Witch Hunt by Kristen J. Sollee

Author:Kristen J. Sollee
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781633411739
Publisher: Red Wheel Weiser

Kilkenny, Ireland

AT KYTELER'S INN, A BLACK CAT BECKONED. It arched in agitation on a sign above the doorway, at once a welcome and a warning. Inside, a band played “Ring of Fire” as I settled in at the bar. Perfumed gin wafted from a glass in front of me. Football was on the TV. In the walls, on the floor, at the bar, the stone and wood were worn, and it looked like any medieval pub—save for the witch statue in the corner. I sat on a stool taking it all in for over two hours, looking like someone casing the place—or maybe just a lonesome traveler. The gin flowed; I jumped in the river.

Lively Irish accents lilted through the rafters; some fell in a growl at my feet. It was late afternoon on a lazy summer day and people were talking sport, love, and life. Boredom threatened, so I took my drink to the basement to stretch my legs. More a cavern than a room, the Tavern Bar is held up by pillars of Kilkenny marble, some of which date to 1324. Back then this place was owned by a wealthy woman—some say a witch.

Tipping my gin, I finished my umpteenth drink under the moody subterranean lights. I ordered another and ran my hand absentmindedly across one of the pillars, hundreds of years beneath my fingertips. Drink refreshed, I took in the hypnotic scent of juniper—sweet, woody, crisp. Head spinning, I held my glass high, toasting the namesake of the tavern, and through the bottom of my glass I saw Dame Alice. First, she was the hissing of tonic bubbles, the flirtation of ice cubes clinking. Then, she was a face in a pillar, cheekbones muted gray, her waist the curve of stone. I shut my eyes, then opened them. She had fully taken shape.

Other patrons paid no mind. They faded to mere ghosts as a gauzy silence enveloped the room. And then it was the two of us—three if you count the large black cat circling her heels. Dame Alice Kyteler's legend and life story erupted at once from her lips, like two strains of music resonating in harmony, then in discord. It was hard to tell them apart.

The daughter of a Flemish merchant, Alice had wanted for few things in life. She controlled money as a lender, controlled acreage as a landowner, but could not control the gossip about her. She laughed delivering that last line, looking down at the cat who moved about her skirts, hunting loose threads like his life depended on it. A purring companion, a kitchen mouser, a harmless pet—but the cat had been suspect, too.

Alice had had four husbands. When her trials began, she had already buried three, feeling sorrow for some more than others. Suspicious of her motives, Alice's stepchildren began to accuse her of unsavory things. They wondered why their fathers had died so unexpectedly, had been taken ill so suddenly. And most of all there was the question of their inheritance—the money.

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