Witch Trials
Witches.
The tidings spread through Edinburgh like the plague. In the days that followed, Alec could only watch the events sweeping through the city in outright horror.
He’d spent every waking hour attempting to secure Sorcha’s freedom.
He’d left no stone unturned. He’d bribed her guards.
He’d begged influential nobles—and threatened others.
He’d hired men to steal her away, but so far, he’d been thwarted at every turn.
Through Taran, he’d solicited the aid of the highland clans—the only nobles powerful enough to sever the king’s puppet strings, but the highland chieftains were too far away to prevent the imminent injustice.
Lastly—and most futilely of all—he sought every audience he could obtain with his majesty, the king, and attempted all avenues of persuasion to secure Sorcha’s release.
Each ploy failed.
Alec heaved a sigh. In his heart of hearts, he knew Sorcha's dream would come to pass.
It was a double-edged sword. Aye, it meant she was still alive, to be able to walk down Castle Hill upon her own two feet, but it also meant she walked to her own death.
Desperately, he recalled every last detail, searching for anything he might use to save her, and keen upon distracting Hugh from his plans, he played the part expected of him—a desperate, hot-headed lover.
In truth, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
As the Montgomery, his first action had been to call his men to his aid, and no sooner had his clansmen filed into the streets of Edinburgh than the king beckoned him to Holyrood, demanding an explanation.
“There will be no violence here, we decree!” His majesty glowered, standing aloof with the ever-present Hugh Cunningham hovering at his side. "Why have ye brought so many men with ye?"
Alec eyed Hugh's superior, lofty expression.
‘Twas clear the king was nothing more than the man's unwitting pawn. Alec’s fingers twitched with the desire to throttle them both, but knowing Sorcha’s life depended upon him, he bowed his head instead and murmured, "They are merely traveling through, your majesty—back to the highlands. "
Both men caught the veiled threat. Hugh shifted uneasily.
The king’s tone softened. “Send them home hastily,” he suggested, more than ordered this time.
Alec viewed him with thinly veiled disgust. The king was weak, bending like a sapling whichever way the wind blew. "Aye, I’ll send them onwards when ye set Sorcha free,” he responded with a chilling smile. “Ye know well that she is no witch, your majesty."
The king nodded with a vague smile and waved a dismissing hand, but Alec knew he wouldn’t listen, not with Hugh whispering in his ear.
“A moment,” Hugh called out as Alec strode away.
Clenching his jaw, Alec slowly turned.
“’Tis Sorcha,” Hugh said, smiling as he joined him. “I thought ye’d find relief in knowing she’s free of the Devil’s Mark.”
Alec tensed.
The man’s thin jowls creased into a wider smile. “Aye, I searched her myself,” he explained, lowering his voice. “Such soft, smooth skin, now. Flawless. Or ‘twas—afore the whip.”
“Come, cousin,” Taran’s deep voice rumbled, and his arm snaked out from behind, pulling Alec back before he could unsheathe his sword.
The next thing Alec knew, he stood in his apartments in Edinburgh Castle, overlooking the town. He had no recollection of how he’d arrived there. In his mind’s eye, he saw only Hugh’s snide face.
Aye, he would avenge Sorcha.
The wee hours of the morning arrived and passed with her haunting his every waking thought, driving him to the brink of madness—but he could only wait.
At first, the king kept the accused witches in New Tolbooth, but his self-delusion as a Master of Demonology flourished quickly, and he moved them to Holyrood Palace under his direct care.
There, he delighted in interrogating the women at his convenience and, soon after, he began to share his unusual interest in witchcraft with the public.
Witches.
Talk of witches swept Edinburgh. His majesty, the King of Scotland, had captured witches.
Captivated themselves, all of Scotland watched and gossiped.
Within days, the ranks of the witch-class swelled to nearly one hundred—and if the king noticed the nobles offering their own personal enemies as fodder for the witch-hunters, he didn't mention it.
It wasn’t long before Alec and Taran entered the town center to find a crowd gathered around the market cross.
"Trials," Taran mouthed the word, pointing to the parchment fluttering in the wind.
Alec's breathing constricted as he saw the names: Agnes Simpson, Gellie Duncan, and Sorcha Cunningham.
"Agnes in the morning, and the day after, 'twill be both Gellie and Sorcha," his cousin provided, his gaze, hard and unreadable.
Alec expelled a breath. Clearly, Hugh had accelerated his persecution of Sorcha, most likely because he feared the arrival of the highlanders. “Then it begins,” he said, his heart heavy.
“Aye, cousin,” Taran responded grimly. “But soon, ‘twill all be but a memory. We willna fail."
Alec nodded, and silently vowing to spend the remainder of his life soothing Sorcha’s brow and kissing the horrors of the past week away, he returned to Holyrood Palace, seeking an audience with the king yet again—and once again failing to secure it.
The night was a sleepless one, and at last, dawn broke into a cold day.
Seeking to showcase his expertise as a witch-finder, the king had announced a public testing of Agnes Simpson at midday to determine her innocence: a trial by water.
Crowds lined the shores of the Water of Leith River as Alec and Taran arrived. Alec eyed the bloodthirsty throngs in disgust. The townspeople chattered, eager for their first glimpse of the witches that had become the talk of the land.
On the western bank of the river, the king’s men had erected a dais and covered it with a fine, brushed bearskin rug. The king’s carved chair sat in the very center, with plump, silk-embroidered cushions. A small table stood by the left armrest, bearing a bowl of grapes and a bottle of wine.
“Does the king think ‘tis a pleasure-outing in the royal parklands?” Alec muttered acidly as they pushed their way closer to the platform.
Taran sent him a wordless reply, his grim twist of a lip conveying more than its share of loathing.
A murmur of excitement rippled through the gathering, and Alec glanced over to see that the king had arrived, wearing soft leather gloves to protect his hands from the bitter cold, along with a velvet cloak, draped gracefully over his thin shoulders.
Lumbering across the dais, the monarch took his seat, settling in as if to enjoy an afternoon play. He raised his arm for silence.
“According to the law of God, in Holy Writ, ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’” his majesty announced, speaking over the buzz of the surrounding voices.
“We, your king, have determined that witchcraft is a crime so abominable that it may be proved by such evidence as the devil’s own mark, or by a trial of water. ”
The people gasped in awe.
“For Agnes Simpson, the water will be the judge,” his majesty continued in a haughty tone of superiority.
“If the accused floats, ‘tis proof the devil owns her soul, and she shall be adjudged a witch.
If she sinks, then she shall be deemed innocent of charge, but buried proper in the outskirts of a kirkyard. Aye, ‘tis simple enough.”
“He’s mad,” Alec choked, staring in horror as a prisoner’s cart pulled by a massive team of oxen rolled into view.
“Without a doubt,” Taran whispered by his side.
There was only one woman in the cart, tall, frail, and middle-aged. And while Alec experienced immense relief in finding Sorcha not with her, he felt profound sympathy and sorrow for the poor soul they had brought.
“Agnes Simpson, midwife from Keith, come forth to be judged,” the king intoned.
The crowd fell back as the guards yanked the barred door open and, seizing the woman, pulled her out.
They’d bound her hands tightly behind her back, and she wore a witch’s bridle upon her face, its iron prongs cruelly forced into her mouth with an iron band sealed over her lips.
As she came abreast the king’s platform, she fell to her knees, moaning.
“Let the witch speak,” the king ordered his men. “Mayhap ‘tis a confession to save her pitiful soul.”
A few townspeople backed away, as if they feared the witch would curse them as the guards removed the bridle from her face. The townspeople needn’t have feared. Her attention was riveted solely upon the king.
“I am innocent, my king, please show mercy! Please, I beg ye,” the poor woman implored in a weak, reedy voice.
The king found her words disappointing. With a sound of disgust, he ordered impatiently, “Make haste then, to the water.” He stamped his feet as if to warm them.
Turning to a noble standing close to the platform, he smiled and said congenially, “The weather is bitter cold. We long for the warmth of a fire. What say ye, aye?”
As the guards caught Agnes under the shoulders, she began to sob and shriek, “Please help me, kind nobles! I beg ye!”
But her pleas fell upon deaf ears and she was forced to the river’s edge.
Alec wanted to retch, unable to comprehend the cruelty unveiling before his eyes.
Some in the throng began to chant as the guards tossed the woman into the icy, churning water.
The townspeople surged forward, blocking Alec’s view, affording him only the briefest of glimpses of the woman fighting desperately to keep her head above the water.
He blanched, turning his head to one side as Taran passed his hands before his eyes.
The king didn’t wait long. Apparently fearing his victim would, indeed, drown, he rose to his feet and exclaimed, “’Tis clear she is guilty! An innocent would have sunk by now.”
The crowd gasped in collective horror.
Alec studied the faces surrounding him. Aye, there were those who were as horrified as he was, but surprisingly, there were many who were not.