He released Meg, growling to his friend. “Take her out of here.”
Meg rubbed her sore arm, bracing herself for a fresh assault, but the other man only shook his head. “No, Gil. I think you are the one who must come away.”
Blackwood glowered at his friend. “The devil I will.”
The two men spoke in English in low voices as if they thought she could not understand. Or perhaps as though she had become a thing of no importance, not even present. The conflict of will was between them now, Blackwood’s gaze dark and ferocious, his friend’s calm and steady.
“The girl’s sister is down there raising an uproar, Gil. She claims you are doing nothing to ease her sister’s suffering.”
“Perhaps I could if I was allowed to proceed. I was close to resolving this matter until she intruded.” Blackwood gestured angrily toward Meg. “Why did you let her come up?”
“Because she was expected. Except for the landlord and the village priest, it is clear that all these people place a great deal of faith in her skills.”
Blackwood snorted.
“Whereas I was worried all along that you are in no condition to deal with this.”
“I am fine.”
“Are you, Gil? Look at your hand.”
Blackwood gazed down at his trembling fingers, grimaced, and clenched them into a fist. His friend stepped forward, placing his hand on Blackwood’s shoulder with the kind of gentling gesture he might have used on a restive steed.
“Come away. There is nothing you can accomplish here. Let us see what the lady can do.”
“You expect me to walk away, just so you can satisfy your curiosity about this witch? Damn it, Graham, you know what could happen—”
“I know, but there may be better ways of dealing with it. Come, Gil, before the girl’s brother or some of those other hot-tempered louts belowstairs take a notion to come storming up here. We cannot afford to find ourselves at the center of anything that might draw down upon us the attention of local authorities.”
Blackwood regarded his friend belligerently and swore. He shrugged off his hand and then stormed out of the bedchamber without looking back.
Meg had all but held her breath during the entire exchange. “Thank you,” she said.
The Englishman stared after Blackwood, but Meg’s quiet words drew his attention back to her. He bowed stiffly and addressed her in French. “My apologies for my friend, mademoiselle. Blackwood can be rather abrupt and difficult, but he is a good doctor except for when …”
“When he has been imbibing too much wine?”
“In his defense, he did not expect to attend to any patients this evening.”
Meg appreciated the man’s loyalty to his friend, but she could not allow this excuse. “Is it not the mark of a good doctor to always be prepared to minister aid when needed?”
He fell silent as though unable to argue the point. Meg studied his eyes. She thought if sorrow were a color, then this man’s eyes would be tinted with it. Instead they were blue, a startlingly vivid blue.
“We have had a long journey to arrive at this place,” he said at last. “Dr. Blackwood is very wearied. We both are. But I assure you he will trouble you no further, Mademoiselle Wolfe.”
His easy use of her name jolted Meg. As the man prepared to leave, she said, “You appear to know who I am, but I still have no idea of who you are, monsieur.”
“My name is … Graham.” He hesitated before adding, “Sir Patrick Graham, at your service, milady.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and lifting it lightly to his lips. And then he was gone.
Chapter Two
AS THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND SIR PATRICK GRAHAM, MEG watched him go with a bemused frown. Under different circumstances, she would have been favorably impressed by the knight, calm, serious, gentle in his manners, traits that she admired in a man and such a contrast to his rough brute of a friend.
But the Englishman’s presence in Pernod had alarmed Meg from the start and the conversation she had overheard between Graham and Blackwood did nothing to allay her anxiety.
She did not have the leisure to fret over it now. A groan from behind her reminded Meg of that. She hastened over to the bed to find Bridget quivering beneath the coverlet.
“It is all right, Mademoiselle Tillet,” Meg said. “Dr. Blackwood is gone. No one will hurt you now.”
The only response was another moan. When Meg tried to ease back the covers, Bridget clutched them tighter.
“I am Margaret Wolfe, the healer from the island. Your grandmother sent for me to help you, Bridget. Please allow me to look at you.”
The girl’s frame shook beneath the blankets as though she were stricken with an ague. Meg managed to wrest the blanket back far enough to expose Bridget’s face.
She touched her hand to the girl’s brow. For one who was supposed to be fevered, Bridget’s skin was cool, although damp, her blond hair matted. She reeked of the sour odor of sweat, but that was not surprising between the crackling fire and all of these candles. The bedchamber was stuffy and overwarm. Meg felt beads of perspiration gather on her own brow.
The door opened and Sidonie Tillet crept into the room. Bridget’s grandmother approached the bedstead anxiously.
“How fares the poor child? Can you help her, milady?”
“I hope so.”
Bridget panted, her eyes clenched shut. She tried to strike Meg’s hands away, but Meg captured one of the girl’s flailing arms. She groped for Bridget’s wrist and managed to take her pulse. A little hectic, but surprisingly normal for one claiming to be possessed.
“Tell me. What other symptoms has your granddaughter exhibited?” Meg asked.
“Vomiting, fever, and strange swelling. Fierce pains and terrible bouts of trembling as though something seizes hold of her and shakes her like a cloth poppet. She cannot even rise from the bed. She says demons are pinning her down.”
“And when did all of this begin?”
“I first noticed signs of the sickness coming upon her three days ago. Bridget would be distressingly ill upon arising. I caught her vomiting behind the cowshed and I—” The old woman flushed. “I am ashamed to tell you what I suspected and accused my poor girl of, but then Bridget fell down into a terrible fit.”
“Did she indeed?”
“It soon became clear this was no natural woman’s ailment but the workings of some terrible witchcraft.”
Bridget bucked and shrieked as though to confirm her grandmother’s words. She tossed her head from side to side.
Meg clasped the girl’s head to stop the wild movements. “Bridget. Bridget Tillet. Open your eyes and look at me.”
The girl writhed beneath Meg’s restraining grasp. When Meg repeated her command in a firmer voice, Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open. Meg stared deep into the blue depths, capturing Bridget’s gaze and holding it.
The girl’s eyes were remarkably clear, unclouded by anything other than fear and defiance. From the time she had been a child, Meg had been adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes. She felt she had lost some of her skill as she had grown older, but Bridget Tillet was a simple country girl. She possessed neither the cunning of madness nor the guile to keep Meg from discerning her thoughts.
Discomfited by Meg’s probing, Bridget twisted her head to one side, letting out a howl of protest when Meg peeled back the blanket further to examine her.
Bridget’s chemise was soaked with sweat, outlining her thin frame. There did appear to be a slight protrusion in the region of her abdomen. Meg ran her hands gently, but firmly over the swelling. Bridget jerked beneath her touch, scrabbling for possession of the coverlet.
“Grandmère! Help me. Make her stop.”
Sidonie clutched her granddaughter’s hand. “I am here, my child. What ails you, dearest? Tell me where it hurts.”
“Everywhere. I ache, I burn! Old Mère Poulet torments me so. She swears not even the Lady of Faire Isle shall save me. Oh, cannot you
hear her horrible cackling laugh, Grandmère?”
“No. Oh my poor angel!”
Poor devil would have been a more apt description of Bridget Tillet, Meg thought. She swallowed the caustic remark, realizing it would do little good. The girl was faking this possession and doing it badly. Meg had encountered far more clever deceivers. But Bridget’s performance was quite good enough to terrify the credulous villagers of Pernod and cause a harmless old woman to be hanged for witchcraft.
She longed to seize Bridget by the shoulders and shake a confession from the foolish girl, but that would prove no remedy. If she confronted Bridget and called her a liar, the girl might well turn on Meg, naming her as a witch in league with la Mère Poulet to torment her. Meg realized if she was to have the truth out of Bridget Tillet, it would require more subtle means and she would have a better chance of that if she was alone with the girl.
Meg drew the coverlet back over the girl. “Alas,” she said. “It is all too apparent this poor child is cursed. Fortunately, I do know how to break this witch’s hold over her. There is a powerful spell I can use, but I will need help.”
“Anything,” Sidonie said. “Anything to save my granddaughter.”
“I need you to go below and brew up a kettle of water. And you—you must, er, fetch some garlic. Chop up a large quantity of it.”
“Garlic?”
“Yes,” Meg replied solemnly. “For my spell.”
The old woman looked mystified by her request, but hastened below to obey. As Sidonie left the room, Meg caught a glimpse of Denys Brunel pacing on the landing. He darted an anguished look in the direction of the room.
It struck Meg that the young man took far too tender an interest in these events for one who claimed to be merely a good friend of the Tillet family. An idea formed in her mind, one not without its risks, but she hoped it would succeed.
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.
“Ye
s?” 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.”
Chapter Three
THUNDER 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.
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