Witch Trials #2
“’Tis they who are evil,” Taran growled in his ear, nodding at the gleeful faces watching the king’s men heaving Agnes in and out of the river. “Malcontents and trouble-causers, the lot. ‘Tis they who should be drowned for good.”
The woman lay where they’d dropped her, gasping convulsively in a sodden mass at the king’s feet.
“Agnes Simpson,” his majesty declared, raising both hands. “We declare ye a witch of the worst ilk, to be burned at the stake. And for one so evil, ye’ll be burned …” he paused dramatically before uttering a single, alarming word with obvious relish, “Alive.”
That stunned the crowd. Some of them began to jeer, but as Agnes moved, craning her neck upwards towards the king, they quickly fell silent, straining forward to hear.
“A curse on yer offspring, as I’ve already cursed ye, fool,” Agnes spat.
One of the guards struck her, and she fell back, unconscious.
As shocked murmurs echoed in the air, the king shook his head. “’Tis clear your king stands in the most dangerous position of all,” he said ostentatiously to the crowd. “But ‘tis a burden we shall bear for ye.”
Alec stared, appalled and speechless. Unable to bear the situation a moment longer, he whirled and strode away, but he’d taken only a few steps before he spied a large, black warhorse from the corner of his eye.
He froze, filled with a curious combination of consternation, despair, and relief.
The priest of Sorcha’s dream. It could be no other. The man sat astride his horse, stroking the thin wisp of his beard as he watched the proceedings before him.
Alec bowed his head.
Time was running out.
* * *
Gellie Duncan’s trial took place early the next day.
Apparently unwilling to deny himself the comfort of a warm fire, the king moved the event to the Castle of Edinburgh’s main hall.
Only the nobles and prominent townsmen were allowed inside the hall.
The remaining onlookers found themselves relegated to the forecourt, spilling out into the surrounding streets.
They didn’t mind. A fair-like atmosphere pervaded the air.
Lads hawked meat pies in the streets. Men gathered in the alehouses, discussing the state of the land over their tankards.
Women gossiped in the markets. Even the clergy walked the streets, preaching of impending doom as the country folk flocked into the town.
Business bustled, far more than with the usual hanging.
A witch-frenzy had caught the town in its grip.
Alec couldn’t stop pacing. “There’s no room for error, Taran,” He expelled a tense breath as they waited in the hall for Gellie’s trial to begin. He couldn’t miss a moment. He didn’t know when they’d bring Sorcha. “We canna make one mistake.”
“Aye,” his cousin agreed.
The din of voices sank into silence, and all heads turned to the door, and what Alec saw filled his heart with sorrow.
Gellie Duncan stood there, swaying unsteadily on her feet between two guards, her skin pale and her eyes dull, sunken.
Her dark hair hung down in long, limp strings over her gray, clammy face.
Slowly, the men pushed her forward, parading her down the entire length of the hall to finally kneel before the king, lounging insouciantly upon his luxurious, carved chair.
What followed was a travesty of justice of the utmost proportions.
David Seton arrived first, sweating to the king upon his soul that he’d uncovered proof of Gellie’s dealings with the devil, stating the lass in his employ had continually snuck out of his home to concoct evil brews and meet with Satan himself.
Witnesses arrived then, a procession of people claiming they saw Gellie dance in the kirk’s graveyard with a doorkeeper by the name of Grey Meal and a schoolmaster called Dr. Fian—leaving Alec to wonder just which nobles those men had angered to bring the king’s wrath upon their heads.
A preposterous tale was told then, a tale of how Gellie had sold her soul to the devil, and how she’d led a coven of witches, Sorcha Cunningham amongst them, to sail upon the sea and to cast a black cat into the water, with the intent of sinking the king’s vessel.
Several witnesses swore they’d seen Gellie dance at the head of the line of witches, at least a hundred long, playing a Jew’s harp and singing:
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye
If ye willna go before, cummer, let me
An unnatural silence descended upon the hall, its occupants riveted upon every ludicrous word.
Gellie didn’t respond as the accusations piled.
She sat on the floor, numb, failing even to react, when a plump, excitable matron spontaneously claimed Gellie to be an old crone who had conspired with the devil to sacrifice a village infant in exchange for the face of a young maid.
Instead of being tossed out of the hall as a nuisance, the woman’s words were written down as evidence.
“When will this lunacy end?” Alec turned to Taran in astonishment.
“I fear the world has truly gone mad,” the highlander murmured, confounded.
By mid-afternoon, the king rose to his feet, proclaiming Gellie Duncan a witch. “And to be strangled first and burned at dawn on the morrow,” his majesty said to thunderous applause.
Gellie didn’t move, not even as the guards dragged her away.
A cold fear fell over Alec then. There was only one more trial. Sorcha’s.
Unable to breathe, he watched the king wave for silence. “We have one more trial,” his majesty announced. “One Sorcha Cunningham.”
Just hearing her name made his heart burst. Taran’s comforting fingers clapped over his shoulder.
“Shall we refresh ourselves as we wait?” his majesty suggested lightly, smiling at the nobles clustering around him, Hugh Cunningham amongst them.
Alec found their heartlessness beyond astounding.
As if in a dream, he watched the king chat, exchanging easy conversation as he washed his hands in a silver ewer and then dabbed them dry on a linen towel.
He selected a tart from a platter of pastries and indulged in a goblet of wine, taking a deep sniff first, as if he might discuss the vintage.
“We find we miss the sound of a hunter’s horn,” Alec heard him say instead, as he brushed the crumbs from his scant beard.
“On the morrow, we’re keen on a good game hunting. What do ye say?”
“Aye,” a soft chorus responded.
The cowled priest stepped into the hall then, moving through the crowd to stand only a few feet away from Alec and Taran.
Alec shivered with foreboding. “I dinna know if I can see her suffer so,” he whispered to Taran, tension humming in every line of his face. “It breaks my heart, Taran, just the thought of it.”
“Aye, but ye’ll have a lifetime with her to dry the tears, cousin,” the highlander offered in a low voice. “’Tis only a wee bit longer, and she’ll be safe in your arms. I swear it.”
Alec bowed his head, wishing he shared his cousin’s certainty, but then his world reeled.
He felt her presence even before he turned.
For the first time in a week, his gaze landed upon Sorcha, hovering in the doorway of the castle’s great hall, her violet-ringed eyes oddly expressionless, her lips bloodied, and her hands red and raw.
Alec felt the color drain from his face. “I canna lose her, Taran,” he confessed.
“Ye won’t, lad,” his cousin swore softly in his ear.
But Alec scarcely heard him, he stared at her, unable to wrench his gaze away. Ach, she reminded him of a wary doe, worn and battered. Slowly, she began to move, limping and her face pallid, but he took heart in the fact that she still walked.
She didn’t see him as she passed by, but he forced his lips into a smile anyway, sending her strength and encouragement.
No sooner had she passed than Hugh Cunningham stepped into his field of vision, sending him a particularly self-satisfied grin.
Alec ground his teeth, fighting to keep his emotions in check, and as his rage burned, he could feel the color slowly returning to his face.
"Dinna lose heart, gràdh geal mo chrìdh," he whispered, turning away from Hugh to watch Sorcha haltingly make her way towards the king. “’Twill not be long, I swear.”
He bowed his head, composing himself with difficulty, but finally, he lifted his chin. And when he did, his eyes were cold. Calculating.
It was beginning—at last.
There was no room left for error now.