Labor of Love

by Felicia Rogers

  Samuel planted his feet and prepared to defend Sorcha. His voice rose. “Magistrate, how can ye let this happen?”

  Nigel Duffy shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Saves me the trouble.”

  Samuel yelled, “I don’t understand.”

  “I thought it would be quite clear to you.”

  “Nay, sir it is not. Would ye care to explain?” Sorcha sensed Samuel stalling for time. Perhaps he prayed for a solution?

  Lorcan blew with frustration. “Canna ye just tell them so my son can get on with it? Samuel is clearly stalling.”

  “Oh, very well you take the entertainment out of every event,” said Nigel.

  Through the open back door Samuel, Sorcha, and Louisa stared horrified as Nigel pulled out a piece of rolled parchment and read. “By order of the magistrate of Queen’s County, you are hereby sentenced to death by burning.”

  Louisa screamed, “No!” and collapsed to the floor. Sorcha, paralyzed with fear, was unprepared for Samuel’s reaction.

  Anger exuded from his rigid stance. “Whatever for? There have been no charges levied against us.”

  Nigel pulled off his gloves and slapped them against his palms. “That is where you are wrong, young man.”

  “Does a man no longer have the right to hear charges against him before he is sentenced to his death?”

  Nigel sighed. “Very well.” He pulled the parchment back out of his pack, unrolled it carefully and read, “Hereby sentenced to burning on the charge of blah, blah, blah, oh, here it is, on the charge of heresy.”

  When Nigel finished reading, Samuel’s face was red with unrestrained rage. “Heresy? What heresy?”

  Rolling up the decree, Nigel spoke carefully and with deliberate action. “Why, heresy against the Roman Catholic Church, of course. Surely you have noticed boy that Charles no longer graces the throne, but his sister Mary. And Queen Mary has made it her mission to restore the Lord’s holy church to all her lands.”

  “There have been no burnings in Ireland for this offense.”

  “Right you are my boy, right you are, but as they say all of that is about to change.” He paused before adding, “Lorcan, do make that boy of yours get on with it.”

  “My pleasure. Ye heard him Festus, enjoy!”

  Festus entered the open door. From behind Sorcha and Samuel, Louisa had come to and was shrieking as she was grabbed from behind and dragged from the room. Samuel backed Sorcha into the corner and stood in front of her.

  The sound of sliding metal echoed as Festus drew a knife from a leather sheath. The shiny blade was held in his hands and flipped from one to the other. The action was meant to taunt Samuel. “Come on preacher man, defend yer woman.”

  Samuel was unarmed except for his wits. “My boy, the fight hardly seems matched.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, ye see, ye have a weapon, and I do not. Perhaps ye might be a gentleman and allow me to have my own instrument with which to protect my person.”

  Sorcha hoped Samuel knew what he was doing. She saw Festus frown, becoming more confused than ever.

  “Instrument…protect…person,” he paused. “How come ye can’t speak normal?”

  Sorcha resisted the urge to laugh. Had her situation not been so dire, she might have sat in the floor and done just that.

  Samuel replied, “I am speaking plainly enough.”

  A voice floated in from outside. “Have ye stuck him yet, boy?”

  “Nay Pa, he seems to be trying to talk me to death.”

  Suddenly a light dawned, and Sorcha realized the sentence of burning wasn’t for Samuel. His death was to be more immediate and direct. Nay, the burning was for her mother and herself. She let out a piercing wail of agony, and as Samuel turned to check on her well — being, Festus rammed the dagger into Samuel’s exposed side.

  Samuel never stopped to look at his wound or to make a sound of pain. The turn continued until he faced her. “Are ye all right?”

  Sorcha frantically tried to staunch the flow of blood. He dropped to his knees, pushing her hands away from his bleeding side. Tears gushed past her eyelids and flowed freely down her face. “Nay, Samuel. Ye can’t leave me.”

  Samuel removed the dagger, and the blood flowed freely. As his eyes closed, he whispered, “Be of good cheer, for this day I go to Paradise.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sorcha jumped from her place beside Samuel, the awkwardness of her full round belly inhibiting her as she reached for the bloody dagger. No matter how hard she tried, she was too slow. Before she held a decent grip, Festus pulled it from her blood slicked hands. He snarled, smirked, and picked her up, carrying her to a waiting horse.

  He bound her hands in front of her and slung her atop his horse. Legs flailing, she slipped one good hit to Festus’ chin. While Festus was distracted, and wailing in pain, she slid off the horse and pushed herself to her feet.

  Nigel’s men had already dragged Samuel outside the house and slung him across the rump of Lorcan’s horse. Sorcha stumbled toward Samuel’s cold lifeless body. She placed her cheek to his face affectionately.

  Staring up at Lorcan, she said, “How could ye?” He shrugged, and Sorcha couldn’t contain her fury. “Ye killed Samuel, and all ye can do is shrug!”

  Bending, she placed her mouth on Lorcan’s exposed calf and closed it. Lorcan squealed out in pain and kicked her away. Now sitting on her bottom upon the ground, tears of anger spouted from her eyes.

  Festus grabbed her from behind and threw her onto his horse. He placed himself behind her. The lot of them took her and her mother into town and made them watch as they dug a deep hole in the cemetery for prisoners. Unceremoniously, they threw Samuel into the rich earth and covered him. Once the debacle was over, Sorcha was shoved back onto Festus’ horse, and they set out again.

  ****

  One month later…

  The room was cold and dark, smelling of urine and feces. The floor was of lose rich earth. Buried into the side of the hill, the walls comprising the cell consisted of different materials. Stones mingled together with mud for mortar, thin wooden panels lay haphazardly atop one another.

  Bars covered a small opening in the side of the earthen wall six feet off the ground. Two wooden frames hugged the walls, each holding a flea infested blanket. How anyone could call it a jail cell was beyond Sorcha. That was no jail cell. It was nothing more than a stinking garderobe of a larger variety.

  She had lost count of the days they set in wait. The waiting was worse than the punishment they were sentenced to receive. Alerted by ragged breathing from across the room, Sorcha knew her mother was awake.

  The rattling, raspy sound started not long after they had been condemned to this damp hole. The small amount of air that traveled into the room from the window opening only added extra moisture, leaving them more miserable than before.

  She sighed and leaned her head against the wall. Soon the guards would come. They would bang on the door and ask her yet again, “Will ye recant?” They said, “Recant, recant.” They yelled at her like she could choose any other way, like she could deny her Lord, her Savior. Again she would tell them nay, she would not recant. Then they would open the small space in the door, push through a tray filled with slop, which they called food, close the opening, and leave her and her mother alone once again.

  How had this happened? Just a month ago, she was a happy Irish lass. She had a potential suitor. Her life was filled with daily chores and worshipping the Lord. Now look where she was.

  Shutting her eyes, she said a silent prayer, unsure if she should ask for deliverance or for a quick, painless death. She feared giving into her persecutors, much more than she feared the death sentence she had received.

  Since that day at the house, she hadn’t spoken a word. The punishment had been postponed because of the babe. They would rip the infant from her arms and give it to another, even as the timbers were stacked for her demise. Why they had allowed her mother to wait with her, she could only
speculate. Perhaps they thought a double burning would produce a larger crowd.

  None of it mattered. Samuel could have witnessed and taught many individuals if she had stayed away from him.

  While she sat and waited, she thought about blame. She didn’t cast responsibility for these circumstances on God. Here man was clearly to blame. Man and his evil nature.

  Festus’ sin of adultery led to the sin of lying. Lorcan then felt the need to cover up that sin with some more lying of his own, which led to false accusations, which eventually led to Samuel losing his life. Sin, was the ultimate problem.

  All she could think to do was pray. She prayed silently day and night. She prayed for forgiveness for her part in Samuel’s death. She prayed for courage to go through with her punishment without recanting. She prayed she could stand in the fire and cry out to no one but her Lord, knowing she would be going to see Samuel.

  As Sorcha rested her head against the cold stone wall, she heard a commotion. She scooted the wooden bed frame to the window opening and stood on her tiptoes to look out.

  A rider on horseback approached the building that housed them. He seemed to be someone of interest to the townspeople, as they stopped what they were doing to stare. Dismounting in front of the jail, he looked around. When Sorcha saw his face she gasped.

  Could it be? Could he be help? Did she dare hope? He seemed unusually familiar, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. It was possible that instead of her savior, he was, in fact, her executioner.

  ****

  Grant traveled from sunup until sundown before reaching the location on Samuel’s map. As he rode into the small village, he stopped. People milled about the land, children walked around with their heads hung low. They acted like there had been a tragedy.

  Dismounted from his steed, he took the reins in his hands and led his horse forward. The first man he came to was bent over in the garden picking vegetables. “Sir, could ye direct me to the minister’s house?”

  The man lifted a bony, skinny arm and pointed at a large wooden house that sat in the center of the small village. Before he could head in that direction the man spoke. “That’s the place but no one is there.”

  Grant complained aloud. He moved his hands in frustration. “I have traveled for weeks to reach my brother, and I get here and he is not even home!” He looked at the old man. “Can ye tell me where Samuel Cameron might be?”

  The old man dropped his basket full of vegetables and bowed at Grant’s feet. Grant pulled the man to a standing position. “Ye are my elder, don’t bow to me. Just tell me where I can find my brother.”

  “Yer brother was always good to me family.”

  “Where is he?”

  Trembling, the man looked toward the clouded sky. He mumbled, “In town.”

  There was more to it, Grant could feel it. Instead of questioning the tight-lipped villager, he mounted his horse and rode toward where the man pointed. It took him half a day to reach his destination. The town held a familiar feel. There was a large crowd of people milling through the streets, the buildings bursting with people.

  His throat constricted. Erected in the town center was a funeral pyre. As he stared at the instrument of death, his horse pranced in a circle. He had to find Samuel before it was too late. He rode forward, pushing, and shoving, threatening anyone who stepped in his way, finally a sign stood out, “Magistrate.” Hopefully the keeper of this county’s law would have some word of Samuel’s whereabouts.

  Grant entered the building in the midst of an argument.

  “Lorcan I told you I preferred we burn them on the same day.”

  Lorcan tried a different tactic. “Nigel, Nigel, my friend ye know I helped ye out by bringing ye some souls for yer fires. Ye couldn’t have hoped to impress the Queen without my assistance.”

  Nigel squirmed. “What is it you want?”

  “Well, I just want what I was promised.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ye see I need Louisa to burn so I can get remarried. Ye have the pyre ready, and the town is full of people so why wait.”

  Nigel arched his brow. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “Of course not. I need a woman to cook and clean and the like. Can ye go ahead and dispose of Louisa and just do Sorcha after the babe is born?”

  “I have to tell you, I am not happy about this disruption to my plans.”

  “I guess it would have been better had we left the minister for the event as well, but then again, how do ye know these things until it gets closer to time.”

  Grant edged out of the room. Surely they couldn’t mean Samuel? He waited and listened for more information, but nothing was forthcoming. The men continued to disagree. The theme of their argument seemed to be the fate of someone named Sorcha.

  He waited only a few more minutes then opened the cracked door and entered the room. The men instantly clammed up and stared at him, as if antlers stuck from his head.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Aye, I believe ye can. I’m looking for the magistrate.”

  Nigel stepped forward. “Well, you have found him. What can I do for you?”

  Grant looked at Lorcan with distaste. “May I speak with ye in private?”

  Nigel nodded. “Lorcan, we shall discuss this matter at a later time.”

  Lorcan walked closer to Nigel and whispered, “Ye don’t have to run me off for a Scot.”

  Grant raised an eyebrow. Surely the Irishman wasn’t deliberately trying to provoke him. The magistrate dismissed Lorcan and faced Grant.

  “I do apologize.” He reached his hand forward in a formal greeting. “My name is Nigel Duffy, what can I do for you?”

  Grant had stopped at an inn on his way into town, bathed, changed his ragged clothes, and took care of grooming issues. Sleeping on the ground and on a boat for several weeks didn’t exactly make a man feel or look his best. Right then he knew he looked like the laird he would one day become. No doubt that was the reason he was receiving this level of respect, which was exactly what he had hoped for. “I am looking for my brother.”

  Nigel appeared confused. “I’m not sure I know your brother sir, but if you can give me more information maybe I can help you.”

  “My name is Grant Cameron and I am looking for my younger brother, Samuel.”

  Color drained from the magistrate’s face. He dropped from a standing position into a seat behind the desk. Reaching for a cloth, he wiped sweat from his wrinkled brow.

  Grant was frustrated and tired of waiting. “Well, where is he?”

  “W — who?” stuttered Nigel.

  Grant slammed his palms flat down on the table. “Ye know perfectly well who I mean. My brother — Samuel. Now if ye don’t pipe up and tell me where my brother is, then I might have to lean back on my raising and start hacking away yer vital parts.”

  ****

  Sorcha heard Lorcan and Nigel arguing over her fate. Then just as suddenly as the voices began, they ceased to be heard. She scooted closer to the wall and placed her ear upon it. Other voices came through the wall, one was Nigel and the other one belonged to someone entirely new.

  Sorcha straightened and massaged her back. What good did it do to know when she was to be executed? She couldn’t change her destiny, and being honest with herself she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

  She would love to chat with her mother in their old manner. It seemed a lifetime ago that her world had been normal.

  Sorcha refused to speak. She spent all her time listening, and her mother spent all her time huddled in a corner repeating Bible verses. Louisa was in her own little world. She had been this way ever since they’d been grabbed in the kitchen. Retreating into herself had been her way of coping, Sorcha guessed. If by some miracle they were rescued, would her mother ever be the same?

  Sorcha laid her head against the wall once more and tried to hear. One word was recognizable, “Samuel.” Alert, Sorcha’s pulse increased. Could this man know Samuel? Hadn’t he sent
a letter to someone requesting help? Could this be that help?

  She raised her arms in preparation to beat on the flimsy walls, just as her cell door swung open, and a guard entered.

  “Well little lady, its yer time.”

  He headed toward Louisa, grasped her by the arms, and pulled her into a standing position. Sorcha rushed at him and tried to pull him away, but he easily knocked her aside. Landing against the wall with a resounding thud, Sorcha fought the ringing in her ears.

  “Don’t worry little lady, as soon as ye birth and Nigel’s wife is satisfied, ye will be next, and don’t fret, ye will get to watch the show just like everyone else.”

  The guard continued to push her back as he left with her mother. Sorcha refused to cry. If she started to weep now, she knew she would never stop. She sank onto the thin straw mattress to wait. She didn’t wait long before another guard arrived. He thought to haul her to her feet but she rose and headed toward the door of her own accord, and he failed to bind her.

  Once she was a few feet in front of him she heard him say, “Turn to yer right,” but she ignored him. She ran full speed to the door that led to the front room and burst in as a tall, broad-shouldered, brown- haired man requested the whereabouts of Samuel.

  The time for silence was over. While pointing a finger in Nigel’s direction, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “He killed him!”

  Before she could say more, the guard arrived and knocked her in the head. Stars swam before her eyes. The last thing she remembered was someone staring at her with big blue eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The wisp of a girl was caught in Grant’s arms before she hit the wooden floor. Pretending to focus on her, he struggled to make out the whisperings of the guard and magistrate.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Nigel.

  Huffing and puffing, the guard gasped, “She got away.”

  A slap echoed. “You fool! It would have been impossible for her to ‘get away’, if you had bound her,” the magistrate paused to gain control of his rising temper. “Where is her mother?”