The Dream #3
Desperately, she peered over his shoulder, seeing only Montgomery plaids at first. But as the horses trotted around the corner, she saw him.
Alec. With her heart in her throat, she memorized every detail, from his firm jaw shadowed with stubble, to the straight line of his nose, and the set of his broad shoulders.
“Ach, the fool took the bait,” Hugh murmured, clearly amused. “I’ll enjoy the look on his face when he returns next week. ‘Tis a shame ye’ll not be here to see it.” He laughed, deeper.
But Sorcha scarcely heard him. She watched as Alec rode out of view, and even longer, before closing her eyes. ‘Twas just as well Alec didn’t know. She didn’t want him to witness her death.
Satisfied that Alec had gone, Hugh dropped his hand from her mouth and ordered a guard to bind her wrists with rope.
It was rapidly growing colder. The sting of half-melted snowflakes bit her cheeks, but she knew that soon, the flakes would drift down lazily from the sky to blanket the road leading down Castle Hill. She’d seen it many times before.
Seizing the other end of the rope falling from her hands, Hugh jerked her forward, leading her around the corner of the building to where the cowled priest sat astride his black horse.
Spying them, he began nudging his way through a sizeable crowd, and as the townspeople caught sight of her, a few among them began to shout curses and to pick up half-melted clods of snow mixed with mud in order to lob them her way.
The guards cleared a path to the priest then, using their spears horizontally as poles to shove the surging crowd back.
For Sorcha, everything began to fade. Numb.
Aye, she only felt numb. After having lived through the nightmare for so many torturous nights, reality seemed far more dreamlike than any dream ever had.
Her mind seized upon the strangest things.
The delicate shape of the snowflake that had just landed on her sleeve.
The big, solemn, brown eyes of a young child staring at her in horror.
Aye, and the massive size of the black warhorse pawing the cobblestones, flicking his ears back as Hugh handed the priest the rope, and the man tied it to the back of his saddle.
As if from a great distance, she heard Hugh speak to the priest, “Carry on the burning, aye? I’ll rejoin ye after I see what delays my men. I shan’t be long.”
“Dominus vobiscum,” the priest responded, crossing himself.
Go with God. Sorcha couldn’t stop the laugh spilling from her lips. “’Tis not God ye serve, but the devil,” she said, still feeling caught in a dream.
Hugh looked down at her, cocking a brow.
The priest responded with a tug of her rope. She pitched forward onto the stones, twisting her ankle. The pain seared through the haze in her mind, and she was all at once, alert and present.
“Aye, father.” Hugh grinned, finding the exchange amusing, and then he turned away, calling for his horse.
A bitter gust of wind tore through Sorcha’s garments as she heaved herself off of the cobblestones. The priest moved forward, and grabbing the rope that tied them together with both of her hands, she hobbled painfully after him.
Children fell into a line behind her, their voices chanting:
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye
If ye willna go before, cummer, let me
The cold, morning air pierced her bones, but the snowflakes softened, just like she knew they would, drifting in lazy circles around her upturned face. Aye, and the mob, they were beginning to surge, just as they had in her dream, feeding on the promise of bloodlust.
Returning to her dreamlike state, she stumbled after the priest as the scene she’d witnessed so many times unfolded before her.
The frenzied mob welled up around her, pelting her with manure and rotting vegetables.
The snow thickened, eddying in thick swirls around her feet.
Aye, and the smoke. A thick plume of smoke snaked up into the sky. A gust of wind blew against her face, carrying with it the stench of her dreams: the stench of burning flesh.
It was the smell that shattered her composure. The smell of death. And for the first time, a sob escaped her lips.
The priest responded to the sound. Turning back to face her, he gave the rope a hard yank.
She tripped, falling hard. Her breath leaving her lungs in a rush.
The priest stopped.
Dazed, she lay there a moment, the cold burning her cheeks as the snowflakes danced around her. The crowd began to pelt her with more rotten vegetables and manure as they jeered for her to rise.
Again, the priest snapped the rope.
Woodenly, she forced herself to her knees, and then to her feet.
She was so tired. So weary. Soon, it would be over.
Suddenly, the black warhorse reared.
The crowd fell back.
Dazed, Sorcha watched as the priest swiftly drew a dirk from his boot. In one single, fluid motion, he sliced the rope anchoring her to his saddle and, wrenching sharply, wheeled the battle charger around to face her where she stood, stunned and confused.
Leaning low in the saddle, the priest charged towards her, holding out a strong, muscled arm and, catching her about the waist, hoisted her into the saddle before him.
As he did so, a gust of wind lifted his hood, rippling through his sun-burnished hair.
It wasn’t the scraggly-bearded priest at all.
It was Alec.