Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“Then you will be staying?” she asked.
He heard the hope in her voice and realized she had been waiting to see what he would do. “Aye, I’m staying. I’d like this to be my home, here, preferably with you.”
“That is a very good possibility that requires further discussion.” She smiled, a bit of teasing to it, then it began to fade, and she grew tense.
“What’s wrong, Ingrid,” he asked, setting the tankard alongside the jug on a bench and took hold of her arm.
She didn’t have to answer. He felt it, the tremble, and he heard hooves beating the ground like war drums.
Mothers ran to gather their children. Men grabbed weapons and Raff stepped in front of Ingrid to shield her.
Laird Chafton rode into the village with six men. His gaze was sharp, as were his features. He dismounted with a quiet command that was louder than any shout, his shoulders thrown back, his chin tilted, and a note of disdain in his eyes.
The villagers kept their distance, though remained close enough to hear what brought him to the village.
“I received news,” he began, his voice like ice slicing a still pond, “that a witch is in the area and that she may live among you.”
No one responded. Even the wind seemed to be still.
He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing on faces that dared not meet his. “You have nothing to say? Nothing at all?” He raised his voice. “Not one of you?”
Chafton looked toward Ingrid, who had stepped from behind Raff.
Raff took hold of her hand seeing the way he stared accusingly at her, and he felt her hand tighten around his.
“Curious, isn’t it?” Chafton spoke softly now, though the silence carried his words as he approached her. “How ailing bairns wrapped in your blankets suddenly recover, so it’s been rumored. Miracle or witchcraft?”
Ingrid’s breath caught.
Chafton’s gaze swept to Raff. “And you, standing at her side like a guard dog. Has she bewitched you?”
Raff kept his voice steady though he was eager to land a good blow to Chafton’s jaw. Not a wise choice. “Ingrid is a skilled weaver. She’s done nothing wrong.”
Chafton smiled coldly. “That’s not for you to decide. I will find the witch, condemn her, and see her burn.”
Raff took a step forward, ready to pummel the man, but Ingrid caught his arm. “Please,” she whispered, “don’t.”
He looked down at her, jaw clenched, then remained as he was, keeping tight hold of her hand. The restraint cost him.
Chafton turned to address the villagers, his voice rising with false warmth. “If any of you know something—anything—and choose silence, you choose to condemn your neighbors. I will return. And someone had better find their tongue… or I’ll make sure this entire village pays the price.”
“We’ve heard rumors too,” Raff said, with the strength of a warrior confident in his abilities.
Chafton took a step back as if Raff suddenly presented a challenge to him. “What rumors?”
It did not set well with Raff to turn the problem on his clan, but they could weather such accusations better than this small village. And the truth was that they were searching for a witch.
“Clan MacMunn hunts a witch who caused them some problems. Maybe they point a finger to one of us.”
Chafton glanced around. “Is this common knowledge among you?”
All heads bobbed.
“I will see to this matter, but if it proves false, I will return and demand the name of the witch,” Chafton commanded.
With that, he mounted his horse and rode out, leaving a silence louder than any storm.
Raff stood still, the heat in his chest battling the cold rage settling in his bones.
People hurried to him.
“He will return if his quest proves worthless,” Edith said anxiously.
“Aye,” Latham joined in. “And that he points to you, Ingrid, means he wants one of us to condemn you.”
“Ingrid is no witch,” Raff said fiercely.
“Nay. Nay. She’s not,” many called out.
“Chafton wants a witch,” Agnes said, “and if he doesn’t find one, he’ll return and make us suffer until we give him one.”
“Unless the witch Clan MacMunn hunts is found,” Tolan, the smithy, said.
“You mean an innocent woman is accused and made to suffer,” Ingrid said.
“Not if she’s guilty,” Tolan argued.
“That’s easy for a man to say,” Agnes snapped.
“Stop,” Ingrid said. “You are doing exactly what Laird Chafton expects. You are willing to condemn anyone to save yourself. If you give him that, our village will never know peace again. We will always look over our shoulder wondering who would sacrifice another to save themselves.”
“Ingrid’s right,” Agnes said. “We need to protect each other.”
“There is work to finish so we can have our celebration… our harvest festival,” Ingrid said with a forced smile. “We can worry over this another day.”
All seemed only too relieved to do as she said and people wandered off quietly, their minds heavy in thought.