Page 1 of Warrior’s Lady

Prologue

Scotland, 1377

She was not a witch. When had healing people become a crime?

Clara Lockhart's breath formed a white shroud in the air, lingering but a moment before vanishing into nothingness. The hazy gray light of the approaching dawn crept through the small barred opening cut into the heavy wooden door of her prison cell, heralding the birth of a new day. Her last day on this earth, unless a miracle saved her.

Through the opening she could hear the muffled voices of men milling about, preparing for the day.

Heaven help me.Clara grasped the bars that lined the window, the solid, cold metal a stark reminder of her situation. She'd be hanged by the first light of morning, all for the sake of a stone.

Soft footsteps padded toward her. A moment later the gentle face of Mother Agnes appeared, framed by her black wimple as she peered through the door's opening. "Clara?"

"I am here." Hope blossomed inside her.

"Open this door, young man," the nun demanded.

The rattling of keys preceded the soft creaking of the door opening. Mother Agnes slipped inside.

The nun stepped forward and clasped Clara's hands in her bony ones. "My dear Clara, what have they done to you?"

"I am charged with witchcraft." Speaking the words opened the dam of emotion trapped inside since her capture and imprisonment. Tears escaped their confines, racing down her cheeks unheeded.

"Oh, my heavens." The nun pulled Clara to her, pressing Clara's head against her shoulder.

"I always knew it was a possibility, yet I had hoped for something more," Clara sobbed, burying her face in the rough wool of Mother Agnes's habit. She had married into the Lockhart family. And with her husband's love she had accepted the burden the family carried: to heal the sick, whether human or beast.

"The Charm Stone," Mother Agnes whispered into the still air of the dawn.

Clara straightened, then reached down to pull up the hem of her heavy damask gown. Slowly, she unwound a length of linen she had tied to her upper thigh. She pressed the bundle into Mother Agnes' hands. "Along with Robert the Bruce's heart, the Lockharts carried the Charm Stone back from the Holy Land. 'Twas the one good thing that came out of the Crusades. This Stone is not a source of witchcraft as the bishop claims."

Mother Agnes's gaze snapped to the closed doorway, as fear drove the color from her face. "If he finds the Stone—"

"Make certain he doesn't," Clara whispered, increasing her grip on the nun's hands. "If I must die for a crime I did not commit, I beg you to protect the Stone for my daughter."

Mother Agnes' eyes widened. "What of the danger to such a young child?"

Pain clutched Clara's chest at the thought of what she risked. "If I cannot protect Violet, then maybe the Stone can. It will give her the ability to heal herself and survive to adulthood."

"When so many die young, that is worth the risk." Mother Agnes nodded. "Where is Violet?"

"Hidden at the castle. You must retrieve her. You know where." Clara's gaze met the nun's, searching for understanding.

Mother Agnes inclined her head slightly, indicating without words that she knew where to look. "When I know it is safe to do so, I will send her to her uncle."

"My thanks," Clara said, as a sense of peace came over her. This was not how she wanted to end her life, but it eased her mind knowing Mother Agnes' care would increase the odds of Violet surviving to carry on the tradition of the Lockhart clan.

With wooden movements, Mother Agnes slid the bundle containing the Charm Stone into the folds of her habit.

The rhythmic beat of a hammer pierced the silence, and any peace Clara might have imagined vanished. Her knees grew weak. She reached a hand out toward the cold stone wall of the prison to steady herself and squeezed her eyelids shut against the growing light of day. But even the self-imposed darkness did not block out the knowledge that men were preparing the platform where she would take her final breath.

She opened her eyes. Her other hand crept up to her neck. "Is there any hope of reprieve, Mother Agnes? Or am I a fool to ask?"

"I have tried, my dear." Sorrow shadowed the lines etched into the old nun's face. "The bishop's decree is binding. All I can offer is my presence and my prayers."

Cold spread through Clara's limbs, taking with it any hope of rescue. There was no one to intervene. Not her husband James, who had been murdered the night of her capture. Not her brother-in-law Camden. He might be strong enough to defy the bishop's decree, but she would be dead before word of her situation ever reached him.

Heavy footfalls sounded outside. Mother Agnes clasped Clara's hands within her own. The door to her cell creaked open. A swath of morning light streaked across the dirt floor. Clara blinked against the sudden brightness. She ducked her head as her eyes adjusted to the new source of light. She returned her gaze to the door.