Accusations #2
“They’re all evil men,” Agnes said from where she stood by the fire, rubbing her shoulders.
“Ridding themselves of their problems now with this talk of witchcraft. Seton’s been after me for ages—ever since I told his wife of his cheating ways with lasses in his dovecote.
‘Tis unfortunate he returned to Tranent, he’s only grown all the more rotten. ”
They lapsed into silence after that. There was really nothing to say. Words seemed vain. Empty.
Agnes couldn’t hold still, she drifted aimlessly around the room as Gellie remained at Sorcha’s side, cowed and wide-eyed, her pupils almost entirely black.
All too soon, Seton reappeared. “Make haste,” he ordered his men as he stood by the door, holding it open.
The sandy-haired man from before shoved his way through the bustle to Sorcha, a lurid grin splitting his face.
“The wee redhead is mine,” he announced to his fellows.
Grabbing her arm, he said with obvious reluctance, “’Tis fair disappointing you’re leaving so soon, lass.
” He pulled her close for a hard kiss, thrusting his tongue between her lips.
Sorcha gagged.
He didn’t seem to even notice, and as his pawing, pinching hands assaulted her once again, she succeeded in wrenching away to hiss in his ear, “If ye touch me again, ye’ll find your manhood withering afore the sun sets—and even sooner should ye share my words.”
The man tensed.
She thinned her eyes into warning slits.
He stared down at her from mere inches away and slowly blinked. Doubt clouded his eyes. Slowly, his hands dropped.
“I said, make haste!” Seton’s voice rose above the din.
The sandy-haired man’s face altered. Angry, he slammed her against the wall and barked, “Move, witch, and keep those lips of yours sealed, aye?” He pushed her out of the chamber then, after the others, and even though he kept his hands to himself, he took every opportunity along the way to shove and bruise her as much as he could.
The women were led outside as dawn broke a night sky shrouded with dark clouds pregnant with unfallen snow. A cart waited nearby, its wheels buried in frost-covered mounds of mud. It was an unusual cart, the back of it enclosed entirely by a cage of iron bars. A prison.
One of Seton’s men placed his palm between Sorcha’s shoulder blades and pushed her forward. “Into the cart, witch.”
Woodenly, she clambered in after Agnes and Gellie, and she joined them to huddle in the corner. It was bitterly cold. The creeping damp and gusts of wind penetrated their clothing as if they wore nothing at all, and in spite of the stress, Sorcha’s stomach gnawed with sharp pains of hunger.
Hugh stepped up to the bars to leer down at her. “I’ll be waiting for Alec,” he offered cruelly. “I imagine, ‘twill not be long afore he’s here. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re on your way to the king.”
Sorcha didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Clamping her chattering teeth together tightly, she tucked her fingers under her arms in the effort to stay warm, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms.
The man caught the movement and a malicious expression crossed his narrow, cruel face.
“Ye’ll be warm soon enough, lass,” he informed her with a chuckle.
“His majesty’s hankering for a burning now.
Some say ‘tis the way to save a witch’s soul from the devil, but who knows, aye?
In either case, it makes a fair spot of entertainment for me, and for ye?
Well, let’s just say, ye willna be cold. ”
His men greeted this statement with scattered laughter.
Gellie broke into hysterical sobs.
“Dinna listen to him,” Sorcha whispered, drawing her into a comforting embrace.
Hugh just laughed as the cart rolled forward, its wheels creaking over the frozen, rutted road, and Seton, heavily cloaked, nudged his horse to follow.
The journey was a miserable one. The howling winds chilled them to the bone.
Sorcha’s nose dripped. The cart jostled them mercilessly, through a dismal landscape of leafless trees and over wide expanses of wind-flattened brown grass and heather.
Only an hour into it, the snow began to fall in large, half-melted flakes that only left them drenched and shivering, compounding their misery.
Hours later, sometime in the afternoon, they finally arrived at Edinburgh, rolling past men hanging from the gallows at the outskirts of the town. A crowd surrounded one hanged man, still convulsing in the throes of death. Sorcha could only stare in horror.
“Look at him dance.” Seton laughed with his men.
Sorcha shuddered and bowed her head.
But as they passed, the crowd lost interest and fell behind the iron-barred cart instead, and what started out as curiosity soon turned into hoots and jeers as the word “witches” circled through the throng.
It was only a matter of time before those following began to curse them, and a few scooped up clods of mud, tossing them through the bars.
One landed on Sorcha’s head, and as the cold slime trailed down her cheek and neck, Agnes rose to her knees to shake a bony hand at the troublemakers.
“Away, the lot of ye,” she hissed. “Afore I curse ye!”
They gasped.
Seton nudged his horse forward, growling, “Sit down, ye old crone!”
“What difference does it make if I do?” the woman astutely asked. “Ye’ll see me accused as a witch either way now, aye? What’s the harm in defending myself now?”
The milling crowd thinned after that, apparently unwilling to risk being cursed. Still, curious eyes followed them everywhere they trundled through the streets until finally, they arrived at New Tolbooth prison.
New Tolbooth was a large building occupying the south-west corner of St Giles' Cathedral. It was imposing, frightful, and clearly, once entered, there would be no escape from such a place.
A violent fit of shaking overwhelmed Sorcha, and at her side, Gellie began to weep hysterically once again.
This time, Sorcha didn’t comfort her. She didn’t have any to offer.