The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

to kill him. She had never tested the potion. What if it had provided the illusion of health and killed slowly?

Isabella had never believed such wickedness could exist in the world, but she believed it now. No matter who bore the blame—the Lady of the Hill or some other malicious creature—she had become a pawn in some horrific game, and quite possibly, the instrument of her father’s death. She began to weep, not only for her father, not only for herself, but because she realized the truth may never be known.

Outside the archway, the sun rose to its pinnacle and began to descend. The long hours were the loneliest in Isabella’s life. She began to wish she had been abandoned. That she would go on hanging until she starved, so she would never have to face another soul again. She was not to be so lucky.

A face appeared in the archway. Isabella steeled herself for the worst, but it was only Delia. The woman was carrying a bucket of fresh water and a damp cloth. She hurried to Isabella’s side and used the cloth to squeeze water into the girl’s mouth. Isabella tried to resist but found the needs of the body outweighed the needs of the mind. She drank long and deep, sucking the cloth with all the grace of a dog.

Delia said not a word, but her eyes betrayed a deep and lingering fear. The depth of that fear stabbed Isabella’s heart.

“Delia,” she murmured. “It’s me. Can you not see?”

The woman said nothing but smoothed the blanket about Isabella’s shoulders. She was careful not to touch the girl’s skin.

“Help me,” Isabella implored. “If you are still my friend, you must help me, Delia.”

The old woman tried to speak and couldn’t. She was on the verge of tears. At last, she turned from Isabella and made the sign of the Lord’s cross. She ran from the enclosure with one hand over her face, shielding her eyes from the girl’s accusatory stare.

“Free me,” Isabella shouted.

The burly watchman appeared in the archway. “Free you? Is that what you want?”

Isabella stared at him. Delia was gone.

The man pulled a knife from his belt and cut the strap where it was tied. “Like this?”

Isabella slumped to the floor. She gained her feet as quickly as she could and stumbled to the opposite arch.

The other young watchman stepped into her path. “Look at her, Rufus. Trying to escape, she is. Think we should stop her?”

Isabella turned again, but the young one grabbed the leather strap as it trailed behind her. She reached the limits of the bind, and her feet flew out from under her. She hit the dirt with a painful thud.

“There she is. Like a dog,” the young watchman said. “Are we going for a walk, doggy?”

Isabella couldn’t walk, but when she heard the man’s voice, she discovered she could crawl. She rolled onto her hands and knees and began pulling herself toward the other exit. In her haste, the blanket once again fell from her shoulders and ended in the dirt.

The older one laughed. “Look at that bare arse. Bet there’s a mark hidden in there.”

“Thought we checked it.”

“You saying you don’t want to check again?”

Isabella crawled across the dirt and past the stalls. When she reached the opening, she came face to face with a pair of long, leather boots. She looked up, praying it might be Delia come back to save her.

It was Marianne Huxley, standing there in her most exquisite Sunday finery.

“Help,” Isabella croaked.

The young watchman grabbed her by the hair, then wrapped the leather strip round her neck in much the same way as Sands had done. He pulled back, raising her head and strangling her at the same time.

“Sorry about that, Madam Huxley. Prisoner almost got free.”

“That’s quite all right. You may ease that. I should like to speak to her.”

The watchman gave Isabella a kick in the rear, then eased the strap. “Behave yourself, dog.”

She took a great, heaving breath.

Marianne made a small grunt as if she disapproved of the noise. “Here we are again, dear. I told you, you had a lot to learn.”

Isabella stared at the woman, clawing at the strap,

“I came to inform you that the magistrate has arrived. Your trial will be in the morning. Before that savage in the hole, if I have my say. By midday, I suspect you both shall be swinging in front of the town parish.” While she had arranged her face into something resembling compassion, her tone was whimsical, as if she might be discussing plans for the feast. “It is a dreadful shame things had to get so ugly, but then, what did you expect? I told you Thomas was a survivor. He will be here long after your bones are dust. Long after the name Ashford has been wiped from the record. That will be inevitable, of course. We cannot have a mistress of the Devil as the daughter of the town founder, can we?”

“I’m not…” Isabella sputtered.

Marianne smiled broadly at this, touching the girl’s face with a gloved hand. “Of course you are, dear. How else could you have poisoned him? As well as taken over the soul of that poor lad with the wooden leg. I cannot imagine his terror at being so spellbound.”

At the mention of Jacob, Isabella strained against the strap with all her might. She succeeded only in choking herself.

“Everything all right, madam?” Sebastian Sands appeared in the entrance, his hands crossed behind his back.

“Very well,” Marianne said. “Our arrangement is ended quite satisfactorily, Mister Sands. By Twelfth Night, I expect you shall be the owner of the Ashford house instead of its manager. I expect you shall wish to rename it.”

“I expect I shall. Load of work to be done if I’m to turn a profit this year.”

“Well, I’m sure you have a good start.”

Isabella stared at the two of them. The fog which had been surrounding her father’s death cleared in a sudden, violent burst. It