An Expert on Demonology #2
The men continued inflicting agony upon the lass, inventing wild tales all the while, and at every turn, Hugh tried his utmost to drag Sorcha into it.
“The entire coven set sail,” he inserted into Seton’s narrative. “Aye, and ‘twas Sorcha who cast the cat into the midst of the sea whilst your majesty sailed back from Denmark.”
The king gasped in sick pleasure. “To think that the evilness of witches walked so boldly within our own lands.” He shook his head in amazement. “And ‘twas our very own ship that experienced the contrary wind more than the other vessels of the fleet. ‘Twas noted by all."
“Aye,” Hugh agreed with a smile. “’Twas the black cat that Sorcha threw into the sea.” His smile widened as the king’s attention turned to Sorcha at last.
“’Twas a great tremendous tempest that rose,” the king said, but much to Hugh’s disappointment, he waved at Seton to tighten Gellie’s thumbscrews instead. “’Twas only by a miracle our royal ship was saved from destruction. I would hear more from the leader of this coven!”
“Aye! ‘Tis all true! Everything ye say!” Gellie surrendered before they even asked another question of her.
They applied the thumbscrews anyway.
The madness continued. Sorcha could do nothing but weep with the horror of it all.
The clergymen at the table clucked their tongues, wagging their heads in astonishment from time to time as they documented every fanciful detail of Gellie’s supposed meetings with the devil, which had allegedly started out with simple meetings behind the kirk, and had devolved into naked revels, and feasting upon the dead.
“Please, stop,” Gellie finally whispered, broken. “I beg ye, stop.”
“’Twas an outright attempt upon our life and that of the queen, led by Satan himself,” the king murmured in wonder as he motioned for Seton to untie her from the chair.
“Dance for me, Gellie. Show me the dance ye danced at the North Berwick church. What was the song ye sang as ye led the coven to the sea, playing the Jew’s harp? ”
After Seton had untied her restraints, Gellie sobbed and slumped to the ground.
“I believe I can tell ye, your majesty,” Hugh supplied in her stead. “I’m told that they sang it thus the entire journey here.”
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye
If ye willna go before, cummer, let me
His voice droned on, but Sorcha didn’t hear him. She heard only Gellie’s hysterical weeping.
The king viewed Gellie with an expression hovering somewhere between disdain and indifference, and then nodded for his men to pick her up from the floor.
Strolling to the table, he selected a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and absently poured a cup, apparently lost in thought.
After a time, he shook himself from his reverie and paused to take a deep, satisfying whiff before imbibing a long draught.
He looked relaxed and pleased, as if he were merely enjoying a light afternoon’s entertainment.
“Let us see the formal account of this witchery,” he said, smiling a little as he held his hand out to the nearest clergyman.
He stood at the table then, sipping his wine and inspecting the parchment before nodding twice, picking up his quill with ring-studded thumb and forefinger, and signing his name with a bold swipe.
“Aye, ‘tis a detailed account of the righteous truth.
‘Tis irrefutable evidence that this one, Gellie Duncan, is undeniably a witch. Take her away from our sight.”
Numb with disbelief, Sorcha could only watch as two men dragged Gellie away and out of the chamber.
Much to Hugh’s chagrin, the king turned to Agnes next.
The old woman was exceedingly stubborn. She denied every accusation and even tossed in a few of her own, but as time passed, even she lost her will to fight and she collapsed to the floor.
The king hovered over her. “What did ye say now?” he asked, feigning surprise.
Sorcha eyed him in weary disbelief at his insanity. Agnes’ hadn’t said a thing. She lay on the ground, her face white, eyes closed, and her lips sealed.
The king leaned a little closer before jumping back, astonished. “Aye, ‘tis pure sorcery!” he declared. “This witch has just repeated the words we spoke to the Queen on our wedding night. ‘Tis chillingly accurate. Sorcery! There canna be any other explanation."
“Ye simply lie, as a simpleton does,” Agnes managed to gasp, her eyes remaining closed.
Anger crossed the king’s face at that, and he flicked his fingers at Seton, setting him loose upon the woman with a short leather whip this time.
She shrieked in pain, and it wasn’t long before, like Gellie, she was agreeing to whatever nonsense they spewed.
Finally, she lay in a silent, quivering heap upon the floor.
Again, the king scratched his name on the parchment, declaring the woman a witch.
Sorcha watched as Agnes was dragged away, and then she closed her eyes. She didn’t need to see Hugh’s smirk from across the room to know that it was her turn next.
“Your majesty is the devil’s most powerful enemy,” Hugh murmured, bowing in mock awe.
The king smiled in false modesty. “Aye, we merely do our best at purging this blight of witches.”
“Aye, your majesty,” Hugh agreed with an insidious smile. “Your profound talents are much to be admired. Mayhap your majesty should pen a treatise upon the subject, for the benefit of all.”
The king nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and then turned to Sorcha.
Sorcha’s heart quailed.
“Start with the toes,” the king announced, waving at Seton.
The man was delusional. They all were. They tied her to the chair and stood in a semi-circle around her as Seton removed her shoe.
Applying the pilliwinkle to her toes, Seton gave it a twist. Caught fast in its rusty grip, Sorcha could only whimper as pain lanced through her foot, far worse than she could have imagined. It was all too much. Her stomach roiled, and she retched upon the king’s feet.
“Ach,” the king complained in disgust. He eyed the thumbscrews with a touch of boredom. “Let’s move to a flaying, or mayhap another method, aye? This witch is a wee bit different than the others.”
Sorcha panted, dragging deep breaths. Sweat beaded her brow.
“Mayhap we should search for the pox scars of Satan's influence?” Hugh suggested, eyeing her with outright lecherous interest.
The king’s eyes sparked. “Aye, examine them all for the devil’s mark. Strip her and the others as well.”
As Seton headed for the door, apparently to inspect Agnes and Gellie, Hugh stepped up to Sorcha and yanked her out of the chair. Leaning close, he murmured into her ear, “I’ll be pleased to tell Alec every detail, I assure ye.”
“You’re an evil man and will soon get your due,” she told him certainly, albeit faintly, fighting to strengthen her voice.
He spat in her face. “Silence, witch,” he growled. She’d made him mad.
Ripping her gown, he pulled it off her slender frame with the help of another man. She could do nothing save stand there as they pinched and prodded, searching every inch of her naked skin for any sign of a blemish, a mark, until no shred of dignity remained.
“Aye, the mark of the devil!” Seton burst into the room, dragging Gellie behind him. Turning her around, he pointed to a small birthmark under her left shoulder blade. “’Tis the devil’s mark.”
The king was terribly pleased. Smiling at Hugh, he said, “As we told ye, Hugh, this lass is the coven’s witch-queen.”
“Aye, your majesty.” Hugh bowed in deep reverence. “But this one, now?” He nodded at Sorcha. “Should we not continue the interrogation?”
But the king’s attention had riveted upon Gellie once again. “We would hear more of how ye got that mark,” he said to her. “What did the devil require of ye now?”
Hugh scowled. But he was a persistent man and so tried a different tactic.
Striding to the table, he picked up a short leather whip with knotted thongs of cotton cord.
“May I assist your majesty?” he asked politely.
“As ye question Gellie, mayhap ‘twould be of value to loosen Sorcha’s lips a wee bit?”
The king nodded, distracted.
Hugh didn’t wait. With a gleam in his dark eyes, he stood over Sorcha in a flash. The whip snaked through the air, lacerating the soft flesh on her back at the first strike.
Sorcha sucked in a breath of shock. She fell to the floor as excruciating pain speared through her back to her belly.
“Mayhap I should place a hair-shirt steeped in vinegar over your cuts to remove any remaining skin, aye?” Hugh asked, letting the whip fly. “Ye remember how you betrayed my sister, now, don’t ye?”
She couldn’t even respond. She could only writhe in agony. She didn’t know how long the whipping lasted. There was only the endless, torturous haze of pain and, finally, she blacked out.
When Sorcha awoke sometime later, she still lay on the floor in the king’s chamber. Judging by the guttering torches hissing in their braces and the candles on the table drowning in pools of wax, she’d been there quite some time.
The king leaned against the table, his lips widened into a smile, and his thin chest reverberated with laughter.
“Aye, witches are especially stubborn daughters of the flawed Eve,” he was saying to both Seton and Hugh standing before him.
“But ‘tis time for refreshment. Pastries and marzipan. Aye, and some of that mulled wine. Join us, will ye? This has been a hard night’s work, has it not?”
They left without a backwards glance, leaving the guards to pick the shattered women up from the floor and to take them on the trek back to their New Tolbooth prison cell. There, they huddled together, weeping and nursing their injuries.
Gellie sobbed and then said nothing at all.
“We’re in hell now, but may God have mercy on the three of us and end this quickly,” Agnes muttered.
Sorcha could only agree.