Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

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      “Are ye certain ye ought to say anything to anybody?”

      Tormand nibbled on a thick piece of cheese as he studied his aging companion. Walter Burns had been his squire for twelve years and had no inclination to be anything more than a squire. His utter lack of ambition was why he had been handed over to Tormand by the same man who had knighted him at the tender age of eighteen. It had been a glorious battle and Walter had proven his worth. The man had simply refused to be knighted. Fed up with his squire’s lack of interest in the glory, the honors, and the responsibility that went with knighthood Sir MacBain had sent the man to Tormand. Walter had continued to prove his worth, his courage, and his contentment in remaining a lowly squire. At the moment, however, the man was openly upset and his courage was a little weak-kneed.

      “I need to find out who did this,” Tormand said and then sipped at his ale, hungry and thirsty but partaking of both food and drink cautiously for his stomach was still unsteady.

      “Why?” Walter sat down at Tormand’s right and poured himself some ale. “Ye got away from it. ’Tis near the middle of the day and no one has come here crying for vengeance, so I be thinking ye got away clean, aye? Why let anyone even ken ye were near the woman? Are ye trying to put a rope about your neck? And, if I recall rightly, ye didnae find much to like about the woman once your lust dimmed, so why fret o’er justice for her?”

      “’Tis sadly true that I didnae like her, but she didnae deserve to be butchered like that.”

      Walter grimaced and idly scratched the ragged scar on his pockmarked left cheek. “True, but I still say if ye let anyone ken ye were there ye are just asking for trouble.”

      “I would like to think that verra few people would e’er believe I could do that to a woman e’en if I was found lying in her blood, dagger in hand.”

      “Of course ye wouldnae do such as that, and most folk ken it, but that doesnae always save a mon, does it? Ye dinnae ken everyone who has the power to cry ye a murderer and hang ye and they dinnae ken ye. Then there are the ones who are jealous of ye or your kinsmen and would like naught better than to strike out at one of ye. Aye, look at your brother James. Any fool who kenned the mon would have kenned he couldnae have killed his wife, but he still had to suffer years marked as an outlaw and a woman-killer, aye?”

      “I kenned I kept ye about for a reason. Aye, ’twas to raise my spirits when they are low and to embolden me with hope and courage just when I need it the most.”

      “Wheesht, nay need to slap me with the sharp edge of your tongue. I but speak the truth and one ye would be wise to nay ignore.”

      Tormand nodded carefully, wary of moving his still aching head too much. “I dinnae intend to ignore it. ’Tis why I have decided to speak only to Simon.”

      Walter cursed softly and took a deep drink of ale. “Och, a king’s mon nay less.”

      “Aye, and my friend. And a mon who worked hard to help James. He is a mon who has a true skill at solving such puzzles and hunting down the guilty. This isnae simply about justice for Clara. Someone wanted me to be blamed for her murder, Walter. I was put beside her body to be found and accused of the crime. And for such a crime I would be hanged—so that means that someone wants me dead.”

      “That is true enough. Nay just dead, either, but your good name weel blackened.”

      “Exactly. So I have sent word to Simon asking him to come here, stressing an urgent need to speak with him.”

      Tormand was pleased that he sounded far more confident of his decision than he felt. It had taken him several hours actually to write and send the request for a meeting to Simon. The voice in his head that told him to just turn his back on the whole matter, the same opinion that Walter offered, had grown almost too loud to ignore. Only the certainty that this had far more to do with him than with Clara had given him the strength to silence that cowardly voice.

      He had the feeling that part of his stomach’s unsteadiness was due to a growing fear that he was about to suffer as James had. It had taken his foster brother three long years to prove his innocence and wash away the stain to his honor. Three long, lonely years of running and hiding. Tormand dreaded the thought that he might be pulled into the same ugly quagmire. If nothing else, he was deeply concerned about how it would affect his mother, who had already suffered too much grief and worry over her children. First his sister Sorcha had been beaten and raped, then his sister Gillyanne had been kidnapped—twice—the second time leading to a forced marriage, and then there had been the trouble that had sent James running for the shelter of the hills. His mother did not need to suffer through yet another one of her children mired in danger.

      “If ye could find something the killer touched we could solve this puzzle right quick,” said Walter.

      Pulling free of his dark thoughts about the possibility that his family was cursed, Tormand frowned at his squire. “What are ye talking about?”

      “Weel, if ye had something the killer touched we could take it to the Ross witch.”

      Tormand had heard of the Ross witch. The woman lived in a tiny cottage several miles outside of town. Although the townspeople had driven the woman away ten years ago, many still journeyed to her cottage for help, mostly for the herbal concoctions the woman made. Some claimed the woman had visions that had aided them in solving a problem. Despite having grown up surrounded by people who had special gifts like that, he doubted the woman was the miracle worker some claimed her to be. Most of the time such witches were simply aging women skilled with herbs and an ability to convince people that they had some great mysterious power.

      “And why do ye think she could help if I brought her something touched by the killer?” he asked.

      “Because she gets a vision of the truth when she touches something.” Walter absently crossed himself, as though he feared he risked his soul by even speaking of the woman. “Old George, the steward for the Gillespie house, told me that Lady Gillespie had some of her jewelry stolen. He said her ladyship took the box that the jewels had been taken from to the Ross witch and the moment the woman held the box she had a vision about what had happened.”

      When Walter said no more, Tormand asked, “What did the vision tell the woman?”

      “That Lady Gillespie’s eldest son had taken the jewels. Crept into her ladyship’s bedchamber whilst she was at court and helped himself to all the best pieces.”

      “It doesnae take a witch to ken that. Lady Gillespie’s eldest son is weel kenned to spend too much coin on fine clothes, women, and the toss of the dice. Near every mon, woman, and bairn in town kens that.” Tormand took a drink of ale to help him resist the urge to grin at the look of annoyance on Walter’s homely face. “Now I ken why the fool was banished to his grandfather’s keep far from all the temptation here near the court.”

      “Weel, it wouldnae hurt to try. Seems a lad like ye ought to have more faith in such things.”

      “Oh, I have ample faith in such things, enough to wish that ye wouldnae call the woman a witch. That is a word that can give some woman blessed with a gift from God a lot of trouble, deadly trouble.”

      “Ah, aye, aye, true enough. A gift from God, is it?”

      “Do СКАЧАТЬ