Prologue

Scotland, 1377

She was not a witch. When had healing people become a crime?

Clara Lockhart's breath formed a white shroud in the air, lingering but a moment before vanishing into nothingness. The hazy gray light of the approaching dawn crept through the small barred opening cut into the heavy wooden door of her prison cell, heralding the birth of a new day. Her last day on this earth, unless a miracle saved her.

Through the opening she could hear the muffled voices of men milling about, preparing for the day.

Heaven help me. Clara grasped the bars that lined the window, the solid, cold metal a stark reminder of her situation. She'd be hanged by the first light of morning, all for the sake of a stone.

Soft footsteps padded toward her. A moment later the gentle face of Mother Agnes appeared, framed by her black wimple as she peered through the door's opening. "Clara?"

"I am here." Hope blossomed inside her.

"Open this door, young man," the nun demanded.

The rattling of keys preceded the soft creaking of the door opening. Mother Agnes slipped inside.

The nun stepped forward and clasped Clara's hands in her bony ones. "My dear Clara, what have they done to you?"

"I am charged with witchcraft." Speaking the words opened the dam of emotion trapped inside since her capture and imprisonment. Tears escaped their confines, racing down her cheeks unheeded.

"Oh, my heavens." The nun pulled Clara to her, pressing Clara's head against her shoulder.

"I always knew it was a possibility, yet I had hoped for something more," Clara sobbed, burying her face in the rough wool of Mother Agnes's habit. She had married into the Lockhart family. And with her husband's love she had accepted the burden the family carried: to heal the sick, whether human or beast.

"The Charm Stone," Mother Agnes whispered into the still air of the dawn.

Clara straightened, then reached down to pull up the hem of her heavy damask gown. Slowly, she unwound a length of linen she had tied to her upper thigh. She pressed the bundle into Mother Agnes' hands. "Along with Robert the Bruce's heart, the Lockharts carried the Charm Stone back from the Holy Land. 'Twas the one good thing that came out of the Crusades. This Stone is not a source of witchcraft as the bishop claims."

Mother Agnes's gaze snapped to the closed doorway, as fear drove the color from her face. "If he finds the Stone "

"Make certain he doesn't," Clara whispered, increasing her grip on the nun's hands. "If I must die for a crime I did not commit, I beg you to protect the Stone for my daughter."

Mother Agnes' eyes widened. "What of the danger to such a young child?"

Pain clutched Clara's chest at the thought of what she risked. "If I cannot protect Violet, then maybe the Stone can. It will give her the ability to heal herself and survive to adulthood."

"When so many die young, that is worth the risk." Mother Agnes nodded. "Where is Violet?"

"Hidden at the castle. You must retrieve her. You know where." Clara's gaze met the nun's, searching for understanding.

Mother Agnes inclined her head slightly, indicating without words that she knew where to look. "When I know it is safe to do so, I will send her to her uncle."

"My thanks," Clara said, as a sense of peace came over her. This was not how she wanted to end her life, but it eased her mind knowing Mother Agnes' care would increase the odds of Violet surviving to carry on the tradition of the Lockhart clan.

With wooden movements, Mother Agnes slid the bundle containing the Charm Stone into the folds of her habit.

The rhythmic beat of a hammer pierced the silence, and any peace Clara might have imagined vanished. Her knees grew weak. She reached a hand out toward the cold stone wall of the prison to steady herself and squeezed her eyelids shut against the growing light of day. But even the self-imposed darkness did not block out the knowledge that men were preparing the platform where she would take her final breath.

She opened her eyes. Her other hand crept up to her neck. "Is there any hope of reprieve, Mother Agnes? Or am I a fool to ask?"

"I have tried, my dear." Sorrow shadowed the lines etched into the old nun's face. "The bishop's decree is binding. All I can offer is my presence and my prayers."

Cold spread through Clara's limbs, taking with it any hope of rescue. There was no one to intervene. Not her husband James, who had been murdered the night of her capture. Not her brother-in-law Camden. He might be strong enough to defy the bishop's decree, but she would be dead before word of her situation ever reached him.

Heavy footfalls sounded outside. Mother Agnes clasped Clara's hands within her own. The door to her cell creaked open. A swath of morning light streaked across the dirt floor. Clara blinked against the sudden brightness. She ducked her head as her eyes adjusted to the new source of light. She returned her gaze to the door.

Her accuser.

The bishop entered the chamber, his ornate cape fluttering to a stop as he filled the open doorway. He bowed his head, bearing its tall triangular hat, in greeting. The man looked more like the harbinger of death than a shepherd to his people.

"Bishop Berwick." Mother Agnes glared at the supposed holy man with burning, reproachful eyes. "Healing the sick has never been an act of witchcraft."

"Good day to you both, Mother Agnes, Lady Lockhart. The charges stand." He signaled for the guard at the door to enter. "Escort Mother Agnes to her horse cart."

The guard clasped the nun's arm. Mother Agnes jerked away. "I will not abandon Clara in her time of need."

The bishop's dark eyes grew stormy. "Stay until she swings if you must. But you will leave us alone while I take the woman's confession."

The guard reached for the nun's arm once more, his grip solid, despite her attempts to break free. Over her objections, he wrestled her from the prison cell.

As Mother Agnes's voice faded in the distance, the bishop's gaze filled with contempt. "Now that your little savior is gone, I'll ask you one last time: Where is the Charm Stone?"

Clara looked away. A long, heavy silence ensued as she struggled with her thoughts. She knew the bishop would never drop the charges of sorcery, that she would face her death whether or not she revealed the location of the Stone. And yet, some part of her hoped, prayed, that he might be merciful.

She inhaled a shaky breath, knowing what her response must be. She met his hard, unyielding gaze. "I can give you no knowledge of the Stone."

"The widow Clarence said in her confession that you healed her phlegmatic chest. She was quite willing to call your work a miracle. But we both know that cannot be true." He narrowed his eyes. "Miracles are not performed by mere commoners. Therefore, you must be a witch. "

"You would violate your sacred privilege in taking a woman's confession for your own personal gain?" Shock caused the words to wedge in her throat.

His gaze hardened. "I'll do what I must to get that Stone. Tell me where it is or I'll be forced to wrest that information from your daughter."

"Leave Violet alone." Anger deepened her voice.

"For the last time, where is the Stone?"

Clara clamped her jaw tight. He'd get nothing from her.

"Fool."

Clara kept her shoulders straight. Her daughter and the Stone would be safe.

The bishop shot her a withering glance. "So be it." He signaled with his hand, and two more guards appeared at the doorway. "Take her to the gallows."

Her anger faded and fear permeated her mind, but she allowed only courage to reflect in her gaze. Clara strode toward the men with grim purpose. At the bishop's side, she hesitated. "I go to my death with a clear conscience and a pure heart. Will the same be said of you?" She caught his gaze with her own. In his eyes, she saw a flicker of fear before rage swamped it.

"Who are you to judge me?" His hand snaked out.

Stinging pain blossomed across her cheek. "An innocent woman."

"God will judge innocence, but here on earth your death will serve as a warning to the clan of Lockhart. One of you will surrender that Stone or all of you will meet a violent end."

Violet. Clara hoped her own sacrifice would be enough to protect her daughter. Let the bishop's threats be hollow.

Clara looked in the man's eyes again, and fought to keep despair from rising anew at the cold determination in his eyes.