Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) (2 page)

Shrewsbury Gaol

England, 1664

Chapter One

Death
stalked her in the deepening gloom of early evening. Glancing around the dank,
windowless cell, Catlin suppressed a shudder and maintained the slimmest
pretense of control. Three men stared at her with cold eyes. The dull, bored
expressions on their faces informed her they'd grown hard enough to dispense
with all emotion, especially pity.

The stench
of decaying hay, human waste, and rank body odor emanating from the gaoler
standing closest to Catlin made her stomach churn. Rumor alleged once an
accused witch was imprisoned in Shrewsbury Gaol, escape was impossible.

Closing her
eyes, she repeated the familiar calming chant of composure her mother had
taught her long ago.

Protection,
love, strength. Mother of us all, hear my plea
. The comforting words reassured her
as her breathing slowed from ragged gasps to a slow, measured pattern of air
moving in and out of her chest. A few moments later, a strange new voice filled
the silence of the cell.

“Cranbourne,
I never thought you foolish enough to be taken in by gossip and old wives
tales.”

She heard a
gasp, a quick shuffling of feet and then the scraping of a chair across the
cold stone of the floor. When Catlin opened her eyes, a tall stranger stood
with the group of men. His broad shoulders and long legs made the cramped cell
feel even smaller.

Catlin
studied the dark broadcloth suit of clothes the stranger wore beneath a huge
sweep of woolen cape. She considered his appearance for a moment longer before
dismissing him as a clergyman. Likely he'd been called here to read the charges
against her with the Justice of the Peace. She defiantly lifted her head to
stare back at them. They were all men and so they would all be against her. She
had no doubt.

“I have no
stomach for these foul affairs, Griffin, but duty requires I read the charges
against all those accused of witchcraft in my district.”  The chair squeaked
across the floor again.

“Then read
these foolhardy charges, dismiss them quickly, and release this poor woman to
her family so we can be off to enjoy our evening of pleasure.”

The hair on
the back of Catlin’s neck rose. The stranger returned her stare, and she
trembled as he stepped closer.

“Or perhaps
we can entice her to join us at the
Raven’s Beak
for a pint." A
dimple formed near the corner of his mouth as he smiled. "She seems comely
enough, though I swear in the dimness of this light I could be deceived.” The
stranger gave a deep, rich laugh.

Catlin’s
cheeks warmed at the remark. How dare this stranger make such a crude jest at a
time when her very life stood in jeopardy? Didn’t he know during the last full
moon Old Nonnie from the Glen had been chased from her home and branded as a
witch? Witch fever gripped the people of the region. Each fortnight brought new
charges against more women accused of consorting with the devil or casting
spells.

Lord Morgan
Fitz-John, Viscount Cranbourne, who served as the Justice of the Peace, and the
new arrival whispered across the room. She tried to focus, but she couldn't
discern their words. Another bold laugh erupted from the stranger who had
entered the cell. Catlin tried to control the flash of anger that snapped
through her. It didn't work and she sent a scalding look of disdain in his
direction.

He laughed
again.

“I believe
I’ve made your little witch angry, Cranbourne. Shall I throw myself upon her
mercy and beg to be freed from her spell? Or shall I submit and see what
pleasures she can offer to bind me to her?”

“You might
be amused by charges of witchcraft, Griffin, but in this parish they are taken
seriously. ’Tis an offense punishable by death," Lord Cranbourne growled.
"I assumed my duties with reluctance but even you should be aware of the
grim consequences should this prisoner be found guilty.”

Catlin’s
heartbeat quickened at the deliberate tone and words spoken by the man
representing the law. She was in this predicament because she'd reacted too
hastily against Symon Bodwell. How she wished she could draw back the angry
spell she’d cast when he'd cornered her in a dark alley the previous night.
She’d responded without thinking and lashed out with magic against the most dangerous
man in the village.

Catlin's
mother had warned many times that her quick temper would be her undoing. But
the hated witch hunter had forced her to defend her virtue and use her powers.
Escape had been foremost in her mind.

Bodwell had
been quick to bring his men to her sister’s door with a warrant for Catlin’s
arrest. His vindictive smile had widened when her younger sisters pleaded for
Aelwyd to do something.

The charges
leveled against her included malfeasance, the intention to harm another human
being—the most serious allegation that could be made for the use of magic.

Her arrest
brought her to Shrewsbury Gaol to be charged with consorting with the devil.
Bodwell spread gossip throughout the village that suggested to cross Catlin
would result in immediate and harsh punishment dispensed by the Prince of
Darkness himself.

She did
possess powers, by rite of blood and through the ancient heredity of the women
of her clan. It didn't matter to any of these people if she held to the ancient
creed of harming none with her magic, lest she invite the darkness to possess
her. Any witch was evil in their eyes, even one who practiced white magic.
Their fear of powers they didn’t understand made death the only suitable
punishment for such a vile creature.

And the one
exception to the creed was that if someone was trying to harm her, she could
protect herself.

“Will you
swim her then? Bind her foot to hand—toss her into the canal and determine
she’s innocent if she drowns and guilty if she floats? Hardly a fair choice for
her, eh?”

 Catlin grew
more intrigued. The man named Griffin made jests, but he seemed to be
championing her in a very odd way.

“Leave me to
perform my duties, Griffin, and I’ll meet you at the tavern when I finish
questioning this woman.” Lord Cranbourne removed his glove to wipe his brow and
gave a deep sigh of resignation. “Your interference isn’t making this any
easier.”

Griffin
strode across the room and paused before her. His name invoked the image of a
creature combining the intelligence of an eagle with the courage of a lion.
What business would bring such a man to a filthy cell on such a murky and
moonless night?

When Griffin
leaned forward to study her more carefully, one of his fingers gently toyed
with a thick dark curl that had escaped from the arrangement she’d so artfully
arranged earlier. A quiver passed through her. Not fear, not exactly
excitement.  Warmth spread up from her belly to her breasts, then heated her
cheeks.

“God’s
tears, Cranbourne, this shouldn’t be easy for any man. Her very life is at
stake and you’d best proceed with gravity and caution.” He stepped away from
her, yet his masculine fragrance lingered, a pleasant combination of sandalwood
and tobacco. A small mischievous gleam in his eye caught her unaware and she
fought the urge to smile back at him. Then she recalled the seriousness of her
circumstances and her knees trembled.

He was
taller than any man she knew, even taller than her father had been. Dark, wavy
hair brushed his shoulders, and a large felt hat with a huge black plume for
decoration sat upon his head. He stood with authority, his posture signaling he
was proud. Perhaps even a bit arrogant. He wore a leather jerkin, dark breeches
tucked into high black boots, and a heavy woolen cape that swept almost to the
floor.

He was
handsome, and if the circumstances were different, she'd be tempted to flirt
with him.

“Be off,
Griffin, because I’ll get naught done as long as you’re here making me the
object of your jest. Let me finish with this and then we can enjoy our dinner
and toast your imprudent adventure to the New World.” Lord Cranbourne urged.

The New
World
? Catlin's
attention shifted back to the Eagle-Lion Griffin. For months she’d dreamed of
traveling to the colonies. She imagined it a place her family could escape the
pestilence and superstitious fears of those stranded on this cursed island. And
now only inches from her stood an adventurer ready to embark upon a journey
that had consumed her daydreams for months. She cursed her own bad luck and ill
timing.

“’Tis a foul
deed to condemn her because she’s as fair a maiden as I’ve seen in many a day.
Couldn’t you release her to me for questioning, Cranbourne? I think I might
force her to confess her sins. Or perhaps she will bewitch me and I’ll find myself
transformed into her familiar by morning.”

Catlin
warmed again as Griffin’s gaze swept down the length of her body. As his frank
perusal ended, their gazes locked. Eyes as dark as a sky before a thunder storm
flashed with intensity, his mouth tipped up at the corners and he winked at
her.

She
momentarily forgot the danger, as her breathing quickened and her heart
lurched. A strange heat swirled through her body, dispelling the chill of the
stone cell surrounding her.

“If you tire
of your questions, bring the maid with you to the tavern. I swear she’ll be
more pleasant company than you this night,” Griffin said.

The guards
laughed. As one of them took a careful step closer to Catlin, his eyes widened.
“I’ll be. He’s right! If me old eyes ain’t playin’ tricks on me, this one’s no
ugly hag. I say we strip off her clothes to search for the Devil’s Mark.”

The gaoler’s
thick fist grabbed her bodice. With one swift movement he tore the front of the
heavily embroidered cloth open to her waist. Catlin screamed and wrenched
against the leather straps binding her hands. Fighting to twist away from the
men, tears filled her eyes and shame washed through her at being exposed. Her
mind spun and the protection spell came to her lips unbidden.

Griffin spun
and shielded her with his body. “How dare you touch this lady?” he snarled. 

Within a
heartbeat, a thin, keening wind whistled into the room and scattered the dirt
on the floor, making the men cough. The bleak light of the rushes in the
hallway flickered. As the wind built to a howling scream, they flashed out, and
the room plunged into total darkness.

The sound of
the wind echoed throughout the stone prison, as a tempest whipped through the
room and slapped the men against the wall. The door blew back on its iron hinges
to hit the stone with a loud boom that reverberated in the cell.

The doors
imprisoning other inmates banged open one after another, sounding like musket
fire on a battlefield.

The storm
howled through the ancient prison. A fierce, wailing wind screamed like a
banshee stealing across the night to capture the souls of the dying. Finally, a
cold, lonely silence echoed through the cell, as if the wind had escaped out
into the night.

“Find the
head gaoler and get us some light.” Griffin put the tone of command into his
voice, despite his uneasiness. He’d heard the groans of men dying on the
battlefield, the weeping of widows, and the cold, harsh cry of an enemy
entering battle. But nothing had ever unsettled him like the screaming wind
that had just swept through the jail. He prayed he would never hear such a
sound again.

He brushed
away the prickle of fear that had raised the hair on the back of his neck,
swallowed hard and cleared the dust from his throat with a loud cough.

A wavering
voice finally broke the silence. “There ain’t no fire in the grates. That
hellish wind musta put it out. I’ll have to get some hot coals from down
below.” One of the gaolers called out.

Griffin
swore beneath his breath as he wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. “Be
quick about it, then. This place is a tomb to begin with and made even more so
in this suffocating darkness.”

The scuffle
of footsteps grew faint as the man went in search of flame to rekindle the
torches.

A deep,
hacking cough reverberated from within the confines of the cell, and a lancet
of fear pierced through Griffin.

“Take care,
Morgan, this dust cannot be good for your lungs. Find a chair and once the
rushes are lit again, we shall leave this cursed place. Let this witch be free
or be damned, ’tis too dangerous for you to remain here tonight in the dampness
and cold.”

Lord Morgan
Cranbourne responded with another wretched, lingering cough. Griffin regretted
his interference with his friend’s duties. Why should he be concerned if this
maiden were found guilty of the crime of witchcraft? He had only a few precious
hours to spend with his best friend, and he’d squandered some of it on a petty
argument about a woman he cared nothing about. Tomorrow he’d head to Bristol,
and within the week board a ship to cross the ocean to Jamestown in the New
World. He might never see his oldest and dearest childhood friend again. How
foolish to quarrel about a strange woman and her fate.