Secrets of the Heart

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Secrets of the Heart Page 16

by Suzan Tisdale


  She was positively grief-stricken, her eyes filled with guilt and torment. Connor had never seen her like this before. Nay, this was not playacting. Mayhap he was seeing the real Margaret for the very first time. He glanced at his brother and realized Ronald was thinking much the same thing.

  Aiden ordered someone to wake his cook and to bring milk for the bairn and to find some clean nappies. He was not without experience when it came to babes. While he wasn’t a father himself, he had nine nieces and nephews, a few of which he had helped raise.

  His next order was to have his men ready themselves for battle.

  All the while, Connor was doing his best to comfort his daughter as he tried to make sense of everything.

  Pushing aside his fear and dread, he thanked Aiden for his help. In his heart, he knew that if anything happened to Onnleigh, he would never forgive himself. He knew she had been worried about being left alone. He had foolishly believed she was safer with his clan than here.

  “If I return without this babe, Onnleigh will kill me,” he muttered.

  Ronald spoke for the first time. “Then ye best nae return without her,” he said.

  Aiden studied both men briefly. “I would hate to try to gain a peace accord with the woman who has taken over yer keep.” His attempt at levity fell on deaf ears.

  “Trust me,” Connor said as he put Nola against his shoulder, “that woman will nae live to see the end of the morrow.”

  Within the hour, Nola had been fed, changed, and wrapped in dry blankets. Aiden’s cook supplied them with a few flagons of goat’s milk and enough nappies to see her through to her old age.

  Connor’s men weren’t quite sure what to think of Aiden’s men or his offer to assist. His brother Ronald was equally plagued with doubts. He pulled Connor aside and asked, “How do we ken Aiden is nae in cahoots with Helen?”

  ’Twas not necessarily an unintelligent question. The timing of Aiden’s request for a meeting fit a little too well with Helen’s despicable plan. “Aye,” Connor replied in a low voice as he watched Margaret closely. “I thought that verra thing.”

  “Then why take his offer of help?”

  “’Tis sometimes necessary to keep yer enemies close, Ronald,” Connor whispered. “Besides, if I am going to have to storm me own bloody keep, I will need as much help as I can get. I do nae think that Aiden is workin’ with Helen.”

  “How can ye be so certain?” Ronald asked with a dubious frown.

  “Me gut, Ronald. Me gut tells me Aiden wants peace with us as much as I do. I have nae gotten the sense that he is disingenuous or plottin’ against me.”

  Ronald shook his head. “I pray to God ye’re right.”

  Connor offered up his own silent prayer that his instincts about Aiden Randall were correct. He also prayed for God to keep his Onnleigh safe.

  Please, Lord, let me get to her in time.

  ’Twas impossible to tell the time of day. The only lit torch had gone out hours ago. There was not a window anywhere in the depths of the dungeon.

  Time no longer mattered to Onnleigh. She had dozed off and on throughout what she assumed was the night. Her thoughts had gone from wanting to kill Helen with her bare hands, to wanting nothing more than to die.

  Bridgett did her best to keep Onnleigh’s spirits up, but what was the purpose? No one had come for them. Deep down, she was certain no one had stopped Margaret from placing Nola in the fairy tree.

  Try as she might, she could not get the image of her crying daughter out of her mind. How betrayed must Nola have felt when she cried and no one came to comfort her? She must have been terrified beyond imagination. Onnleigh had never let her babe cry for more than a moment or two.

  There was naught left of her heart now, for it had turned to dust hours ago.

  Nola, please fergive me, she had chanted silently all through the night. Please fergive me fer nae keepin’ ye safe. I will ne’er fergive meself.

  The only thing that brought her any comfort was knowing that before this day was done, she would be dead. Hopefully ‘twould be sooner rather than later, because she did not know how much more of this agony she could withstand.

  I will be with ye soon, love. That is if God can fergive me fer nae doin’ more to save ye.

  The stillness of the dungeon was broken by the sound of the main door scraping against the stone floor. What was left of Onnleigh’s heart seized at the sound.

  Bridgett heard it as well and shot straight up. She’d been leaning against Onnleigh for God only knew how long.

  “Mayhap that be Ronald,” Bridgett whispered.

  Onnleigh couldn’t allow herself to believe that for a moment.

  A stream of light spilled in, growing larger as someone approached. ’Twas Darwud, looking just as smug as he had when he’d left them here hours before. With him were two men Onnleigh did not recognize. Both appeared to be in their fifties, with thinning hair and stomachs that bespoke of never having missed a meal.

  “Up with ye,” Darwud ordered as he stood by the cell door. “’Tis time fer yer trial.”

  Bridgett scurried away, refusing to obey his command. “To the devil with ye, Darwud!” she screamed at him.

  “She has nae done anythin’!” Onnleigh cried out. “Leave her be!”

  Darwud motioned for the shorter of the two men to unlock the door. “She be yer good friend, aye?”

  The man pulled a set of keys that dangled at his belt and quickly unlocked the door. He stepped aside, letting the keys fall back against his leg.

  “What does that matter?” Onnleigh asked as she wrapped her arms around Bridgett. “’Tis me Helen hates, nae Bridgett!”

  In a few short strides, Darwud was inside the cell, pulling Onnleigh to her feet. His taller cohort stepped in and grabbed Bridgett about her waist. The two women kicked and screamed, fighting with all their might to free themselves. But ’twas to no avail.

  “Settle down,” Darwud yelled at them. “Ye can fight all ye want, but ye’ll soon both be burnin’ at the stake.”

  “I hate ye!” Onnleigh screamed as she scratched and clawed at his face.

  Furious, he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into her cheek, sending her to the stone floor. Dots of bright white light floated in front of her eyes, her cheek throbbing in rhythm with the blood rushing in her ears.

  Bridgett heard Onnleigh scream and Darwud’s laughter. A low roar rent the air. ’Twas the other prisoners, voicing their anger, making promises to kill Darwud at the first opportunity.

  Grabbing her upper arm, Darwud yanked her to her feet once again. Her stomach recoiled at his touch, the nausea overwhelming. Using bits of rope, the men tied the young women’s hands behind their backs. Darwud tied Onnleigh’s so tightly it burned.

  How could she have ever believed he was a kind, sweet man? How could she have been such a fool?

  And how could she have put any faith in the belief that she belonged here?

  Down the dank corridor he dragged her. She was momentarily blinded by the bright light that shone in through the windows that lined the winding staircase. Squinting against it, she tried to steady the woozy feeling building in the pit of her stomach.

  Bridgett and the other man were right behind them. Bridgett cursed him to the devil, along with everyone else who had helped in this charade.

  Onnleigh didn’t believe fighting would do them a darned bit of good. These people were hell bent on seeing her dead.

  Down a narrow hallway and into the gathering room they dragged the two women. Onnleigh couldn’t stifle the gasp when she looked around. At least thirty people were gathered, men and women of all ages. Some had even brought their children to witness the farce. They murmured curses and tossed the word witch around like pebbles. Each word stung Onnleigh to her core. How could ye believe this about me?

  She shivered involuntarily as she was brought before one of the long tables. Helen sat behind it, looking for all the world like a queen. Her crimson gown was adorned with silver t
hreads, her hair covered with a bejeweled headpiece, gossamer fabric cascading down her back.

  Bridgett was shoved over to stand beside Onnleigh. Bridgett scowled at Helen, making no effort to hide the contempt she felt for the older woman. Helen ignored her.

  “Onnleigh ingen Grueber and Bridgett ingen Comnal,” Helen began. “Ye have been brought forth this tribunal having been accused of witchcraft.”

  Bridgett openly scoffed. “Tribunal?” she asked, thoroughly disgusted. “What power do ye have to call forth anyone? Ye be nae the chief nor chatelaine!”

  “With Connor gone, it falls to me—”

  Bridgett cut her off. “It falls to Fergus,” she said. “But ye have him locked away in the dungeon. Ye be naught but a mean, vengeful, horrid auld hag! To the devil with ye Helen MacCallen! To the devil with ye, I say!”

  Helen was undeterred. With a slight inclination toward Darwud, she encouraged him to grab a handful of Bridgett’s hair and yank her to her knees. Bridgett let out a yelp, more out of anger than pain.

  “‘Twould behoove ye to remain quiet, ye little witch,” Darwud seethed into her ear. “Else I will gag ye.”

  Resting her palms on the table, Helen looked around the room. “Do ye see? Onnleigh has turned our sweet Bridgett into a raving lunatic.”

  The crowd voiced its agreement rather loudly, with jeers and hisses.

  Onnleigh had yet to take her eyes off Helen. If she could, she would fling herself across the table and strangle the life out of the woman.

  “What right do ye have to do this to me? To us?” Onnleigh finally found the strength to speak.

  “’Tis me right as the former chatelaine’s mother to see to it that the keep runs smoothly and that all evil is expunged from it,” Helen replied. Turning her attention back to the crowd she said, “Ye have all heard the evidence against these two women.”

  “What evidence?” Onnleigh challenged. “We have a right to hear this evidence.”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “Within the past few days, dozens of milk cows have quit giving milk. Chickens have been found dead, with their heads chopped off. And just yester morn, a goat was found hanging from a tree. Its heart was missing.”

  “And what evidence do ye have that ’twas I who did any of those things?”

  Helen quirked a brow, looking rather victorious. “Then ye do nae deny it?”

  “Of course I deny it!” Onnleigh exclaimed. “We have done none of those things and ye verra well ken it. I am merely askin’ to know what evidence ye have that ’twas I or Bridgett who did these things.”

  Unswayed by Onnleigh’s plea of innocence, Helen continued with her accusations. “’Twas me daughter Margaret who saw ye take the heart from the goat while it was still livin’.”

  Onnleigh knew ’twas a lie. Every bit of it. She turned around to search for Margaret. Oddly enough, she was not present. “Where be she?” Onnleigh asked no one in particular. “Where be the woman who accuses me?”

  She saw it then, a flicker of something in Helen’s eyes. What it was, she could not readily name. Was it fear? Anger? Whatever it was, it made Onnleigh begin to question everything that was taking place.

  “She is ill,” Helen said.

  Onnleigh knew at once she was lying. Just how she knew, she couldn’t guess. But she could feel it in her bones. “Ill?” she asked. “Did she get a cough when she put Connor’s daughter in the fairy tree?”

  An audible gasp ripped through the room. Helen shot to her feet, looking wounded. “Do ye see how she lies so easily?” she asked the crowd. “Aye, Margaret took ill and ’twas all yer doin’. Ye cast a spell on her, I am certain of it. And if me sweet Margaret dies, her death will be on yer hands!”

  Not for a moment did Onnleigh believe Helen’s outrage. Glancing over her shoulder at the crowd, she knew there was not a thing she could do to change any of their minds. Their minds were twisted with the hunger for revenge.

  Helen leaned over the table, looking directly into Onnleigh’s eyes. “Ye have been found guilty of witchcraft,” she said. Onnleigh could see she was fighting hard to regain her composure. “As have ye, Bridgett ingen Comnal. Ye are both hereby sentenced to death.”

  The crowd cheered as they waved their fists in the air. “Burn the witches! Burn the witches!” Their thirst for blood made Onnleigh’s run cold. Her skin turned to gooseflesh when Helen gave Darwud the order to strip them down to their chemises.

  Bridgett fought like a cat-o’-mountain, scratching and clawing at the two men who were stripping her dress away. She managed to scratch one of the men along his cheek.

  Onnleigh stood numb. She had no fight left in her. Once again, she was alone in this world, just as she had been as a little girl when Helen beat her out of the walls of the keep.

  Darwud tore at her dress, ripping the bodice with his bare hands. With a few hard yanks, he had the dress in shreds, pooling at her feet. Using his dirk, he cut the sleeves away so he would not have to untie her hands. Undoubtedly he worried she would claw at him again if she had the opportunity. Her slippers were removed next, as were Bridgett’s.

  ’Twas simply one more form of degradation of the many she had endured in her lifetime.

  Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she chose instead to think of Nola. Sweet, sweet Nola. It will nae be long now, my sweet babe, and I will have ye in my arms once again.

  Connor could not believe what he was seeing. Hundreds of his people were standing outside the walls of the keep, demanding entry. His warriors were lobbing arrows over the top of the wall at the people inside. Another group of some twenty men, were in the process of using a battering ram to gain entry.

  “Heave!” one of the men shouted. Thump! Came the sound of the heavy wood against his iron gate. “Heave!” Thump.

  In all his life, he never imagined he would have to lay siege to his own keep. ’Twas the darkest of days.

  Kicking his horse into a full run, he led the charge, racing with his own men and Aiden’s across the glen and down the hill. One of his warriors spotted him and came running. “Connor! Connor!” he yelled as he trudged through the deep snow.

  ’Twas Seamus MacDonald and he looked mightily glad to see him. “Thank God ye be here!”

  Connor pulled reign, bridle and bit jangling, his horse baying and stomping just inches from Seamus.

  “They have all gone mad!” Seamus shouted over the din. Quickly, he tried to explain to Connor what was happening. “By the time we realized ’twas a ruse to get us away from the keep, we came back as quickly as we could,” he said in a rush. “Whoever be workin’ with Helen refuses to allow us back in. We spent half the night chopping down a tree big enough to use as a battering ram.”

  He caught sight of Braigh then, across the way. ’Twas he who was yelling the order to ‘heave’. “Braigh!” he called out to him, but he could not be heard over the shouts of his people.

  “There be less than eighty by my estimation,” Seamus told him. “But it be enough to keep us out while they do their dirty work!”

  Connor clenched his jaw, his muscles coiled, ready to kill. He would take no prisoners this day. “Kill them if ye must!” he shouted.

  The battering ram was beginning to work. He watched as the thick, heavy iron hinges started to pull away from the stone wall. Turning back to Ronald, he gave the order to pull forward. “Get inside that bloody wall now!”

  There was no need to ask again.

  Just as Connor, Ronald and the rest of the men reached the wall, the gate finally gave way. Blood rushed in Connor’s ears. His head buzzed blinding him with fury.

  They rode fast and hard across the fallen gate and into the courtyard. ’Twas utter mayhem inside. People were chanting Kill the Witch! Burn them! Kill them!

  But when those people heard the thunder of hoofbeats, their thirst for death quickly faded away. With one look at all the warriors racing over the fallen gate, they all began to scurry, like rats from a sinking ship.

  His heart nearly sto
pped beating when his eyes fell on the middle of the courtyard.

  Two pyres. One for Bridgett. One for Onnleigh.

  A low hum began to build inside his head. In a matter of moments, he could hear nothing else but the deep, steady hum. Unparalleled rage erupted within him.

  As he raced toward the pyre, he caught a glimpse of Helen. “Helen!” He called out to her as he pulled rein. The front legs of his mount dug into the muddy earth.

  She looked up, right into his eyes just before she set Bridgett’s pyre ablaze with a torch.

  “Stop her!” he called out to anyone who could hear him.

  Braigh was on foot, heading toward the woman, but he could not get to her in time. She tossed the lit torch onto the sticks and branches before scrambling away. Thick, acrid smoke billowed heavenward. Connor lost sight of Helen and his brother.

  Bridgett was crying, screaming for God’s mercy as the flames licked at her feet. As Ronald and Connor raced toward them, he caught sight of Fergus. The man was pulling the burning wood away from the pyres with his bare hands.

  Panic hit Connor when he saw Darrin limping toward the pyre with a dirk in one hand. He unsheathed his sword and raced forward, fully intent on taking the man’s life. The entire world seemed to slow down.

  Darrin walked directly into the burning embers and began to saw away at the ropes binding Bridgett to her pyre. At seeing what Darrin was doing, Fergus removed a dirk from his belt and began to cut Onnleigh free.

  Darrin lifted Bridgett into his arms and spun, trying to get away from the flames and smoke. Coughing, sputtering, he slid down from the pyre.

  With his reins betwixt his teeth, Ronald leaned over in his saddle and lifted Bridgett into his arms. The smoke was so thick, he could barely see where he was going.

  Connor’s steed stomped and clawed at the earth, screaming in fear as the smoke around them intensified. Flames continued to lick upward like fingers rising from the bowels of hell.

  His eyes burned, his throat stinging from the heavy smoke. Fear draped over his heart when he lost sight of Onnleigh and Fergus.

 

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