Accusations
It was dark. Sorcha could hear squeaking and the scrabbling of feet—tiny little feet. Rats. Pain lanced through her head. Wincing, she sat up and groped about, trying to regain her bearings, her vision slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. The air was rank, heavy with the stench of rotting refuse.
She was in a cell, sitting in a putrid pile of straw.
Voices approached, most likely the voices that had roused her. At the sound of a man’s deep laugh, her memory returned in a flash. She’d been chased by Hugh’s men. One of them had struck her on the back of the head.
And now … now she’d been tossed into a dungeon.
The men’s voices grew louder. Torchlight flickered under the iron-studded door. She heard the scraping sound of boots against stone as keys jingled in the lock.
Dread fingered up her spine, but there was nowhere to go. She could only wait, watching in trepidation as the door groaned open.
“Aye, and we’ll report these acts to the king in Edinburgh straightway,” an oddly familiar voice was saying. “’Tis witchery.”
Witchery. Fear shot through her veins.
A young, heavyset man with a long moustache and a nose curved like a hawk’s stepped into the cell. He held a torch, its light illuminating his leather jerkin and the short broadsword hanging from his belted waist. “She’s awake,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder.
His companion entered then, his bald head gleaming in the dim light, and Sorcha’s heart sank, belatedly recognizing the voice that had uttered the word witchery.
It was David Seton; the churlish bailiff she’d met in Kilpatrick.
He sent her an unnerving smile, one that stretched the angry red scar on his chin.
“I’m the Deputy Bailiff of Tranent now, Sorcha Cunningham,” he informed her with a pompous air of authority. “Our paths cross once again, witch, and this time, ye’ll not escape judgement.”
Sorcha swallowed. What could she say to the man?
He seemed disappointed by her lack of response. “Ye’ll be speaking soon enough,” he assured, shrugging his shoulders. “There are many ways to make a witch speak—sing, even.” Waving a hand at the hawk-nosed man, he ordered, “Bring her. ‘Tis almost dawn.”
Dawn? Sorcha stifled a gasp. Her last memory was of early afternoon, running from Hugh’s men by the kirk. Stunned, she could only watch as a new man ducked into the cell, a sandy-haired, stocky fellow.
As Seton returned to the darkness outside the door, the newcomer reached down, jerking her roughly to her feet and dropping a meaty paw upon her breast. “’Tis unfortunate we’re in such a hurry,” he murmured in a lecherous tone.
Sorcha scowled, twisting away, straight into the heavyset man with the torch.
“Aye,” he agreed, forcefully pulling her closer to him. “Mayhap later, aye?” he breathed down her neck. “Seton will be sore angry if we delay now.”
“Aye.” The sandy-haired man nodded in obvious reluctance.
Alarmed, she found herself almost grateful to be prodded out of the cell and down a dark, narrow passage to where Seton stood outside another foul-smelling cell.
Another man bent over the lock, wrangling with the keys until the door swung open to reveal a tall, frail woman in her fifties.
She peered out of the cell, squinting into the torchlight, her face marked with apprehension, but when she spoke, anger tinged her words more than anything else.
“And who’s the young lass ye have with ye now, lads?
” she asked acidly, dour and thin-lipped.
Her eyes swept Sorcha from head to toe. “Does it make ye feel braw to accuse lassies now? What’s her crime?
Refused to lift her skirts for ye? ‘Tis all it takes now to be named a witch, aye?”
“Come out, Agnes,” Seton growled.
The woman hesitated, her lips working as if struggling to bite back her words, but after a moment, she reluctantly joined them.
Looking past her into the cell, Seton waved an impatient hand. “And ye, too,” he demanded. “Be quick now.”
“Sorcha!” Gellie cried, emerging from the darkness, her eyes wide with horror and a red welt gracing her apple cheeks. She took only a single step in Sorcha’s direction before Seton moved to block her path, his hand landing a hard smack across her face that knocked her head sharply to one side.
“Dinna move, witch,” he grated, hooking his thumb through his belt.
Gellie gasped and, holding her jaw, timidly looked up at the man from the corner of her eyes.
Sorcha’s heart all but stopped as she recognized the scene unfolding before her.
Sweet Mary, but it was her dream—the one she’d had in Mugdock.
She wanted to scream, to weep, and do anything to make the horror stop.
Ach, she’d been such a fool. She hadn’t saved Gellie at all in Kilpatrick, not one whit.
It wasn’t in the peatcutter’s cottage that Seton would name the raven-haired lass a witch—it was now.
Numb, Sorcha could only watch as her dream unveiled before her like some kind of macabre play.
“Aye, ‘tis clear Sorcha is a witch,” Seton was hissing. “But ye, nay, I dinna expect it. Yer a crafty one, wench. Are ye the leader of the coven?” Again, he struck Gellie, a brutal blow.
“No!” she screamed, tears pouring down her apple cheeks. “I’m nae witch! I swear it!”
The bald man laughed, his red scar an even angrier red than usual. “I’ll see ye burn, whore. I’ll see ye burn as the witch ye are.”
“Ye ken I’m nae witch!” Gellie choked.
“How can ye deny it?” Seton retorted. “Ye, with your brews, and you’re always sneaking out at the dead of night.”
“Nay,” Gellie denied again, sobbing. “I sought only to help, I swear it.”
Seton snorted, and then nodded at his men. “Bring them to my chamber,” he said, almost as if bored, and with that, he spun on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
The men didn’t delay. They pushed the women after him at once, through a maze of dark passageways and up a narrow flight of steps to a chamber furnished with only a table and a chair.
A lackluster fire struggled on the hearth and Hugh Cunningham stood before it, swathed in a dark brown cloak, and with his hands folded behind his back.
As they entered, he glanced up, his eyes immediately seeking Sorcha. “Why, here's a little pear that's arrived for the plucking,” he murmured, his voice dripping with malicious humor.
There was a scuffle, and Gellie broke free from the man restraining her.
Tripping over her skirts in her haste, she held out her hands to Hugh.
It was an act of desperation, as if somehow, the man might prove a safe haven.
She never reached him. Grabbing a handful of her raven hair, Seton swore and roughly pulled her back.
Hugh didn’t even deign to glance her way. He kept his gaze riveted upon Sorcha. “Alec Montgomery,” he said the name slowly, like a lover, cherishing each syllable. “He’s riding hard from Edinburgh to see ye. I fear ye might miss him.”
Sorcha’s mouth went dry.
Gellie began to weep hysterically as Seton murmured in the background, “Aye, I knew they were both witches the moment I laid eyes on them in Kilpatrick.”
Sorcha licked her parched lips.
With a sharp, poisonous smile, Hugh approached her in slow, measured steps, speaking all the while.
“Ah, the fear in your eyes. Terror, really. ‘Twill be the same in Alec’s when I tell him ye’ve been taken to the king and charged with witchcraft.
” He wagged his head from side-to-side, clicking his tongue.
“Cast spells on the king’s own ships now, aye?
What other evil, black deeds have ye committed?
I’m sure we’ll pen quite the list of sins afore we reach Edinburgh. ”
“You’re mad,” Sorcha gasped.
Dark rage crossed his face. He struck her, hard. He was a strong man and he hit her with full force, the blow sending her straight to the floor. Pain erupted as darkness swam before her eyes. Her ears rang.
“Rise, whore,” Hugh spat over her head.
She struggled to comply, her knuckles turning white as she began to push herself off the floor, but his booted foot lashed out, kicking her arms out from under her. She collapsed back to the stones, head buzzing.
Hugh laughed. “So foolish.” Crouching beside her, he seized her hair and, wrenching her head back, searched her face.
“Aye, ye’ve the eyes of the devil.” Dropping her, he rose to address Seton, “Ye’ll ride within the hour.
I’ll not chance Alec finding her. I’ll see her safe in New Tolbooth prison first.”
“May ye both roast in everlasting torment,” Agnes’ sharp words rasped through the air.
Hugh exchanged an amused look with Seton and gave a nasal laugh. “Nay, ‘tis the lot of ye who’ll be roasting soon, ye old hag.”
Sorcha shuddered and, closing her eyes, rested her cheek against the cold stone floor.
‘Twas her dream. At last. There was no point in torturing herself with useless hope anymore. She knew with full certainty that it was beginning now. There was no avoiding it. Aye, at long last, it had found her. Soon, she’d smell the stench of burning flesh.
Soon, she’d be walking behind the priest to her own death.
A tear slid from beneath her eyelids, dripping over her nose and onto the floor.
Hugh stepped over her, moving to the door. There was a low hum of voices and the sounds of the men filing out the door. It closed. Keys rattled. And then, there was only silence.
“He dinna spirit me away, Sorcha. Something must have happened to change him so," Gellie’s soft voice choked as she fell onto her knees beside Sorcha.
Slowly, Sorcha sat up, tasting blood. Hugh had split her lip.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she inspected the dark purple welt already bruising her arm before recalling Gellie’s pitiful words.
Her mouth tightened. “Hugh willna aid ye, Gellie,” she whispered.
“He’s an evil man. Dinna think on him anymore. ”
As Gellie burst into a fresh bout of tears, Sorcha reached out to hold her close.