An Expert on Demonology
Two men wearing iron-ringed jerkins swept Sorcha out of New Tolbooth and into the dark stillness of the night, bundling her into the back of another prison cart, this time, headed by a team of oxen.
It was cold, but the moon was full and bright.
She could see her breath, puffing out in big clouds of steam.
She shivered and blew on her hands, but the only shred of warmth she felt came from the memory of Alec’s loving, green eyes.
More men arrived, bringing with them Agnes and then Gellie.
“Where are they taking us?” Gellie gasped as the guards pushed her next to Sorcha. “Where are they taking us?”
Sorcha didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. She knew it wouldn’t be anywhere pleasant.
The oxen bellowed, inching the cart forward as a clatter of hooves echoed across the cobblestone lane behind the prison.
Curious, she peered through the bars and almost screamed.
It was the priest from her dreams.
There was no mistake. The man sat astride a magnificent black warhorse bedecked in Spanish trappings. As he urged his beast alongside the cart, he withdrew the hood of his dark, cowled robe and peered down at Sorcha, absently stroking a scraggly, gray beard.
Noticing her eyes upon him, he lifted a hand and intoned, “Dominus vobiscum.”
“Father,” Seton’s voice hailed the man. A moment later, he trotted around the back of the cart to dip his head in a polite nod. “As the most cherished priest of his majesty’s mother, Queen Mary, the king bids ye a felicitous welcome to these proceedings, father.”
The priest nodded. Once.
Silently, the two men fell in behind the cart as it continued rolling down the Royal Mile to the base of the hill.
“Where are they taking us?” Gellie whispered again.
No one answered.
This time, their journey was a short one.
At the end of the Royal Mile, they stopped at Holyrood Palace, a massive complex of stone.
Taking them from the cart, the king’s guards tied rough, hemp ropes around their wrists and led them into the northwest tower of the palace, over a smooth flagstone floor to a large audience chamber.
Immense arched windows adorned both sides, and two large, carved wood-panelled doors graced the far end.
Sorcha eyed them suspiciously, wondering exactly what lay behind them.
A squat-faced man approached from behind with a bucket of water looped over his arm and a pewter cup. Pausing first before Sorcha, he filled the cup and dangled it before her parched lips.
“Thirsty, witch?” He grinned, baiting her by slowly spilling the water onto the floor.
Sorcha licked her dry lips. She’d had nothing to eat or drink for as long as she’d been in captivity, and by far the worst of it had been the thirst. Desperately, she leaned forward, opening her mouth, trying to catch the drops.
The man laughed.
“Dinna tease them,” another man growled, moving to loosen their bindings. “Give them the water, Raph, and the bannocks now. They must speak with the king. We canna have them fainting.”
A look of disappointment crossed her tormentor’s face. Irritated at the spoiling of his fun, he thrust the cup into her hand with a scowl. “Be hasty now,” he muttered.
Sorcha swallowed the water in one long gulp, wanting more but receiving only the one. Another man appeared, dropping a dry bannock into her outstretched palm, and she hurriedly wolfed it down as Gellie and Agnes frantically quenched their thirst.
“No more,” the man with the bucket snapped, wrenching the cup from Agnes’ grip. He nodded at the carved doors swinging back on their hinges. “’Tis time ye confess your wicked ways.”
With their hands once again securely bound behind their backs, they were led through the doors and down a short passage into an exquisitely furnished chamber.
But the fire roaring in the hearth was the only thing she and the other women noticed.
Closing their eyes and overcome with chill, they crowded around it, revelling in its warmth.
“Which lass is the leader of this coven?”
Sorcha jerked, recognizing the king’s voice. At once, she bowed her head and dropped into a curtsey, as best as she could with her hands secured behind her back.
The king arrived, walking towards them in his slow and unsteady gait, and wearing a rich brocade doublet with sleeves trimmed in gold braid.
He paused in front of Sorcha, eyeing her impassively.
She could see the gleam of recognition in his dark eyes.
But he said nothing, and clasping his hands behind his back, shambled to a halt in front of Gellie.
“’Tis this lass who is the leader, aye?” he murmured, cocking a brow.
“Nay, your majesty,” Hugh Cunningham’s voice slithered into the chamber. He stepped into Sorcha’s view, removing a light blue mantle from his gaunt shoulders. With an elaborate bow, he waved his hand and pointed a long finger at Sorcha. “’Twas Sorcha who led them.”
“Nay!” Sorcha gasped. “’Tis a lie, your majesty! Not—”
“Silence!” the king thundered, his eyes flashing in anger.
Shocked, she clamped her mouth shut.
Hugh smiled, a slow, lazy smile of cruel amusement.
But then, to Hugh’s obvious disappointment, the king returned his attention to Gellie.
“We are highly adept in the knowledge of the arts of demonology, Cunningham,” he said to the man in a voice saturated with pride.
“‘Tis an uncommon talent, we assure ye, and ‘tis no wonder a layman such as yourself would be confused.” He nodded at Gellie with his chin. “’Tis this witch, with hair the color of the devil’s own heart, that led them all.”
Gellie burst into tears.
Hugh’s lips thinned, obviously displeased, but he was resilient. “Aye, your majesty,” he granted, sauntering over to hover next to the king. “No doubt, then Sorcha is her right hand,” he suggested softly.
“Mayhap, mayhap,” the king murmured. Moving to Agnes, he pursed his lips for a time before pointing back at Gellie. “Let’s start with the leader, aye? Bring the pilliwinks.”
Gellie’s eyes widened in horror. “Nay, nay, my lord,” she sobbed, but her protests were lost in the bustle that followed.
Clergymen arrived, seating themselves at a table littered with quills, tall white tapers, and countless sheets of parchment.
They were holy men, men of the Protestant Church, but they welcomed the cowled priest in a friendly enough manner.
Apparently, at least in the matter of witchery, both Protestant clergy and Catholic priests could agree.
As Gellie began to wail outright, Seton appeared with a set of cast-iron thumbscrews, and seeing the lass tied securely to a tall-backed wooden chair, they set about their evil business.
A nightmare followed, a nightmare of unimaginable cruelty.
Sorcha couldn’t stop them from hurting Gellie, even though she screamed, begged, and pleaded with all her heart for her friend.
Seton applied the pilliwinks to the toes of the apple-cheeked lass first, and then to her fingers.
Gellie screamed, gut-wrenching shrieks that reduced Sorcha to sobs herself.
Agnes, for her part, shouted an endless stream of curses upon the men, condemning them all to the cruellest bowels of Hades for what they were doing there that day.
But the two were blatantly ignored, save for an occasional bemused smirk in their direction from Hugh.
The king and all the rest of the sadists’ attention focused solely on Gellie—the supposed leader of the coven.
At intervals, Seton would relax the thumbscrews long enough to ask an accusatory question. But he would tighten them again just as soon as the lass seemed inclined to disagree with his accusations.
“Aye, ye wicked wench!” Seton hissed for what seemed the hundredth time as he walked around Gellie in slow circles. “Ye sought to drown the king and destroy his vessels! How many witches did ye command? How many of ye sailed in sieves and riddles along the coast of North Berwick?”
Gellie simply sobbed.
“Aye, at least one hundred, she said,” Seton grunted at the clergymen at the table.
Their quills scratched across their parchment furiously.
Hugh stepped forward then. “Aye, ‘twas at the kirk in Tranent that ye met with the devil himself, aye? The entire coven sought to accomplish the king’s death with witchery,” he accused in a tone of mock gravity.
At the sound of his voice, Gellie managed to lift her lashes. “I curse the day I ever met ye, Hugh,” she said in a broken whisper.
Hugh struck her hard across the face. “The witch seeks to curse me!” he gasped, shocked. “How did ye know my name? What devilry is this? I’ve never seen ye afore.”
“You’re an evil, evil man,” she choked.
The men at the table shook their heads and kept writing.
Seton stepped forward, his thumbs jammed into his belt. “And was it not at the kirk in Tranent that ye took a black toad and hanged it by the heels for three days upon a tree?” he queried.
Gellie didn’t respond.
“Truly?” the king shuddered in delicious horror. His eyes lit with excitement as he joined Seton to peer down at the lass. “Did she gather the venom that dropped into an oyster shell? Keeping it covered with the linen from one of our very own shirts?”
“Aye, aye,” Seton agreed in astonishment. He bowed before the king, long, elaborate, and low. In a hushed voice, he added, “Your majesty is truly a master of demonology.”
The king graced him with a narcissistic smile.
“True, true,” he admitted readily. Tapping his lip with his finger, he eyed Gellie in open speculation.
“And the cat? Did ye not take a black cat and bind to it each part of a dead man? And after doing so, did ye not drag the animal nine times across the fire?”
Gellie peered up at the king, confused. Sweat rolled down her brow.
His majesty snorted and lifted a brow at Seton.
“Aye, aye!” Gellie sobbed as the pilliwinks were set upon her toes once again. “As ye say, aye! Aye, a cat!”
Sorcha sobbed, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands.
At her side, Agnes watched, suddenly stone-faced and silent.