Kaetha stared open-mouthed at the sound of these unbelievable words but more alarming were the mutterings of agreement in the crowd. McDonn stomped his way to the prosecutor’s side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if he meant to draw it and carry out the execution then and there. “Have the jury reached their verdict?”
Kaetha had to act now. She marched forward, pushing her way through the crowd. “Wait,” she shouted. “Wait! I carry a message from King Svelrik.” Silence spread through the room like wildfire. “See? His signature and the royal seal,” she said, raising the parchment before her, “This decree means that Asrid and others like her may choose exile. Their lives are not yours to take.” Thane McDonn kept his eyes fixed on her, like a snake waiting to strike, while she read out the decree over a rumble of angry mutterings. Mairi and Donnan came to stand either side of her.
“Interesting,” said McDonn when she had finished. “Strange that a copy of this document did not reach me.”
“Aye, strange indeed,” said Donnan under his breath.
“I ask our most respected witch hunter, Roy Macraith, if he has anything to add,” continued Thane McDonn.
The man in black wore a triumphant smirk as he walked up to Kaetha. Donnan and Mairi hemmed her in like stones packed together to make a wall. She flinched as the witch hunter reached out his hand to her face. He pressed his fingers hard against her cheek, pushing them across her skin until he reached her ear. When he stepped aside, there were gasps in the crowd.
“And who would trust the word . . . of a witch?” he said with a satisfied smile. “And one painted like a common whore, too!”
From the corner of her eye, she saw McDonn nod to someone and then Donnan and Mairi were pushed aside and vice-like hands gripped her, binding her hands behind her back as she was dragged towards a door which, she guessed, led to the gaol cells.
“No!” yelled Asrid.
Keeping her head held as high as she could, though her unsteady legs might have been made of seaweed, she called out to whole room. “Is this how you treat the order of your sovereign king? Traitor!” she spat, feigning fervent loyalty to the crown. As the witch hunter’s smile faltered, she felt a glimmer of hope. “You will get what is due to you when Pal Donnchad, Earl of Caordale arrives.”
“What?” said Thane McDonn. “What are you talking about?” He raised a hand, signalling to the guards to keep her in the room and the crowd to be quiet. Mairi and Donnan stared at her.
“I came here from Westrath,” she lied. “I sought work in the earl’s hall and it was there that I overheard the rumours about you.” She watched the cracks appear in this proud man’s composure. “They said you received a copy of the decree weeks ago but it didn’t suit you to obey your king. I couldn’t tell whether the earl was more appalled or thrilled. Perhaps the idea of you being punished as a traitor isn’t so disagreeable to Clan Donnchad. In any case, the earl said that he would see for himself whether the rumours were true. And when he comes, all in this room can witness to him that you defied the king.”
He coughed. “Perhaps we ought to take this document seriously,” he said, snatching the parchment from Kaetha’s hands. “Where did you get this?” he asked her, glancing at his secretary, a young man with a face like a ferret, who sat at a desk in the corner, sorting through scrolls with his ink-stained fingers. The secretary caught McDonn’s eye and shook his head.
“I was leant it,” she said, wracking her brains to remember the name she’d heard the boatwoman say, “by Laird,” she hesitated, “by Laird . . . Ewart of Nuckelavee. He said that if you, his chieftain, had had the misfortune not to know the will of the king, he would be glad to be of assistance.”
The jury whispered to one another, each man eyeing the parchment, whether or not he could read. McDonn took Roy Macraith, the witch hunter, aside. They spoke so as not to be overheard, though McDonn’s voice was a rumble of frustration. Cracks showed in Macraith’s flinty demeanour until a smile twisted his lips. He said something to McDonn and the chieftain looked as though he stifled a laugh.
“It seems that some error occurred,” McDonn said, raising his hands to the muttering crowd as if to hold back an invisible assailant. “The result was that the king’s most loyal servant,” he gestured to himself, “did not know of his new decree. The document appears to be legitimate. That being so, those convicted of witchcraft or suspected of it may choose exile. I shall not put obstacles in the way of their departure.” He paced over to a window. “However,” and now he faced Kaetha like a man in a duel who has just disarmed his opponent, “I cannot promise the same on their behalf.” And now Kaetha noticed the greyness through the window and the sounds of voices from the square below. As dusk had gathered, so had an expectant crowd. “They’ve come to see punishment.”
TWENTY SEVEN
Redirection
Margaret ran to Asrid, joined by a group of around half a dozen others, all bearing cuts on their faces. Kaetha explained to them about King Svelrik’s decree and the choice it gave them.
