Devil's Mistress (34 page)

He grimaced and shifted his body on the pew. He felt suddenly tired, and too old for his years.

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet. Wait, I suppose. They haven’t had any trials yet. Perhaps all the wretches caught up in this will be released.”

Eleanor shook her head, fighting back tears. “I do not think so. They took my betrothed today too. He had been a constable. He resigned his post, saying that he could not serve such warrants any longer. As soon as he resigned, he was accused.”

“Easy, girl,” Sloan said, not sure he could console her.

“If they’ve taken Robert, they will take anyone.”

Sloan drank his ale and handed her the tankard. “I’ll have some more. Is there nothing to eat here?”

She filled his tankard and handed it back. “Yes, I’ll find something.”

She found bread, cheese, and dried fish, and as she placed them on the table, she spoke more calmly.

“You’re a friend of the king. You must be able to do something. This has gone too far. John Proctor said at the very beginning that the girls would make devils of the lot of us! One of them even admitted that they had first called out his wife’s name for sport. John was so right! As soon as he stood by his wife, he, too, was accused. He can be a harsh man—he is a great brute of a fellow—but if witches do exist, they can’t be the likes of him! His servant, Mary Warren, is one of the girls afflicted, yet she tried to deny what she had said, and when she did, they brought her forward for examination! Again and again—until she ‘confessed’ that John had come to her, demanding she sign the devil’s book. Yet”—Eleanor paused miserably—“you mustn’t judge us Puritans too harshly, for we truly wish only to do God’s work.”

Sloan smiled dryly. “I do not judge you harshly. This is not a consequence of your creed, it is part of our time.” And, he wondered silently, was there a way to escape it?

Eleanor paused as she set the food on the table. “Sarah Osbourne died in prison; she, too, was ill when they took her.”

Sloan came to the table. “I cannot clear the prisons,” he told her quietly.

She lowered her eyes and sat opposite him. “But you will try to free Robert and—”

“Your young man. Aye, I will. I’ve a friend with better connections than mine who can help.”

Eleanor chewed nervously on her lower lip. “Those who are cleared will be in such horrible debt. Few have much money, and none will be freed who cannot pay their prison costs.”

Sloan reached out a hand. “Eleanor, times like these bring out the worst in men—and the best. There will be help from other sources.”

She nodded slowly. “We can only pray.”

Sloan rose, rubbing his temple. “I’ll go to the jail, and find out what I can do for Robert—and I’ll see to your young man too. What is his name?”

“Philip Smith,” Eleanor replied quickly. “He met you in Boston, when you first came.”

Sloan nodded and rose. “Now, get me some blankets and clothing for Robert and your Philip.”

Eleanor hurried to do his bidding. Sloan took the things and came out to the yard. His own horse had apparently run back to Lynn and a feedbag, but Brianna’s wretched mare was in front, nosing the ground for grass. He caught her easily, and packed the clothing and food on back of the saddle. He saluted Eleanor and left.

Sloan had no problem reaching Robert Powell. The jailers were stout fellows and solemn men, but seemed grieved by the overflowing of their cells. The elder of the two brought Sloan along the drafty facility never intended for this type of scourge, commenting reasonably on the course of events.

“We had Mary Warren here, for a spell, we did. And when she was left alone, she was calm, swearing that her Master Proctor was no wizard. Yet the magistrates came again, and before long she fell down in fits the like of which could have twisted the hardest heart! It’s a sad thing, it is, the devil here in Massachusetts!”

Sloan heard continued clinks of metal. “They are shackled?” he asked the man with a frown. The light was dim, but it was still apparent that most of the weary wretches resting on the cots were old men and women—except that it was shocking to see children here also, many no older than ten. “Official orders, Lord Treveryan. Seems that witches’ specters can fly and torture their victims unless they be bound.”

Sloan spat out the word “Rubbish!” The jailer cast him a glance, but did not dispute him, for Lord Treveryan was a duke and a personal friend of their Majesties, William and Mary.

“There’s your man, Powell,” the jailer told Sloan, clanking his ring about to find the proper key. “Now, sir, I mean no disrespect by this, but by the law I must ask. You’ve no files there, knives, or the like?”

Sloan answered wearily. “No—I’ve no knives. Blankets and ale and clothing, and nothing more.”

The man nodded and locked the door behind Sloan.

Sloan blinked for several minutes before seeing the figure on the cot. There was a clink of chains, and he saw the figure rise.

Sloan moved to him. Robert Powell looked like death itself; his coloring was gray, his cheeks were hollow, and his great dark eyes seemed sunken in his face.

“Treveryan?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Aye, Powell, ’tis me.” Sloan hunched down by the cot, spreading out the things he had brought, finding the spiced ale. Robert watched Sloan as he accepted the drink, and when he had swallowed it, he continued to stare at him with no malice.

“Get her away from here,” Robert said simply.

Sloan lifted his hands. “She won’t come without you, Powell.”

“Make her.”

Sloan rose and walked about the cell. “I can’t do that—yet. I’ve some powerful friends and we’re going to stand and fight this horrible madness.”

Robert started to laugh but then started to cough. Sloan thumped him on the shoulders and the fit ended. He sobered quickly. “Treveryan, I do not believe that anyone can stop it. And I would rather see Brianna and Michael safe.”

Sloan emitted a slightly impatient oath and with renewed determination came back to sit on the cot. “Powell, I’ll be damned if I’ll let you sacrifice yourself! You’ve not been examined yet or brought to trial. There is no evidence against you.”

“Imaginary evidence.”

“And what is that?” Sloan demanded.

“Everything—or so it seems,” Robert replied dryly.

“Listen! If you go to trial, we’ll do our best to free you.”

“And when they condemn me anyway?” Robert queried politely.

“Then you confess. They are not even planning trials for those who confess first.”

“Only so that the confessed may testify against others.”

“Damn you, Powell! Take an interest in your life.”

Robert sighed and offered Sloan a weary smile. “I cannot confess to witchcraft. It would be against all that I believe. Perhaps it would be an answer to the court, but there is a far greater judgment. And who would answer unto God for my lie?”

“God in His heaven, Powell! Where is your sense, man? Surely the Almighty sees what is happening!”

Robert lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I will stand trial—and fight for all that I am worth. If you would help me, Treveryan, take my wife and my chi—Michael—far away from this madness.” He paused a moment. “I assume you have seen Brianna. I have been terrified since they brought me here that she would come, so wound and wild in my defense that they would lock her away, too, without bothering for a warrant. Where is she?” He came to his feet, gripping Sloan’s arm with a surprising strength.

Sloan eased the grasp from his arm, pressing Robert back to the cot. “She’s fine.”

“But she can connive, that one can! If she’s promised to stay behind, she will follow anyway.”

Sloan could not help but grin; it seemed they both knew her well. “Powell, she can come nowhere. I knocked her unconscious.”

Robert stared at him in wonder and actually smiled humorously. Then he closed his eyes and murmured, “Thank you.”

Sloan noted how the shackles were grating against the man’s wrists, and he winced. He tapped Robert’s knee. “Take heart, Powell. There are things that can be done; I’ll see to it that you are cared for. And when the time—”

Powell’s dark eyes opened. “I’ll not take your charity, Treveryan. Just take my wife—and go.”

Sloan sighed with exasperation. “It’s not charity, Powell—and I won’t take your wife. We will fight—and if all legal venues fail, then we’ll revert to the illegal.”

Robert, in return, shook his head with vast exasperation. “Treveryan, never have I thought you an idiot! She has always loved you. Make her go with you. Tie her, beat her, cage her—but get her away!”

Sloan smiled slowly, aware that he could have no greater adversary than this man he would never fight. “You’re wrong, Powell. Your wife loves you. I’m but in the sidelines of this. And I’ll not let them hang you—because she does love you.”

Sloan turned to bang for the jailer to come and release him; but Robert called him back.

“Promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“I’ll fight. I would do so no matter what, for I am not wizard or witch! But … if things should go badly, if it should become necessary—will you take her away, no matter what her protest?”

“Aye,” Sloan said slowly, “that I will promise you.”

He tried to give Robert an encouraging smile, then said “I’d like to get the boy away now. Would you object to his being sent to New York?”

Robert closed his eyes again, casting an arm over them. “I would bless your efforts,” he said simply. Sloan nodded and called out sharply for the jailer.

Before he left, he saw Philip Smith and promised the bitter young man that he would do his best. He managed to leave him a more hopeful, if not a more cheerful, fellow. Then he paid the jailers the price of a week’s stay in the prison for the two and added a generous sum to see that they, and the other wretches in the place, would receive the best care.

He almost raised a fist against the younger of the two guards when he was asked to pay for the very shackles that were rubbing the flesh raw at Robert Powell’s ankles and wrists.

But he cooled his temper and paid the price. Whether Powell and Smith were proven innocent or not, they would be responsible for their stay—and all materials, including the shackles.

He did not want to make enemies with these men. Sloan knew that there could be no escape here such as they had ventured from the wild streets of Port Quinby. To pull off a jailbreak here he would have to bribe the guards and coerce their cooperation.

Before he left, he warned the jailers that Robert was ill and that his health was in their hands. He didn’t need to threaten, for he was quite sure that his reputation with a blade had preceded him.

It was near dawn when he finally returned to the farmhouse. Eleanor had been dozing in the deacon’s bench. Brianna, awake and furious, was pacing the floor. He approached her, ready to reassure her, but was given no opportunity to do so.

“Damn you, you bastard! How dare you do this! You are not husband or father to me, you are not anything to me!” She lashed out at him then with the strength of her frustration, fear, and fury. Her nails caught his cheek; her fists, his throat.

And he was far too tired and dispirited to take it from her. “Bitch!” he seethed in return, struggling for her arms. Eleanor awoke, concerned. From the bedroom Michael could be heard to whimper.

“Please,” Eleanor began.

Sloan did not feel like fighting before an audience, nor did he want to wake or upset the child. With a deep-throated rumble of fury he caught her wrists with a steel-tight grasp and dragged her along behind him, back toward the door.

“I’ve a few things to say to Goodwife Powell, Eleanor, and if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll say them outside, where perhaps the cool air will keep me halfway sane!”

“Eleanor, stop him,” Brianna gasped out, aware that she had provoked him past a reasonable point. But Eleanor did nothing.

Brianna stumbled along behind Sloan’s furious strides until they were out the door and she was suddenly freed—sent flying to land indecorously and ironically in a patch of wild and beautiful lilacs, so recently sprouted from the slush and snow. Gasping for air and dignity, Brianna looked up to see that he was no less furious now that he had released her. His face was severe with tension.

“Madam, perhaps I am nothing to you, but your good husband just gave me his full blessing to beat you black-and-blue!”

What was there that made her lose all reason? Perhaps it was his power over her. Perhaps it was because he had come back into her life and he was, once again, the greatest threat she had ever known. He had, in the space of hours, erased all the time that had passed between them. She thought herself good and decent, and resolved to her life, but when he stood by her, the air became charged and her blood boiled.

She couldn’t help herself; madness directed her words and actions as she lashed out at him.

“Get away from me, Lord Treveryan. I’m sorry I came to you. You are eager for his death! God knows you might take any woman, and yet she whom you cannot obtain holds a fascination. You wish that he would die!” Shredding the lilacs through her fingers, she pushed her way to her feet. “You think to take his son. Well, you will not do so! Dear God, how I despise you!” Her voice was rising, shrill and laced with laughter. She barely saw his features, the whiteness that touched his flesh beneath the sea-bronze or the constriction of his jaw. She didn’t even realize that despite the cruelty of her words, he was calm—as if he knew something about her she did not know herself.