Page 85 of The Dark Wolf's Deliverance

‘Where is Monnine,’ she demanded, grabbing her arm and digging her fingers in.

‘Down by the loch.’

‘A man has come, his name is Thomas Crouchley, and he says he is a witchfinder.’ Her eyes were wide and fearful. ‘There are rumours about Monnine. She’s different, strange. If he finds her…’

‘Oh God, those men in the yard. Where is this man?’

‘In the great hall with Father Boyle. Arguing they’ve been, this last hour. Word has been sent out for Rory and the others, but they are miles away probably, and no one knows what to do. The other men, they are afraid. He is talking about us harbouring a witch, says the Devil is amongst us, working through a woman and that if we don’t give her up, we are all cursed. The man says he will test us all for witchcraft if we don’t obey. I know what they do. They hold you under the water. They strip you naked and stick pins in you. He said anyone found wanting will be taken off to be tried.’

Kenna turned and ran as fast as she could up to the high gallery spanning one end of the great hall, and, as she crept forward, she could hear raised voices, speaking quickly. One was Father Boyle’s, tremulous and almost pleading.

‘Please. You cannot do this. The Laird will not sanction it, and there will be hell to pay.’

She tip-toed forwards, ears straining.

‘How interesting that you talk of hell, Father.’ The other voice was that of a stranger, calm, cold, sneering out words as if he were addressing a far inferior person. His voice echoed around the hall. ‘Those who practise magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. This is the second death. Need I remind you of the scriptures?’

‘I know God’s word far better than you.’

‘Then abide by it and hand her over for judgement, Father Boyle.’

‘She is not a witch. She is nought but a defenceless woman.’

‘She is the Devil’s bitch, and I have reports from witnesses that denounce her as such.’

Kenna inched further into the gallery and peered down.

‘She has no family here to look out for her, so I shall. My Laird has bestowed sanctuary upon her at Dunslair, and sanctuary she will have, and you will take her over my dead body.’

‘That can be arranged, Father, but I would prefer to take her quietly.’

Silence, just the spatter of rain against the shutters and the wind howling down the hall. Father Boyle did not answer. He just stood there, the rapid rise and fall of his chest speaking of terror and confusion.

The man before him was short, bedraggled, contemptible even. Looking down, Kenna could see the pale sheen of flesh through his thinning hair, dirty lace at his cuffs, a weathered hat in his hand. His face, though pitted by pox, was unremarkable in its plainness. But there was something terrible about him, something cold and relentless in the way he attacked Father Boyle. Kenna had been around cruelty long enough to recognise it, and this man was toying with the priest, like a cat playing with a mouse.

‘Remember Father, I do God’s work here, at the behest of the King and the justices, and if you obstruct me in rooting out evil, then you will be tarred with the same brush, priest or no. Now you can stand here and bluster and delay all you like, but we both know you don’t have the spine to challenge me, so hand her over. Shall I send for the men in the yard to set you on the right path, or shall I charge them to send you to hell? Which is it?’

How could he talk to a priest in such an insolent way? How powerful he must feel himself to do so. Kenna swallowed hard. A chasm had opened up before her, filled with all the dread and danger she had left behind in her old life. She whirled and sped back outside, into the yard, out of the castle gates and along the edge of the loch, hoping that Monnine was still where she had left her.

The rain was fierce now, lashing her face, trees blowing back and forth violently in the gusty wind, but Kenna did not falter. She ran as if her life depended on it. Her skirts were wet and heavy, so she lifted them up, slipping on the muddy bank, her hair sticking to her face and across her eyes.

Kenna’s lungs were burning by the time she got back to where she’d left Monnine, and, oh thank God, she was there, still on the rock, sitting like a statue. How did she not feel the cold? Why did she not move and find shelter?

‘Monnine, Monnine,’ she shouted. Kenna was almost upon her friend before the woman turned and started. ‘You must go…now…go hide in the woods. There is a man here who says he is a witchfinder. I think he may be looking for you.’

The colour drained from Monnine’s face, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

‘Monnine, you have to go!’

She shook her head. ‘So he’s done it. I thought I was free of him, but he has renounced me.’

‘Who has done it?’

‘My husband, Logan. He said I was a witch, all around the village he said it, to anyone who would listen and they believed him that is the worst of it, even those people I healed, people I helped, they turned on me and started to whisper. Logan said he would give me to the witchfinder, so before he died, he must have condemned me. Now he’s dead, he can’t take it back, can he? Oh God, I know what they do, and once they have you, they hurt you, lock you up until you confess.’

Kenna grabbed hold of her and shook her. ‘Rory will never let them do it, but you cannot stay here. You have to run and hide. Once Conall and Rory come back, they can stop this, but until then, go somewhere safe.’

‘Where am I to go?’

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