The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (reading well .txt) 📕

the boy. He nodded to the magistrate. “My apologies, sir. The prisoner is a crafty one, he is.”

Prisoner?

It was true. Jacob’s wrists were bound. He bore bruises upon his neck and shoulders that bespoke a violent handling.

“I demand to know what is happening here,” Jacob said.

Sloop puffed up his chest. “This is a trial, Mister Reeds. The accused stands before you.”

Jacob turned to Isabella, his young face made old with sorrow. If there had ever been any doubt as to how he felt for her, what he would do for her, it was gone in that moment. He looked ready to conquer the world in her name. “The accused? What is her crime? Refusing to marry that ridiculous sod?”

“She is a witch,” Sloop said.

“A witch? I have never heard such drivel. I dare you to present any such evi—”

With the grace of a snake, Sands had withdrawn a knife from his coat. He slipped it under Jacob’s throat before the boy could finish. “Easy, lad. Let’s go back to the house, yeah?”

There was a great susurration of voices. People in the crowd were jeering and whispering.

Then the magistrate spoke, and the chatter ceased. “I daresay he has a point.”

The priest spun upon one heel. “What?”

“This is a murder trial, Mister Sloop. All I have heard so far is suspicion and rumor, and no matter the quantity, that is all it is.”

Without warning, Rufus the watchman took the butt of his knife and hit Isabella on the back of the neck. She dropped to one knee with a cry.

Jacob made to move, but Sands’s knife held him in place.

“Casting spells again,” the watchman said. “I heard her whispering.”

“She has probably gone mad with the state of this nonsense.” The magistrate looked like the presiding physician in an asylum overrun by the inmates. “Is there anyone here who can speak of the murder? The actual killing of Mister Ashford? If not, I shall put an end to this farce.”

“I can speak to it.”

A hush fell over the grounds.

Standing before the table was the tall, pale figure of Marianne Huxley, ominously regal in a long, white dress. Her face had been rouged, her hair done in an older French style, with two tall peaks held by a wire frame upon her head. The complete effect was dazzling, and there was not a face in the crowd not drawn to her.

Marianne strode to the front of the table and looked airily about. Then Sloop took a chair from beside the magistrate and brought it to her. She sat.

The magistrate grabbed his quill. “Will you please state your name for the record?”

“Marianne Huxley. Mother of Thomas. Former mother-to-be of the accused.”

“And you say you have, eh, evidence?”

“I have a motive.” She glanced at her congregation. They were collectively enthralled. “I was present when she broke the engagement with my son, and I may speak to the reasons to it, if you shall grant me leave to do so.”

When the magistrate realized she was waiting on him, he waved a hand. “You may continue.”

Marianne smiled. “It was the day in question. I had invited Lady Ash…excuse me, I had invited the accused to dine with my son and I. Our cook prepared a lovely meal. But upon arrival, she marched straight into my study and told me she was finished with our family. I was quite shocked. I thought she was a lovely girl, and had no reason to suspect she held anything other than love for my son. So I asked her, ‘Why? Why would you do this to us?’” She looked at Isabella then, and unlike Mister Sands, what she saw there did not frighten her.

“You must know my Thomas was so looking forward to the wedding,” she said, turning back to the magistrate. “I could not begin to fathom the heartbreak he would endure. So I pressed her, ‘Please, Isabella, you must tell me why.’ And do you know what she said? She said, heartlessly, that she held no love for him. She said the only reason she had agreed to the engagement was because she had designs upon our family fortune. Then I asked her, ‘If it is money you desire, why would you turn away now? The whole town knows we are expanding the mill. They know we are providing good work for honest men, and our fortune grows by the day.’” Marianne’s smile faded, and she took on a look of puzzlement. “What happened next stands out in my mind so clearly. The girl adopted this strange smile, and she said, ‘I have other plans now, Madam Huxley. I do not need you to be rich.’

“’Twas such a puzzling thing to say. It vexed me all the night, ’til I heard tell of Mister Ashford’s murder. Then I remembered watching her leave with that servant, the one who stands hence.” She pointed to Jacob. “He was waiting outside. I can only imagine what they must have been planning. She must have thought that if they killed her father together, they would inherit his estate.”

“A treacherous plan,” Sloop bellowed.

Marianne sniffled, and for the first time, Isabella saw just how much she resembled her son.

“I can’t help but hold myself responsible,” the woman said, looking bereft. “Isabella is a young and impressionable girl. Perhaps if I had demanded she stay and explain herself, John might yet still live.”

Sloop was quick to her side. “Nonsense, madam. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

The woman began to cry, turning herself into the man’s arm.

Everyone fell silent. There were nods of heartfelt encouragement. More than a few tears from the eldest amongst them, who had known John since the town’s inception. Then the stillness was broken by a single, soft voice.

“Liar,” Isabella whispered. The word was a garbled, mutilated thing, but it was audible just the same.

The magistrate looked up. “What was that, dear?”

“Liar,” Isabella said, looking at Sands. Then, fixing upon Thomas, “Liar! Liar!”

A wave of unrest swept through the crowd. Those closest to Isabella took a