Her parents were good people, though their beliefs were a mixture of pagan and Christian. The village of Muir where she had been raised was not a common village. It was a place of pagans and old beliefs, and had once belonged to an old hermit who had grown tired of his solitude and encouraged travelers to remain on his land. The people worked hard alongside each other growing their crops, tending to the needy, sharing laughter and singing songs. They remained to themselves, unnoticed by authorities until her father’s reputation as a teacher had grown.
Tears slipped down her cheek in remembrance of her parents and all they had done to help people. They believed people had the right to worship as they chose, to think, to question. Questions were not encouraged by the authorities or the Church; obedience and submission were the rules and they were to be obeyed without question.
Her father taught men and women to rely on their instincts and their own thoughts; that thoughts brought forth ideas and knowledge, and knowledge brought forth questions. Good, honest questions that made a man think, but a thinking peasant was a dangerous one.
She had listened endlessly to her father’s teachings. He had a soft voice and an understanding nature. She could not remember him growing upset over anything. He would see reason in all there was to see; an astute observer, he could accurately predict people’s reactions to any given situation, making him a man much sought after, especially by those who saw him as dangerous.
She missed talking with him and hearing his soothing voice. Many insisted her own tender ways were inherited from her father, her beauty and kindness from her mother. She also felt she inherited their courage, and was glad of it. Without this courage she did not know how she would have survived.
And she would have lost her life to Decimus, as her parents had done, had Magnus not rescued her from the same fate. Magnus had been a student of her father’s and was nearly done with his studies when the trouble began. It was learned that Decimus was investigating her father. There was little doubt that her father would soon be taken to Decimus’s fortress of hell to answer questions of heresy. Few left the fortress alive, and then only by escaping. A torturous death was often the only means of departure.
Following her parents’ deaths the Church claimed she was the daughter of heretics and had been soiled by their heretical beliefs. She required cleansing, even if it meant death. Magnus had seen to her escape and had taken her away from her homeland, brought her to Ireland to live in peace for the past twelve years.
But had she run from an inevitable fate?
A single tear was the only one she would allow herself to shed. Crying served no purpose and would only cloud her thoughts. She needed a clear head to aid in solving her problem.
Suddenly her head snapped up. Her eyes widened. Mary thought she heard a noise, a shuffle of sorts, like the whisper of a garment hem when it brushes along the ground, though the dark was too dense to see through. Did someone approach?
She strained to hear but silence greeted her efforts.
Had she imagined the noise in the hope that someone had come to rescue her? She sighed and her shoulders sagged with the weight of her troubled thoughts. She had been taught to keep hope alive forever in her heart, but what hope was there of escape?
It would take days for Magnus to learn of her abduction and by then . . .
She shuddered at the thought of the torture she would suffer. But if she could survive, would Magnus arrive in time to free her? Her father had told her that Magnus was not only his best student but also a true friend who could be trusted. Through the years, he had always been there, watching over her, making certain she remained free of danger and Decimus’s discovery. Magnus was a good, caring man, though many thought him a warrior to be feared.
She turned her head sharply, certain this time she had heard a sound.
Footsteps?
She remained quiet in her thoughts, listening and hoping.
Seconds crawled by yet she remained vigilant. She could only detect a faint crackle from the torches lining the narrow hall to the dungeon’s entrance.
Then a distinct sound interrupted the heavy silence.
The cell door is opening.
Slowly the wooden door moved, and with each precious movement Mary prayed for deliverance from her confinement.
A faint light drifted in. The door continued to widen and bid her freedom. But she cautiously waited; her captors could be tormenting her and laying a trap. She kept her silence and watched, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as the door came to a half-open halt.