The Weeping Path
Sorcha’s heart wrenched.
The man she’d come to know as Alec—the man with the charming, easy humor and the ever-present playful light gleaming in his green eyes—that man was gone.
The man looking down upon her now was pale and shattered.
Haunted. Scratches covered his strong hands.
A cut graced his cheek. Mud and dried blood caked his shirt and plaid, the odor recalling the stench of her dream.
Aye, he was so very clearly in shock from losing his brothers—and in the worst way for a Montgomery: by Cunningham treachery.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice impassive. Painfully distant.
Her heart plummeted to her toes. He still thought her a spy and a traitor. She closed her eyes, drawing upon her inner strength and whispered, “Aye.”
At least she was leaving Lady Margaret’s dreadful company.
The hours had been torturous ones. Sorcha had delivered the stillborn babe, a boy, and had compassionately wrapped his tiny body while his mother lay sobbing in the bed—but not for the loss of her child, or her husband, or even her own Cunningham kin.
It seemed she wept because Alec still lived, robbing her of title and the Montgomery lands.
“Whore!” Lady Margaret shrieked as Sorcha hobbled past. “Ye traitorous whore! There’s not a Cunningham who’ll stand by ye now.”
Ignoring her, Sorcha lifted her chin, limped to where Alec opened the chamber door, and stood to the side, allowing her to pass.
Walking was painful. Her inflamed foot burned with each step.
At first, Alec checked his long stride to match her own, but within seconds, he caught her about the waist and flipped her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
She couldn’t fault him. He wasn’t rough.
But there was none of his previous playful tenderness or softness in the act.
A shield of silence stood between them now, and that bothered her the most.
He bore her down the tower steps, through the inky darkness shrouding Lainshaw’s great hall, and to the antechamber behind it.
The space was small, and under any other circumstances, she would have thought it cozily inviting with the fire’s red coals casting a rosy glow on the carved table, cushioned chair, and small tapestry hanging on the wall.
Alec made for the chair. Shoving it with his boot towards the fire, he dumped her into the cushions with an unceremonious plop as Taran suddenly emerged from the hall beyond.
The highlander’s unreadable, sharp blue gaze lanced hers, but he said nothing as he braced himself in the doorway.
As with Alec, he had yet to change his plaid, and the coppery scent of blood permeating the air made her nauseous.
‘Twas the stench of her dream. Ach, her dream. Every facet of it had come true.
She shuddered.
Refusing to look her way, Alec grabbed a taper from the table and, crouching before the fire, held the wick to the coals.
It sputtered to life with a spitting hiss that sounded like thunder in the oppressive silence.
Still saying nothing, he placed the candle on the table and returned to the fire, standing with his feet shoulder-length apart to stare into the coals, drumming his fingers on the stone mantel all the while.
Uneasy, Sorcha waited. After a time, she pulled her hair back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. And waited more. Neither man standing in the room would believe the truth of her dreams. She prayed that, somehow, the conversation would never start.
Her prayers went unanswered.
“I wonder,” Alec began in a low voice, heavily weighted with bitterness. “Just how many arrows were trained on me as I kissed ye by the river?”
The words cut like a knife, even though she’d been expecting them. Gripping the arms of the chair, she swore fiercely, “I’m no traitor, Alec Montgomery. Aye, my heart bleeds for ye for what happened this day, but I had no hand in it. I’ve only sought to warn ye, to keep ye safe.”
He slammed his fist against the wall and his brows furrowed deeper.
“Aye, I canna deny that, lass,” he acknowledged, his handsome face drawn, tortured.
“Neither can I deny ye knew the Cunninghams conspired to waylay my brothers this morn at the river. Aye, and what of Margaret’s bairn?
How entangled were ye in the spinning of this web? ”
She jumped to her feet, ignoring the burning pain, and faced him fiercely. “Aye, I’ve deceived ye,” she declared, understanding in that moment that she was going to reveal the truth in its entirety. “With half-truths—”
She was unprepared for the response she unleashed. Sucking his breath in surprise, he bore down on her so quickly that she fell back into the chair, accidentally biting her tongue.
“What is this to ye then? What am I?” he interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. “A game of trickery and deceit?”
She held her ground, valiantly. “Do ye see trickery in my eyes?” she asked, balling her hands into fists.
A pained looked crossed his face. “I dinna know if I can trust myself with ye,” he whispered harshly, placing a hand on either chair arm to block her in.
“My eyes see a bonny lass, be she a Cunningham or no, but I fear I can no longer trust what I see.” He lifted a hand and covered his face with his palm.
“Ach, ye’ve torn what’s left of my heart asunder. ”
“I told ye the truth in Neilston,” she reacted, her voice hoarse as tears threatened. “I’m cursed.”
She could not hold back the response erupting from her lips then.
No matter what Christine had said, he had to know.
She let the words tumble out in a desperate stream of truth.
She told him everything. Her childhood. The stones.
The curse of her eyes. The Second Sight.
She told him of the wise-woman, how she’d come to leave Heather House, and why she could never return.
And the dreams. She recounted her dreams, starting with the priest, pulling her down the road as the throngs pelted her with rotten vegetables.
And the burning flesh. The stench of it.
She spoke of the dream she’d had of Gellie, and how she’d changed it, and then of Neilston and the blood, the smell of it very present around her now.
She confessed her hopes of changing it the day before, explaining just why she’d asked who would ride the following the morn.
She kept her head bowed. She didn’t dare look at him.
Or Taran. She didn’t want to see the disbelief, the judgement, and more importantly, she couldn’t let anything stop her from divulging the truth, every word of it.
Once the confession of her Second Sight was done, she turned to Mugdock, repeating the conversation she’d overheard there, but she’d scarcely said the name ‘Hugh’ when Alec pushed her chair back so violently it nearly tipped.
“Hugh?” he spat with a startled oath.
Startled herself, she looked up then to find both men standing over her, mere inches away, their faces drawn in shocked astonishment.
“Names,” Alec demanded, every line of his muscled body tense. “Give me the names of all ye know.”
“Aye,” she agreed in a hushed whisper.
Gordan. She started with him first, naming the bairn’s true father in the hopes of giving Alec at least some measure of peace before she revealed what she’d learned from the terrifying night in the barn, huddled behind the barrel of urine.
When she was done, Alec drew a long, wavering breath.
“Aye,” Taran murmured, slowly crossing his arms.
With his strong features harder than granite, Alec expanded each name, pausing ominously between them.
“John Cunningham of Corsehill ... John Cunningham of Clonbeith ... David Cunningham of Robertland ... Hugh Cunningham of Aiket.” He uttered each name slowly, methodically, as if burning each one permanently into his mind.
Silence fell then, punctured only by the sound of his heavy breathing.
At last, Taran said, “The king must know of this plot to despoil ye of your rights.”
“Aye,” Alec agreed, his chin and jaw taut. “We ride to Edinburgh at dawn. I’ll hold these men to the full weight of the law.”
It was the first hint of hope she’d felt the entire day. “Then ye believe me?” she breathed.
For the first time that night, Alec met her gaze fully, but there was a distance there, a detachment that hadn’t been there before. Tears stung her eyes before he even opened his lips to speak.
“I canna in all conscience deny the things I dinna understand,” he said, his voice sounding ragged and worn. “And if I hadna met Auld Bertha on the road, I’d think ye mad or even worse, a traitor. But…” his voice trailed away.
But. ‘Twas not a word she wanted to hear. Biting her lip, she waited for him to speak.
“… ye did warn me fair this morn, and giving me names now…” He exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “Aye, but there are many lingering questions.”
Sorcha’s heart sank. His response was unclear, his meaning uncertain, but it didn’t matter. The reluctance itself was enough to injure her anew.
Taran stirred and lifted a querulous brow at Alec. “Then ‘twas Auld Bertha who warned ye of the raid?”
“Aye,” Alec admitted rawly, resolutely facing his cousin. “And I canna deny that everything the old crone said has come to pass, even though ‘tis still overly much for a man to believe.”
The highlander snorted in contempt. “Aye, ‘tis overly much for a man to believe, and I, for one, dinna trust in fairies like an old woman.” He cast a speculative glance at Sorcha and then added, “But neither do I deem the lass a traitor. She warned us fair. If not for her, we’d be lying in the chapel instead of standing here this night.” He nodded at her once, a curt combination of approval and thanks before adding the warning, “But your life is in danger, lass, with these names ye know and however ‘tis ye came to know them.”
Alarm stabbed her.
“We’ll see ye safe, lass,” Alec promised, his hard jaw illuminated in the dim light. “But these are names the king must hear, and to his ears ye must say them. We ride at dawn, for Edinburgh.”
The two men turned away then, moving to the fire to speak in low voices, but she didn’t listen.
Her heart felt heavy.
In all honestly, she couldn’t blame either man for struggling with her revelations, not when she’d so often tried to deny the truth of the dreams herself.
Mayhap, in some harsh way, it was all for the best.
The distance between her and Alec could only grow. He was the Montgomery. An earl. And as such, he had no room in his life for her now. Ach, a kiss truly did not a marriage make. Alec’s future held a lady of the king’s choosing, to rule his castle and bear his noble heirs.
And her future? Her dreams informed her it would be a short one. And she already knew just how it would end. ‘Twas time to stop the denying of it.
Edinburgh Castle perched on a hill. She knew that much, and most likely, it was the hill of her dreams.
Aye, her heart felt heavy.
* * *
Preparing to set off at dawn, both Alec and Taran arrived freshly bathed, with their hair wet, having changed out of their blood-stained plaids at last. Silence reigned as the three mounted, each on their own horse. There was no riding pillion this time.
On their way, first, they saw the bodies of Alec’s brothers, two to a cart, and each ceremoniously draped in Montgomery plaids. Two scores of handpicked men rode with them, bearing the Montgomery banner.
At the river ford, Alec stopped. He didn’t cross. Edinburgh lay to the northeast. He sat on his horse, his face white as he watched the carts bearing his brothers splash through the river, and he stayed there on the riverbank, long after the last cart trundled out of sight on its way to Eglinton.
Finally, he stirred. “I’ll never return to Lainshaw,” he vowed, his eyes roving over the flowing water and back to the road leading to the castle. “’Tis a path of weeping.”
“’Tis a fitting name,” Taran murmured. “The Weeping Path.”
“Aye,” Alec agreed, and then digging his heels into his horse’s side, galloped in the opposite direction.
As they set off through the rising winds stripping the remaining autumn-hewed leaves from the branches around them, a bitter sadness pervaded Sorcha’s soul, settling over her like a pall. Withdrawing into her own world, she focused on nothing save the soft rhythmic thump of the horses’ hooves.
The days passed in a blur, and the only constant, the pain in her foot.
“Edinburgh,” someone said one early evening.
Sorcha lifted her head.
The sun rode low in the sky. In the distance, she could see the imposing, impenetrable, gray-stoned structure of Edinburgh Castle sitting high on a rocky outcrop, overlooking the town like a hawk.
A ring of trees belted the base of the cliffs, but the gentle rolling hills spreading beyond caught her eye more.
‘Twas like freedom stretching out before her.
Her heart tugged. If only she could keep on riding with the wind streaming through her hair, galloping far away from any castle and its accursed hill.
If only she could ride to the highlands and lose herself on the windswept moors.
It was impossible. She knew that now. No matter what she tried, she would end up behind that priest.
Bowing her head again, she nudged her mare after the others.
It was dark by the time they wound up Castle Hill. She refused to look at it. Aye, in a kind of defiance to the Second Sight, she didn’t give it once glance, preferring to ignore the place of her dreams.
But fate did not allow it.
Near the entrance of Edinburgh Castle’s guarded gates, a blast of wind blew her hood back, revealing a dark, sinister, shadowed version of the hill in her dreams. It hit her like a punch in the gut, overriding even fear itself.
As if in a trance, she rode behind Alec, guiding her gray mare forward, and strangely, as she dismounted, the only thought to finally pierce the muddle was the simple fact that she hadn’t bid Gellie farewell before leaving Lainshaw.