Читать книгу Highland Sinner - Hannah Howell - Страница 11

Morainn struggled to ignore the way the shopkeeper crossed himself as she entered the small dim room where he displayed his wares. She was tempted to leave, to not gift him with her business, but she needed some of his sturdy barrels for the cider and mead she made and he was the only cooper in town. She would simply ignore him as she had ignored all the other townspeople who had moved away, crossed themselves, muttered prayers, or made a sign they foolishly thought could ward off evil as she had walked through town. It hurt, but she should be used to that pain, she told herself.

And they were all hypocrites, anyway, she thought as some of her hurt began to spin itself into anger. They came to her quickly enough when they or someone they cared for was hurt or sick and the leech or midwife could do nothing to help. They also sought her out when they needed answers no one else could give them. If she was so evil that they could not even stand to be near her, what did that make them when they came begging at her door for help?

She took a deep, slow breath to quell that anger. It only made her head ache and gained her nothing for the pain. The way the big-bellied cooper paled a little when Morainn looked into his small eyes told her that not all of her anger had been tucked away. The fool probably feared she was about to change him into a newt or something worse, she thought. If she possessed such magic she would not be so kind.

Morainn was just concluding her business with the man when she felt a sharp coldness in the air and she knew it was not from a change in the weather. She quickly smothered the urge to sniff the air like some hound, thanked the man for his reluctant help, and stepped outside. Her barrels would be brought to her home on the morrow and she had no need to linger in the town that had so callously tossed her out years ago. Whatever tainted the air was not her concern, she firmly told herself as she started the long walk home.

Just as she reached the edge of town where lived those with money enough to have a bit of land with their house, a man burst out of a fine home only yards away from her. Morainn could see that he was shaking, his face pale and sweat-soaked as he bellowed for a king’s man or the sheriff. She actually took a few steps toward him, thinking to help him, when her good sense abruptly returned. People did not appreciate her efforts to be kind.

From the houses near to his and even from the more crowded center of town, people began to rush toward the man, drawn by his cries. Morainn hastily sought out a place where she could stand apart from the swiftly gathering crowd. She moved to the side of the man’s house and into the shade beneath a huge tree that was probably older than the man’s house.

Although she knew she could slip around the back of the house and continue on her way home, it was more than curiosity that held her in place. Instinct told her that, for the moment, it might be best simply to remain one of the crowd. The cold she had felt at the cooper’s shop was much sharper here and she suddenly knew that someone had died violently. A little voice of caution in her head told her that slipping away home might look a little too much like fleeing to people who would soon be hunting for a killer.

“My wife is dead!” cried the man. “Dead! Butchered in our bed!” He bent over and emptied his stomach, barely missing the fine boots of the two men who were rushing to his side.

She had been right about the bitter taste of that cold, Morainn thought, although she would have preferred to be wrong. One of the two men who had run up to the grieving man’s side ran into the house only to run out a few minutes later looking as though he, too, would soon be emptying his belly. Many of the gathering crowd looked as though they dearly wanted to invade the house to see what could so upset two strong men. Morainn could not understand that sort of curiosity. If what was in that house was enough to make two strong men publicly vomit, what sane person would want to see it?

A hush came over the crowd and Morainn watched as people shifted to allow two more men through its ranks. She recognized the tall, black-haired man as Sir Simon Innes, a king’s man rumored to be able to solve any puzzle. When her gaze settled on the man at his side, she nearly gasped aloud.

It was the man from her visions. She could not see if he had mismatched eyes from where she stood, but she had no doubt at all that it was him. Everything else about him was just as she had dreamed, from his long, deep auburn hair to his graceful, broad-shouldered body. Morainn remained within the shadows, but shifted a little closer to the house hoping to catch a name for the man who haunted her dreams.

“Sir Simon!” The distraught man grabbed Sir Simon by the arm. “Jesu, but I have need of a mon like ye. Isabella has been killed. She…she…” The man began to weep.

“Try to calm yourself, Sir William,” said Simon, his voice holding a calm that even Morainn felt. “I will find the mon who did this. Ye have my word on that. But, now I must go and see what has happened for myself.”

“’Tis a wretched sight,” muttered the man who had gone into the house after Sir William had told him what had happened. “I didnae e’en step inside the room. One look was enough.”

“Nor did I,” said Sir William. “One look was all it took, all I could abide, and no one who sees Isabella can doubt that she is dead. That she has been brutally murdered. I truly didnae need to go farther than the threshold.” He suddenly became aware of the man standing by Simon’s side. “What is that rogue doing here?”

“Sir Tormand Murray has helped me solve such puzzles before. I wish him to help me now so that I can be sure we put the noose around the right mon’s neck.”

Morainn thought that was an odd way to speak of the help Sir Tormand might offer.

“How do ye ken he didnae—”

“Careful, Sir William,” Simon said in a voice so cold even Morainn shivered. “Dinnae toss out an insult ye can ne’er take back. Ye are good with accounts, but nay so good with a sword, aye? Tormand is verra good, as am I.”

Sir William paled a little, showing that he understood the threat. He pressed his lips together tightly and took several deep breaths before saying softly, “He kenned my Isabella ere I married her.”

Sir Simon clasped the man by the shoulder. “The words to recall here, m’friend, are ere I married her.”

The men were speaking so softly that Morainn edged even closer so that she could catch every word.

“He kenned Lady Clara, as weel, didnae he and three days ago she was murdered.” Accusation was clear to hear in Sir William’s voice, revealing that he had already forgotten the threat of challenges, but he was wise enough to nearly whisper his words.

“I fear my friend has kenned far too many women,” Sir Simon responded, “but that only makes him a rutting fool, nay a killer. Let it go, William. If ye continue to speak so, and do so to others, ye will make my job verra hard. Angry people crying out for the blood of an innocent mon means I must divert my time from finding the real killer in order to protect him.”

Sir William nodded, but still scowled at Sir Tormand. Morainn studied Sir Tormand Murray’s handsome profile and decided the man probably found it very easy to be a rutting fool. Innocent of murder he might be, but Morainn suspected he was steeped in sin in many another way. She felt surprisingly disappointed by that knowledge.

“Now, allow us to go and see what has been done,” said Sir Simon. “The sooner we do what we must, the sooner ye can attend to Isabella. I am sure ye wish to have her cleaned and readied for burial.”

“I am nay sure she can be cleaned,” Sir William said in a hoarse, unsteady voice. “She was butchered, Sir Simon. Cut to pieces. Was Lady Clara truly done in a like manner?”

The look on Sir Simon’s face told Morainn that he did not like how fast word was spreading about these murders. That highborn women were being murdered was enough to stir up anger and fear. That they were being butchered would only make it all worse, bringing those fears to a dangerous height all the more quickly. If Sir William thought as others did, or would, then Sir Tormand Murray was in a great deal of danger. The longer it took to find the killer, the more suspicion would begin to fall upon his shoulders, the more the townspeople would gather together and feed each other’s fear and anger. Morainn knew all too well how dangerous that could be.

When the men went inside the house, Morainn debated whether to go or stay. So far luck had been with her and no one in the crowd had yet spotted her. When they did, however, she knew she could find herself in a lot of trouble. Someone who was already called a witch should not be caught so close to a place where a woman had been horribly murdered. Yet, curiosity held her in place. Some of that curiosity was of the morbid kind. Morainn wished to know what the men meant when they said Lady Isabella had been butchered. She sighed and waited for the two men to return, promising herself that she would slip away at the first sign of anyone seeing her or recognizing her.

Tormand looked at what was left of the once beautiful Isabella Redmond and wanted to flee the room. Her thick raven hair had been cut off and was scattered around her body, although he had a strong suspicion that it had not been cut off in this room. If it had been it had probably been done after she was dead. All his instincts told him, however, that it had been brought here along with her body, that a scene had been carefully set. As with Clara, Isabella’s face had been destroyed. The big green eyes Isabella had used so well in tempting men to her bed were in a small bowl on a table by the bed. Her soft, bountiful breasts had been slashed to ribbons. The horrendous wounds were too numerous to count and he wondered how many the poor woman had suffered through before death had freed her of the pain.

“This is worse,” murmured Simon. “Far worse. Either the killer hated Isabella far more than he hated Clara or he is verra angry that ye escaped his fine trap last time and havenae been hanged yet.”

“I but pray that so much wasnae done to her because Isabella took too long to die,” said Tormand, as he watched Simon begin to search the room for some sign the killer may have left behind.

“She was with child.”

“Ah, Jesu, nay. Nay.”

“I fear so. I hope William doesnae ken it or that the women who prepare her body dinnae see it and tell him. I think he would become near rabid with grief and rage.”

“And he will aim it all at me. I willnae ask how ye ken that she was with child.”

“Best if ye dinnae. Ye are already looking pale.”

“Do ye think the killer kenned it, that he might have been even more enraged by that?”

“’Tis possible.” Simon frowned at the floor near the window. “They brought her in through here.”

Tormand moved to Simon’s side and looked outside. An odd array of barrels and wood were piled against the side of the house forming an unsteady stairway. He could see the droplets of blood leading from the window down to the ground.

“So we now look for a strong, agile mon.”

“Strong certainly. He doesnae need to be agile, just lucky.”

“Do we fetch the hounds again?”

“In a wee while,” replied Simon. “As soon as Sir William is too busy to see what we are about.”

“Afraid he will want to join us in the hunt?”

“Him and most of the other fools gathered in front of this house.”

Tormand grimaced and nodded. The fools would turn it into a loud, crowded hunt. If the killer were anywhere near at hand, he would be warned in plenty of time to flee the area. It was very doubtful that the killer was still around, but if the man was fool enough to want to watch the reactions to his crime, Tormand did not want a crowd screaming for retribution to make him go into hiding.

Just as he was about to ask Simon if he had found anything else in the room, he heard the sounds of the crowd outside begin to grow loud. “What do ye think is stirring them up?”

“I dinnae ken,” replied Simon as he started out of the room, “but I doubt it is good.”

“Look ye there! Isnae that the Ross witch?”

Morainn was abruptly pulled from her wandering thoughts about Tormand Murray by that sharp cry. She felt a chill flee down her spine as she slowly turned toward the crowd. She saw Old Ide, the midwife, pointing one dirty, gnarled finger her way and her unease began to change to fear. Old Ide hated her, just as she had hated her mother, for she saw her as competition. Whenever she could, the older woman tried to cause trouble for Morainn. This was not a good time or place to meet with her enemy.

“What are ye doing here, witch?”

A soft cry escaped Morainn when Sir William grabbed her by the arm. She inwardly cursed herself as a fool. If she had not been so caught up in her thoughts about Sir Tormand, not all of them particularly chaste, she would have seen Old Ide in the crowd. That would have been enough to make Morainn leave. Ten years ago it had been Ide who had goaded the crowd into turning against Morainn’s mother. Now Morainn was trapped and she doubted any of these people were in the mood to listen to or heed her explanations or their own good sense.

“I was but caught up in the crowd,” she said, hiding her wince as Sir William tightened his grip.

“She has come because this is a place of death,” said Old Ide, as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd to glare at Morainn. “Her kind always comes to where there is death. They can smell it, ye ken.”

“Dinnae be even more of a fool than ye already are,” snapped Morainn.

“Fool am I? Hah, I say. Hah! I ken what ye are about, witch. Ye have come here to gather up the soul of that poor murdered lassie in there.”

Morainn was about to tell the woman that she was an idiot when the murmuring of the crowd caught her attention. Several people were actually nodding in agreement with Old Ide’s nonsense. There were not that many, but there were far more than she could ever escape from. If Ide did not shut up, Morainn feared there would soon be even more people ready to heed the woman’s lies. Morainn remembered all too well how easily a crowd could be stirred by Ide’s words into a dangerous mob. Ignoring the threat of Ide’s hatred was what had killed her mother.

“I was but trying to get home,” she said in what she prayed was a calm, soothing tone of voice.

“Ye didnae need to stop here. Ye could have slipped around us. But, nay, here ye are, lurking in the shadows. I tell ye,” Ide yelled to the crowd, “she is after gathering that poor woman’s soul.”

She looked at Sir William, hoping to find an ally, but he was looking at her as though he believed she could do exactly as Old Ide claimed she could. “I am nay a witch and I am nay here to catch souls,” she said.

“Then why are ye e’en in town?” he demanded. “They banished ye, didnae they?”

“They may have tossed me out, Sir William, but nay one of them complains when I come to heal them or spend what little coin I have in their shops.”

“That still doesnae explain why ye were hiding here, lurking about in the shadows near my home.”

“And why dinnae ye ask all of them what they are doing here?” She glared at Old Ide. “Aye, why dinnae ye ask why they flock here like corbies, feeding upon your misery?”

Morainn wished the words back even as she said them. The crowd was incensed by them and that gave Ide a fertile crowd in which to sow her lies and their fears. There would be no help from Sir William, either. That man looked as if he expected her to start changing into some soul-stealing demon at any moment. Even as she fruitlessly tried to break free of the man’s grip, she attempted to reason with him and the crowd. It was obvious, however, that few of them wished to heed reason. Morainn began to fear that she was about to suffer far worse than banishment this time.

“Silence!”

The bellow that cut straight through all the noise the crowd made startled Morainn so much that she put her foot back down on the ground instead of kicking Sir William as she had planned to. Sir Simon and Sir Tormand stood on the front steps of the house, their hands on their swords, glaring at the now subdued crowd. Morainn prayed that they were going to prove to be the saviors she desperately needed right now.

Nodding once he had the silence he had demanded, Sir Simon spoke in a quieter but still very firm voice as he asked, “What is going on out here? Have ye forgotten that this is a house of mourning?”

“The witch is here, sir,” said Old Ide, pointing at Morainn.

“Aye,” said a plump, graying woman who stepped up beside Ide. “Ide says that the witch has come to steal the dead lady’s soul.”

The look on Sir Simon’s face made several of the people in the crowd blush and stare down at their feet. Morainn was glad he was not aiming that look of utter disdain her way. She could not see Sir Tormand’s face as clearly, but the taut line of his fine profile told her that his expression was probably just as condemning.

“None of ye should heed such superstitious nonsense,” Sir Simon said to the woman and then he looked at Ide. “And ye shouldnae speak it. Nay, nor should ye be stirring up such trouble outside this house. Silence,” he hissed when Ide tried to protest. “Only a fool would spit out such idiocy. Aye, or someone who wishes harm to the one she accuses. Do ye fear to lose your place as midwife here, Ide Bruce?”

When that question had several people eyeing Old Ide with anger and suspicion, the woman crossed her arms over her ample chest and said no more. Morainn felt Sir William’s grip on her arm ease a little when Sir Simon then looked their way. She glanced up at Sir William and found him flushing beneath Sir Simon’s cold, steely gray gaze.

“Is this the woman?” asked Sir Simon.

When Sir William nodded, Sir Simon signaled him to bring her closer. Morainn stumbled a little as the man dragged her over to the steps. One cold look from Sir Simon had Sir William hastily releasing her. She idly rubbed her arm as she looked up at Sir Simon, fighting the urge to look instead at Sir Tormand Murray, the man who had haunted her dreams for far too long.

“And who are ye, mistress?” Sir Simon asked.

“’Tis the Ross witch,” said Sir William.

“This is the woman ye all banished ten years ago?” Sir Simon looked her over and then stared at the crowd. “She would have been nay more than a child and ye tossed her out to fend for herself? That child frightened ye that much, did she?” When most of the crowd was unable to meet his gaze, he nodded and looked at Morainn again. “Your name?”

“Morainn Ross,” she replied.

“I dinnae believe what the old woman says.” He smiled faintly when Old Ide gasped in outrage. “For ’tis clear that she tries to rid herself of a rival, but, for the sake of those who are seduced by her lies, tell me why ye are here.”

“I came to the town to buy some barrels to store the cider and mead I make.” Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, Morainn looked and saw the cooper trying to slip away. “There is the cooper, sir. He can tell ye that I speak the truth.”

The cooper stopped and looked at Sir Simon. “Aye, sir, she was doing just that.” He scratched his belly. “Truth is, I was surprised she had come this far on her way back home. Must walk fast.”

“Mayhap she flew, eh, Ide?” called out one man.

When the crowd snickered, Morainn felt herself relax, her fear seeping away. It would be wondrous if this confrontation made people ignore the lies Old Ide told about her, but Morainn doubted that would happen. For now, however, she was safe.

“I tell ye, she is a witch,” snapped Ide, unwilling to give up the battle too quickly.

“Is she?” asked Sir Tormand, his deep voice cold, with a sharp bite to it. “Has she harmed someone then?” There was a murmur of denial in the crowd. “Lied to ye? Cheated ye? Stolen from ye?” Each question brought another muttered denial. “Ah, but she has healed some of ye, hasnae she?” This time several nods were his answer.

“But, if she isnae a witch, why was she banished?” asked a young man.

“I suspicion someone stirred up a crowd with lies and superstition. Once it was done, it couldnae be taken back.” Tormand smiled faintly when the woman called Ide was glared at by nearly everyone in the crowd, revealing that this was not the first time the woman had played this deadly game. He wondered who had suffered then. “Go home. Ye shame yourselves by carrying on like this before this house of mourning and by listening to a jealous old cow’s lies.”

Morainn stared at Sir Tormand Murray. Her heart told her that he believed all he was saying, that they were not just words spoken to disburse an unruly crowd. She firmly told herself not to allow that to drag her into some foolish infatuation with the man. He was far too high a reach for one like her and his reputation did not offer any woman hope that he would care for her, or be faithful. Her only responsibility was to try to do what she could to make sure he did not hang for crimes he had not committed.

Tormand watched the crowd meander away and then turned to look at Morainn Ross. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he met her gaze. Wide blue eyes, the color of the sea, stared up at him with surprise and a touch of wariness. Her hair was as black as any he had ever seen, tumbling to her waist in long thick waves. It was impossible to get a good look at her figure beneath her dark cloak, but he caught glimpses of high, full breasts and nicely rounded hips. She was not as small as many of the women in his family, but she was not tall, either. He suspected the top of her head would tuck in just neatly under his chin.

It was her face that fascinated him the most, however. Her dark brows were perfect arches over her beautiful eyes and her lashes were long and thick, accentuating their rich color. Her skin held no blemishes, a true rarity, and was touched with a soft hint of gold. He wondered if that was the color of all her skin and quickly banished the thought when he felt himself begin to grow hard. Her nose was small and straight and the bones of her heart-shaped face were neatly cut from her high cheekbones to her surprisingly firm chin. Her mouth was a little wide and her lips were temptingly full, almost lush. This was not the woman he had expected to see when Walter had spoken of the Ross witch.

“Go home, Mistress Ross,” said Simon. “It might be best if ye try to avoid coming here for a while.”

“Because Ide might actually get those fools to listen to her evil lies?” Morainn asked, feeling her anger stir at the unfairness of it all and knowing too well that the answer to her question was a resounding aye.

“I fear so. ’Tis unfair, but it would be a bad time to argue that.” After Morainn curtsied and left, Simon turned to Sir William. “I am done now. Ye may see to your wife. My deepest condolences.”

Sir William nodded, but then looked toward Morainn. “Are ye certain she isnae a witch? The church says—”

“The church says a lot of things few of us heed. She isnae a witch, Sir William. She is a good healer. Nay more.”

“They say she has visions.”

Simon nodded. “I have heard that but if the visions she has only aid people, then where is the evil in that? Go, Sir William, tend to your wife and let us find this killer.”

As Simon and Tormand walked away, Simon quietly said, “They threw out a child.”

“Aye.” Tormand was a little surprised at the rage he felt over that. “I had expected a woman of at least middle years, if nay some old crone. Mayhap Walter’s suggestion has some merit.”

“What suggestion?”

“That I take something the killer or the victim touched and see if she has some vision of the who, what, or why.”

“Ye just want to see her again.”

Tormand just smiled. He would not deny it. What troubled him was the strength of the attraction he felt for her. His interest had never been grasped so quickly, so fiercely. It was worrisome, but he knew that would make no difference in the end. She might not be a witch, but she definitely had some power and Tormand knew that power would soon pull him to her side.