The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “She was tried today and convicted, but too late, fortunately, for an execution. Darkness had fallen by the time they concluded, and we like to conduct our hangings in daylight. The better people can see, the better the warning delivered.”

  “So we have until dawn,” Richard said. “Not much time but enough. They moved quickly.”

  “No doubt, spurred by Lord Wyndon.”

  “That bastard.” Richard looked up at Jeremy. “I’ll kill him for this, Jeremy. Don’t preach to me about forgiveness this time.”

  “Do you hear me arguing? Here, drink this. Slowly.”

  “What is it?” He sniffed, and the rich aroma of beef tickled his nostrils. His stomach rumbled, and he was suddenly ravenous from the magical work he’d done.

  “Oxtail soup,” Cabot said. “When it settles, you can have some cheese and bread.”

  Cabot brought a laden platter and set it on the mattress at Richard’s side, then perched on the foot of the bed. Leaning against the carved post, he stretched one long leg out on the bed. Jeremy sat on the other side of the bed, also leaning against a post.

  They looked so different and yet so alike, both friends beyond measure. Richard had always known they would follow him to the gates of Hell, as he would either of them. He’d never expected to ask exactly that of them, though.

  Richard shrugged aside a chill at the thought and took another sip. The soup’s heat felt doubly good against the dread the afterworld stirred in him. Half fearing the answer, he asked, “How is Miranda?”

  “Enduring like a queen.” Cabot tore the round loaf of bread into chunks. “She held her head high and never cringed. Magnificent.”

  “So long as she doesn’t become a magnificent martyr.” To cover his emotion, Richard took another sip. Hold on, love. Whatever it takes, I’ll save you.

  As Richard drank the thick broth, Cabot said, “Jeremy and I have been busy while you slept the day away. We’ve deduced you somehow traveled here from north Hertfordshire in a few hours. Can you do it again and take us along? Or will we all end up flat on the floor if you try?”

  “I don’t know.” Richard handed the cup over. Cabot passed him a thick chunk of fresh bread and took one for himself.

  Richard explained how he had passed through the afterworld. The brothers heard him in silence, but the growing tension in their faces said they grasped the implications of what he had done.

  “Edmund warned me that being tired made the business even more dangerous. I’d like to think that’s why I arrived here in such bad shape. I had pushed myself and Zeus all day, not knowing I had a major work of magic yet to face. By the way, how is he?”

  “He’s in the stable. He’ll be fine.” Jeremy’s face settled into a faraway, thoughtful expression.

  “My thanks.”

  Rising from the bed, Cabot said, “Given Edmund’s warnings and the state you were in when you arrived, Richard, we’d be mad to try more than one transit in such a short time. London or Croyland but not both. I’m sorry.”

  Jeremy said, “He’s right, I fear. If you want to save Miranda, you must trust your grandmother to Lucius.”

  Cabot added, “In Croyland, we’ll be three against, possibly, an entire town. Folk don’t like to be cheated out of a hanging.”

  “No. They don’t.” Reluctantly, wishing he didn’t have to, Richard chose. “Croyland, then.” Keep that girl safe, Grandmère had said, and so he would. But he couldn’t lose his grandmother either.

  Jeremy shifted against the bedpost. “This afterworld has staggering theological implications. I’d like to meet some of the souls who dwell there.”

  “Edmund says they’re the perpetually damned. He warned me to guard myself at all times.”

  “Still, they might welcome the chance for salvation.”

  “Later,” Cabot said. “We have someone living to save first. So can you take us back to Croyland that way?”

  “If you’re certain you’re ready for this. You see how dangerous it is.”

  “Stow it,” Cabot replied, “and tell us how we can help.”

  Their loyalty warmed him no less because he’d anticipated it. He chose a piece of cheese and leaned back.

  “I need you, Jeremy, to take the lead and brandish the archbishop’s authority like a sword. Are you willing?”

  “More than willing. Then what do we do?”

  Chapter 24

  Dawn approached, bringing death. Outside, the din of voices signaled a growing crowd eager to watch Miranda die.

  She stared out the cell’s high, narrow window at the lightening sky. She’d tried all night to break the silence Wyndon had imposed on her, but with no luck. Success likely wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. After all, the jurors had ignored her written statement completely.

  She ran her cold, shaking hands over her arms but couldn’t seem to get warm. Somehow, she had to hold her head up. Hide her fear. When Richard heard of this, as Wyndon would surely see that he did, he wouldn’t hear that she died cringing and pleading.

  He would blame himself. He shouldn’t, but he would.

  I absolve you, she thought to him, hoping he could somehow sense her thought. I love you. More than anyone, more than anything. I will love you forever.

  If only she’d had had the courage to tell him how she felt, how important he was to her.

  If only she could have said good-bye.

  A key rattled in the lock. The cell door opened to admit three burly, scowling men.

  One of them held a pistol trained on her while another put a rough hemp noose around her neck. The third jerked her hands behind her back to bind them. Panic threatened to collapse her knees, but she forced them to lock.

  If she’d been certain she could use the cloaking glamour to hide herself, she might’ve escaped when they opened the cell door. But then what would she do? Such an escape would confirm her guilt and leave Patience and Robin, who were held under guard somewhere, to face the town’s wrath. She couldn’t do that to them.

  The guards led her outside and boosted her into the small cart there. A crowd of people massed behind it, many carrying torches against the predawn darkness. The driver clucked to his horse. The wagon lurched forward, but she managed not to fall.

  The crowd surged toward the wagon.

  “Witch!” a man shouted.

  “Devil’s whore!” a woman shrieked as she flung a dirt clod. It struck Miranda in the shoulder, and she flinched. Mistress Smith had gone through this same ordeal.

  Doubtless, Mother also had.

  There was worse to come.

  Miranda shuddered. If she thought of what lay ahead, she wouldn’t be able to control the terror clawing at her throat.

  Similar taunts came from all sides. The words hurt less than she would have thought. Soon, they wouldn’t matter. More dirt clods flew toward her. One hit her cheek with a hard, stinging blow. Gasping, she stumbled backward but again stayed on her feet.

  For Richard.

  The cart creaked through town, heading east toward the edge of the village. Still shouting, the crowd fell in behind it.

  The driver passed the last house and turned aside, toward an elm with spreading branches. A stout ladder stood propped against the trunk. The driver pulled up beside it, below a thick branch about four feet above Miranda’s head.

  Her heart pounded so hard that she thought it might burst. If only it would.

  Arabella had been right. A quick death would’ve been a mercy for Mistress Smith.

  A burly, plainly dressed man who wore a black hood over his face removed the end gate of the cart. He hauled her from the wagon to stand on the ladder propped against the tree trunk.

  When she was in place, on the fifth rung, high enough for all the crowd to see, he climbed into the wagon and tied the noose to the branch above her head.

  The rough hemp dug into her throat. The rope gave her little room to move, not that moving would help. All too soon—

  Oh, Richard, if only I could hol
d you just once more.

  They’d touched each other so rarely, but each time had been precious. She called on the memories, savoring every look, every touch.

  The sheriff, a short, stocky man, stepped forward. He raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent. He began to read the charges against her.

  Pale pink and gold streaked the sky with the approach of dawn. Those with torches extinguished them in the dirt.

  She turned her head to see the cross on the distant church tower. It was familiar, though she’d never been here before.

  Except in a dream. One that had been a foretelling after all. But that didn’t matter now.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Wyndon’s coach, but he no longer mattered either. Only her love, her faith and the promise of salvation still had any importance.

  Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life. She swallowed hard against tears. Good-bye, my love. I hope you break your curse and find happiness.

  Oh, Lord, I beg you, let it be quick.

  The sheriff stopped reading. He turned to the executioner, who stepped behind the ladder. The crowd fell silent, waiting. Miranda’s heart pounded wildly. She closed her eyes to hide her fear and block out the avid faces below.

  A faint breeze brushed over her face with the scents of autumn leaves and damp earth. The last things she’d ever smell.

  Richard ...

  “Hold!” A deep, clear voice rolled over the silent throng. “In the name of His Grace The Archbishop of Canterbury, and by his authority, I command you, hold!”

  Miranda’s eyes flew open. Richard thundered down the road with the Winfield brothers, all on horseback, Jeremy standing in his stirrups. He wore a suit and cloak, as did Richard and Cabot, but Jeremy’s were all in black. His white preaching bands, a white circle around his neck with two tabs hanging down, contrasted sharply with the black.

  This couldn’t be happening. She must have died, must be hallucinating.

  Filled with love and fury, Richard’s eyes met hers. His rage blasted into her chest.

  This was real. He was real.

  She gasped in relief and blinked back joyous, blinding tears.

  The horsemen reached the crowd. Jeremy forced his way through to the sheriff. Miranda kept her eyes locked on Richard’s stony face as he rode behind the wagon, his horse pushing through the startled townsfolk. He stopped beside the ladder and gripped it, holding it steady not only with his hand but with magic.

  Suddenly, her view shifted. She almost lost her footing.

  She saw herself, the dirt splotches on her clothes and face from the clods thrown by the crowd. Boiling fury—Richard’s—came with the sight. She blinked, scarcely daring to believe he was truly here.

  Somehow, she needed to let him know she was all right, now that he was with her.

  His frown deepened. Miranda? Did you say—or think—to tell me you were all right?

  Yes, but—you can hear me, as I hear you?

  The ladder put her above him even though he sat astride that big horse. She stared down into his grim eyes. I thought I heard you in my mind when you left Croyland, but I decided I must’ve been wrong. But just now, I heard you as though you had spoken.

  We can discuss that later, he sent to her. Jeremy and Cabot and I have a plan to save you.

  His eyes were hard. No matter what, you’re leaving here with me.

  Cabot circled the crowd and stopped his mount directly behind the ladder.

  Jeremy had dismounted and was talking to the magistrate in a voice she couldn’t hear.

  “ … entirely irregular,” the magistrate blustered.

  “No more irregular, I daresay, than interviewing witnesses, holding a trial, concluding it, and passing sentence, all in a single day,” Jeremy answered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “No doubt, at the urging of the most noble accuser.”

  You’re safe, Richard’s voice said in her mind. Don’t fear.

  I’m not afraid, not now that you’re here. Richard, I love you.

  Fierce joy flowed from him to her. I love you, he thought. I’m a fool for thinking I could deny it. For not telling you.

  That doesn’t matter. You’re telling me now. When I saw you ride in, I didn’t believe you were real. How did this happen?

  It’s a long story. Tenderness brushed her soul. Later.

  Your grandmother?

  Still holding on. Jeremy sent a message to Lucius, who’s good with herbs ... Wait. The words Privy Council had caught his ear. Straining, she heard the magistrate.

  “Yes, Reverend, but the verdict is entered. If the accused wishes to appeal, or the archbishop, that’s a matter for the Privy Council. As I said.”

  “Did you give her the chance?” Jeremy asked.

  “She didn’t ask for it.” As though he realized what he had said about the mute prisoner, the man’s face turned red. “Now, see here, Reverend, if she wants to appeal, she can.”

  “She wants to appeal,” Richard stated in a voice of flint. “You will enter a stay of execution, and I will speak to my friends on the Council and my very good friend King Charles, who will doubtless want to know why you placed haste above justice in this matter. They may have questions about your fitness for the office you hold. Especially since witchcraft charges are usually tried at the assizes.”

  The magistrate’s jaw dropped. Jeremy shook his head at Richard, who thought, God’s wounds and set his jaw.

  The spectators muttered among themselves. Several crowded close to hear the conversation. One man, tall and gangly, moved toward the ladder.

  Cabot fingered the hilt of the cutlass at his waist and stared down at the man. The fellow stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he backed away. The muttering grew quieter.

  “Surely you would agree, sir, that the Church has a unique perspective on the forces of darkness.” Jeremy sounded conciliatory. “If I might examine the prisoner, you might obtain important evidence.”

  The sheriff growled, “Or might not.”

  “We might not,” Jeremy said, “but ensuring a just result must be worth hearing additional evidence.”

  “But the girl was struck dumb, she was.” The magistrate mopped his face with a linen handkerchief. “She claimed Lord Wyndon grabbed her throat, but she had no bruises.”

  “As it happens, I’m skilled at treating injuries,” Jeremy said. “Pressure on the throat can, in rare cases, stop the voice without leaving a mark.”

  In magical cases, Richard thought.

  Jeremy continued, “If you prefer explaining to both the archbishop and the king why you decided the Church’s judgment had no value, we will appeal the verdict now.”

  The magistrate mopped his brow harder. He and the sheriff exchanged a look. “I suppose ’twouldn’t hurt to have the reverend examine the wench,” the magistrate conceded.

  Miranda glanced over the crowd. Lord Wyndon’s coach stood at the back. Strange, that he hadn’t tried to intervene.

  Richard followed her glance. He knows he’s outmanned, he told her. He won’t risk offending the king or the archbishop. This round is ours.

  This “round.” As though it were a game. She shuddered.

  The magistrate and the sheriff exchanged another look. The sheriff cleared his throat. “I’ve no men to manage the crowd. Wasn’t counting on stopping no hanging, I wasn’t.”

  Miranda’s heart fluttered in new fear, but Jeremy merely raised an eyebrow. “If the folk of Croyland care more for blood than for justice, my comrades and I will undertake to manage. Take that noose off her, and let’s go.”

  “Here, now,” the magistrate said. “We ought to consult Lord Wyndon, him what brought the charges.”

  “Even he must defer to the archbishop,” Jeremy said, “and to the king.”

  The sheriff turned toward the wagon. “I’ll see he’s told to meet us.”

  Jeremy mounted again. He guided his horse to a position between the crowd and the sheriff’s cart.

  Rich
ard tweaked his sword hilt, as though making sure the blade was loose in the scabbard, then drew a pistol from under his cloak. He watched the crowd as the sheriff moved toward the wagon. His longing to cut the rope himself and have it done, his frustration that he couldn’t, and his anger boiled into Miranda through the strange connection they shared.

  The mutters from the crowd became shouts of indignation. As the sheriff climbed into the wagon and reached for the rope, several people hissed. When he untied the noose from the branch, the crowd surged forward.

  Pistol in hand, Richard urged his mount in front of her. Cabot rode to his side, facing the mob with his cutlass at the ready.

  Richard fired into the air. His horse startled but instantly came under control. The cart’s driver struggled to control the horse in the traces.

  In the instant of silence that followed, Richard switched his pistol to his left hand and drew his smallsword. His voice rang. “I’ll skewer the next man who moves. If you so wish to see a hanging that you’ve no care for justice, let one of you take her place.”

  Letting power and rage seep out of him, he looked ready to slay them all single-handed. The muttering faded into uneasy whispers, and Miranda drew a relieved breath.

  Jeremy raised his hands for silence, shouting, “Good people, I’m the Reverend Dr. Jeremy Winfield. I heard of this matter and so have come under the authority of His Grace, Archbishop Sheldon, to see that justice is done. Let the jurors stand forth.”

  Eddies of movement in the crowd disgorged several uneasy-looking men. They shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

  “We’ll go to the church,” Jeremy announced, “and I’ll inquire of the prisoner before God’s altar.”

  No one raised an objection. Cabot angled his horse to ride by the wagon. Richard turned to brush dirt off Miranda’s face. I can’t ride with you, love, can’t hold you. Not yet. That would undercut Jeremy’s argument. Hellfire, look what they’ve done to you.

  It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that you’re here. You must find Robin and Patience. They’re being held hostage to keep me from using my magic.

  I’ll make certain they’re safe.