The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

  "Sorcha— " the words stuck fast in his throat and he tried to swallow to get them free. He had vowed to himself he would never beg again, but his need to keep her near made it impossible to stop. "Sorcha, I beg you. Let me stay with you until as long as I may."

  Her lip trembled and her eyes grew bright.

  "There is no more time."

  A pounding at the door broke the moment between them. Ian rose quickly to answer it, the ache had settled so deeply within him it made him feel cold to the core. The guard was there, waiting to take Sorcha. Ian slipped another coin into the man’s palm to give her time to dress. The money only bought him a few more minutes’ time with his wife. He closed his eyes as he shut the door and heaved a great breath.

  "You must dress. You leave shortly."

  Her hand, warm and tender settled on his back.

  "You are a good husband, Ian."

  His skin tightened at her praise and Ian gritted his teeth, then blew out slowly.

  "If I were a good husband, we would not be here now."

  Her hand slid down his back, leaving him even colder still at the loss of her touch.

  "I cannot change what I have done, and neither can you," she said.

  He glanced back at her, his gaze connecting with hers.

  She reached out a hand and he took it, wishing with all that was within him that he never had to let go.

  They sat staring at each other, as he tried to memorize every thing about her, but too soon the guard returned.

  She stood to leave, but he pulled her back hard against him for one last kiss. She leaned away, her gaze strengthening.

  "I’ll never forget you."

  The words cut cleanly through him as she slipped from his grasp. Ian gripped the door post, determined to control himself as he watched her go.

  "Nor I you, my lady."

  Chapter Sixteen

  A bone-chilling scream rent the stagnant fetid air inside the castle dungeons of North Berwick at their arrival. In the weak light of the rush torches, Sorcha couldn’t see the misery that waited her as much as she smelled it. The air was rank with unwashed and neglected humanity—and the odor of death. Her stomach rolled, threatening to heave.

  Men and women huddled in rag-covered bunches on the cold stone floors, their forms barely human in the confines of tight cells where they could neither lay down or stretch themselves.

  She was pushed along to a larger cell where several women crouched together on damp slimy floors. The lock grated with the key, and the iron bars swung open. In the flicker of the light, she saw their dirty faces look up, their pupils wide and black from the darkness.

  The edge of one woman’s stained skirts moved. A small face appeared. The dark-haired child focused on her and gave a lost look, then disappeared back behind her mother’s wraps. Sorcha’s stomach lurched again, this time not from the stench but from anguish that a child should be in this godforsaken place.

  The guard shoved her, and Sorcha stumbled into the cell. As he shut the barred door and refastened the lock, she arranged her cloak as best she could to cover herself completely and dropped down beside the women.

  The light faded into blackness as the guard retreated down the row of cells. Sorcha’s eyes adjusted quickly and the meager light from the rushes near the stairs were enough for her to vaguely see their shapes.

  The woman next to her shifted.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Ballochyle."

  "Accused of witchcraft?"

  "Aye, and you?"

  "Aye. All of us, even the wee one."

  At the mention of her, the little girl poked her head out again from her mother’s skirts and stared at Sorcha. Though she could not see the child’s face, she felt her gaze.

  "What is your name, lass?"

  "I am Anne." The small voice supplied. Sorcha’s heart contracted at the mention of her older sister’s name.

  Her throat felt too thick when she spoke. "The same as our good queen."

  The woman next to her grunted.

  "There ‘tis nothing good about her. She ‘tis the reason we’re here."

  Another woman spoke. "The king believes that his cousin used us to call the storm that threatened to sink the ship he and the queen sailed from Denmark."

  "That’s madness," Sorcha whispered.

  "Aye. But who are we to gainsay him?"

  Sorcha knew the truth of that.

  "Besides, they’ll torture a confession from all of us before they send us to court," the first woman added.

  From the corner came a groan.

  "What was that?"

  "Margaret Thomson. They took her yesterday to confess. There’s not much we can do for her, but let her sleep while she can. They used the boots on her. They broke her legs with the hammered wedges in so many places, she’ll never walk again."

  Sorcha flinched. "But she’s in pain..."

  "Aye."

  "How bad is it?"

  "The bones are shattered and she’s in a fever. She’ll not live the night."

  "Does anyone have water? I have herbs with me." The need to think on anything but the agony ahead of her was as necessary as breathing. If she could help someone, ease their pain, it would relieve the thoughts.

  "You’ll find a bucket of it by the door. But watch out for the rats."

  Sorcha shuddered. She stood and shuffled her feet slowly along the floor, unsure of her footing. She knew she reached the bucket when she hit it with her toe.

  "Is there anything for her to drink from?"

  "‘Tis in the bucket."

  She reached her hand forward in the blackness, unsure of what she would find. Her fingers quickly grew numb in the icy water as she grasped a small wooden cup floating in the bucket. She dipped it, filling it about half-full, then shuffled back toward the form on the floor.

  Sorcha reached her dry hand into her shirt and pulled out the flattened leather pouch she had hidden within her corset. She put two pinches of the herbs in the cup and swirled it with her finger, then stuffed the pouch back into its hiding place, the soft leather warm and comforting against her skin.

  She felt another woman beside her.

  "Let me help." It was the one with the softer voice. "I’m Agnes." Together they lifted the trembling woman’s head and helped her drink the liquid. They laid her back down, bunching the cloth of her plaid beneath her head.

  Sorcha grasped Agnes’ shoulder.

  "Thank you."

  "Nay, ‘Tis I who should thank you. To ease the suffering of another is a great gift."

  "Are you a healer?"

  "Nay, but I can appreciate one. You best get some rest before the guards come."

  "Why do they come?"

  "To wake us. They’ll not suffer us to sleep long. ‘Tis a way they make the brain fevered enough to confess more easily. ‘Tis why most of us wear a hair shirt, to keep us awake with the discomfort." Now that her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the abject misery about her was plain to see.

  She was in hell. If the king and kirk thought that these men and women were in danger of slipping into the grasp of Satan, they had missed the important fact that they had already put their prisoners as close to the experience as most of them would ever get.

  Sorcha could not tell if it had been hours or merely part of an hour in the dark dankness of the cell when the guard came to wake them all. Bang! Bang! He slammed a metal rod against the bars.

  "Hoy, wake up you lot! You in the corner, up with you!"

  "She’s had the boots and canna’," Agnes said.

  He nodded. "You there," he said, pointing to Sorcha. "Time to talk to the confessor."

  He led her from the cell. As she tramped down the dark stone hall, all her thoughts centered on Ian. She remembered his strong hands, his comforting strength and the confidence he wore like a mantle. A twist of guilt pulled at her heart.

  She had taken any chance she had at a good marriage and thrown it all away for the sake of protecting those from som
ething she could not control. She had never known about her own birth, and now it could destroy them all, except Ian. He could escape it.

  A heavy oak door swung open to reveal a table neatly lined with all manner of gruesome looking devices as well as a parchment, a quill and an inkpot. The door slammed shut behind her.

  She stood alone in the room waiting for her confessor. Thirty minutes later a florid man, nearly bursting the gold buttons on his rich brocade doublet and liberally doused with what smelled like bergamont oil, entered the room, followed by a heavily-muscled man.

  The confessor hefted himself into the only chair, adjusted his wig and narrowed his piggish eyes at her.

  "Are you Sorcha MacIver, wife of Ian Hunter?"

  "I am, sir."

  "You are here so that I may hear your confession."

  "I have no confession to make, sir."

  The bulky man leaned forward, his great jowls hanging. "You will be tortured until it loosens your tongue, mistress. Why not spare yourself and confess now? When did you renounce your faith in God?"

  "I didn’t."

  He leaned back. "Very well then." He snapped his fingers. The guard tied Sorcha’s hands to a metal ring on the wall and then brought out a rough, thick rope loop and placed it upon her head, like a macabre circlet. Sorcha felt the rope squeezing about her temples and forehead as the man twisted it at the back of her head with a wooden handle. Pain made her vision spark with stars.

  "When did you renounce your faith?"

  "I didn’t," she gasped.

  The rope tightened still further. The pain dulled her vision to black at the edges and finally caused it to fade completely.

  Sorcha awoke back in the fetid dungeon with the other women, her head aching so badly she could barely lift it. Two hours later the guard came again. Sorcha’s stomach dropped, fearing they would take her back for additional torture until she confessed.

  She followed behind, still dizzy from her last bout with the confessor. Sorcha paced the small room in the dungeon where she’d been taken from her cell. The room had one open window, with bars fastened securely across it. This must be another room where they forced confessions from people.

  From the walls hung all types of instruments, including the boots that she guessed had been used on Margaret, and the twisting rope that made her stomach lurch just to look at it. Near the gaping fireplace was an iron chair with leather straps on the arms and a brazier filled with gray ashes beneath the metal seat.

  The door opened and in walked Archibald. Sorcha leaped forward and threw her arms about Archibald’s neck. He hugged her close.

  "Archibald, ‘tis so good to see you!"

  He brushed a light kiss on her mouth and held her for a moment, which surprised her, but she was too happy to see him to make much of it.

  "I’m glad you’re doing so well under the conditions." His arms released her. "We’ve only a few minutes to speak, I could ask for no more. This matter is quite personal for King James, and he’s unkindly disposed to those involved."

  "Aye. Uncle Charles told me of my birth."

  "Then you know this has nothing to do with witchcraft. The king is using you to get to undermine Bothwell and the lords behind him."

  "Aye, they wish to use me to reach the throne. But circumstances have changed."

  He reached out and grasped her hand.

  "What is it?"

  "I fear I carry Ian’s child."

  His form stiffened, and he released his hold on her as if she were heated metal.

  "You must tell no one. Swear this to me. I am afraid that any should know until the trial. If they knew," she held her hand tightly over the slight swell of her stomach, "they might threaten the babe to force me to confess."

  He clenched a fist.

  "I swear." He paused, the silence stretching out between them. "How can you be sure?"

  "Henna taught the village girls such things. I have three of the four signs she told us meant a bairn was in our bellies."

  His shoulders pulled tight, his eyes narrowing.

  "So you’ve lain with him?"

  "He is my husband."

  He nodded curtly.

  "If you hold your tongue, you know this could mean the life of you and your child should they find you guilty. Would you heap that sin upon your soul, the life of an innocent?"

  She shook her head.

  "Nay, I wouldn’t. You are right. If the court determines guilt against me, I have no choice but to protect the child by pleading for his life."

  He lifted his chest and straightened his shoulders. "I will stand for you in court."

  Sorcha grasped his hand. "Nay! Archibald, please do not do this! It could cost your position as leader of clan Campbell. I cannot ask that of you. Too many are at stake."

  "If you would not let me, what of Hunter? Couldn’t he stand for his own child?"

  "Aye, he could. But I don’t want there to be any reason to hold him from going to France."

  "But he could save your child if you plead your belly to the court."

  Sorcha bit her lip. Would he forgive her for asking him to come back, when she had already sent him away? Aye, he would. He was that kind of man. His child would be worth it to him.

  "Has he boarded ship yet?"

  "Nay."

  She grasped him by the shoulders.

  "Then make haste, Archibald. The trial begins in but two days."

  "Aye, but we have a bit longer. You will be questioned after some of the others, so it may be weeks before you come before the judge."

  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 b
e 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.