Witch Hunter

by Lyn Armstrong

  “If I turn evil…you must hunt me down and…and destroy me.”

  He shook his head, denial burning his throat.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “I will become everything you have been led to fear. People will die. People I love are in danger, and you are the only one who could stop me.”

  Apprehension spread throughout his body at the determination in her eyes. She took a step back. “I must go with Grigor before it is too late.”

  “Do not do this.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. She waved her hand and a rope appeared by his side. “Return to my family and tell them…tell them I love them.”

  “Rhiannon—”

  She reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips, searing them with moisture from her tears.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Rhiannon!”

  She was already gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhiannon appeared outside the mountain range where Mary held the reins for their horses. Snatching the leather straps, Rhiannon swung up onto the saddle.

  “I told you Rhee would come back,” Mary said to Grigor.

  “Is he dead?” Grigor asked.

  Rhiannon glared at the warthog of a man. “Aye, he is dead.”

  Grigor rubbed the dry skin on his chin. “You would be useful to keep around.”

  Mary’s eye twitched. “She would only bewitch you,” she snarled, a resentful tone streaking her words.

  “Fear not,” he replied. “I would never allow a devil’s assistant to blacken the doorway of Baird’s Glen.”

  You should worry more about your penis shriveling up. Rhiannon glared at Grigor, but kept her thoughts to herself. It took all her control to simmer the sorceress within. All she wanted to do was to trap Grigor in the mountain and return home with Lachlan. She stared at the horizon, and allowed the gait of the horse to sooth her raw nerves.

  The image of Lachlan’s handsome face set in betrayal haunted her thoughts. She wished their lives could be different. To be just an ordinary man and woman who met and fell in love. But their fate was not meant to be so simple.

  Their love was doomed—the law of the king forbade it. A witch hunter and a witch. A love that should never be.

  She shook her head, self-mockery invading her mind.

  At the corner of her eyes, she saw a dark figure move through the tree line. When she turned her head, it was gone. Both Grigor and Mary were deep in conversation on what clothes Mary can and cannot buy in Edinburgh.

  Rhiannon tried to peer through the trees.

  A woman in a clandestine cloak moved swiftly through the brush. She could not believe her eyes—’twas her grandmother, the sorceress. The way she glided from tree to tree, moving with the lithe grace of a deer, reminded her of the beautiful lady who blew her a kiss in the glen.

  Had her grandmother been watching her all her life?

  The moment she caught the sorceress’ gaze, the woman disappeared. Rhiannon twisted as far as she could to catch another glimpse, but her grandmother was nowhere to be found.

  * * * *

  They rode through to the next day without stopping for more than a moment. A layer of dust and sweat caused her thick hair to stick to the back of her neck. The feeling of doom preoccupied her every waking thought. Her twentieth would come with the sunrise of the next day. If she were not already executed, evil would surely take hold of her powers.

  The morning sun beat down upon her head when they finally entered the filthy streets of Edinburgh. The smell of feces and rotten food made her stomach weigh heavy with nausea. How anyone could live here was past her imagination. She much preferred the fresh air and open spaces of the moorlands.

  Unusually tall buildings with fourteen levels shadowed the sun on half the road. A high crag dominated the skyline with an impending wall around a massive castle. It loomed over the town like a scolding parent.

  On the cobblestone wynds, people shouted at each other while a baby cried in the distance. Two scraggly dogs barked and fought over a tidbit of black meat.

  A horse cart rumbled toward her, forcing Rhiannon to shift her mount to walk on the slippery curb where people threw out their scrapes from the windows above. Everything in Edinburgh was massive and loud, making a country traveler feel small and uninvited.

  Their tired mounts walked across a drawbridge to the castle’s plain gatehouse. Two carved stone panels displayed large siege guns, balls and barrels, demonstrating to their enemy the wide range of weaponry.

  Rhiannon swallowed. Thankful her family did not know she was here. Cloaking her energy was the only wise move she made before leaving Gleich Castle.

  With a nod to Grigor, the king’s guard allowed them to pass into the lower ward. The sound of hooves echoed off the guards’ quarters and an opposing stonewall as they traveled along a narrow, winding path toward an imposing portcullis gate.

  Over the gateway hung another stone panel decorated with hearts and stars. It seemed whimsical to Rhiannon considering the castle appeared to be built for defense rather than a royal residence. No one stopped them as they wound their way further up the path until they reached the summit of the castle rock. A chapel sat aside from the other imperial buildings, overlooking the swarming town and highland mountains in the distance. A gun battery held the largest siege gun she had ever seen.

  “Mons Meg,” Grigor said.

  “Pardon,” Rhiannon replied.

  “The gun is called Mons Meg. ’Twas fired in celebration of Queen Mary’s wedding. The gunstone was found on Wardie Muir, a third of a league away.”

  Rhiannon swallowed and glanced at the magnificent view. She shrugged with feigned indifference. “Why tell me.”

  Grigor leaned closer to her, nudging her mount with his own. “If you do not confess to His Majesty, just think of the damage Mons Meg could do to Gleich Castle.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Witch!” Grigor grabbed her mount’s reins and they trotted into a large area flanked by four buildings. The royal regiment marched in time in the bailey.

  “I cannot believe I am really going to meet the king,” Mary said, tidying her hair and brushing the dust off her green travel gown.

  “Wench, you are not meeting the king,” Grigor announced.

  “But…”

  “You are going to fetch me victuals and ale.” He pointed to the building on the right. “The kitchens are that way.”

  A sour look marred Mary’s pretty features. Reluctantly, she turned her mount around.

  “You should not treat her like that,” Rhiannon said.

  “Sympathy for a traitor? How sweet.”

  Two soldiers approached before she could offer a retort. Grigor swung down and Rhiannon followed.

  “See to our mounts and send a message to His Majesty. Master Grigor and Lady Campbell await an audience with him,” Grigor said. “We will be in Laich Hall.”

  Grigor grabbed her arm, his iron fingers biting into her flesh. Rhiannon yanked her arm out of his grasp. He blinked a few times and then backed away. She strode into the hall with as much courage as she could muster.

  Mesmerized by the wealth of Laich Hall, Rhiannon walked toward the marble fireplace. Square wooden panels warmed the walls while the white roof appeared uniquely carved into concaved arcs forming S-shapes. The elaborate chamber brightly shone with gold-gilded candle scones and artistic wall coverings of the king’s crests and nymphs.

  “Master Grigor,” a voiced called from a doorway leading from an anti-chamber.

  They turned to find a tall, imposing man with a trimmed beard striding their way with an air of prestige and superiority. His clothes were made of the finest brocade, his kilt woven with deep reds and greens. He looked just like Lachlan, but older and with less kindness in his ember eyes.

  Grigor bowed. “Milord Fairbairn, ’tis an honor to see you.”

  “Who be this lady that does not show proper respect and curtsy when meeting nobility?” Lord Fairbairn peer
ed down his nose at her.

  “This is no lovely lady, but a witch I have captured,” Grigor raised his chin as if he were a great warrior who had battled a dragon.

  Rhiannon ignored Grigor and returned the nobleman’s rude stare. “I am Lady Rhiannon Campbell, granddaughter to the great Roberts’ chieftain of Gleich.”

  “I am Lord Richard Fairbairn, Duke of West Firth and King’s Advisor.”

  In a battle of wits, Rhiannon waited for him to bow before she lowered into a deep curtsey.

  “So the rumors are true.” Lord Fairbairn straightened. “You are a witch and no doubt a disgrace to your grandfather for pledging your unholy soul to the devil.”

  “’Tis a far worse crime to slaughter innocent people for witchcraft.” She stepped closer, her eyes unwavering, even though the Duke towered over her height.

  “They confessed,” Grigor whined.

  “After you tortured them,” Rhiannon countered.

  “’Tis legal,” the Duke said.

  “Legal does not make it right.”

  “You sound like my son.” The Duke waved her away like a distasteful bug and sat on a blue-patterned chair near the fireplace. “The lad only took the Commission of Justiciary to save those innocent people.”

  The Duke snorted with loathing. “Where is he, by the way?”

  A tense silence encircled the hall.

  Grigor shifted on his feet and stuttered, “Lord Lachlan…stayed behind to…”

  He looked at Rhiannon for help, but she gave him a tart grin and remained quiet.

  “…To console the Roberts’ chieftain,” Grigor continued, his face flushed with anxiety.

  The Duke suspiciously stared at him. He opened his mouth when the king entered the hall with five attractive male courtiers. The Duke stood and bowed along with Grigor.

  Rhiannon lowered her eyes and executed a curtsy. She remained low until the king gave her permission to rise.

  She expected the king of Scots to look older than he did. His pallid skin, high forehead and pointed nose made him appear no more than twenty-five winters. He wore a brown and gold embroidered cape with a white satin tunic encrusted with black jewels. A balloon kilt and stockings showed his muscular calves.

  This man incited terror about witches across the land. Forcing her family to hide their powers and cower in secrecy. A part of Rhiannon wanted to show the king what a real witch could do, but her mind tempered her resentment. She must not evoke the king’s wrath upon her clan. She may have magic, but he held the country’s power in his pampered hands.

  “It displeases me to hear the granddaughter of a great ally is accused of being a witch,” King James said, his fanatical eyes studying her with interest.

  “My family has no idea. Please leave them out of this,” Rhiannon pleaded, trying to keep her voice calm. Her heart paced so fast, she could barely draw a breath.

  The king pursed his lips and then glanced at Grigor. “Is this true?”

  Grigor stared at Rhiannon, willing him to keep his pledge. If he did not, she would see to it he suffered greatly. She glared at him, hoping he understood her silent threat.

  He cleared his throat. “Aye…Your Majesty. Her clan is free from suspicion.”

  “Do you confess to practicing witchcraft?” the king asked.

  The chamber was quiet, waiting for her answer. She straightened her shoulders with pride. “I confess to being a Celtic witch—a good witch. I help those who need…”

  Everyone talked at once. Their frowns and disbelieving eyes told her she only wasted her breath. They wanted to execute a witch. It did not matter if she was good or evil.

  “Master Grigor,” the king said and the room fell to silence.

  “Aye, Your Majesty.” Grigor bowed again.

  “Write a confession for the witch and have her sign it. If milady cannot write…”

  “I can read and write, Your Majesty,” Rhiannon interjected, annoyed that they were talking about her as if she were not in the chamber.

  The king looked at her with repugnance. He continued, “Have her sign the oath and be fully examined. Use any means necessary.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Grigor replied. A glint of light shimmered from his cold eyes.

  King James turned to her. “You will be tried for witchcraft after the North Berwick witches receive their sentence on the morrow at Canongate, Tolbooth. Take her to the dungeon vaults.”

  Two guards flanked her on either side and led her out into the castle yard. From across the way, Mary carried a trencher of food. She halted in her tracks, her gaze following Rhiannon.

  If she did not know her friend any better, she would say Mary had tears in her eyes.

  Rhiannon tripped over a jutting stone and the guards straightened her without a word. They continued along the path through a large chamber that seemed to be the gun house. Pallets lined the wall along with barrels of powder, crossbows and other ammunition. Before she had time to adjust her eyes to the darkness of a hallway, they entered a stone stairway descending into cavernous stone cellars.

  Sounds of screams floated up to her along with a gust of stale air. Rhiannon shivered, forcing her weak feet to take each step one at a time, deeper and deeper into the castle rock.

  The soldiers ushered her past two iron gates and into a dark, narrow passage. One of them pushed her through the last dungeon.

  The corridor light from the candle sconce completely cut off when the door slammed shut. With no window, she could not see her hand in front of her. She stood in pitch-blackness.

  A slight shuffle sounded from the corner and Rhiannon jumped. “Who goes there?” she asked.

  No sound answered.

  Fright invaded her senses and panic shot through her body. She squinted, trying to see through the thick murkiness.

  “Who is there?” she asked again with more bravado than she felt.

  A moan whispered across the shadows.

  “Curse it all,” she said and opened her hands. “Show me light.”

  A warm energy seeped into her palms when a blue ball of light emerged magically from her hands, illuminating the small chamber.

  Rhiannon looked around, almost afraid of what she would see.

  A chill touched her spine when she found a woman fastened to the wall with an iron bridle wrapped around her head, and a muzzle with spikes in her mouth. If she moved even slightly, her tongue would be cut and the iron prongs would be driven through her flesh.

  Her blood-shot eyes were half open as if she had not slept in days, her body was battered and bleeding, her clothes soiled with urine.

  Rhiannon hastened to her side and apprehension flashed in the woman’s eyes.

  “Do not be afraid.” Rhiannon waved her hands across the torture device and it dropped out of the woman’s cracked mouth. She collapsed with exhaustion into Rhiannon’s arms and fell into unconsciousness.

  A fierce protectiveness enveloped Rhiannon. She wanted to kill everyone who treated this poor woman with inhumane cruelty.

  Summoning the powers of a Celtic witch, she transformed the chamber into a room filled with comfortable furnishings. Dragging the woman over to a soft bed, she laid her down. The smell of fresh rushes lining the floor filled the small space. Rhiannon undressed the woman and tucked her chilled body beneath the thick coverlet.

  Gathering her soiled kirtle, Rhiannon threw the offensive garment into the corner. It turned itself inside out, producing a clean dress of peach velvet.

  The woman shifted under the covers and groaned. Her eyes flew open and Rhiannon sat on the bed. “Shh, you are well.”

  “Am I dead?” she asked, her confused eyes surveyed the cream bed curtains.

  “Nae.” Rhiannon touched her fevered forehead, her skin marred with black bruises. “I am a Celtic witch.”

  She waited for the lady to recoil in fright, but she did not. Instead, she smiled with dry lips. With a shaky hand, she gripped Rhiannon’s fingers and closed her eyes. “I had prayed for help.”


  “What is your name?”

  “Agnes Sampson,” she whispered and fell into a light slumber.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lachlan slid down the sharp rock face to the ground again, his hands and knees bleeding with open wounds. They did not bother him as much as his failed attempts of escaping the mountain prison.

  “This rope is useless,” he growled and kicked it aside.

  “Rhiannon!” he shouted her name for the hundredth time, knowing she could not hear, but it felt great to release his frustration.

  He must not think about what was happening to her, or that he had no food or water and his strength was quickly dwindling. Lachlan sat against the rock wall and rested his wrists on his propped knees. What was he going to do? A witch trapped him, left him here to die and all that annoyingly dominated his thoughts was he wanted to protect that witch. Keep her from suffering the gruesome fate upon the stake.

  A crackling voice echoed through the mountain, “She needs you.”

  Lachlan leaped to his feet and scanned the area. There was no one there. Was he imagining the voice? Had lack of food and sleep made him delirious?

  He rubbed his dry eyes, and when he opened them, an elderly woman stood in front of him.

  Jumping back, he leaned against the wall for support, shocked at her sudden appearance.

  Her brightly-colored skirt rustled along the ground as she paced back and forth. A black scarf wrapped around short gray hair fell down her back in a long tail.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked.

  “I am a gypsy. I can go anywhere,” she answered vaguely. “There is no time for flippant talk. Lady Rhiannon needs your help.”

  “As you can see,” he opened his palms outward, “I am in no position to help.”

  The black mole on her brow lifted with the deep lines etched in her forehead. “Does she love you?”

  Lachlan tilted his head. What an odd question to ask.

  “Well?” The gypsy tapped her toe impatiently, the aroma of sage floated around her.

  “Aye, she does.”

  “Then you must go to her.” The woman turned toward the mountain and waved her hand, the same way he had seen Rhiannon do it.