The men of Lourengo Marques glanced at one another again, clearly uneasy.
”Father, the dead witch,” governor de Oliveira Salazar said quietly “he babbled in a possessed madness. He spoke Dutch!”
Malcolm and Kit exchanged glances.
”I speak a little Dutch, Father,” Sergeant Braz put in. “The witch was raving about another of their company, who is not with them. We have search parties out looking for him and have told the black heathens hereabouts there is a reward for capturing this other witch and bringing him to us.”
The Welshman,, Malcolm realized. Poor terrified bastard …
”You must take me to the witch you have captured,” Kit said severely. “I must examine the woman and see if Satan’s hand is truly upon her. Has she spoken at all?
One of the Basque farmers spat onto the floor. “No, only to scream.”
Kit lost all color. Malcolm hastened to his side. “Father Almada, you are still unwell. You should be in bed.”
”How can I sleep when God’s work is waiting? Come, show me this witch.”
What are you going to do, Kit? We can’t escape through the gate for another five days. She’ll tip our hand for sure.
But the desire to know what condition these men had left her in worried at him like a rat gnawing at his foot. How much worse must it be for Kit? The governor and soldiers led them through the downpour to a tiny stockade on the far side of the fort. The rest of the community trailed behind. Sergeant Braz produced an iron key. It grated rustily in the lock. The room beyond was so dim Malcolm couldn’t see a thing. Kit gestured impatiently for a lantern. The smith, not Goulart, gave Kit his.