He continued north on Friendship, following it as it curved toward the bay. Just before Faith, he entered a row of houses. A small, apple-cheeked woman who he’d known since before his mother had died, smiled. “I showed your visitor to your parlor, Nathaniel.”
“Kind of you, Mrs. Lighter.” Nathaniel mounted the stairs and entered the two-room apartment at the top right. The foyer opened into the parlor, and the doorway beyond it into the bedroom, which fronted on Friendship. Since Catherine Strake had decorated the place, it had frilly and lacy things here and there, and colorful jugs and paintings from Norisle on shelves or hung on the walls. Nathaniel couldn’t recognize much of Owen in the place, but because he had company, he didn’t look that hard.
The woman who turned, smiling, to face him, had brown hair that descended just past her shoulders. Her smile carried up to her hazel eyes. Slender and a head shorter than he, she wore a gray dress, with the white collar of her blouse covering the neckline. She reached out for him with her left hand, the gold band glinting. “I am sorry I could not get away last night, Nathaniel.”
He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it. Then he pulled her into an embrace and lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her, feeling her press herself hungrily against him. Her hair smelled faintly of rosemary and her kiss tasted so sweet that it banished memories of the ale. He held her tightly, drinking in her warmth and smiled at the little moan she uttered.
He pulled back. “I have been away too long, Rachel, but ain’t never you been far from my thoughts.”
She smiled and laid her head against his chest. “Nor you, mine. I so wanted to be here yesterday, but Charity had fever and I could not abandon her. Bethany agreed to watch them tonight.”
Nathaniel kissed the top of her head. “Please be thanking her for me.”
Rachel slipped from his arms, but caught his right hand in her left. “She still does not approve, but she is more… understanding these days. And though she would not say it, I’ve heard that one of her uncle’s Captains saw my husband in the arms of another woman down in Fairlee. He spends more time down there now, and Bethany does not like his leaving me with children and the business to run.”
“I don’t reckon I’m in no position to pass judgment on your husband.” Nathaniel fell silent. He’d have been happy to kill Zachariah Ward, and most folks would not be sad to see the man die. But he was a merchant, and a highly successful one, who would never challenge Nathaniel to any sort of a duel. For Nathaniel to challenge him would just be inviting the man to his own murder. Even though Ward had once hired Rufus Branch to kill him, Nathaniel wasn’t going to be the instigator in the man’s death.
“I don’t wish to talk about him.” Rachel smiled and tugged on his hand. “I wish to just be with you.”
The scout stood his ground. “You said Charity had a fever?”
“Yes, she was the last to get it. Humble had it, but was over it quickly.” She stepped back to him and took his other hand in hers. “He is every bit as healthy as his father, and very much as handsome.”
Nathaniel nodded, then let her pull him toward the bedroom. She laughed, bumping against a chair in the parlor, then paused in the doorway and kissed him again. “I have been waiting for your return, dreaming of it.”
“Me as well, but…”
“Yes?”
Nathaniel looked down. “Bit of wear and tear this time out. Tain’t all healed.”
“Then I shall have to be very careful.” Rachel led him to the bed and made him sit. She went down to a knee to remove his moccasins, then straightened and worked his leather tunic off. She’d gotten the lower hem to the level of his nipples, then slowed down and moved more carefully. She raised his arms and drew the tunic up by the sleeves, casting it aside on a chair.
“What happened, Nathaniel? You’re all bandages and scratches and bites.”
“Nothing good, I can tell you.” He reached out and pulled her to him, curling his legs around hers. He reached up and began to unbutton her dress. “I’m thinking, however, if you would be so kind, you’re the tonic that will heal my wounds, and make me forget how they got there in the first place.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
29 June 1767 St. Martin’s Cathedral Temperance Bay, Mystria
As Ian Rathfield sat in the front pew, he was forced to marvel over the efficiency with which the Cathedral had been transformed from House of Worship to House of Justice. The altar had been moved to the side and a high bench had been erected in its place beneath the vaulted ceiling, with room for each judge. Though the finish matched that of the light wood used in the Cathedral’s construction, the bench’s height and sharpness of line robbed the building of any compassion.
The coat of arms of each diocese hung before the judges, with Bishop Bumble in the middle. Bishop Harder, a large, swarthy man with black curls of hair growing from his ears and bushy eyebrows covering half his forehead, sat on Bumble’s right. Blackwood’s Bishop Southfield, a small, balding man with a gargantuan red nose, sat on his left. Each man wore a black robe and a black skull cap.
To the left sat the prosecution table. Benjamin Beecher sat at it and shuffled through papers. He wore black pants, white socks to the knee, black shoes, and a black smock-coat. Even given Beecher’s slight of build, with thinning black hair, Ian found he could not dismiss the man out of hand. Not only did this come from his earlier encounters with the man, in which he found something disturbingly serpentine about his manner, but because of the way he sorted through documents. The man placed them in distinct piles, squaring them up with themselves and the edge of the table. He did so with the concentration Ian had seen on the faces of men preparing to shoot other men at point-blank range.
Opposite him, another table had been arranged in front of the steps leading up to the apse. Steward Fire sat at it, wearing well-worn grey clothes. He’d been clapped in irons, to restrain him and limit his use of magick. Fire’s captors had even gone to the uncommon length of placing him in iron gauntlets. They also fixed a slotted mask to his lower face, presumably so iron could mute magick in his words. Had Ian been so bound, he would have felt as if he was a dog, but Fire bore up as best as could be expected. This, even though the short chains from collar to gauntlets and down to shackles kept him hunched forward.
Bishop Bumble stood. “Your Honors, Mr. Beecher, brothers and sisters in the Lord: we gather here to assess the guilt or innocence of Ephraim Fox. He stands accused of heresy. He did knowingly and willfully, counter to the orders from his Church superiors, lead others into his heresy. He took them beyond the bounds of fellowship in the Church and established them without authority in lands beyond the mountains. His actions did, directly, lead to their worshipping idols, participating in blood rituals, and taking part in ritual human sacrifice. He is a known consorter with demons and a practitioner of Dark Arts.”
Bishop Bumble had just begun to warm up, when a voice from one of the pews interrupted him. “I beg your pardon, Bishop Bumble, but I must ask: Are you prosecuting Ephraim Fox, or standing in judgment over him?”
Bumble’s jowls quivered with unvoiced rage. “I preside here, Mr. Frost.”
The speaker, a tow-headed young man, moved to the aisle and came forward. “I thought I would ask because you seem to be testifying against him.”
“I fail to see how this is a concern of yours, Caleb.”
“I am a parishioner, as you well know. I’ve listened to your many sermons on Faith and Justice. I’ve studied them. I have my degree in Divinity from Temperance College.” Caleb Frost stood next to Steward Fire. “In the interest of propriety, I thought I would stand for the accused, so none may suggest, Your Honor, that haste denied Justice.”
“Very well, Mr. Frost.” Bumble seated himself. “Mr. Beecher, you will proceed.”
Beecher stood. “We would call our first witness. Colonel Ian Rathfield.”
Rathfield stood and raised his right hand.
“Colonel, do you swear to tell the entirety of the truth, and only but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
Beecher moved piles around so one was centered before him. “Colonel Rathfield, when you found Ephraim Fox in Happy Valley, did you see evidence that his settlement there practiced plural marriage, in defiance of the Church’s 1567 prohibition against same?”
“I had no opportunity to make that determination.”
