A Gypsy's Thief

by Titania Ladley

  “Oh, nae,” he returned with a vile grin as he strode under the ledge and squatted to arrange the wood. Duncan licked his thin lips, his gaze moving lower to assess her body’s length. It made her stomach roil and pinpricks of fear shimmied up her spine. “There be nae waste to the delights of a Gypsy tramp…when one is in the mood for it.”

  She ignored the innuendo and dropped the small stack of limbs on his pile. “And the second reason would be?”

  Duncan fetched a small tinderbox from the saddlebag and bent his head to the task of lighting the fire. “Why, riches, of course. The king is a verra generous mon to those who fight against evil in his name.”

  “Of course. Greed. I perfectly understand that in light of the new Duncan McNicol.” The flames of the campfire suddenly ignited making Catriona flinch. “But then there is yer final reason…”

  “Aye.” Crouching, he rubbed his hands together over the small bonfire, a selfish man seeking the very fire he sets upon others to die by. “I needed to present the king with evidence of yer ability to speak to the dead. Ye had yet to reveal such a wicked ceremony to me, and I was loath to throw ye upon the king’s mercy without first knowin’ for certain if ye truly were a witch. Now see, the king specifically demanded that once I had yer…talent confirmed, I was to lug ye to court so he could speak to his own dead loved ones—that is, before he had ye burned at the stake.”

  Ah, so the plot coagulates. The hypocritical king wanted to enlist her services before presenting her to his kingdom as a convicted witch and burning her to death. Luckily, she had been self-conscious and had hesitated in revealing her skills to her husband. She had not wished to share her “abnormality” with him before she was ready.

  His candid honesty led her into the final part of her plan. “Well, would ye like to confirm me ‘talent’ now, Duncan?”

  He blinked, clearly shocked by her question. “What did ye say?”

  “I repeat, before ye throw me upon the king’s mercy, wouldn’t ye like to confirm me talents now, to be certain of me transgressions? I could perform a séance for ye right here and now. In fact, I could assist ye in talkin’ to…Fraser.”

  Duncan gasped and fell back onto his hands. “F-Fraser? D-did ye say, Fraser?”

  Though she was dying to seek the warmth of the blaze, she assembled her own heat by narrowing her eyes, crossing her arms and leaning over him. “Aye, I said Fraser. He came to me a time or two durin’ our marriage askin’ to come through to ye. But I did not allow it, didn’t kent for sure who he was.”

  “Y-ye are a witch!” He crumbled backward onto his elbows, his beady eyes glittering by the firelight, revealing his sudden fear and trepidation. He stared agog at her as if she were some sort of abominable monster.

  “If that is what ye and yer king wish to call it, then aye, I am a witch.”

  “T-tell me, what did he say to ye? Is he all right? Does he…miss me?”

  Though she had had her suspicions, she had not the faintest inkling whom this Fraser had been. Strangely, he had struggled to come through during one of her séances she had kept hidden from Duncan during their short marriage. But he had made himself known as an acquaintance of Duncan’s, and had begged to be channeled through to speak to him. There had been a sense of pain, desperation, perhaps love and possibly anger coming across within his spirit. In fact, who or what he really was in relation to Duncan did not come full circle until this very moment, until she actually heard Duncan’s words coupled with the sappy hope alight in his eyes.

  “So, this Fraser was yer former lover, eh?”

  He swallowed audibly, the large knot in his throat bobbing up and down. “He was me footmon. Died three year’s past.”

  Catriona leaned closer. “All right then, yer footmon. But he was also yer lover, wasn’t he, Duncan?”

  She nearly gasped when tears filled his eyes. His gaze fell to stare into the leaping flames. “Aye.”

  “So all that fumblin’ passion in our bed, ‘twas a farce?” She compared John to Duncan. But there was just no comparison between Duncan’s attempts at rutting and John’s perfection in lovemaking.

  Duncan managed to soak her with an angry glare. “Nae, I…I have a penchant for…”

  When he did not finish, she took a guess. “For both male and female?”

  There were no words to that, just a curt nod and the very first wash of embarrassment she had ever seen cross his face.

  Images of herself kissing Salena while John pummeled her from behind filled her thoughts. “I…days ago, I would not have understood it, but tonight, I think I can comprehend it to a degree. Now, let us get on with it. I ask ye most sincerely, would ye like to speak with him, or nae?” She straightened to a standing position, her back erect, her arms crossed over her flapping cloak.

  “Can I?” Glee shone across the sharp features of his face.

  If he were not such a vindictive, hypocritical ass, Catriona’s heart would have bled for him. But it would behoove her to remember all the pain and destruction he had caused. He had killed his own twin brother for his greedy purposes, to further a plan to remain in the king’s good graces to partake of his royal coffers. And foremost, Duncan had masqueraded as an innocent who had secretly had her beloved mother burned to death, along with several others in her village. Oh yes, she only had to recall the putrid odor of burning bodies to remember what a monster this man truly was.

  She shrugged nonchalantly, though she prayed he would succumb to temptation and play into her plan. “‘Tis yer choice. I can bring him through without a bit of a problem, that I am certain of. But if ye do not wish to…”

  “Nae, I do, I do!”

  She hesitated long enough to draw out the drama. “All right, then. But only on one condition…”

  His lips thinned. “Should have known there would be a catch. What would Yer Royal Witch Highness like?”

  “I am thirsty and hungry. And I will need to warm me bones before any spirits can channel through me.”

  * * * * *

  Warm, dry and fed now, Catriona sat cross-legged on the parched stone floor below the rocky overhang. Duncan sat facing her in the same manner. With the fire at her left, she swallowed her revulsion and clasped his hands.

  “Ye must close yer eyes ‘til I give ye permission to open them.”

  Duncan sent her a wary look, but obeyed, nonetheless. “Just get on with it,” he grumbled.

  The snow had ceased falling, but the winds continued to whistle eerie and low through the gorge. Night had descended moonless and black, its inky nothingness—like her dream with Lorcan and Duncan—spilling out across the craggy glen and encroaching on the glow of their campfire. An owl hooted in the distance, its mournful call resonating across the barren lands. A pair of foxes skittered through the snow on the outer edges of camp enticed by the glow of flames and the scent of a possible food source. Catriona inhaled the odor of acrid smoke mixed with that of Duncan’s perspiration. Though inexplicable or even spine-chilling at times, the ambiance and all the things surrounding her were conducive to bringing forth spirits. She also needed access to the smells and moods of those people—namely Duncan at present—who sought loved ones in order to lure the spirits into this dimension and bring them into present being. And most times, she required the dark of night and the songs of nature in order to concentrate and perform as the medium.

  Catriona drew in a long cleansing breath, released it. “Oh spirits in the other realm, hear me call…”

  Silence followed for a full moment. The winds burst in, blowing the cloak’s hood from her head, ruffling her hair. She focused on a distant point above Duncan’s head. The usual vibrations started, almost imperceptible at first, but gradually increasing until her body trembled uncontrollably.

  “What the hell…” Duncan opened his eyes and pulled back, struggling to remove his hands from hers.

  She held tight and snapped, “Do not move! Ye must remain quiet, still and keep yer eyes closed ‘til I tell ye otherwise, or
the séance could be aborted.”

  His gaze shone like wide mouse eyes cornered by the cat, yet still ogling the cheese. “This is crazy, bizarre. Y-ye’re scarin’ me.”

  “Do ye want to speak with yer lover Fraser or nae?”

  “Well, of course I do, but—”

  “Then hush!”

  His nostrils flared, and for the briefest moment, Catriona feared she had pushed him too far. But after an instant of settling in again and tightening his big hands around her small ones, his eyes fluttered shut.

  “Oh spirits in the other realm, hear me call,” she repeated.

  The breeze increased in velocity and swirled around the camp. It caused the flames to dance and sputter. Ashes rose and drifted hither and yon into the black of night. The tremors she always dreaded resumed with a vengeance.

  “Any and all dead, ye are not welcome unless called forth by name.” A low, distant moan of protests sounded, as if she listened to an angry crowd of spirits from afar.

  Duncan drew in a hiss of fear and clamped his eyelids tightly shut. A thin line of sweat dribbled down his temple and made a wet, vertical path to his jaw.

  “Chosen soul, I give ye consent to speak through and to communicate with Duncan upon his request.” She inhaled and went on with her initial connections. “Duncan McNicol of the clan Nicol, I now give ye bid to make yer request. Call out the name of the spirit ye wish to contact.”

  He gulped audibly. “F-Fraser Douglas? Are ye there?”

  The wind whistled in high-pitched tones. Snow whirled up into a conical shape around Duncan. The shuddering ceased all at once. Catriona glanced to her left, just above the flames, to see the misty spirit materialize, that of a small thin man, fair of hair with round blue eyes. He was what she would call pretty, almost effeminate upon very first sight. But all-male anger blazed in the depths of those gorgeous eyes.

  “Aye, I am here, Duncan.” His likeness hovered, rippling through the rising heat of the fire.

  Duncan gasped at the familiar voice. He rocked from side to side, gripping Catriona’s hands almost painfully. “Oh, God. Is it really ye? Is it true?”

  “‘Tis true,” Catriona replied. “Ye can open yer eyes now.”

  His lids fluttered open and he drew in a sharp breath when his gaze found Fraser’s apparition. One lone tear pooled in the corner of his left eye. “Fraser! Holy hell, ‘tis truly ye.”

  “Mmm, in the spirit flesh…thanks to ye.”

  “Nae, I do not ken what ye’re—nae!”

  “Ah, but ye do, me deceitful lover, ye do. God help me, how I have longed to come through to ye. I called upon yer wife here many a time after yer blasted farce of a weddin’. Though I did not supply her with details, she refused to believe me impassioned pleas to haunt ye, chose to ignore the desperation in me soul. Oh, I cannot blame her, mind ye, but mon, do ye ken how good it feels to finally be able to speak me heart to ye?”

  “Oh, aye, aye, please speak yer heart! I have so missed ye too. I have—”

  “Ye missed me?” He spat it with conviction and a scathing, shrill tone. “Ha! Ye bloody bastard!”

  Duncan let out a squeal of shock and tried to disentangle his hands from hers.

  “Duncan, stop at once! Ye must continue to hold me hands. Farthin’ hell, do ye wish to terminate the connection?” she asked, squeezing his fingers with every ounce of her strength.

  “Ye fuckin’ bastard! Ye had me burned to a crisp. And due to me hatred for ye, I remain prisoner within a dead mon’s purgatory. But ye put me through hell, through the most unbearable pain I have ever endured. The horror of yer betrayal still haunts me, still burns me verra soul, even in death. Ye have driven me into this purgatory because of this blasted resentment I cannot rid meself of. God, how I’ve longed to just choke the verra life from yer fuckin’ neck!”

  “Nae…” Duncan rose up on his knees, his hands gripping Catriona’s, even as he trembled. His eyes beheld Fraser’s image, beseeching him as the tears rolled off his cheeks and onto his cloak. “Fraser, love, I am so verra sorry. I beg of ye, forgive me, please. ‘Twas the king. H-he insisted ye were bad for me, swore ye were a spawn of the devil, a true sorcerer for capturin’ me heart and causin’ me to neglect and shirk me witch-hunting duties. Please ken, it tore me soul out of me chest to order the fire lit, to see ye strung up there like a piece of meat to be roasted. See, ‘twas James…I did it at James’ command, else face me own execution.”

  “And now ye shall face Satan in hell…”

  “Nae!” He screamed it, his cry reverberating off the canyon walls. Duncan came to his feet dragging her with him.

  “Duncan,” Catriona warned through clenched teeth, “ye must calm down or we will lose him.”

  His rabid gaze flicked down to her. “Ye did this, didn’t ye? I fell under yer witch’s spell yet again and allowed ye to conjure up this fraudulent image of me beloved Fraser.”

  She shook her head frantically, a sudden stab of fear twisting in her gut. “Nae, I swear, ‘tis real, ‘tis yer Fraser in the verra spirit flesh. I merely brought him through to ye.”

  “Do not do this, Duncan. Ye ken ‘tis me. Face yer sins, ye bastard, or die in hell. Ye owe me yer sincere oath of repentance, though I cannot see how ye will ever be worthy of forgiveness. Nonetheless, if I receive it, I can then begin to forgive ye, and be delivered into heaven, as it should be.”

  Duncan jerked his chin up and narrowed his eyes. “Silence!” To Catriona, he growled, “Ye bitch. Ye had me fooled for a time, but nae more.”

  “Nae, do not—”

  Duncan jerked his hands from hers and Fraser’s roar of angered objection snapped off, as if Duncan had slammed a lid onto a roiling pot of brew. Fraser’s spirit dissipated into the rising smoke of the fire. The remaining vibrations Catriona had begun to experience again ceased all at once.

  “To hell with the riches the king promised me for bringin’ ye unto him. Ye must die this instant!”

  “Duncan, nae, ye cannot—”

  The slap cracked across her cheek with such force, she fell to the rocky floor of their camp. Her heated gaze rose to snare him with as much hate as she could muster over the throbbing pain in her jaw. “Ye fuckin’ bastard!”

  He reached down and yanked her to her feet. “Better a bastard than a harlot witch of the devil.”

  Anger overrode the terror of what she knew he had planned for her in the minutes ahead. She spat in his face.

  After a long moment of stunned disbelief, he spat back, and the warm, vile-smelling moisture dribbling down her cheek made her stomach churn.

  “It sickens me to think I lay with ye in the same bed,” she hissed, swiping the spittle with her sleeve. “Talk of the devil. Ye are the epitome of all things vile and revoltin’.”

  Duncan swept her with a look of his own revulsion. “Yer wicked charms…aye, ye’ll be payin’ Satan for all yer transgressions, ye bloody whore.”

  Catriona knew he meant she would die this night. She would never see John again, never feel his arms around her or his gentle, loving touch upon her flesh. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to allow them to spill over.

  “I’ll be thinkin’ we shall see who pays, Duncan. We shall see…”

  “Nae more, witch. I forfeit the king’s payment in favor of extinguishin’ ye this night. Ye must pay for all yer wicked indiscretions, and pay now.”

  He reached down, snatched up the saddlebag and dragged her out into the snow. His fingers bit into her upper arm. Leaning back against his powerful hold, she dropped her head back, screaming into the dark of night with all the strength she could draw from her lungs. It rent the air with a mournful, horror-filled tune. She heard the skittish flight of a bird as it flew off in fear of the sudden commotion. A rabbit scurried away seeking escape from the falsely perceived hunter. Duncan ignored her attempts at kicking, and warded off her flailing, free arm with little effort.

  A chilly blast of air shot up her cloak, but it was the path he took her on that mad
e her shiver. Toward the lone dead yew tree standing tall and broken in the valley of the gorge. Black against black, save for the flicker of firelight, it swayed in the winds as if mocking her.

  “Nae…” She choked it out, longing to muster the bravery to march defiant and proud up the path he laid for her. But she did not wish to die! Images of John’s handsome face flashed through her mind.

  “Oh, aye.” He sniggered, the sound coming out fiendish and crazed. “Time for the sorceress to die.”

  As he plucked her up and curled one arm around her waist, holding her body tight and angled painfully to his hip, he dropped the saddlebag and kicked it open. A huge looping of rope fell out onto the snow. Her eyes widened, each action he took seeming to shove her closer to death’s door.

  I do not wish to die! John, John, me honorable, chivalrous bandit Little John, where are ye?

  But she knew he would not come. How could he? He would have no way of knowing her location, and what’s more, he had no reason to seek her out after she had fled the safe haven he offered her. Panic flooded her chest making her heartbeat crash into her breastbone and well up into her throat. The pulse of it reverberated in her ears like a relentless, pounding surf. She flailed, kicked, bit, screamed and watched with maddening despair as her long hair became the only part of her that proved able to escape him. It fell down in waves, streaming over his legs, flapping in the breeze like a flag of surrender.

  “Duncan, ye cannot do this to me. I am yer wife, for Christ’s sake. Ye cannot murder yer own wife.”

  “Wife?” he croaked, drawing back to punch her even as he continued to hold her hostage. She dodged the blow somewhat, managing to deflect it to her jaw rather than her eye, but nonetheless, she still saw stars. “A witch—who plots against the king, commits adultery against her husband, casts hedonistic spells upon every person in her wake—cannot be a true wife.”

  With a brutish growl, he threw her into the barren tree trunk restraining her body with his, and stretched a loop of rope across her neck. Catriona struggled for every breath. Dots blinked before her vision. She looked into his crazed eyes, silently begged him to release the constraint just enough to draw one more breath. But he refused. His face reddened in the waning light of the fire as he held his own breath, tightening his hold. Catriona gripped his hands, pulling, scratching, squeezing, but he did not budge. She felt the bite of rope into her flesh, fought the outer clutches of unconsciousness…of death.