Highland Sinner. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
that he understood the threat. He pressed his lips together tightly and took several deep breaths before saying softly, “He kenned my Isabella ere I married her.”
Sir Simon clasped the man by the shoulder. “The words to recall here, m’friend, are ere I married her.”
The men were speaking so softly that Morainn edged even closer so that she could catch every word.
“He kenned Lady Clara, as weel, didnae he and three days ago she was murdered.” Accusation was clear to hear in Sir William’s voice, revealing that he had already forgotten the threat of challenges, but he was wise enough to nearly whisper his words.
“I fear my friend has kenned far too many women,” Sir Simon responded, “but that only makes him a rutting fool, nay a killer. Let it go, William. If ye continue to speak so, and do so to others, ye will make my job verra hard. Angry people crying out for the blood of an innocent mon means I must divert my time from finding the real killer in order to protect him.”
Sir William nodded, but still scowled at Sir Tormand. Morainn studied Sir Tormand Murray’s handsome profile and decided the man probably found it very easy to be a rutting fool. Innocent of murder he might be, but Morainn suspected he was steeped in sin in many another way. She felt surprisingly disappointed by that knowledge.
“Now, allow us to go and see what has been done,” said Sir Simon. “The sooner we do what we must, the sooner ye can attend to Isabella. I am sure ye wish to have her cleaned and readied for burial.”
“I am nay sure she can be cleaned,” Sir William said in a hoarse, unsteady voice. “She was butchered, Sir Simon. Cut to pieces. Was Lady Clara truly done in a like manner?”
The look on Sir Simon’s face told Morainn that he did not like how fast word was spreading about these murders. That highborn women were being murdered was enough to stir up anger and fear. That they were being butchered would only make it all worse, bringing those fears to a dangerous height all the more quickly. If Sir William thought as others did, or would, then Sir Tormand Murray was in a great deal of danger. The longer it took to find the killer, the more suspicion would begin to fall upon his shoulders, the more the townspeople would gather together and feed each other’s fear and anger. Morainn knew all too well how dangerous that could be.
When the men went inside the house, Morainn debated whether to go or stay. So far luck had been with her and no one in the crowd had yet spotted her. When they did, however, she knew she could find herself in a lot of trouble. Someone who was already called a witch should not be caught so close to a place where a woman had been horribly murdered. Yet, curiosity held her in place. Some of that curiosity was of the morbid kind. Morainn wished to know what the men meant when they said Lady Isabella had been butchered. She sighed and waited for the two men to return, promising herself that she would slip away at the first sign of anyone seeing her or recognizing her.
Tormand looked at what was left of the once beautiful Isabella Redmond and wanted to flee the room. Her thick raven hair had been cut off and was scattered around her body, although he had a strong suspicion that it had not been cut off in this room. If it had been it had probably been done after she was dead. All his instincts told him, however, that it had been brought here along with her body, that a scene had been carefully set. As with Clara, Isabella’s face had been destroyed. The big green eyes Isabella had used so well in tempting men to her bed were in a small bowl on a table by the bed. Her soft, bountiful breasts had been slashed to ribbons. The horrendous wounds were too numerous to count and he wondered how many the poor woman had suffered through before death had freed her of the pain.
“This is worse,” murmured Simon. “Far worse. Either the killer hated Isabella far more than he hated Clara or he is verra angry that ye escaped his fine trap last time and havenae been hanged yet.”
“I but pray that so much wasnae done to her because Isabella took too long to die,” said Tormand, as he watched Simon begin to search the room for some sign the killer may have left behind.
“She was with child.”
“Ah, Jesu, nay. Nay.”
“I fear so. I hope William doesnae ken it or that the women who prepare her body dinnae see it and tell him. I think he would become near rabid with grief and rage.”
“And he will aim it all at me. I willnae ask how ye ken that she was with child.”
“Best if ye dinnae. Ye are already looking pale.”
“Do ye think the killer kenned it, that he might have been even more enraged by that?”
“’Tis possible.” Simon frowned at the floor near the window. “They brought her in through here.”
Tormand moved to Simon’s side and looked outside. An odd array of barrels and wood were piled against the side of the house forming an unsteady stairway. He could see the droplets of blood leading from the window down to the ground.
“So we now look for a strong, agile mon.”
“Strong certainly. He doesnae need to be agile, just lucky.”
“Do we fetch the hounds again?”
“In a wee while,” replied Simon. “As soon as Sir William is too busy to see what we are about.”
“Afraid he will want to join us in the hunt?”
“Him and most of the other fools gathered in front of this house.”
Tormand grimaced and nodded. The fools would turn it into a loud, crowded hunt. If the killer were anywhere near at hand, he would be warned in plenty of time to flee the area. It was very doubtful that the killer was still around, but if the man was fool enough to want to watch the reactions to his crime, Tormand did not want a crowd screaming for retribution to make him go into hiding.
Just as he was about to ask Simon if he had found anything else in the room, he heard the sounds of the crowd outside begin to grow loud. “What do ye think is stirring them up?”
“I dinnae ken,” replied Simon as he started out of the room, “but I doubt it is good.”
“Look ye there! Isnae that the Ross witch?”
Morainn was abruptly pulled from her wandering thoughts about Tormand Murray by that sharp cry. She felt a chill flee down her spine as she slowly turned toward the crowd. She saw Old Ide, the midwife, pointing one dirty, gnarled finger her way and her unease began to change to fear. Old Ide hated her, just as she had hated her mother, for she saw her as competition. Whenever she could, the older woman tried to cause trouble for Morainn. This was not a good time or place to meet with her enemy.
“What are ye doing here, witch?”
A soft cry escaped Morainn when Sir William grabbed her by the arm. She inwardly cursed herself as a fool. If she had not been so caught up in her thoughts about Sir Tormand, not all of them particularly chaste, she would have seen Old Ide in the crowd. That would have been enough to make Morainn leave. Ten years ago it had been Ide who had goaded the crowd into turning against Morainn’s mother. Now Morainn was trapped and she doubted any of these people were in the mood to listen to or heed her explanations or their own good sense.
“I was but caught up in the crowd,” she said, hiding her wince as Sir William tightened his grip.
“She has come because this is a place of death,” said Old Ide, as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd to glare at Morainn. “Her kind always comes to where there is death. They can smell it, ye ken.”
“Dinnae be even more of a fool than ye already are,” snapped Morainn.
“Fool am I? Hah, I say. Hah! I ken what ye are about, witch. Ye have come here to gather up the soul of that poor murdered lassie in there.”
Morainn was about to tell the woman that she was an idiot when the murmuring of the crowd caught her attention. Several people were actually nodding in agreement with Old Ide’s nonsense. There were not that many, but there were far