Chapter Fifty-Seven

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Fynhallow, Orkney

December 1594

MHAIRI

The soldiers barge through the door of the cottage before she has a chance to pack the few valuables that Alison and William owned. The first soldier sweeps the old wooden wall unit to the floor, sending the chicken shrieking to the rafters and a torrent of glass bottles across the carpet of ferns, their contents bursting out in a shower of poultices and powdered insects. Another soldier raises his sword and strides toward Mhairi; she cowers with a yell, a hand raised to defend herself, the other hand pressed against the wooden chest against which she leans.

There are six soldiers in the small cottage now, so much movement and aggression in such a small space, scattering the lanterns and the spinning wheel, splinters of wood spiking the floor. The lieutenant steps forward and places a hand on the shoulder of the man with his sword raised above Mhairi, urging him to be calm.

“Where’s the girl?” the lieutenant demands of her.

“Please,” Mhairi begs, crouching over the chest, her arms stretching across it. “Please don’t take her. We’ll leave the islands, I promise.”

The men share a glance before pulling her off the chest with a cry.

“No!” she wails. “Take me! Take me!”

“Out of the way, hag!” the first soldier says, shoving her out of the way. But Mhairi won’t be deterred. She scrambles to her feet and lunges at him with a cry, sinking her teeth into his hand. The back of his fist connects with her cheek in an explosion of pain, sending her to the ground like a sack of twigs.

Mhairi gasps, breathless from the shock of it. “She’s only a child!” she pleads.

A shriek sounds from inside the chest as the soldiers try to lift the lid of the chest. It is fastened shut, and Mhairi throws them a wild look as they handle the iron bolt, finding a heavy lock at the end of it.

The lieutenant approaches her, his gloved hand finding the handle of his sword. “Where’s the key?” he asks her.

Blood blooms at the split skin on her cheek, and she shakes her head. The lieutenant sighs, disappointed, before unsheathing his sword. His blade is sharp and quick, piercing Mhairi through her breastbone.

She feels only the heat of her life force leaving her in a steady pulse, soaking her back, her neck, her eyes fixed on the soldiers as they heft the wooden chest on their shoulders and stride outside. She hears a shout, then a strong waft of smoke brought to her by the wind. They have set the cottage on fire.

It matters not. Inside the chest is a calfling, not Beatrice. As the flames lick the baskets and hay mattresses inside the cottage, Mhairi utters a spell that will distract the soldiers, keeping their minds on good ale and jesting and women all the way back to Kirkwall, preventing them from unlocking the chest until they reach the palace.

That should be long enough to allow Beatrice to escape and make her way to Edward, who is waiting for her by the shrew ash in the hills. He has The Book of Witching in his keeping. From there, he’ll take her to the Triskele deep into the mountains, then on to the far north, where many of the Triskele live and thrive.

Where they will be safe.