The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

  Ian’s heart lurched at the sight of Sorcha. Her bent head and sallow skin tore at him. He fought the urge to hack and hew through the crowd of people to reach his wife and lift her to his chest. He willed her to look at him.

  Her head lifted. Her face was smudged with grime and lined with fatigue, but she had never looked more glorious to him. Her eyes moved, focusing across the room. He willed harder, reaching out to her with everything within him. Their gazes locked.

  In that instant Ian knew for certain that he loved her beyond all measure. His arms ached to hold her.

  Sorcha grasped her stomach at the sight of him. By the strain in his face and anguish in his eyes, she knew he’d been told of the child. She had wished so fervently for him to reach France safe from her, but the child had changed that. She wanted to live, for him and for their child. The longing pained her more than any of the torture she’d endured in the past week.

  The rumble in the courtroom settled as the trial began. Sorcha focused on Ian, drawing strength from his presence. Until she’d seen him, she’d sat numbly with the others. Though she had barely seen her cellmates in their week of darkness, she knew them intimately by their voices.

  They hauled Gilly to the raised trial box and ushered her inside. She duly repeated the oath sworn to her and turned her face to the king. His face was contorted with anger and a flush suffused his skin.

  "Mistress Gilly, you stand accused of witchcraft and treason against your king. It is this court’s duty to determine your guilt or innocence of these charges. How do you plead?"

  "Not guilty, your Highness."

  "Bring in the witnesses."

  Sorcha wrung her hands, her stomach rolling. The journey from the dungeons to the church had made her babe sickness worse. She concentrated on the words being spoken by the witnesses against the accused woman, trying to understand why they might think her guilty in this trial, but they made her want to retch as well. She glanced again at Ian, using him as a secure anchor for her shifting emotions.

  The next witness approached the platform and a hush descended the crowd. In that moment the witness held a captive audience in her palm as all attention focused on her.

  "Do you recognize the witch?"

  "Aye, your Highness." She nodded. Her eyes grew narrow, and she thrust an accusing finger at Gilly. "I saw her casting a spell the night of the great storm. She held a waxen doll in her hands wrapped in strips of king’s shirt and was wavin’ it about before she stuck great pins in it. She and Agnes Sampson waited for their Devil, Dr. Fain, to come among them and hit the ground three times with a stick. Up from the soil sprang a black cat. They wrapped the small finger bones of a man about its legs and shouted at the sea before she threw it in." The witnesses’ eyes became round with fear. "And when she did, your Highness, the sea began to boil, and the storm clouds rolled in."

  Gilly paled at the accusation, clearly stunned by its horrific nature.

  Fire ignited behind the king’s eyes, his thick lips twisting into a decided frown. "Do you admit being beside the sea the night of the storm?"

  "A—aye. I was wa—watching for my husband’s return, your majesty."

  "And did you or did you not speak the name of your king and queen?"

  Gilly looked panicked. Sorcha grasped little Anne against her, holding the child and trying to quiet her sobs as her mother stood on trial.

  "I always says a prayer for Godspeed and safe journey— "

  "Did you speak the king’s name and that of the queen?"

  "Aye, I pray for my husband and then for them— "

  "Are you in league with Lord Bothwell, as well as the Devil?"

  "Nay! I’m innocent!"

  The king was clearly no impartial judge in this matter. He intended to seek vengeance. He intended to see Bothwell damned and burned. He leaned forward, a palpable mix of rage and power, emanating from him.

  "We’ve your confession of witchcraft from the lord warden. You confessed willingly under examination. Did you so confess?"

  All light died in Gilly’s eyes and her shoulders slumped. "Aye."

  "What say you members of the assize?"

  The spokesman of the jury of noblemen, all handpicked by James, stood.

  "We find Mistress Gilly Duncan guilty, your honor, on all counts."

  "Mistress Gilly Duncan, you are hereby convicted of the sin of witchcraft and the crime of treason against the crown. The judge accepts the determination of the assize and ordains the panel to be taken by the lockman, her hands bound, and be carried to the head of the long, the place of execution, and there to be kent to a stake, worried to death with a noose and burned to ashes in two days time."

  Gilly let out a cry of pain and anguish. The lockman came forward and led her with a firm arm from the box and out of the courtroom, her strangled sobs, echoing in the hall beyond the church’s doors.

  Anne buried her head against Sorcha’s side and howled. Sorcha rocked the little girl, trying to comfort her. So it continued through the morning. One after another, her cellmates took the stand to be accused of outrageous acts. Many willingly admitted treason against the crown in addition to witchcraft, knowing that it would be far less painful to die by hanging as a traitor before being burned, than to be burned alive at the stake as merely a witch.

  After several hours, they called Anne to the stand. The little girl had to be torn away from Sorcha’s side and screamed as the guards dragged her to the front. Sorcha could barely tolerate it. One so young had no protection from this madness. She touched her stomach and glanced at Ian. She prayed her child had salvation in store. Anne did not escape fate, despite her youth and was condemned of witchcraft.

  When Sorcha was called to the stand, her heart caught in her throat. The guard reached to touch her and she glared at him. She rose from the hard wooden pew and walked slowly, regally across the courtroom and up the steps of the box, her chin held high and her shoulders erect. She stared at the man who had sired her, noting that the arch of her brow and the narrow oval of her face were likened to his. The King stared back, then flicked his gaze away, dismissing her.

  In her heart she supposed she should have expected no different. He had been away from his own mother since infancy and never met his own father, so how could she expect him to harbor any feelings for a royal by blow? He’d even accused his own legitimate cousin of witchcraft to have him executed. Clearly there was no family loyalty in him—only the desire to protect his throne from all who would seek it. They swore her in and then the first witness was summoned.

  "Your Highness, the court calls Lord Crawford to the stand."

  Lord Crawford strode to the dais, his cocky strut evidence he enjoyed the attention. He lifted his chin and pointed an accusatory finger in her direction.

  "In my efforts to obtain information about Lord Bothwell for your highness," James nodded his head in acceptance of Crawford’s statement, "I did chance to have dinner with the accused at a table with Lord Bothwell. She did speak unflatteringly of your highness, comparing you to as equal to all other men."

  James’s gaze sharpened, his face becoming red, his beard trembling as his jaw worked.

  "Furthermore, your honor, when Bothwell was mortally injured by a stray arrow during a hunt the next day, I did see with my own eyes the witch, performing spells with magic powders and spiders upon Lord Bothwell’s wounds to restore his life."

  A collective gasp came up from the crowd in the courtroom. Crawford glanced at her and, in that moment, she saw raw hatred, superiority and satisfaction all race across his features.

  "You may step down," said King James.

  Lord Crawford stepped down from the dais, his head held high. Sorcha was not surprised by his need for attention or his haughty demeanor. The appearance of the next witness was only to be expected.

  "Your honor, we call to the stand, Lord Rorick Campbell."

  Rorick strode up the aisle with an arrogance and distain that rankled her.

  "Lord Campbell,
do you know the accused?"

  "Aye. Until recently, I was her father-in-law."

  "And what do you know of the accused’s use of witchcraft?"

  "Your Highness, she killed my son, Magnus. I saw for myself her first husband carried out dead. She sacrificed them both, drained their blood as an offering to the Devil to keep her virginity and left them with no remorse, your honor."

  Sorcha felt cold and clammy. The shock of hearing Rorick embellish the tale to suit him was terrifying because of the consequences.

  "Anything else?"

  "Aye, she’s bewitched the Lord Argyll to do her bidding like a lap dog with an affection for his mistress. The lad is never far from her and defends her at every turn. It is most unnatural."

  She wanted to scream that it was a lie, but she bit her tongue, knowing her words would be only damage to her further. She wanted to shout the truth of her birth, but dared not, knowing none would gainsay the monarch and doing so would only be seen as treason.

  Campbell was dismissed from the dais, but she could not miss the malevolent and shrewd look in his eyes.

  The king stared at her, rubbing his finger against his lower lip. "Did you not willfully meet with Lord Bothwell at the Lord Moray’s estate these three months past?"

  "Aye." Sorcha gripped the edge of the witness box, her knuckles whitening as he spoke.

  "And did he not give you orders to use your witchcraft upon the Earl of Argyll to bewitch him?"

  "Nay!"

  Her denial was lost as he leaned forward in his seat and shouted over her.

  "And did you not call upon the powers of darkness to save Lord Bothwell?"

  "Nay! I gave him only plants to heal!" A collective gasp rose from the packed courtroom.

  His eyes gleamed with malevolence. "So you confess to the use of witchcraft."

  "Nay!"

  The rumble of voices rose in response. Ian stalked to the front of the room, barreling down on the judge’s dais, shoving past any who stood in this way.

  "Let the record show that the accused used her magic to enslave the Earl of Argyll and return the Earl of Bothwell from death. Based on your own confession and the positive proof of you as a witch by the kirk, I hereby sentence you to be burned at the stake in two day’s time. The judge accepts the determination of the assize and ordains the panel to be taken by the lockman, her hands bound, and be carried to the head of the long, the place of execution, and there to be kent to a stake, worried to death and burned to ashes."

  "Your Highness! She is with child." Ian shouted above the noise.

  Sorcha could barely breathe, her throat thick and tight and her palms damp. Was Ian angry with her, or was the thought of an heir the cause of his return when he should have been on a ship?

  "And you are?" asked the king.

  Ian made a bow, his shoulders tight and his face a mask of calm intensity that was almost frightening to her. There was anger there, barely concealed. Her husband was once more every inch the cold mercenary.

  "I am Ian Hunter, your humble servant and husband of the accused, your Highness."

  The king flicked a gaze to Sorcha’s belly. Sorcha wondered if he would dare to kill off not only his daughter, but his grandchild as well, all for the sake of a crown.

  "You claim this child is conceived of wedlock and not from a meeting with the devil?"

  "Aye, your Highness. It is my seed she carries."

  The king stroked his bearded jaw. "Your wife is a witch."

  Ian’s face did not betray a flicker of emotion. The king could just have easily said that Ian owned a horse and gained as much reaction. Had he already put her memory away so easily as that? Did he see this as an inconvenience to return because of the child or was he in truth angry with the lies Campbell and the others had told? Her stomach twisted uneasily and for a moment she feared she would be sick.

  "Aye, your Highness. But the child is innocent before God, and I deserve to keep my heir."

  King James nodded in agreement.

  He stood and addressed the courtroom. "I hereby revise Sorcha Hunter’s sentence. She is to be burned at the stake two days after the birth of the child she now carries."

  Ian bowed again, but did not look at her as he strode out of the courtroom.

  "Thank you, your Highness."

  Sorcha’s knees threatened to crumple. This time the guard took her by the arm, but she was weak enough she needed the support. If this was the last she saw of Ian, it would go with her to her death, his cold indifference seared into her heart. Sorcha was so steeped in her thoughts she didn’t realize that instead of going to the dungeon, the guard instead took her again to the small room where she had spoken with Archibald.

  She sat near the table, her legs unsteady and emotions stripped raw because of the ordeal she had just endured. The door opened, and in walked Ian.

  He held still a moment, just staring at her before he rushed to her, gathering her in his strong arms and holding her tightly against his chest. This time she was too anguished and relieved to hold anything back and sobbed uncontrollably into his shirt. She had believed she would never see him again, and now the rush of grief and longing was too much.

  When she had run out of tears, Ian lifted her face in his large hand.

  "I’m sorry if I made you doubt me," he whispered, gently brushing her hair. "Is there truly to be a child?"

  Sorcha nodded, her throat feeling to tight to speak, but she forced the dry words out. "You are not angry with me?"

  He held her face with his hands, a simple gesture that comforted her soul.

  "Nay, lass. I could not be angry with you. I only am vexed by my own limitations to save you as well as the babe."

  She nodded, her heart swelling with love for him.

  "What shall we do?" he asked.

  Sorcha heaved a great sigh and turned away from him.

  "Unfortunately this makes little difference to my fate. Leave me. Go to France and claim your inheritance. You can return before the bairn is born."

  He grasped her about the shoulders and brought her backside up against him.

  "I can’t leave you here alone."

  "You can’t stay with me in a cell. I will be alone even if you do stay in Scotland."

  He laid his cheek against the top of her head.

  "But what if there is some chance to save you both?"

  She pulled away and faced him, focusing on his eyes.

  "Dreams, my love. I will die. Go while you can and make a place for our child. That is the only future."

  He hung his head, his eyes clouding with an emotion she could only identify as deepest regret, and she felt his body shake beneath her fingers

  "It’s not good for a wee one to be without his mother."

  He reached over and cradled her cheek in his palm. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked deeply into her face.

  "My God, woman, you are my very soul."

  Her heart tightened at the words, knowing that this is all she had truly ever wanted. Her lip trembled.

  "I love you too."

  A spring of tears slipped from her eyes and trailed hotly down her cheeks, into his palm. He grabbed her tightly, the strength of his arms almost painful in their hold on her, but desperately needed.

  Sorcha gripped him about the neck, as if their embrace would hold them together despite the situation.

  "Promise me you will leave for France, my love."

  "I promise."

  He kissed her then. It was a kiss of sheer desperation—powerful, needy and full of their unfulfilled, unspoken desires.

  Sorcha absorbed all she could of him. She buried her head into his chest inhaling the familiar scent of him, letting his strong arms give her support for her crumbling emotions. She had always been strong for everyone else, but now she was in need of his strength.

  If he kept his promise, it would be the last time she would hold him thus, his full body against hers, without a large belly full of child between them. Her t
hroat constricted and chest ached at the thought of what she was to lose. Child, husband, home, her very life. A great sob racked her body.

  The door opened, and the guard stepped in.

  "Time to leave, sir."

  He pulled away enough to press his cheek against her hair.

  "I will not fail you, my lady of the wood."

  The endearment shot another bolt of searing pain through her. She loved him. Despite the deaths that had plagued her, despite there being no future with him, body and heart and soul, she loved him—and in that moment she knew without a doubt he loved her too. Sorcha took his hand and slowly turned it palm up, then bent and placed a single kiss in his palm. She felt him tense. Then looked up to see a single tear fall down his cheek.

  He roughly whisked it away with the back of his other hand, then turned to face the guard.

  The only sound when he left was the echo of his footsteps and that of her heart breaking.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ian headed for the nearest dark tavern where he could get good and drunk. His hand was still clutched about the kiss she had given him. He needed something for the pain that burned bone-deep within him.

  The black haze seeping into him blocked out the busy street. He entered the Triple Crown inn and found a scarred table in the darkest corner where he could put his back to the wall. He pulled the second chair away and shoved it to a nearby table, making it clear he wished to drink alone.

  A buxom barmaid, her skirt hiked up to show leg up to just above her well-shaped knee, sauntered over. She was smart enough to sense he was in the mood to drink, not wench, and took his order. He grasped her wrist before she left the table and with the other hand plunked down a handful of the gold coins Argyll had paid him.

  "Keep the drinks coming until there’s nothing left, or I pass out, whichever happens first."

  She smiled brightly, snatched up the coins and brought back his drink promptly. But even as he gulped down his first pint of ale, he knew that nothing liquid would touch the pain.