her head to look back at her mistress as if to assure herself that the curious lightness in the saddle was intentional. Jeanne gave her a gentle tap on the flank and watched as she carried her precious burden out of the clearing and up the hill.
Biting her lip, Jeanne gathered her skirts, forcing herself to walk out of the shelter of trees toward the croft. Every instinct urged her to run, to fly on the wings of falcons, to dive into the very heart of the flames and search the ruined croft for her child. Instead, she walked, head held high, chin lifted in haughty arrogance. The men before her were guards, unruly men who responded to only one thing: authority. She did not want them to think even for a moment that she was a peasant out for a walk on the moors.
Like a cold stone weighting down her chest, Jeanne knew that if Isobel were inside the cottage, there was no longer any hope for her. There was nothing left of the thatched roof. Jeanne prayed that somehow Grania had seen what was coming and hidden the child in the hills. Intent on their grisly business, the men did not notice Jeanne’s approach until she was almost upon them.
“What have we here?” A guard with blackened teeth leered at her.
“I am the countess of Traquair,” she announced. “This is my land. What are you doing here?”
Another man, obviously the leader, turned his horse and scowled down at her, noting her simple gown and lack of jewels. “’Tis a strange countess who travels alone on the moors without even so much as a horse to her name.”
“Nevertheless,” insisted Jeanne, “my husband is John Maxwell, earl of Traquair. The woman you killed is his tenant.”
“We but follow the king’s orders,” the man growled.
“Since when does Jamie Stewart make war on old women and children?”
“There are no children here,” he insisted, “only a witch whose time had come.”
Jeanne nodded toward the burning croft. She spoke clearly, emotionlessly. “The woman you killed was minding my bairn. If her body is found inside, you will hang.”
The guard looked down upon the slender, arrogant figure standing before him. It didn’t occur to him to doubt her. There was something about her carriage and the regal tilt of her head that spoke of noble blood and centuries of command. He frowned and considered his situation. She was obviously alone. If the remains of her child were discovered in the croft, his life wouldn’t be worth a single copper. Still, he wasn’t a butcher. The thought of bairns and murder in the same breath left a sour taste on his tongue.
He issued a terse command. “Search what is left of the dwelling. Do not spare yourself.”
Without a word, two men dismounted and ran to the back of the croft. Agonizing seconds passed. Jeanne’s hands were bloody from deep wedges carved with her own fingernails. Finally, she heard a shout. Her heart pounded against her ribs. The two men, one half dragging, half carrying the other, came around the building. The one who gave the order dismounted and walked over to them. Jeanne couldn’t hear their conversation. At last, he turned and walked toward her.
“There is no sign of a child in the croft,” he said.
Jeanne searched his face, noting the averted eyes and the dull red staining his cheeks. He lied. She was sure of it.
She could bear it no longer. Isobel would not be buried in a crypt of flames. Without warning, she lifted her skirts and ran straight toward the burning door.
“Seize her,” someone shouted.
Just as she reached the threshold, strong arms pulled her back. Desperation gave her strength. She struggled, pulled away, and was seized again. Tears of pain and frustration coursed down her cheeks. “Please,” she sobbed, twisting in the steel-like grip. “Let me go.”
“Do as she says,” a voice cried out. “If she is who she claims to be, we are dead men.”
“Nay,” another protested. “We are the king’s messengers. The child’s death was an accident.”
The leader stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all. Would Jamie Stewart not question why the countess of Traquair allowed her child to keep company with a known witch?
It was nearly dark. The borders at night was no place for a small company of men. “Bind her,” he ordered. “We shall take her to Edinburgh.”
“No.” Jeanne’s voice cracked. “I won’t go.”
The man’s massive hands clenched. He drew his