Witch Hunter Page 14

  A scowling soldier motioned for her to step down.

  Rhiannon shook her head. Terror gripped her insides until she wanted to retch. The crowd pressed closer to the cart. They were going to tear her apart.

  Lachlan kissed her cheek and said, “’Twill be all right.”

  At the small gesture of affection, the crowd’s cries increased in their frenzy. A ripe tomato hit her again, landing in her thick hair. The sorceress inside strained to control her powers. She remained transfixed, trying to suppress the wicked urge. Her eyes must have turned red because the crowd immediately silenced, their faces turned pale, their eyes widened with fright. Even the surly soldier stepped back.

  “Rhiannon.” Lachlan’s deep voice soothed her raw emotions. “Be brave, my love.”

  Taking a shallow breath, she tried to compose herself. For her family’s sake, she must not succumb to the evil. She turned to him and gave him a weak smile, her face moist from tears she did not know she had shed.

  “Let us go while we can,” he urged.

  “I am afraid,” she whispered only loud enough for him to hear and stepped off the cart.

  “We have yet to be tried,” he said with confidence and stayed close by her side.

  The townsfolk shuffled aside, granting them a wide berth. They walked up the external stairs into the cold interior of the building. The moment they were inside the crowd resumed their cries, the noise following them through the thick stonewalls.

  Rhiannon could not stop from shivering when the guards led them into an immense chamber filled with people. At the front, sitting in a high chair behind an imposing table, King James’ stern features made him appear older than his twenty-five winters.

  On a lower platform sat a row of fifteen overbearing men, each staring with a similar look of condemnation. Some of them seemed to be the king’s councilors and somber ministers of the kirk.

  The guards nudged Rhiannon and Lachlan to shuffle in between pews and stand in the corner of the chamber. Her dismay increased when she noticed Agnes standing before the king. She looked so small and lost, Rhiannon almost missed seeing her entirely.

  The king rearranged parchments on his table. “This concludes the trial for Mistress Agnes Sampson and the North Berwick witches—Fian, Napier and MacCalzean. Note the execution date: twenty-eighth day of January, in the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and ninety-one. This witch is sentenced to die by garrote, and then burn to ashes.” The king stared at Agnes, glaring down his nose with disapproval. “May God have mercy on your tainted soul. Take them to the scaffold on Castlehill.”

  Two other women and a tall man joined Agnes. The chamber was quiet, the room filled with a heavy, oppressive energy.

  As they led her friend out, Rhiannon could not stop herself from pushing past the guard and grabbing Agnes’s hands. She was at a loss for words.

  “Milady,” Agnes uttered, her eyes brimming with hopelessness.

  “There will be no conspiring from the accused,” the king shouted.

  Agnes shook her head. “I have endured too much to want to live with what they have done to me.”

  “Nae. I won’t let you go,” Rhiannon cried.

  “I am ready to leave this earth.”

  The soldiers pushed Agnes forward, yet she clutched to Rhiannon’s hands. “Thank you for your kindness. I shall never forget.”

  Their hands were ripped apart and Agnes joined the others, leaving the chamber without a backward glance.

  She returned to Lachlan and tightly held his hand. Wiping her moist face, Rhiannon felt someone watching her. She scanned the pews. In the front sat Lady Torella in a fine lavender gown trimmed in black, her blank gaze settling on Rhiannon.

  “I summon the accused, Lord Lachlan Fairbairn of West Firth to stand before the Justiciary court,” the king intoned.

  Lachlan squeezed her fingers with his and then stood in front of the court.

  The king read aloud, “Lord Lachlan, you are accused of murdering five royal guards in an attempt to escape with an accused witch, Lady Rhiannon Campbell.” The king looked up from his papers. “Do you deny or confirm this treasonous act?”

  Lachlan straightened his shoulders. “I deny the charges of murder. There were no guards on duty when I went to the dungeons, and unless you have evidence to prove otherwise, I respectfully request the assize to judge me innocent.”

  The row of men sitting behind the table mumbled at his appeal.

  The king said, “Your innocence remains to be seen. What say you about the attempted escape?”

  Lachlan looked at Rhiannon. She shook her head, willing him to deny it.

  “I confirm.”

  “Nae,” Rhiannon cried. “I bewitched him. He did not know what he was doing.”

  The chamber erupted, everyone talking at once.

  “Silence!” the king yelled.

  “Your Majesty, may I come forward?” Lachlan’s father entered the chamber.

  “Lord Richard, you may be my royal advisor, but this will not save your son from my judgment,” the King announced.

  The Duke stood beside Lachlan without regarding him. “I beg leniency for my last born son.”

  “Father…”

  “Even the witch confessed she has him under a spell,” the Duke continued.

  Lachlan said, “She does not…”

  “Be that as it may, he was the only one who entered the dungeons, and therefore murdered my guards,” the king interrupted. “What say the assize?”

  The row men in front whispered among themselves. A portly minister rose to his feet and talked quietly to the king.

  “The Justiciary court finds you guilty of murder and treason. I sentence you, Lord Lachlan Fairbairn to…” he looked at Torella and she nodded. “I sentenced you to be flogged in front of your witch until you die.”

  Rhiannon could not believe her ears. Her throat knotted with disbelief.

  A guard pulled him away, Lachlan’s eyes boring into hers.

  “I summon the accused, Lady Rhiannon Campbell of Gleich to stand before the Justiciary court,” the king ordered.

  A guard pulled Rhiannon forward, urging her numb feet to walk.

  The king read an extended parchment. “Lady Rhiannon, you are accused of witchcraft. Do you deny or confirm?”

  The chamber was deathly quiet again. It was as if everybody was holding his or her breath.

  “I…confirm.”

  “Commission of Justiciary, Master Grigor Livingston, come forward and read the accuser’s confession,” the king summoned.

  Grigor rose with self-importance and strolled across the chamber to stand beside Rhiannon. In a high-pitched voice, he read the missive that held her signature. He added extra embellishments of her evil doings, but Rhiannon did not care. They were going to execute her no matter what she had signed.

  “Lady Rhiannon, re-confirm this is the truth,” the king demanded.

  “I confirm,” she said and rose her head. “I confirm that I am a Celtic witch. A good person who uses her gifts to benefit those in need.”

  The appalled voices of the people filled the chamber again.

  “Silence!”

  “I confirm that I am the last witch in Scotland, in the world. There are no more witches! I confirm you are murdering innocent people to feed your fear and insecurities about the unknown.”

  The crowd gasped at her outburst.

  “Silence,” the king yelled.

  Rhiannon raised her voice just as loud, “I confirm you are the wickedness you force Agnes and the others to confess too.” She pointed to the king. “May God have mercy on your soul!”

  “I sentence you to burn on the stake.” The king’s face turned red and he shot to his feet, pointing at her. “Come the dawn you will be purged from our sight.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rhiannon clenched her mouth tighter, trying to transport to Lachlan again, but she did not leave her dungeon. Her powers were bound—no doubt by the sorceress.

&nbs
p; She spent the eve sitting on the cold stones, thinking about all things she wished she could change. If she had a chance, she would tell her mother, father and the rest of her family that she loved them. She would apologize to Lachlan for being the cause of his downfall. She never wanted him to be in the middle of the trial, which was why she left him in the mountain.

  She rubbed her hot hands on her thighs. Since the middle of the eve, her palms constantly burned. There was not much time left before the sun rose and all goodness left her soul. How could she face the look of fear from Lachlan when the hex took effect? If only she were executed yesterday.

  A nervous giggle erupted from her mouth. To think she was wishing in her last moments to die earlier.

  The door opened and Grigor pulled her to her feet. “I can help you escape.”

  Rhiannon stared at him, her heart leaping to throat.

  “If you promise to use your powers to my benefit, we can work out an accord.” Grigor cupped her breasts and she shivered.

  She spat in his face. “I would rather die.”

  He gripped her arm and pulled her up against him, his teeth clenching. “Then I will torch you myself.”

  Grigor dragged her along the cavernous hallway. For once, the Inquisitor was silent which terrified her more than his threats.

  He placed her in the same cart she took to Tolbooth yesterday. “Where is Lord Lachlan?” she asked.

  “You will see him soon enough,” Grigor replied in a scathing tone and sat beside the driver.

  Tilting her head up, Rhiannon observed the eve’s fading stars, appreciating the last chance of seeing the sky’s dark beauty. Conflicting emotions tore at her heart. Although she was afraid to burn on the stake, if the dawn came before she died, everyone in Edinburgh was in danger of the evil that simmered beneath.

  The cart rumbled out the castle gates and she willed the horse to trot faster.

  Perhaps the sorceress would not be up this early.

  Rhiannon hopes were dashed when she arrived at the hill outside the castle. Upon a high white horse sat the sorceress in a red gown and hat, her bosom almost spilling out of the exquisite dress. On a black steed next to Torella sat the king, appearing bored and impatient.

  As soon as the crowd saw her, they shouted curses. The noise was so loud she wanted to cover her ears, but her bound wrists could not reach far enough. She glared at the hundreds of people who eagerly woke early to witness another witch burning.

  The cart halted and Grigor roughly escorted her up the nearest scaffold of four.

  Lachlan stood against one of the posts on the platform next to her. His tunic hung open at his sides, his muscled back exposed to the vicious mob.

  His head hung low; he appeared defeated.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  A heavy-set soldier near Lachlan cracked a whip into the air and the crowd replied in awe, their eyes glistening with blood lust. The man picked up another whip near his feet and held it high for everyone’s pleasure. The claw-like pincers at the end of the whip held bloodstains. Every lash of the cat’s paw would tear Lachlan’s skin like a knife through butter until it reached the bone.

  Damn the sorceress for blocking her powers. She could have saved Lachlan from feeling the pain. Allow his soul to escape into a world of bliss.

  Grigor bound her to a post, and she peeked below at the pile of dry timber. Her heart felt like it was going to pound out of her chest. Sweat poured down the sides of her face. Her breathing increased.

  “I pray you do not burn too fast, witch,” Grigor taunted and left the scaffold. He snatched a fire sconce from one of the guards and waited nearby, his eyes burning with impatience.

  “Rhiannon,” Lachlan called to her above the din and she turned her head. “Try to escape if you can.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot.” Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed the acidic taste. Something was happening to her beyond just fear. Her body seemed to blaze from within.

  Rhiannon looked at the sorceress, and she held a sinister smile. Torella’s face turned to the east. She was waiting for the sun, for the hex to take place. She whispered into the king’s ear.

  King James ordered, “Whip the traitor!”

  “Nae,” Rhiannon screamed but it was lost in the mob’s cheers.

  The soldier swung his arm to gain momentum then cracked the whip against Lachlan’s back. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body spasm against the pain, but he did not cry out.

  Rhiannon struggled against her binds. She had to stop this.

  The cat’s claw flicked through the air and tore his skin again. Blood dripped down his legs. The soldier flicked the pieces of flesh from the pincers and whipped him again and again.

  “Stop it!” Rhiannon shouted at the sorceress. But she shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the east.

  A reddish-orange glow colored the morning sky. The sun would soon appear over the mountains.

  “I am a powerful witch!” she shouted as loud as she could.

  The crowd hushed down to a whisper, their attention on her.

  “If you do not leave this man be, you will all be cursed for the rest of your days,” she warned.

  “Nae, Rhiannon,” Lachlan groaned.

  The crowd’s faces changed from hatred to panic. They turned to the king.

  His Majesty whispered into the sorceress’ ear and she nodded. “Burn the witch!” he ordered.

  A mixture of terror and relief filled her being. She did not want to die, but could not allow the hex to darken the world.

  Grigor pushed the other guards away and walked forward. Holding the fire sconce in the air, he stared at her with a huge grin on his face. He brought the flame down in an arc, and the timber easily caught fire. The Inquisitor practically danced around her scaffold, adding fire to the pile.

  Her steady composure collapsed with the horror of a painful death. The crackling of the flames grew louder, drowning out the noise of the mob. Even Lachlan’s pleas for mercy for her seemed like a whisper.

  The spot on her forehead seared the skin, while her insides burned even though the flames had not reached her flesh. She closed her eyes against the sting of smoke, the smell of wood clogging her lungs.

  Suddenly, a sense of peace overcame her being. Her limbs instantly cooled and her skin prickled. The beat of her heart and her intake of breath slowed in pace.

  She was ready for death.

  A piercing light shone from beyond her eyelids and she opened her eyes.

  Yellow beams of sunlight shot over the mountain range.

  Chapter Twenty

  Icy fear twisted around Lachlan’s heart. He tugged the chains on his wrists but could not budge them from the pillar. Soon the flames would engulf Rhiannon. The thought ripped him apart more than the iron whip.

  All he could do was watch her die.

  Suddenly, her eyes opened. Where she used to have sea-blue eyes, they now shone with a red luminosity. Her golden hair transformed into black curly locks. The stained kirtle she wore was replaced with a rich, green gown of satin and ribbons.

  The chains binding her wrists broke apart. Her lily-white hand went to the necklace around her neck. Yanking the chain, she threw the Roberts’ pendent into the fire.

  “Rhiannon,” he yelled.

  She turned to look at him, but it was not the face of his loving witch. It was a sorceress staring at him. A sinking feeling mingled with hope.

  “Save yourself,” he shouted, but Rhiannon acted as if she did not hear him.

  She turned to the mob and they stepped back, shuffling with uneasiness. She raised her hands and the fire around her flew outward, burning everyone in its path.

  Screams echoed in his ears while people scattered in every direction.

  Grigor ran away from Rhiannon’s scaffold toward Lachlan. Her eerie gaze scanned the frantic crowd and landed on the Inquisitor. She lifted another hand and Grigor was paralyzed to the spot, his delirious eyes stared at Lachlan, begging h
im for clemency. Grigor’s body lifted up into the air, his muscles seemed to remain frozen.

  “I hope you do not burn too fast,” she called, her voice void of emotion.

  Grigor burst into flames. The stench of sizzling flesh and his high-pitched shrieks filled the air. When Grigor’s screams died, his charred corpse fell to the ground.

  Rhiannon smiled with self-satisfaction, the darkness in her eyes chilled Lachlan to the core.

  She returned her vengeance back to the mob, and flames shot into the crowd. No one escaped her wrath.

  Laughter pierced the air. Torella regally sat upon her mount, pointing at people engulfed in flames. The king tried to settle his skittish mount, but it threw him off and galloped away.

  Fire burned in a circle around them, imprisoning everyone on Castlehill.

  “Gavenia! Gavenia!” Lachlan shouted above the screeches of death. He did not know if Rhiannon’s mother would hear him, but he had to do something.

  From out of the flames, his father raced up the scaffold and punched the soldier with the whip. The large man went down and Richard stole the key from his pocket.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  The Duke stepped behind him and unlocked the chains. “I am getting you out of here.”

  Lachlan almost fell, but his father held him up from under his arms. “We…we cannot leave without Rhiannon.”

  “Are you daft, son? She is killing everyone.”

  “It is not her fault…she is…”

  Through the flames, a line of four men and four women walked into the circle. A pink ball of light vibrated around them while they clasped hands. Lachlan sighed with relief when he recognized the Celtic witches.

  On the end, Gavenia raised a hand to the sky and clouds shifted overhead.

  A drop of water landed on Lachlan’s forehead, then another until the skies opened up with heavy rain, dousing the fire.

  His father helped him down the scaffold and he rested behind the platform. His back burned. His weakened legs could not carry him any further.