing of a battle-axe.

  Even though Lachlan judged the man older than himself, he held an almost youthful and mischievous appearance.

  The man executed a courtly bow. “Welcome, Lord Lachlan and Master Grigor. I pray you excuse my delay. There were duties I had to attend. My name is Laird Callum Roberts, and I bid you welcome to Gleich Castle.”

  “How did you know our names?” Grigor asked, his eyes squinting.

  Callum smiled. “Our scouts give a very thorough account of all who enter our land.”

  Grigor tilted his chin up, his scowling face showed skepticism.

  Lachlan cleared his throat. “Then you know why we are here.”

  Callum nodded. “I do, but first let us get your men dry and fed. I am sure it has been a long journey.”

  “That would be most appreciated,” Lachlan replied.

  “’Tis about time,” Grigor answered at the same time.

  Lachlan stopped Grigor while Callum strode to his gray horse awaiting him in the rain. “Tack and discretion.”

  “You investigate your way and I will investigate mine.” Grigor pushed his arm away, yanked on his horse’s reins and followed the laird.

  After gesturing to his men, Lachlan mounted and welcomed the sting of the heavy cold rain against his heated face. They rode up an ancient dark road lined with stone.

  The only light came from cottage windows and doors. People filled the passageways and stared at the procession, their eyes angry and fearful. Lachlan was used to seeing fear when he rode into a town or village, after all people were just as afraid of being accused of witchcraft as they were of the witches themselves.

  Never had he seen anger from the townsfolk.

  The slamming of doors followed his wake as he made his way up to the large castle that loomed from the side of the mountain. He shielded his eyes against the rain and peered up to the top of the castle. It must have a wondrous view of the highlands. A pang of envy lodged in his throat. If he owned this magnificent abode, he would indeed do anything to keep it.

  When Baird’s Glen was his, he would finally be the master of his life.

  Just when he was about to lower his eyes, his view snagged on a lady standing in an arched window of the second level.

  It was she.

  Lady Rhiannon’s thick yellow hair flew behind her with a strong gust of wind while her green corset snuggly fit the generous mounds of her breasts. Her bold stare captured his attention. Where he came from, a lady did not look at a man like he was the prey. They remained submissive to their fathers until they made an advantageous marriage between the aristocrats.

  She licked her lips, her eyes remaining cold.

  “I will find my proof.” He mouthed the words to her and arched an eyebrow.

  After what seemed like a snarl, she left the windowsill empty. Lachlan chuckled under his breath. This investigation was becoming more intriguing by the moment.

  “Your men will be taken to the barracks where they will find food and a place to rest,” Callum announced on the top stair of the entranceway.

  “We will keep the soldiers with us,” Grigor retorted and rudely walked past Callum to enter the keep.

  “In sooth, I believe my men would be more comfortable in the barracks,” added Lachlan. “Thank you for the accommodations, Laird Callum.”

  Lachlan did not look at the Inquisitor when he strolled passed him. He did not feel the need, nor did he want to explain his actions to the likes of Grigor. If indeed Lachlan were walking into a witch’s layer, it would be foolish to raise her defenses before he had a chance to investigate. To crowd the hall with his armed soldiers would also be offensive to the chieftain. If anything, Lachlan knew how to draw co-operation from the prickliest of foes.

  His expectations of the Roberts’ great hall—a suspected witch’s residence—were nothing compared to the reality. A large arched fireplace dominated the far wall while family crests and rich tapestries lined one wall. The other held impressive jeweled swords, lances, crossed axes and gleaming gold shields. This was a family of power, noble heritage and connection. He was not dealing with insipid fools who would easily give up one of their own. He must be careful in wielding his sword, or the treasure would escape his grasp. He faced the nobles sitting at the high table. Two long benches where the soldiers and servants would eat remained curiously empty.

  “Greetings and well met, Lord Lachlan Fairbairn and Master Grigor Livingstone.” An older gentleman rose to his feet from the high chair. His intense blue eyes studied Lachlan. Judging by his flaxen looks, he was the grandfather of Lady Rhiannon.

  “I am Laird Phillip Roberts of Gleich Castle, the chieftain of the Roberts clan, allies of the Campbells.” He opened his arms to the sides. “This is my family. To the right is my lovely wife, Lady Adela.”

  Lachlan bowed to the beautiful lady; her face was pale and tense.

  “To my left sits my daughter, Lady Gavenia, and her husband, Laird Tremayne Campbell. You have already met my son, Callum and next to him is his charming wife, Lady Alayne.”

  “It gives us great honor to meet you. I pray your pardon for this unannounced visit, but I wish not to deceive you by our presence. We are here by the king’s commission to investigate accusations of witchcraft regarding your granddaughter, Lady Rhiannon.”

  Lachlan waited for the family to gasp at the announcement, yet he did not even hear the fire crackle in the hearth. A slight anxious flicker in Gavenia’s eyes was the only discernable emotion in the chamber.

  The chieftain’s calm voice responded, “We have many enemies who covert our land and holdings. I fear you have been misled by false rumors in hopes of destroying our stronghold.”

  “We will be the judge of that,” Grigor answered in an arrogant tone.

  Lachlan did not miss the flash of anger in Tremayne’s dark eyes. He knew of Rhiannon’s father and his short temper. No doubt, he passed it onto his daughter…perhaps that was where she got her spirit.

  The chieftain’s wife raised a bejeweled hand and spoke in a soothing voice, “You are welcome to join us for the evening meal unless you would prefer to rest first.”

  He peeled off his wet cloak and tilted his head. “We would be honored to partake of your meal.”

  Lachlan and Grigor sat at the soldiers’ table nearest to Lady Adela. Scanning the hall for the stairway to the upper levels, Lachlan peered at the wide opening on the other side of the chamber. Where was the witch in question? A sense of anticipation built within his chest. What was taking her so long? W
as she afraid to face him? She had seemed bold enough in the window.

  He pulled his eyes away from the stairs to find Lady Adela intently watching him. She smiled at him as if he granted her one of his lifelong secrets. He shifted his focus to a bowl of steaming meat stew placed in front of him. The smell of barley and spices made his mouth water. Spices were hard to come by in this part of the country. He picked up the bowl.

  “Where is Lady Rhiannon?” Grigor bluntly asked.

  Lachlan waited for the answer.

  “I am here,” a lyrical voice called from the stairs.

  He jerked his gaze up to find her cerulean eyes sparkled with mischief, remaining fixed on his. Thick ruby lips glistened in the light from the candle sconce nearby as if she had recently licked her mouth. Her yellow hair, tightly braided, fell over her shoulder with a few curly wisps of hair cradling a heart-shaped face. Lachlan resisted the sense of disappointment that she did not leave it loose as he had seen in the window. She was a vision any painter would give his artist’s hand to capture, and any man would give his soul to possess.

  A splash of liquid spilled on the table, and he looked down to find he had tipped the stew while staring. He replaced the bowl and pushed it away. He suddenly had no stomach for food.

  The lady smothered a smile and glided around the chairs to sit next to her grandmother on the high table.

  He could just hear Lady Adela when she whispered to her granddaughter, “Stop it.”

  Rhiannon’s lip curled into a beatific smile while her eyes darted. “I did not do anything.”

  “Ladies, may I add that I have exceptional hearing,” Lachlan said and enjoyed the look of surprise on Rhiannon’s face.

  “May I be so bold to ask who you are?” Rhiannon questioned in a scathing tone.

  “You must be the only one who does not know,” Lachlan returned. A flash of annoyance flitted across her beautiful face. He must have struck a weak link in her armor.

  Her father spoke from the end of the table. “This is Lord Lachlan Fairbairn and his apprentice, Master Grigor…”

  “I am not his apprentice,” Grigor uttered. “I am an Inquisitor, the Commission of Justiciary, sent by His Majesty…”

  “I already know,” Rhiannon interrupted Grigor’s outburst without taking her regard from Lachlan.

  Grigor sputtered beside him, and Lachlan bit his lip to keep from smiling. He studied Rhiannon’s stubborn high cheekbones, and plump lips set with determined poise. Every moment in her presence brought him more admiration for that luscious lady.

  “What I want to know is, why are you here?” she asked him.

  Lachlan leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and entwined his fingers. “You have been accused of witchcraft, and we are here to investigate these serious claims.”

  “How preposterous. You cannot possibly think they are true. I am an aristocrat, granddaughter of the Roberts’ chieftain.”

  Lachlan waited for the family to announce their disbeliefs as well, but no declarations came.

  He looked each one in the eye. “We will conduct this investigation thoroughly, so no one can lay claim to witchcraft against this clan again.”

  “This clan appreciates the swiftness of your duties,” the chieftain offered in a strained voice.

  “Is that the book of Malleus Maleficarum?” Rhiannon accused in a sharp tone, her glare centering on the black leather book on the table before Grigor.

  Grigor clutched the book to his chest. “What do you know of the Dominican friars?”

  “Friars?” Rhiannon scoffed, the sound unladylike. “More likely ignorant men who use superstition to fool people into believing the most ludicrous of crimes about witches. All in a greedy effort to sell the useless ramblings in some book.”

  “Kramer and Sprenger,” Grigor snarled, “created a book filled with accurate accounts of witchcraft.” He held the book in the air with reverence. “Malleus Maleficarum is respected and valued across Europe.”

  “That has caused witch hunts across the continent, killing thousands of innocent men and women.” Rhiannon’s eyes blazed with resentment at them both. “Mostly women.”

  Grigor smirked. “Such outspokenness from a lady would be considered unwise under these circumstances.”

  All Lachlan could think about was what an extraordinary vision she presented with her chin in the air, her smooth ivory skin tinted with a heated blush. Would the outspoken lass appear just as delectable in the bedchamber?

  “You seem quiet, milord.” Rhiannon turned to him, ignoring Grigor’s comment. “Do you believe the foolish writings of these men? Recklessly accusing all women possessing a strong disposition of witchcraft?”

  Lachlan cleared his throat. “Nae, milady. Nor do I believe that all witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which is in women insatiable,” he quoted. He knew the popular book was ridiculous on all fronts, but he could not resist the urge to tease.

  He waited for her gasp of outrage, but instead she just smiled, her eyes glittering in the muted candlelight. “Which is it, milord, that you do not believe? Witchcraft comes from carnal lust or that women are insatiable?”

  He wanted to issue her an invitation to his bedchamber to find out, but noticed the intense attention they garnered from Rhiannon’s family—especially her father, who looked to have murder in his eyes.

  Lachlan rose from the chair. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other shoulder causally slumped. In a confident tone, he raised his voice for all to hear, “I will be questioning the villagers first, and then I request an audience with the accused alone.”

  Rhiannon shot to her feet. “I have a name!”

  Lachlan heard metal scraping behind him, like a sword pulled from a scabbard. He quickly turned, expecting to see someone about to run him through, but there was nobody there.

  Rhiannon’s mother rose, her face losing its color. She nudged her husband. Her hands seemed to shake but her voice remained steady. “Our clan will give you all the cooperation you’ll need, so you can soon be on your way to relieve his majesty’s fears of our daughter’s false accusations. The steward will see you to your chambers.”

  The same metal scraping sounded again. Lachlan looked around. This time the reverberation came from up high, as if the swords up on the wall had moved. He frowned and then turned back to the highland nobles. “Err…we graciously accept your hospitality.”

  Rhiannon watched Lachlan gather a dark cloak and fold it over his arm. He slowly raised his head to stare at her, his dark amber eyes seeming to peer right into her soul. A prickle skimmed along her arms, causing the fine hairs to rise. She did not know if it was from anger or desire. His calm authority and self-assurance created an air of excitement. She could tell by his assertive stride, he knew who he was and what he wanted out of life, a rare man with intellect and a dangerous sense of humor.

  He was insufferable!

  She kept his line of sight until he walked to the stairs. She was not going to let him stay around long enough to find any proof of her powers. No matter how much he intrigued her.

  He had to go.

  Without warning, her throat burned, and she was finding it hard to breathe. Nausea overwhelmed her stomach, causing bile to rise in her throat. She grabbed the side of the table and leaned into her chair. The chamber blurred before her eyes and then slowly spun, making her dizzy.

  Darkness descended over her sight and her spirit lifted, flying through the shadows, taken away from the warmth of the great hall.

  Rhiannon tried to call out, but her words were ripped from her mouth. There was no air around her, yet her body remained alive.

  Images cleared in her consciousness, allowing her vision to sharpen until she realized she was in a strange place she had never visited.

  Her soul floated in mid-air beneath dark wooden rafters. Gradually, she looked down upon the chamber, observing three occupants. She felt sick and frightened at the same time. What was happening to her? Why was she here?

&
nbsp; Beneath her, two women were engaged in an intense argument. One tried to trip the other over and they both fell, rolling and tumbling over a thick rug.

  God’s wounds! One of those women was she. She was fighting a woman wearing the same clothes as her. The lady looked familiar but Rhiannon could not think of where she had seen her before.

  A man walked gingerly toward them, something hidden behind his back.

  Lord Lachlan.

  The fight had finished and she rose from the floor. With a big smile on her face, she moved to hug Lachlan when he pulled out a knife and stabbed her.

  She clutched at her chest. Blood oozed between her fingers, spreading onto her emerald gown. Her surprised eyes accused Lachlan of betrayal. He said something to her and lifted her hand, then dropped it as her body fell to the ground and remained lifeless.

  The Witch hunter had killed her!

  Rhiannon tried to scream but could not.

  “Rhiannon, Rhiannon,” her grandmother’s concerned voice pulled her back to the present.

  Her family gathered around her. Their faces were filled with worry.

  Rhiannon’s mother kneeled beside her chair. “What is amiss?”

  “I… I do not know what happened. One moment, I was here and the next I was in another place, another time.”

  “What did you see?” her father asked from behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

  “I saw Lord Lachlan. He murdered me.”

  Chapter Four

  After Lachlan’s stomach growled for the third time in his chamber, he realized he had not eaten all day. The barley had smelled so good in the stew. He cursed himself for not partaking of the fare before leaving the hall. Although, he should not be too surprised; Rhiannon’s loveliness was enough to distract any man from eating.

  Heading down the hallway, he hoped it was not too late to find someone in the kitchen. Just as he was about to walk around the corner, a slender body collided with him. He put his hands out to steady the person, and found Rhiannon within his arms.