“W-witchcraft,” Laoghaire sputtered, the very word causing her heart to fearfully pound against her breastbone. “Surely, ye can’t believe that . . . that I am a witch.”
Ignoring her, the abbot turned to Dame Winifred. “Are you absolutely certain that the countess induced her husband’s malady through malevolent means?”
“My lord abbot, ’tis plain to see that she bewitched her husband,” Dame Winifred asserted as she gestured toward the stretcher. “Only hours ago the earl was robust and full of life. Now look at him. How could anyonenotbelieve that Lady Angus cast a dark spell upon her husband?”
God’s heart! Why would she say such a thing?
“Dame Winifred is knowingly spinning a lie,” Laoghaire stated in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Although to what end, I cannot say.”
While the older woman’s face reddened, she remained steadfast, refusing to retract the allegation.
“My lord abbot, it beggars belief that Lady Angus would intentionally harm the earl,” Sir William declared, the young knight stepping forward as he came to Laoghaire’s defense. “I can assure you that the countess—”
“Silence!” the abbot commanded, making his displeasure known. “You have no authority within these walls. This is my domain, and it is for me to decide what is or is not believable.”
Properly chastened, the well-meaning knight shot Laoghaire a contrite glance.
“I would like to seek the counsel of our prior,” Abbot Theodore continued once order had been restored. “He is responsible for the ecclesiastical welfare of all who reside within these walls, and is knowledgeable in these matters.”
One of the brethren—presumably the prior—stepped away from the clustered monks and approached the abbot. Although his face was shadowed by the folds of his cowl, Laoghaire could detect a pair of venom-filled eyes glaring at her. Like two bits of iron seared by a red-hot furnace.
Continuing to stare at her, the prior slowly pushed the cowl off his head. In the next instant, Laoghaire gasped, stunned to see a familiar face, that of Father Giroldus.
“What are ye doing here?” she demanded to know, the disgraced priest having been banished from Castle Airlie for molesting young Aveline.
Hands clasped over his midsection, Father Giroldus drew himself up in a self-important manner. “As with all who dwell within this monastery, I am here to do the Lord’s bidding and to root out evil in all its guises.”
Knowing that she needed to act swiftly, Laoghaire turned to the abbot and said, “Did Father Giroldus tell ye why he was made to leave Castle Airlie?”
If Abbot Theodore was surprised by the question, he gave no indication of it. “Nay, he did not.”
“It was because—”
“Lady Angus did not want a priest on the premises, as it would interfere with her nefarious plot,” Father Giroldus said over the top of her. “Thatis the reason why I was banished. Do you see the plaid fabric that is wrapped around the earl? I’ll warrant thatshe—” raising his hand, he pointed an accusing finger at Laoghaire—“enchanted the fabric to ensure the earl remains in a somnolent state.”
“I’d like to wrap yein an enchanted plaid,” Laoghaire retorted, the utterance inciting a bevy of shocked gasps.
He knows full well that I am not a witch. This is nothing more than an act of revenge for what happened at Castle Airlie.
“Remove the filthy rag from the earl before it brings about his death,” Father Giroldus ordered one of the monks, now in full sail with his denunciation of her. “That is if the witch’s enchantment has not already taken hold.”
Noticeably wary of the command, a young monk approached the stretcher and gingerly pulled the plaid off of Galen.
“Burn it,” the abbot ordered. He then turned to Father Giroldus and said, “To ensure that we may all sleep safely tonight, you are to lock the witch in the undercroft. Immediately after matins, send for the sheriff so that he can make the formal arrest before the trial.”
“Trial!” Laoghaire shrieked, panic-stricken at the thought.
His expression one of unmitigated triumph, Father Giroldus turned to a pair of sturdy-looking monks and said, “Take her away.”
“The fat priest means to burn you for a witch.”
“H-how do ye know this?” Laoghaire asked, fear causing her voice to quaver unsteadily.
Piers Burnett stared at her from the other side of the iron wicket that secured the clerestory window through which they spoke. To her shocked horror, she’d been led from the monastery forecourt to the undercroft, a chamber located beneath the church that housed the dead. Because the window was set high up in the barrel-vaulted crypt, she had to stand on the top of a stone sarcophagus in order to speak to the squire.
“The abbot has ordered Father Giroldus to prosecute the case against you,” Piers finally answered. While he and Sir William both refused to believe the accusations leveled against her, the young squire was clearly nervous. No doubt, he was worried that he might also be falsely accused if he were caught communicating with her.
“Sweet Jesu,” she murmured. Events had unraveled at such a frantic pace that she could barely comprehend the significance of it all.
