”Leave us,” Kit said harshly. “Father Xabat will examine the witch with me.”
”But Father Almada, she might do you an injury-”
”God is the sword of the Jesuit, my son. Do not fear for our safety. Go. We will lock her in again when we have examined her.”
The soldiers shuffled uneasily, then retreated to the far end of the overhang, refusing to go farther. Kit lifted the lantern, drew a hasty breath, and stepped into the foul little room beyond.
Margo shivered in a corner of her prison, hating with a greater passion than she had ever felt in her young life. She hurt so desperately, tears formed. They tracked down her cheeks in the darkness. These brutal animals — they were worse than animals, that was an insult to animals — men raped her, beaten her, demanded things in as many languages as they spoke and hit her every time she couldn’t answer. They’d finally stumbled on broken English in their efforts to find out who she was.
They had ordered her to reveal who the other man was, the one who had escaped, ordered her to explain why she and the other witches had come, demanded to know what terrible evil they planned to do to Portugal ….
The insanity had gone on and on until Margo had been capable of nothing but screamin at them. Whereupon their pig of a leader had rape her again, then tossed her naked into this earth-packed cell and locked her in without food, water, or a blanket. They had come back only to inform her that Koot van Beek had died and that she would die next.
Margo had never known such black despair in all her life. She cried until there were simply no more tears left in her. She’d stupidly set out to prove a childish point but the only thing Margo had succeeded in doing was getting Koot van Beek killed and the Welshman even more lost in time than ever. Not to mention getting herself raped and imprisoned.