Page 21 of The Unencumbered Warrior
“We were speaking of what we heard at the market,” Ingrid said, her tone calm but edged with something tighter. “About the witch said to be roaming these woods.”
An older woman crossed herself. “Add to that the careless talk that one roams among us. It’s always women who pay for such stories. Always.”
“There’s no proof,” said another, a younger man with wary eyes. “No name. No deed spoken aloud. Only whispers, and we know what whispers can do.”
“They can burn a good, innocent woman,” Agnes said, fright obvious by the tremor in her voice.
A ripple of agreement moved through the small group. Raff remained quiet, listening. The warmth of the fire did nothing to settle the chill inching down his spine. He looked to Ingrid and slipped his hand around hers and she took firm hold of it.
“But where did it begin? And why now? We’ve kept peace here,” Tolan, the smithy, said, worry heavy in the deep lines of his furrowed brow.
“That may be the very reason,” Raff said, his voice strong, feeling the warrior in him rising and ready to defend his new home. “Peace unsettles those who profit by unrest.”
His words were met with thoughtful and uneasy silence.
A log popped in the fire, sending sparks spiraling upward. Above them, the sky seemed to darken even more, and a wind stirred through the trees enough to raise gooseflesh and suspicion alike.
A sharp voice cut through it. “There must be something we can do,” Edith said, her arms folded tightly over her chest, determined. “If there is a witch among us, do we let her curse us without a word? And if there isn’t—if it’s all just a tale—who starts such poison, and why?”
“To keep us looking over our shoulders,” Latham said grimly. “Frighten us. Divide us.”
“Or draw Laird Chafton’s gaze here,” Ingrid added, her voice quiet but firm. “We all know what happens when he sets his mind on an issue.”
“Aye,” Agnes said. “That man bleeds a village dry. He’ll come demanding something—anything—and if folk are frightened enough, they’ll surrender one of their own.”
“But who’s the greater threat, then?” Edith asked. “A witch no one’s seen… or a laird with too many warriors and too few scruples?”
Raff’s jaw tensed as he studied the faces around the fire. Fear had already taken hold, not with screams or shouts, but with the kind of silence that whispered behind closed doors. That sort of fear could do just as Agnes said, surrender one of their own.
“How do we protect ourselves?” Tolan asked, his eyes darting nervously. “What can we do?”
“Watch each other’s backs,” Raff said. “Keep the gossip from spreading. And if Chafton’s men come, don’t give them reason to suspect anyone.”
“But what if the witch is real?” Agnes pressed.
“If that is so, she’s been quiet all this time,” Ingrid said, casting a glance to the woods. “Why stir now? What brings her here?”
Raff didn’t speak, but a thought brushed his mind like a wind through leaves. Magic didn’t move without reason. Nor did trouble. And more than once, they arrived together.
The fire popped again, louder this time, startling a few. Shadows danced over the villagers’ faces, and for a moment it felt as though the trees themselves were listening.
One by one, the villagers drifted away, drawn home by cooling embers and thoughts, left unspoken in the dark. Goodnights were murmured, none too loudly, and glances were cast over shoulders as if the night itself might be watching.
Raff remained where he was holding Ingrid’s hand and adjusted her shawl that had slipped off one of her shoulders. Her eyes were on the dying embers.
“Best I walk you back,” he said, his voice firm. “No need to tempt the shadows.”
She gave him a look, half smile, half something else. “You think I’m afraid of what might be out there?”
“Nay,” he said, and chuckled as he bumped his shoulder with hers. “But I am.”
She laughed softly. “Then it is I who should be escorting you to your cottage.”
Only if you plan on staying the night. The words would have slipped from his lips if he hadn’t caught them. The old Raff would have said that to a woman without thinking, cock-sure of himself that no woman would turn him down. But he wasn’t looking for a one-night poke with Ingrid. He wanted something more substantial, more permanent, more committed. The thought frightened him as much as it pleased him.
They said little else as they walked the worn path toward her cottage, the hush of evening wrapping around them. An owl hooted and the wind rustled the nearly bare branches. When they reached her door, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable in the moonlight.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “whatever truth lies behind these whispers… I’ll keep you safe, Ingrid.”
