The Spellbound Bride (26 page)

She nodded, fighting back the tears that burned her eyes. One escaped, trickling down her cheek. Archibald wiped it away with the gentle swipe of his thumb. He lifted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

They both knew what could not be said. The courts lived by the vow "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." In their eyes, she was guilty until proven innocent, usually by means of drowning or torture. Either way she would still die. Saving the child was all she could hope for.

"Bring him back if you can."

Archibald left the dank prison, furious at himself for not seeing it sooner. Henna had used him for her own gain, and he had nearly lost Sorcha in the bargain. The old crone didn’t care if Sorcha died. Henna had still tried to poison Ian, even when the risk had been too great. His plan to have Sorcha abducted in the wood so he could have Hunter slain and avoid the accusations of witchcraft had failed because of the worthless cripple Henna had foisted on him. Perhaps that had been done apurpose as well. Henna didn’t want Sorcha to survive that much was clear to him now. Sorcha was worth ten thousand of that old crone and the cripple.

He traveled quickly, reaching Leith in record time. After searching the wharf for the next frigate bound for France, he passed through the nearby inns systematically, searching for Ian. All the while his brain turned and mulled out the possibilities. There was a chance that he could save Sorcha and at the same time rid himself of Henna and no one would be the wiser for his dealings with her.

It would conveniently cover up his past error in judgment, thus saving him a tongue-lashing and public humiliation from the king at court. It might also bring him closer to his ultimate goal of claiming Sorcha for himself and ridding him of Hunter. At least Sorcha now understood what was at stake. She was royal by blood and a duty to attend to. Once he claimed her, his children would have royal blood, and his place at the right hand of the king would be assured. Archibald smiled. If he did as well as he envisioned, he may even be given leave by the king to rule Scotland once James took the English throne.

He entered the
Triple Crown
inn and spotted Ian alone at a table in the back. His big hand was wrapped around a pewter mug beaded with droplets of water.

"Ian! I’m glad I’ve found you."

"Why? So you can rejoice in my misery a little more? I understand you had quite a laugh at my expense when I met my brother at court."

"That’s not important. Sorcha is. There may be a way to stave off her execution."

Ian tilted back the mug, draining the contents.

"But in the end she’ll die."

"Damn it, Hunter. Did you not hear me?"

"Aye. I did."

Archibald leaned forward across the table.

"You must come back with me to court."

Ian pounded the table with his fist, toppling the pewter mug to the floor.

"Nay. I cannot bear it. To look upon her and know they’ll simply kill her is worse than dying myself. I’m doing the only thing I can, and that is to honor her last request and leave for France. Do not ask any more from me." He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"You fool. Your unborn child, will die along with her if you do nothing."

His head snapped up.

"What did you say?"

"Sorcha’s with child. You must go to court and claim the child, or you will lose it as well."

Ian’s stomach flipped, then sunk. A child. He braced his hands on the table, his heart thudding thickly in his chest. A child who would never know his mother. God’s teeth, the weight of the thought made it difficult for him to breathe. Ian scrubbed his face with his hands and cursed under his breath.

He could not save Sorcha, but he had every right to protect and save his child that grew within her, giving her another few months to live. Perhaps he’d have enough time to go to France, return, and plan an escape. With time anything was possible.

He looked up at Argyll.

"Let’s go."

Chapter Seventeen

The air in the makeshift courtroom was heavy and heated from the damp breath of the crowd inside the North Berwick church. Ian pushed his way through to a space along the wall in the back, then scanned the room, searching for Sorcha.

King James himself occupied the judge’s seat, the high-backed chair emphasizing, rather than improving, his small stature. He would act as judge and jury. Everyone knew this matter was personal to the monarch. He took the attack on himself and his new bride very seriously, especially since it involved witches who’d summoned a storm at sea. Beyond his raised chair, and the flank of guards, there were the favored lords who filled the front pews with the best view, and off to the side, near them a special section with haggard members of the accused. The rest of the room was filled to brimming with onlookers seeking entertainment.

Ian’s heart lurched at the sight of Sorcha. Her bent head and sallow skin tore at him. He fought the urge to hack and hew through the crowd of people to reach his wife and lift her to his chest. He willed her to look at him.

Her head lifted. Her face was smudged with grime and lined with fatigue, but she had never looked more glorious to him. Her eyes moved, focusing across the room. He willed harder, reaching out to her with everything within him. Their gazes locked.

In that instant Ian knew for certain that he loved her beyond all measure. His arms ached to hold her.

Sorcha grasped her stomach at the sight of him. By the strain in his face and anguish in his eyes, she knew he’d been told of the child. She had wished so fervently for him to reach France safe from her, but the child had changed that. She wanted to live, for him and for their child. The longing pained her more than any of the torture she’d endured in the past week.

The rumble in the courtroom settled as the trial began. Sorcha focused on Ian, drawing strength from his presence. Until she’d seen him, she’d sat numbly with the others. Though she had barely seen her cellmates in their week of darkness, she knew them intimately by their voices.

They hauled Gilly to the raised trial box and ushered her inside. She duly repeated the oath sworn to her and turned her face to the king. His face was contorted with anger and a flush suffused his skin.

"Mistress Gilly, you stand accused of witchcraft and treason against your king. It is this court’s duty to determine your guilt or innocence of these charges. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, your Highness."

"Bring in the witnesses."

Sorcha wrung her hands, her stomach rolling. The journey from the dungeons to the church had made her babe sickness worse. She concentrated on the words being spoken by the witnesses against the accused woman, trying to understand why they might think her guilty in this trial, but they made her want to retch as well. She glanced again at Ian, using him as a secure anchor for her shifting emotions.

The next witness approached the platform and a hush descended the crowd. In that moment the witness held a captive audience in her palm as all attention focused on her.

"Do you recognize the witch?"

"Aye, your Highness." She nodded. Her eyes grew narrow, and she thrust an accusing finger at Gilly. "I saw her casting a spell the night of the great storm. She held a waxen doll in her hands wrapped in strips of king’s shirt and was wavin’ it about before she stuck great pins in it. She and Agnes Sampson waited for their Devil, Dr. Fain, to come among them and hit the ground three times with a stick. Up from the soil sprang a black cat. They wrapped the small finger bones of a man about its legs and shouted at the sea before she threw it in." The witnesses’ eyes became round with fear. "And when she did, your Highness, the sea began to boil, and the storm clouds rolled in."

Gilly paled at the accusation, clearly stunned by its horrific nature.

Fire ignited behind the king’s eyes, his thick lips twisting into a decided frown. "Do you admit being beside the sea the night of the storm?"

"A—aye. I was wa—watching for my husband’s return, your majesty."

"And did you or did you not speak the name of your king and queen?"

Gilly looked panicked. Sorcha grasped little Anne against her, holding the child and trying to quiet her sobs as her mother stood on trial.

"I always says a prayer for Godspeed and safe journey— "

"Did you speak the king’s name and that of the queen?"

"Aye, I pray for my husband and then for them— "

"Are you in league with Lord Bothwell, as well as the Devil?"

"Nay! I’m innocent!"

The king was clearly no impartial judge in this matter. He intended to seek vengeance. He intended to see Bothwell damned and burned. He leaned forward, a palpable mix of rage and power, emanating from him.

"We’ve your confession of witchcraft from the lord warden. You confessed willingly under examination. Did you so confess?"

All light died in Gilly’s eyes and her shoulders slumped. "Aye."

"What say you members of the assize?"

The spokesman of the jury of noblemen, all handpicked by James, stood.

"We find Mistress Gilly Duncan guilty, your honor, on all counts."

"Mistress Gilly Duncan, you are hereby convicted of the sin of witchcraft and the crime of treason against the crown. The judge accepts the determination of the assize and ordains the panel to be taken by the lockman, her hands bound, and be carried to the head of the long, the place of execution, and there to be kent to a stake, worried to death with a noose and burned to ashes in two days time."

Gilly let out a cry of pain and anguish. The lockman came forward and led her with a firm arm from the box and out of the courtroom, her strangled sobs, echoing in the hall beyond the church’s doors.

Anne buried her head against Sorcha’s side and howled. Sorcha rocked the little girl, trying to comfort her. So it continued through the morning. One after another, her cellmates took the stand to be accused of outrageous acts. Many willingly admitted treason against the crown in addition to witchcraft, knowing that it would be far less painful to die by hanging as a traitor before being burned, than to be burned alive at the stake as merely a witch.

After several hours, they called Anne to the stand. The little girl had to be torn away from Sorcha’s side and screamed as the guards dragged her to the front. Sorcha could barely tolerate it. One so young had no protection from this madness. She touched her stomach and glanced at Ian. She prayed her child had salvation in store. Anne did not escape fate, despite her youth and was condemned of witchcraft.

When Sorcha was called to the stand, her heart caught in her throat. The guard reached to touch her and she glared at him. She rose from the hard wooden pew and walked slowly, regally across the courtroom and up the steps of the box, her chin held high and her shoulders erect. She stared at the man who had sired her, noting that the arch of her brow and the narrow oval of her face were likened to his. The King stared back, then flicked his gaze away, dismissing her.

In her heart she supposed she should have expected no different. He had been away from his own mother since infancy and never met his own father, so how could she expect him to harbor any feelings for a royal by blow? He’d even accused his own legitimate cousin of witchcraft to have him executed. Clearly there was no family loyalty in him—only the desire to protect his throne from all who would seek it. They swore her in and then the first witness was summoned.

"Your Highness, the court calls Lord Crawford to the stand."

Lord Crawford strode to the dais, his cocky strut evidence he enjoyed the attention. He lifted his chin and pointed an accusatory finger in her direction.

"In my efforts to obtain information about Lord Bothwell for your highness," James nodded his head in acceptance of Crawford’s statement, "I did chance to have dinner with the accused at a table with Lord Bothwell. She did speak unflatteringly of your highness, comparing you to as equal to all other men."

James’s gaze sharpened, his face becoming red, his beard trembling as his jaw worked.

"Furthermore, your honor, when Bothwell was mortally injured by a stray arrow during a hunt the next day, I did see with my own eyes the witch, performing spells with magic powders and spiders upon Lord Bothwell’s wounds to restore his life."

A collective gasp came up from the crowd in the courtroom. Crawford glanced at her and, in that moment, she saw raw hatred, superiority and satisfaction all race across his features.

"You may step down," said King James.

Lord Crawford stepped down from the dais, his head held high. Sorcha was not surprised by his need for attention or his haughty demeanor. The appearance of the next witness was only to be expected.

"Your honor, we call to the stand, Lord Rorick Campbell."

Rorick strode up the aisle with an arrogance and distain that rankled her.

"Lord Campbell, do you know the accused?"

"Aye. Until recently, I was her father-in-law."

"And what do you know of the accused’s use of witchcraft?"

"Your Highness, she killed my son, Magnus. I saw for myself her first husband carried out dead. She sacrificed them both, drained their blood as an offering to the Devil to keep her virginity and left them with no remorse, your honor."

Sorcha felt cold and clammy. The shock of hearing Rorick embellish the tale to suit him was terrifying because of the consequences.

"Anything else?"

"Aye, she’s bewitched the Lord Argyll to do her bidding like a lap dog with an affection for his mistress. The lad is never far from her and defends her at every turn. It is most unnatural."

She wanted to scream that it was a lie, but she bit her tongue, knowing her words would be only damage to her further. She wanted to shout the truth of her birth, but dared not, knowing none would gainsay the monarch and doing so would only be seen as treason.

Campbell was dismissed from the dais, but she could not miss the malevolent and shrewd look in his eyes.

The king stared at her, rubbing his finger against his lower lip. "Did you not willfully meet with Lord Bothwell at the Lord Moray’s estate these three months past?"

"Aye." Sorcha gripped the edge of the witness box, her knuckles whitening as he spoke.

"And did he not give you orders to use your witchcraft upon the Earl of Argyll to bewitch him?"

"Nay!"

Her denial was lost as he leaned forward in his seat and shouted over her.

"And did you not call upon the powers of darkness to save Lord Bothwell?"

"Nay! I gave him only plants to heal!" A collective gasp rose from the packed courtroom.

His eyes gleamed with malevolence. "So you confess to the use of witchcraft."

"Nay!"

The rumble of voices rose in response. Ian stalked to the front of the room, barreling down on the judge’s dais, shoving past any who stood in this way.

"Let the record show that the accused used her magic to enslave the Earl of Argyll and return the Earl of Bothwell from death. Based on your own confession and the positive proof of you as a witch by the kirk, I hereby sentence you to be burned at the stake in two day’s time. The judge accepts the determination of the assize and ordains the panel to be taken by the lockman, her hands bound, and be carried to the head of the long, the place of execution, and there to be kent to a stake, worried to death and burned to ashes."

"Your Highness! She is with child." Ian shouted above the noise.

Sorcha could barely breathe, her throat thick and tight and her palms damp. Was Ian angry with her, or was the thought of an heir the cause of his return when he should have been on a ship?

"And you are?" asked the king.

Ian made a bow, his shoulders tight and his face a mask of calm intensity that was almost frightening to her. There was anger there, barely concealed. Her husband was once more every inch the cold mercenary.

"I am Ian Hunter, your humble servant and husband of the accused, your Highness."

The king flicked a gaze to Sorcha’s belly. Sorcha wondered if he would dare to kill off not only his daughter, but his grandchild as well, all for the sake of a crown.

"You claim this child is conceived of wedlock and not from a meeting with the devil?"