by Jessi Gage
“Leslie? What’s happening?” Fear had her in an icy grip.
Surely there was a rational explanation for what she was experiencing. Maybe she was having a stroke. Twenty-eight was rather young for that, but she’d heard of it happening to people in their thirties.
Leslie didn’t respond.
The light faded. At first, she thought she’d gone completely blind, but after a moment’s adjustment, she realized the flickering of sunlight through the spinning stones had changed to the dim orange glow of a fire. She viewed it through some sort of lattice-work. A bush without leaves.
The dizziness lifted. She found herself on hands and knees on the hard ground. It was night time. The temperature was a far cry from the balmy June morning she had been enjoying with Leslie.
A few moments ago, sweat from the hike had dampened her underarms. Now, that same sweat cooled with alarming speed. She began to shiver.
Sitting back on her haunches, she hugged herself. It felt like the dead of a damp winter. Her breath came too fast as her mind sought to make sense of her surroundings.
“Do ye hear that?”
A man’s voice.
“Aye.” Another man. “Unless my ears deceive me, we have a lurker beyond yon thicket.”
Crisp footsteps approached. Should she run? Should she stand and make herself known? Where the heck had Leslie gone? Fear held her frozen.
“Caution, sir. May be an English spy. We are well into Perthshire by now, after all. I heard Ruthven’s men have caught several since harvest.”
The other man grunted.
Two dark figures appeared from around the bush. Her eyes had not yet adjusted. The only detail she could make out was that they wore bulky clothes in dark hues.
They came to a stop so close she had to crane her neck to look up at them.
She could see well enough to tell they were both bearded. And frowning.
She stood up on shaking legs. “Hello,” she greeted. She attempted a smile past her chattering teeth. “I seem to have become lost.”
“Och, ’tis but a woman.”
“A woman who sounds more English than Scots. And who is oddly dressed.”
“You mean partially dressed.” One of the men unwound a length of fabric from around his shoulders. He started to hold it out to her.
The other man stopped him by grabbing his arm. “Halt. Might this be one of the witches the bishop has warned about?”
Their brogues were thick, but their words began to register. They were worried about her being an English spy or a witch. Logic suggested these could not be modern-day men. But that was ridiculous. Maybe she’d come across some kind of theater production.
“Mayhap. Best take her to Ruthven to be cert.” The men advance on her.
She stepped backwards, her breath fogging in front of her. “Look, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I’m an American. I was just watching the sunrise with my sister. I don’t know what happened or how I got here, but I’m not part of…whatever this is. I’ll just—uh—be going.”
One of the men said, “The sun willna rise for hours. Where is this sister of yours?”
“At Druid’s Temple, outside Inverness. You know, the stones on the hill? If you just point me in the right direction, I’ll find my way back.” Uneasiness crept up on her. Her hackles began to rise. Could she be in danger with these men? She backed up as they edged closer.
One man sucked in a breath. “Inverness? Lass, you’re four days’ ride from there. Ye be in Perthshire, nay far from Sterling.”
Perthshire. Sterling. These names registered vaguely. Sterling, she knew from her travel guide, was the name of the town and the castle where many of Scotland’s royalty had preferred to live over the nearby Edinburgh Castle. Perthshire was probably an antiquated name for Perth, which was north of Edinburgh. She and Leslie had been planning to stay in Perth once they left their bed and breakfast in Inverness. From there, they would go on day trips to explore Sterling, Edinburgh, and any other places that struck their fancy.
The man had to be mistaken. Perth was a few hours’ drive from Inverness. She couldn’t possibly be in Perth. Not looking where she was going, she backed herself up against a hard surface. Her hands sought out what lay behind her. It felt like a wagon wheel.
“She speaks freely of Druids,” the other man said. “And look what she wears around her neck. A hag stone.”
“She must be a witch. Quickly. Bind her.”
They grabbed her.
She screamed.
No one came to her rescue.
Chapter 2
Wilhelm despised the cold. Yet he found the frigid atmosphere of the bailey preferable to the stifling heat and even more stifling company inside the home of the noble who had once tried to murder his mother.
At his back stood Castle Ruthven, the seat of Lord Jacob Ruthven, Baron of Perthshire. To the east and west were the Ruthven family chapel and stables. Straight ahead, to the north, was the seawall beyond which mist rose off the River Almond like icy breath.
He was surrounded by the fortress of his enemy. For only one thing would he consent to set foot in this place: his passion for justice. If he could but remember that, he would survive the evening.
He drew in a breath of air so cold it stung his throat and seared his lungs, steeling himself to reenter the great hall full of pampered nobles. There were seven parliamentarians he must convince to his way of thinking before he could consider this journey a success, and he had spoken to six thus far. Lord Turstan remained. Wilhelm had not been fortunate enough to be seated near the parliamentarian during supper, but he would find him now that the meal had ended.
Footsteps on the stairs behind him made him glance back the way he’d come. He expected to see Terran, his look-alike cousin who had accompanied him to Perth, but to his dismay, ’twas lord Ruthven himself who approached.
Bugger. He’d hoped to avoid speaking with his host.
“I’d wondered where you’d gone off to.” Ruthven clasped his hands in front of his belt as he came grandly down the steps into the bailey.
Jewels sparkled on his fingers, and the expensive dyed wool of his plaid winked indigo in the torchlight. A rabbit-fur cloak swept the stones at his feet. He’d spared no expense in his wardrobe, and he had been just as generous with the feast he had laid out for supper. No amount of grandeur and generosity, however, could hide the glint of malice in Ruthven’s gaze. His actions were those of a courteous host, but his tone was one of a man who would just as soon stick a dirk between Wilhelm’s ribs as invite him into his home for a meal.
Ruthven came to a halt at Wilhelm’s side. “I was beginning to think you had departed before tonight’s entertainment.”
Would that he could quit himself of Ruthven’s presence now that supper had ended, but nay. Not only did propriety demand he remain, but he refused to take leave without first securing Lord Turstan’s support.
“If my lord’s entertainment is half as fine as his supper, my cousin and I shall be content to remain a while yet.” ’Twas a strong temptation to let sarcasm seep into his words, but he refrained. The fact remained that until Wilhelm succeeded his father, Laird Alpin Murray of Dornoch and Baron of Duffus, Ruthven would outrank him.
’Twould not do to provoke the man, especially since Wilhelm’s judicial act wasn’t the only thing at stake tonight. ’Twas his first gathering representing his aging father. One foot out of place and he risked vital alliances for his clan or stood to make powerful enemies. His father had trusted him to carry the mantle of the Murray. Wilhelm would not disappoint him.
“You honor me with your compliment,” Ruthven said as his dinner guests made their way into the bailey. Whatever entertainment Ruthven had planned must be taking place outdoors. Odd, given the season—today was the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year, and oft one of the coldest.
Wilhelm searched among the gathering nobles for Lord Turstan’s white hair and heather-gray cap. He’d sought out the
parliamentarian toward the start of his journey down the coast. Turstan’s home in Inverness had been his and Terran’s first destination after departing Dornoch. But the earl hadn’t been at home. His master of household had informed them he had left early for tonight’s gathering in order to visit kin along the way. Wilhelm hoped he might meet him on the road, but he’d seen no sign of Turstan’s banner.
He didn’t ken the parliamentarian well enough to suppose which way he voted on acts regarding education, but Wilhelm hoped to gain his support for the act that if passed would require all lairds in waiting to attend school from the age of nine until qualified for university. Such a law would ensure that dross like Ruthven were at least cured of their ignorance before they came to power. Unfortunately, Wilhelm kent of no possible cure for a depraved heart.
Wilhelm would speak with Turstan during their host’s festivities. Then he could find Terran and quit himself of this place. An evening at an inn, and they would be free to return home.
How he missed the rolling hills of Dornoch and the scents of fertile soil and livestock. How he missed his mother and father. He longed to share with them news from his travels along the coast. His father would be pleased at the support Wilhelm had collected.
“Forgive my rudeness for not inquiring earlier.” Ruthven interrupted his thoughts. “How fares your mother’s health?”
Wilhelm snorted before he could stop himself. Ruthven cared about Gormlaith Murray’s health only so far as he hoped to predict when the agreement struck between him and Wilhelm’s father might come to an end.
Twenty seven years ago, Ruthven had imprisoned Wilhelm’s mother, then a peasant maiden, on false charges. Refusing to win her freedom by marrying the corrupt lord, she had been slated for execution. Upon hearing of this injustice by way of Ruthven’s boasting, Wilhelm’s father had negotiated for her release.
“‘Have your way, an’ ye earn naught but a moment’s vengeance,’ I told the oily bastard.” His father never missed an opportunity to relate the tale. “‘But give her to me an’ I’ll levy to you a tenth share of all I take in from my tenants for the span of her life. Each year she outlives your executioner’s blade, you’ll profit.’ The greedy blight agreed, and to this day, I gladly send the silver. My lady is worth every pound.”
Three days after securing Gormlaith’s release, Wilhelm’s father took her as his bride. Nine months later, Wilhelm had been born.
“She is hale,” Wilhelm said distractedly; he had just spotted Lord Turstan leaving the keep, leaning heavily on his cane.
“That is splendid to hear.” Ruthven bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Give her my regard when you return home, will you?”
“If you’ll excuse me—” Wilhelm said and took his leave of Ruthven, his eye on Lord Turstan.
Terran appeared at his side as he made his way through the gathering.
“Where have you been?” Wilhelm asked as they picked their way through the growing crowd to the east end of the bailey.
Terran’s mouth quirked. “Found a way to pass the time in a private nook off the kitchens. Auld Rat-bum might be a blighter, but he employs his share of bonny maids.”
Wilhelm ground his teeth. “You shame our clan by carrying on wi’ unwed lasses.” Would his cousin never settle down with one woman?
“They arena all unwed.” His cousin winked, but sobered at Wilhelm’s glare. “Och, dinna fash. Tonight was merely a bit of fun. No thinking man would risk bringing a bairn into the home of such a foul fellow.”
Wilhelm grunted.
The milling guests parted before them the way the earth makes way for the blades of a plow. Wilhelm might be among the lower ranking nobles present, the mere tainistear and heir to a rural barony, but he and Terran stood a full head above the other guests and carried themselves like the warriors they were. Most of the other men gave them a wide berth.
The wary respect of the other nobles was a double-edged sword. It served him well on the battlefield but proved a challenge when his aim was cultivating political alliances. Some seemed to question whether he could carry a non-violent thought in his head.
A few paces shy of Lord Turstan, Terran gripped his arm. “Look, cousin.” He pointed at the front of the chapel.
Wilhelm followed Terran’s gaze. A stake had been erected and slabs of dry wood layered round about. Ruthven’s men raced to pile tinder around a second stake.
His feet fused to the ground. This was the entertainment Ruthven had planned? Despicable!
“They mean to burn someone tonight,” Terran said.
“Two someones.”
“Enemies of the church, do you suppose, or enemies of Ruthven?”
Anger was a smoldering flint in his gut as he remembered the fate his mother had nearly suffered. “It doesna matter. If Ruthven’s doing the burning, there is sure to be injustice afoot.” He met Terran’s eyes.
His cousin looked grim. For all his womanizing, he had a thirst for justice as strong as Wilhelm’s. “Christ never called for a sinner to be burned alive,” Terran said.
“No. He didna.” His disciples had once, but Christ hadn’t allowed them to do it.
“We must object.”
He wished they could. “Nay. I promised my father I wouldna cause trouble.”
If they interfered, they would lose more than the support they had gathered on this journey. Ruthven was a favorite of John Ramsay, one of the most influential lords in King James III’s court. If Wilhelm angered Ruthven, he could expect to find his act stricken from the next parliament proceedings altogether. Unthinkable.
If Scotia was to survive and thrive alongside England, she needed judicial reform. If Scotia must fight England, she needed warriors who were strong and hale, not disfigured and demoralized by brutal punishments that far exceeded the severity of their crimes. Too many lairds misunderstood the law. That could be helped by passing each noble-born child through school. His act would see that done.
“We must nay offend Ruthven,” Wilhelm said with regret. “But I doona wish to witness this spectacle. I havena spoken with Turstan, but an execution is nay the time to do so. Let us take our leave. We shall search for him in the village on the morrow.” At worst, they would simply stop in Inverness on their journey home and wait for Turstan to arrive home.
Before they could extract themselves from the gathering, Ruthven mounted the steps of the chapel. He greeted his guests and then locked gazes with Wilhelm. “There are those among us who in their naivety extol the virtues of mercy over just punishment.” He puffed his chest, drawing attention to his jewels and gold chains. Fog puffed before his mouth as he broadened his attention to the crowd at large. “’Tis a quaint notion. But one that has no place in modern, thinking society.”
“Oily shite,” Terran muttered.
Wilhelm agreed. “Come.” He shouldered aside a man who had squeezed up front with a well-dressed lady on his arm, no doubt for a better view.
The crowd had grown thick. People grumbled at the disturbance of Wilhelm and Terran pushing their way to the stables, where they could find their horses and depart.
“As God fearing citizens,” Ruthven went on, his voice an assault on Wilhelm’s ears, “Crown honoring citizens, the vast majority of us understand that we who rule shall be held accountable by God for our failures to enact His justice on the Earth. Who but us will protect the common man from the greed of the thief? Who but us will guard our daughters from the rapist? Who but us will shield our impressionable young from the wiles of witches?”
As if Ruthven wasn’t himself a thief and a rapist. Wilhelm kent for a fact he was. And if the man made deals with the devil for all the influence he wielded in Edinburgh, Wilhelm would not be surprised.
They were nearly to the stables when the sound of the chapel’s oaken doors swinging open made Wilhelm turn around despite his reluctance to lay eyes on Ruthven’s victims.
A robed clergyman and four guards escorted two prisoners to the pyres.
&
nbsp; The first prisoner was streaked with dirt and had long, tangled hair falling over his face. He was nude and terribly thin. An urchin, mayhap? He appeared hardly to require one guard let alone one holding each spindly arm. Poor child. ’Twas doubtful at his tender age he’d done aught to earn a death sentence, let alone one so gruesome. If Wilhelm had hated his host before, his hatred doubled now.
His gaze jumped to the second prisoner and his chest clamped with horror. Hair that gleamed like autumn-gilt leaves framed an oval face with blazing eyes. The prisoner struggled against two guards who worked much harder than the first two. The struggling resulted in brief glimpses of bare breasts and shapely legs between the bodies of the guards.
Beside him, Terran sucked in a breath. “Christ, Will. They’re women.”
The guards began binding the prisoners to the pyres. Someone had knotted a gag around the mouth of the auburn-haired lass. The cloth cut across cheeks the color of a rosy sunset and had worked its way between lips that refused to be tamed.
Her protests rose on the air, no less scathing for being muffled. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, he would have grinned at the lass’s spirit.
In contrast, the one Wilhelm had thought an urchin hung unresponsive, with face downturned and hair dangling over small breasts. Now that the guards weren’t obscuring his view, he noticed the prisoner’s swollen belly. Och, a woman with child. She was terribly undernourished. How long had Ruthven kept her locked away?
Ruthven spoke again, but Wilhelm heard naught save the pounding of rage in his ears like war drums and a fierce wind.
It comes upon me again.
Some ca mayhap, like his lled it bloodlust, but ’twas nothing so simple as a mindless urge to maim and kill. His mother called it berserker rage. She claimed it came from the fey blood in her family line.
Wilhelm did not doubt the origin lay outside the usual order of things, but he tended to credit his gift to God. He believed himself called as a warrior for justice. Even as a lad, he had devoted himself to protecting the weak and cutting down evil. ’Twas in his blood every bit as deeply as his urge to one day rule his father’s barony.