The Welshman’s face went through a whole series of unguarded expressions. Then, to Kit’s astonishment, he went down on one knee. “I offer fealty, then, liege lord. Command me, that I may finish your task should you perish in this rescue.”
Now was neither the time nor the place to try and explain that no oath of fealty was necessary. He simply accepted the pledge of vassalage. If they lived, he’d sort it out later. Margo looked on, wide-eyed.
”Now,” Kit said quietly, “what we must do is hold a mock trial for witchcraft … .”
Malcolm ordered that the Welshman be given food and water, then treated his injuries. Kit ordained that he should be given a night’s rest before the holy examination began. When they left, Malcolm felt marginally better about abandoning Margo. At least now she wasn’t alone in that wretched little room.
They “examined” the Welshman in that same little room the next day, making a whole day affair of it and really spent the time quietly discussing their plans, coming up with alternative courses of action should something go wrong. They planned the fake trial like a Broadway production. Only this play’s outcome was far more critical than any theatrical spectacular ever to hit the streets of New York. And when they finished their plans, silent looks which passed between them said everyone was aware just how easily something could still go wrong.
The African sun was low in the summer sky when Malcolm finally stepped out of the filthy little cell and held the door for Kit. The lean time scout wouldn’t look at him. Margo had clung to Malcolm before their departure, revealing her feelings so transparently a blind man would have seen how she felt. Her farewell to Kit had been far more restrained. Her demonstration had shaken Malcolm, but it hadn’t done anything to heal the breach between Kit and himself. As they shut the door, Kynan moved protectively between her and the Portuguese who locked them in, bringing Malcolm’s opinion of the Welshman another notch higher.