The Dream #2
But her thoughts were elsewhere, riding on Alec’s horse with his arm firmly circled around her waist, and her head resting upon his broad shoulder.
* * *
The wan light of the moon filtered through the barred window of the prison cell.
They’d been taken back to New Tolbooth. All three of them.
Agnes knelt in the corner, haggard and drawn, her lips moving in silent prayer as Gellie crawled next to Sorcha, huddling close to lean her head against her shoulder.
“I canna dwell upon what's coming to me with the dawn,” the raven-haired lass whispered, hot tears of anguish coursing down her cheeks. “I’ll never sleep.”
Sorcha’s heart withered in despair. What could she say other than that she understood that the horror of the day lay in waking up. They clung to each other, shivering through the ever-present, pervading chill of the night.
Time passed all too quickly, and no sooner had the first glimmer of gray graced the horizon than they heard the jingling of keys, followed by a metallic clang turning inside the lock.
“Nay,” Gellie gasped, fear flashing across her face. “Nay, not yet!” She crawled back into the straw, as if to escape.
But there was nowhere to go.
As the prison cell filled with guards, Sorcha leapt to her feet, standing protectively over Gellie, but the black-cowled priest suddenly loomed out of the darkness and pulled her sharply away.
“She’s innocent!” Sorcha choked, struggling against the man’s iron grip.
“”Tis your own soul you should pray for now,” the priest spat in response.
“Aye, my bonny wee Sorcha,” Hugh Cunningham’s nasal voice slid behind her ear. “He speaks the truth. By the king’s mercy, ye meet your death this morning. I’ve come to escort ye myself.”
Confused, Sorcha twisted in the priest’s grip to face the tall, gaunt man grinning down at her.
“’Twas my doing,” Hugh admitted, a gleam of pride arcing his narrow face.
“I bade the king announce your death a week hence, to throw Alec off the scent. He thinks he has a week to save ye now, and the fool’s leaving for the highlands this morn, gone to fetch aid.
‘Tis a shame he’ll return to catch only your ashes. ”
Alec. Sorcha shuddered at his name.
A sudden scuffle broke out behind them, and Gellie appeared, lunging at Hugh, frantically grabbing the hem of his kilt. “I beg thy mercy, Hugh,” she sobbed. “If ye ever loved me. Please, I beg ye, have mercy!”
“Away, woman,” he spat as several men lifted her back. Straightening his plaid in rank irritation, he flicked a hand in Gellie’s direction and snapped to his men, “Let us get this done. I’ve important matters to attend to afterwards.”
A tall man wearing an executioner’s hood stepped into the cell then, and Gellie screamed.
Sorcha ran towards Gellie but was restrained by another guard.
“By the king’s mercy, ye’ll die ere ye burn at the stake,” the hooded man announced, moving towards Gellie and popping his knuckles in anticipation.
Feeling sick and barely registering the rough hands encompassing her, Sorcha bowed her head.
“Nay,” Hugh was suddenly laughing into her ear, grabbing a handful of hair, and jerking her head back. “Ye’ll watch.”
The executioner snapped a band of leather, stretching it wide as two men bundled Gellie forward.
Tears blinded Sorcha’s vision. She didn’t see Gellie’s demise, but she heard it in great detail. Transfixed in horror, she could only listen to the frantic weeping, the rustling straw, the sounds of a struggle, and finally, the muted moaning that ominously went silent all at once.
The room began to spin under her feet. “Gellie, I’m so sorry,” Sorcha whispered, eyes still closed, and her voice cracking with emotion.
Hugh’s laugh sounded unnaturally loud. “‘Tis not Gellie ye should mourn,” he informed her with relish. “’Tis yourself. And ye’ll not be sharing her fortune.
I’ve seen ye spared the strangling. Ye’ll walk to your pyre behind the father’s horse.
Aye, ye’d best hurry. Already, they’re stacking the wood. ”
Alive. Burned alive. He thought to terrorize her, but Sorcha already knew how the events would unfold.
She’d been warned, so very long ago. Undaunted, she lifted her chin, unwilling to give him the slightest hint of satisfaction to see even the slightest flicker of fear.
Instead, setting her mouth in a resolute line, she looked first on Hugh and said, “You’re evil beyond imagination.
” And turning to the priest, she added, “And you’re no holy man. ”
The scraggly-bearded priest furrowed his brows and, lifting his hand, struck her across the face, hard. “Do not think to curse a man of the cloth!” he roared.
She swayed on her feet, wiping the blood from her lip with raw, blistered hands.
“’Tis time,” Hugh growled.
Placing his palm on her back, he shoved her forward, nearly into the man shouldering Gellie’s limp body. Sorcha’s throat closed with emotion and, half-blinded by tears, she stumbled out of the cell and into the gray morning outside.
The clouds were dark, hanging low in the sky, seeming even darker than the clouds of her dream. A snowflake flurried down from above to land on the tip of her nose. Nearby, she could hear the clatter of approaching hooves.
“Back,” Hugh growled in her ear, yanking her under the archway to press her back against the stones, blocking her from the view of the street.
Clamping a hard hand over her mouth, he chuckled and added in a cruel taunt, “And look just who it is now, leaving Edinburgh for the highlands.
‘Tis your own true love, Alec. Do ye wish for one last look ere he rides off, the fool?”