was so young to be cast adrift in a hard world with none but Fergus to guide him.
God in heaven! Why had she fought the soldier in the barn? If she’d lain back and let him have his way with her, she might have still been free to help her family.
The self-pitying notion passed as quickly as it came. What she had done would make the English think twice about cornering a Scottish lass in a dark stable. She’d do the same thing again, given the chance. She was no sheep to go meekly to the slaughter. She was a Highlander, by God, and they’d best remember it.
Suddenly, she heard an outburst of cheers and shouting. Startled, Cailin looked up to see the gallows platform looming black and ominous before her. A single tartan-clad body dangled from a rope. The condemned man—a Mackintosh by the weave of his kilt—no longer lived; his twitching corpse swung slowly to and fro to the delight of the gathering crowd.
“So die all traitors to the Crown!” shouted a man in an old-fashioned Scots bonnet.
“The Mackintosh danced good, didn’t he?” crowed an old woman beside him. “They all dance, but some dance higher than others.”
A peddler with a tray of gingerbread skeletons suspended from a cord around his shoulders held up his wares and cried, “Death cakes! Who’ll buy my death cakes!”
A painted whore laughed and tossed him a coin. “Bring on the next!” she demanded as she reached for a sugar-coated treat and bit off the skeleton’s head.
“Aye!” echoed a drunken baker. “We want to see another! Where’s the lass?”
“Bring on the woman!”
“Hang her! Hang the murderer!”
Cailin shuddered. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard, trying to fight the faintness that had come over her. Her hands were fastened behind her back, and she was afraid she’d lose her balance and have to be carried like a sack of grain up the thirteen steps to the noose.
Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them away. She’d give no show to these ghouls. She took a deep breath and kept walking. Under her bodice next to her skin, she wore her amulet. The ancient necklace was an empty token, as powerless to aid her as it had been the night her mother died. But still the familiar weight of the gold necklace gave her comfort, and she could imagine that the metal emitted a warm pulsing.
If only the legend were true, she thought; if only the Eye of Mist did carry a blessing. But then she heard Johnnie’s voice in the far corner of her mind. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And she knew that desperation had made her foolish. There would be no miraculous rescue. She had been sentenced to die this day, and die she would. Her only choice was to remember who she was and to go with dignity. At the foot of the platform, a brown-robed priest waited patiently. “Will you make last confession?” he asked. His breath smelled of strong cheese.
Cailin shook her head. She could not trust her voice to keep from breaking.
“Have thought for your immortal soul,” he cautioned sternly. “Will you go to your grave unrepentant?”
Cailin put her foot on the bottom step. At the top, a tall figure in a black hood waited. Only his eyes were visible through slits in his mask. They gleamed as cold as glass ... as pitiless as the raven’s eyes.
“Repent,” the priest intoned.
Pulse racing, Cailin forced herself to climb the narrow wooden stairs. When she reached the platform, the executioner raised a dirty blindfold.
“Nay!” she said. “Do not bind my eyes. I’ve a mind to see the sunrise.”
“As ye wish.”
His voice grated on her ears like a rusty hinge. As he settled the rough hemp around her neck, she caught a strong odor of whiskey. Ah, she thought, so even death’s accomplice needs some added courage to fulfill this job.
She heard a squawk, and a raven flew up and landed on the wooden railing that surrounded the platform. “Come to see the performance firsthand, did you?” she murmured
God in heaven! Why had she fought the soldier in the barn? If she’d lain back and let him have his way with her, she might have still been free to help her family.
The self-pitying notion passed as quickly as it came. What she had done would make the English think twice about cornering a Scottish lass in a dark stable. She’d do the same thing again, given the chance. She was no sheep to go meekly to the slaughter. She was a Highlander, by God, and they’d best remember it.
Suddenly, she heard an outburst of cheers and shouting. Startled, Cailin looked up to see the gallows platform looming black and ominous before her. A single tartan-clad body dangled from a rope. The condemned man—a Mackintosh by the weave of his kilt—no longer lived; his twitching corpse swung slowly to and fro to the delight of the gathering crowd.
“So die all traitors to the Crown!” shouted a man in an old-fashioned Scots bonnet.
“The Mackintosh danced good, didn’t he?” crowed an old woman beside him. “They all dance, but some dance higher than others.”
A peddler with a tray of gingerbread skeletons suspended from a cord around his shoulders held up his wares and cried, “Death cakes! Who’ll buy my death cakes!”
A painted whore laughed and tossed him a coin. “Bring on the next!” she demanded as she reached for a sugar-coated treat and bit off the skeleton’s head.
“Aye!” echoed a drunken baker. “We want to see another! Where’s the lass?”
“Bring on the woman!”
“Hang her! Hang the murderer!”
Cailin shuddered. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard, trying to fight the faintness that had come over her. Her hands were fastened behind her back, and she was afraid she’d lose her balance and have to be carried like a sack of grain up the thirteen steps to the noose.
Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them away. She’d give no show to these ghouls. She took a deep breath and kept walking. Under her bodice next to her skin, she wore her amulet. The ancient necklace was an empty token, as powerless to aid her as it had been the night her mother died. But still the familiar weight of the gold necklace gave her comfort, and she could imagine that the metal emitted a warm pulsing.
If only the legend were true, she thought; if only the Eye of Mist did carry a blessing. But then she heard Johnnie’s voice in the far corner of her mind. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And she knew that desperation had made her foolish. There would be no miraculous rescue. She had been sentenced to die this day, and die she would. Her only choice was to remember who she was and to go with dignity. At the foot of the platform, a brown-robed priest waited patiently. “Will you make last confession?” he asked. His breath smelled of strong cheese.
Cailin shook her head. She could not trust her voice to keep from breaking.
“Have thought for your immortal soul,” he cautioned sternly. “Will you go to your grave unrepentant?”
Cailin put her foot on the bottom step. At the top, a tall figure in a black hood waited. Only his eyes were visible through slits in his mask. They gleamed as cold as glass ... as pitiless as the raven’s eyes.
“Repent,” the priest intoned.
Pulse racing, Cailin forced herself to climb the narrow wooden stairs. When she reached the platform, the executioner raised a dirty blindfold.
“Nay!” she said. “Do not bind my eyes. I’ve a mind to see the sunrise.”
“As ye wish.”
His voice grated on her ears like a rusty hinge. As he settled the rough hemp around her neck, she caught a strong odor of whiskey. Ah, she thought, so even death’s accomplice needs some added courage to fulfill this job.
She heard a squawk, and a raven flew up and landed on the wooden railing that surrounded the platform. “Come to see the performance firsthand, did you?” she murmured
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