The Spellbound Bride (24 page)

"I’ll stay with you as long as I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be much longer."

His tired face pulled into a scowl.

"What do you mean?"

"The kirk comes."

He struggled to sit up, his form weakened from the fever and not yet recovered.

"I’ll not let them take you." He grasped her face in the palm of his hand. His skin was growing heated again. "‘Tis not right that I cannot protect you."

"The fever has been too much for you, Ian. You must rest if you wish to have your strength back."

"Sorcha, come with me."

Her eyes began to burn with tears, she would not shed. She had cried too much to do so now.

"I only wish I could."

"Come be my bride."

"Nay. I have been your lover and that must be enough."

Despite his ailment, his grasp on her shoulder was strong and powerful.

"It will never be enough."

The herbs she gave him in the water began to work. His eyes grew glassy, then heavy with sleep. The flush of his skin began to cool.

Even as her husband rested, the chain of events set in motion by Lord Hunterston refused to stay still. The rumble of wagon wheels and the shouts of men echoed off the stone walls of the narrow street outside the inn.

The kirk had arrived.

She would not run. They could not prove her a witch merely with pins and needles. Archibald had been right to warn her, but his efforts were for naught, now it was too late.

She heard them enter the inn, their footfalls heavy on the stairs. Her heart pounded hard and fast. She took a breath and gave Ian one last kiss on his forehead.

A man’s voice, hard and caustic, rumbled behind her. "Be you Sorcha Hunter?"

The oddity of the name struck her. She was Ian’s and yet not. They would take her from him.

"Aye." Her voice came out small, but solid and firm.

The clergymen pulled her from beside Ian’s sickbed. Sorcha went without any further words, aware that from this moment on, her very life was suspect until proven innocent. They marched her down the stairs and through the keeping room out to a waiting horse.

They sat her atop the mare and made the short ride up the winding road to the castle that harbored her doom.

They led her not to the dungeons below, but to the black bowels of the castle. One man lit a rush, the bit of flame crackling as it grew larger. They walked down the dark corridor to the largest cell at the end.

The musty smell of damp earth was familiar and comforting in this strange place. Sorcha thought of woods and fields, of the darkened night, to comfort herself. The wooden cell door stood open.

Inside lay a clean pallet of straw, a folded blanket, a bucket of fresh water and a privy bucket. Archibald must have paid them well to prepare the cell before she arrived, taking advantage of his station to ease this for her.

She moved into the cell and sat on the bed. The door shut with a grinding
thunk
, and with it went the light, pitching her into a blackness no night could match. Sometime in the night, she fell asleep, and her nightmares of the fire came with it.

She woke in a sweat to find herself in the cool, utter blackness of her cell. The scream she heard had been her own. She breathed great gulps of air and wiped her face with her hands, then settled back against the blanket.

The sound of footsteps echoing on the stone floor woke her. She sat up, waiting for them to open her cell door. Sorcha blinked against the harsh light that came from the rush torch.

Chapter Fourteen

No one spoke to her. The man merely bid her stand with a motion of his hand. Sorcha stood from the prickly straw pallet and followed them out the door, where she walked between them to the room above.

Fear pained her as much as the hard bed. She feared the sickness was working on her. Her stomach felt weak and it lurched. She took a series of deep breaths to push the queasiness down.

They walked in silence, making the sounds of the morning that much louder to her hearing. The chickens clucked and scratched, men and women went about their chores and stared only long enough to see their fill. No one wanted to call attention to him or herself, lest they be taken in for pricking as well.

Hired by the kirk to ferret out witches amongst the people, the witch pricker was a detestable, but famous man. John Kincaid of Tranent was paid well. When they entered the refectory off the castle’s chapel, Sorcha saw the long table, behind which sat three clergymen. Beside a smaller table stood Kincaid.

He unwrapped the leather binding of the package. Inside, neatly lined in rows, were thin, shining brass pins, six inches or more in length. Sorcha shuddered and was glad she had not eaten since she felt sick. Methodically he spread them out on the table, testing their points with his own finger and making a great show of sucking the blood that welled up on the end of his finger.

"Your honors, before I can begin, we must find the devil’s mark upon her. She should be shaved."

Sorcha wanted to scream, but bit her tongue.

"Nay, John. See first what you find, then if necessary we will have every hair of her body removed."

Sorcha was held fast with her hands behind her as her clothes were pulled from her, leaving her naked in the middle of the small room before the four men.

A lascivious gleam lit the pricker’s eyes.

"Open your mouth."

Sorcha did as she was bidden. The pricker thrust his dirty fingers in her mouth, shoving aside her tongue and pulling at her cheeks as he looked within. She could taste the metallic bite of the blood that smeared his pricked finger.

His rough hands skimmed her flesh from her head to the soles of her feet, taking delight in lingering where no man but Ian had touched her. Sorcha tried to block out the feeling of his hands. After nearly two hours, the man edged forward to the trio sitting patiently and silently on the bench.

"There be a mark upon her left shoulder, and the soles of her feet."

"Nay! Those are but scars!" she screamed in defense.

The pricker wheeled about and pointed a finger at her.

"Aye, scars caused by a fire set to rid your kirk of your witch mother!"

"Nay! ‘Twas an accident. I was only a child!"

He grinned, his smile riddled with holes and blackened teeth.

"It was not you who set the fire." He puffed up his chest and lifted his chin. "Twas I, by order of the kirk, which did it. All the more reason you be a witch. Blood of the blood, it is." He turned away from Sorcha and strode to the table that held his implements. Kincaid ran his fingers over the brass pins, selecting one nearly eight inches long.

Sorcha strained against the man who held her, and fell to her knees before the clerics.

"I beseech you, do not do this thing. I am innocent!"

One cleric denied to make eye contact with her.

"If that is so, then it will be proved shortly."

The large guard hauled her up from the floor and held her wrists in a tight grip at her belly, exposing her back and shoulders to the pricker’s pin.

He pinched her flesh between his fingers and pushed the pin in. A sharp pain stabbed her and Sorcha watched in horror as the long needle disappeared beneath her skin, inch by inch. He withdrew it slowly and when it was out, turned her so the clergymen could see the spot.

"You see, no blood. It proves she is a witch." Indeed the spot did not bleed. The witch pricker let go his bruising grip on her and let loose a gleaming, triumphant smile. Sorcha tried to cover her naked breasts as best she could by crossing her arms over her chest.

The three judges exchanged harsh and furious whispers. One of the judges leaned forward, his face hard and determined.

"We cannot find fault with your results. This, paired with the testimony we heard last eve from her own clansmen, is enough to warrant trial to decide how best to deal with this witch. She will be taken for trial in North Berwick with the others of Bothwell’s brood." He looked at the guard by the door and nodded his head. Sorcha was given back her clothes and dressed hastily, aware of the many pairs of eyes staring at her as she was escorted from the room.

They took her back to the cell and locked her in. Sorcha sank down to the prickly straw pallet, shut her eyes, and thought of Ian.

She imagined him standing at the edge of the water, the breeze pushing through his hair. He reached out and grasped a feminine hand, her hand. Before them, the sails of the ship fluttered like great white wings.

As Ian hugged her, she realized her belly was large with child. His child. Suddenly she was being pulled backward, away from him. The scene faded as if she were being taken down a tunnel. The sorrow within her grew and settled deeper.

She could not tell if it was day or night when she awoke in the dark, only that time had passed and she grew hungry. The filter of light from a rush and the sounds of feet approaching brought her fully awake. Her uncle was ushered into the cell, bearing fresh water and some bread and cheese. She was overjoyed to see him and wrapped her arms about him. His shoulders were rigid.

"They say you are to go to North Berwick for trial, lass."

"Aye, Uncle Charles."

He cleared his throat. "Are you scared?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, then fell against his shoulder sobbing.

For a long moment he let her cling, then awkwardly patted her on back in a gesture of comfort.

"I’m planning to send Hunter with you on the journey. They cannot fault him as your husband."

She pulled away from him to look at his familiar face for reassurance.

"Is Ian faring better then?"

"Aye. He’s recovering, though I daresay that it might be held against you."

Sorcha shuddered with a sigh and wiped away the tears with a quick swipe of her hand. Her voice was small and shaken. "What was it they held against my mam?"

Pain clouded her uncle’s eyes. "Henna’s jealousy and spite damned her."

"What do you mean?"

Her uncle leaned against the wall.

"Henna and your father, were to be married. They had been betrothed since they were children. But then Morgana came to be fostered with our family. She was lovely beyond compare."

He looked up at her, his eyes wet and shining.

"You are a mirror of her in so many ways." He sniffed, and blinked back the moisture gathering at the edges of his eyes. "No sooner did my brother see her than he would have her and no other."

"But what of Henna?"

"She seemed calm and accepting, as if it meant little to her—considering she carried my brother’s babe." He snorted.

"He sired a child by that crone?"

"Nay. She lost the babe after he told her he would wed Morgana."

Sorcha swallowed. "Did she do it a’purpose?"

"Aye, that’s what I think, though she’d never admit to such a thing."

"But what of mam?"

"For years she never knew any of it." He hung his head low. "I suppose I should have warned her, yet both your father and I thought we could protect her. But obsession does strange things to a person. Henna never raised a word against Morgana, but the bitterness was palpable."

"But why did she suffer Henna’s presence? Why not send her back to the Campbells?"

"There’s nothing wrong with being a mistress, lass. But being a disgrace sent home with a babe in your belly is another matter entirely. We couldn’t afford to offend the Campbells … especially when Henna held a secret over your mam."

"What secret?"

He blew out a long breath. He looked behind them and leaned closer, so that none but her could hear him.

"I’ve kept it from you as long as I could, hoping your mother’s folly would die with those who knew it. My brother, John, was not your father. One night, when things were rough between your parents, Henna revealed the truth to Morgana. In a fit of temper and passion over what your father had done, your mother let herself be lured into another man’s bed."

"And my father couldn’t ask for satisfaction?"

Her uncle shook his head. "No one gainsays their sovereign, lass, even if it is your wife he’s bedded."

Her mouth refused to work as her brain tried to absorb the information. If she carried royal blood, then Bothwell’s interest in her suddenly made sense to her. She was a pawn he planned to use somehow in the turbulent power struggles between the protestant and catholic lords of Scotland. She was a means to topple King James’ power in Scotland.

"So Henna stayed as midwife as part of the bargain to hold her tongue."

"Aye."

Sorcha’s mind began to fit the pieces together.

"Henna was the one to call the kirk to come for mam, wasn’t she?"

"Aye, but the kirk arrived the day after the fire. Whoever the butchers were, they never laid claim to their work, but I know it ‘tis those who know the truth that have suffered most."

"Or those who would speak it easily." Sorcha leaned against the gritty wall.

"Did my father really leap to his death from grief?"

Her uncle shifted his stance. "I never did believe that. But ‘tis what the kirk claimed."

"You think his death was part of this?"

"Aye, as was Harold and Magnus."

"We’re all in danger, aren’t we, Uncle Charles?"

He stared blankly at the floor. "Och, lass, that is only to say it mildly."

"What are we to do? Isn’t young Archibald at stake in this as well?"

Her uncle raked his thick fingers through his hair. "Now he does. I warned him not to go to see Lord Bothwell but he insisted he must take you. Now he knows too much, and there will be little he or I can do to help you."

"But what of the trial? If the king knows he is my sire, how can he condemn me?"

"He may know of your birth, but he doesn’t claim ye, lass. That is all it requires for him to do as he likes. Besides, he’s already laid a charge of witchcraft on his own cousin to remove him as a threat to his rule. Right now he thinks you in league with Bothwell, so why wouldn’t he dispose of you as well?"

Sorcha clenched her eyes shut. The small flutter of hope she had clung to faded. Death was a near certainty whether she was claimed innocent or guilty of witchcraft at the trail in North Berwick. Suddenly life seemed too precious and too short, piercing her with regret and longing.

"We’re all pawns in this."

"Aye, lass, and it’s the pawns that are sacrificed first."