Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (10 page)

“Frogs?” Samantha couldn’t help it. She laughed again, a bit hysterically. “Why would I have frogs in my mouth?”

A gray cat jumped up on a beam of wood and lazily made its way along the piece before stopping to sit near her legs. Everyone gasped, including Samantha. Even she knew this wasn’t going to be good.

“Burn her,” Willie said. “Burn the witch and her familiar.”

Tears sprang to Samantha’s eyes. “No! Don’t burn me. Please, think about what you’re doing.”

She watched the man with the torch move slowly forward, fear on his face. The armed man followed behind.

Think, Samantha, think.
She needed to use that big brain of hers to get out of this situation otherwise she could literally die. Here. Today. Now. “Wait. I’m begging you, please don’t. Do you have any idea how much getting burned will hurt? I scorched my finger and it was painful for days. Can you imagine having your whole body burnt to a crisp?”

The wide-eyed guy with the torch stopped.

Was that it? Was that all she had?
Think.

The crowd looked at her, at each other, at the man standing at the back. Finally one man spoke up. “She has the right of it. It does hurt to get burned.”

“Nay,” another man said. “Witches don’t feel pain.”

“I do. These ropes are hurting me right now.”

Willie snorted. “Wi’ my own eyes, I saw her appear out of nowhere.”

“Not to be rude, but how is your vision?”

A few in the crowd laughed, earning a glare from Willie. “And look at her clothes.” His voice rose. “Only a temptress of Satan would wear such.”

“I told you. These aren’t mine. My boss, er...the king, made me wear these. My own clothes are extremely conservative and modest.”

“She has all the excuses, does she not?” Willie asked. “She says she’s from the king. She says her hair’s not her own. And when yer children die in their beds tonight, she’ll say it wasna of her doing. Will you listen to her then?”

Samantha shook her head. “No. He’s lying. I would never—”

“Now, I’m the liar, is it? Me, who ye’ve known the whole of yer lives.”

The crowd was murmuring again, getting louder, and panic built in Samantha’s chest. Anxiously, she glanced over at the huge, muscled, dark-haired man. He was the scariest-looking guy there. If he would help her, speak for her, perhaps she’d stand a chance. “Please, you need to listen to me! I would never—”

He was watching he crowd. They were all talking now, getting rowdier, the man holding the torch working up the courage to fling it, she could see it in his face. Mob mentality was taking over, and Willie knew it too. At his pleased expression, something inside of her—the pressure in her chest, a building of fear and anger—it all congealed and hardened. Calmness settled over her.

If this really was the 13th century, and she was starting to accept that it might be, then she was going to let them have it. She knew the belief systems of primitive people better than anyone. No more begging for her life to people who would not listen. No more of any of it. She very likely was going to die today, burned to death, not even a footnote in a dusty tome—but not before she gave these gutless little creeps the scare of their lives.

Maybe they’d let her go, maybe they wouldn’t, but reasoning with them just wasn’t going to happen. She’d studied cultures, beliefs, civilizations. She rolled her head, her shoulders, tilted her chin to align her throat for maximum voice effect, something she’d learned in her recent classes, and then let them have it where it would hurt their superstitious little backsides.

“People of Inverdeem.”

The voices started to quiet, but she continued to look upward, scared that if she didn’t she’d lose her courage. “I bring you a message from the great beyond.” She closed her eyes as she tried to remember Scotland’s history. If it really was 1260, the king would be nineteen years old at the moment, so, starting with that...

“The king will sign the Treaty of Perth and lay claim to the Western Isles.”
Her voice rang out.

“The king will sire three children. Margaret, Alexander, and David. He will have one granddaughter, a girl. His line dies with her. He will die from a fall from his horse. After his death, there will be a war with England.”

That was pretty much all she could remember about King Alexander. She took another breath.
“William Wallace will lead the Scots to victory over England. Thousands of Scots will be killed at Flodden. Mary, Queen of Scots, is beheaded by the order of Queen Elizabeth I of England. There will be a massacre at Glencoe.”
She really shouldn’t be saying any of this. If she truly was in the past somehow, and was telling these people the future, could she be meddling with time? Changing the future?

If so, it didn’t seem to matter, there was no stopping her, the words welling as she kept her eyes closed, not daring to look at any of them.
“The Jacobites will rise, ending with The Battle of Culloden. The Highland Potato Famine will cause people to be shipped to Canada and to Australia. The Stone of Destiny will be captured by England, and won't be returned to Scotland for six centuries.”

She took another breath.
“The Crown of Scotland will be lost for over 750 years. It will be recovered by the greatest archaeologist of all time.”
Well, why not? She was going to die in a moment; if she didn’t toot her own horn, who would?

She finally lowered her head to look at them all.

Fear. Wide-eyed disbelief. Hate. Determination. Pretty much what she’d expected.

She wasn’t done yet. Numbness overtook her as she thought of all the hundreds of women who had come before her, murdered by the likes of these people. Mobs. Inciters. Cruel and heartless people snatching at the opportunity to kill for selfish reasons. She felt a sudden kinship with those murdered women. Some killed for land, for their beauty, for petty jealousies. Others out of fear, for financial or social gain. For every woman burned as a witch upon every continent on earth. Anger welled within her and it felt good, pushing back fear and terror. She looked out at the quiet crowd and decided it was time for some frank talk. Time to hit them where it hurt. Right in their belief system.

“None of you believe I’m a witch. Not really. Some of you have attended other witch burnings or other mob-driven murders and have thought about them afterward, haven’t you? Perhaps wished you had spoken against men like this.” Her eyes shot Willie a scathing glance. “Maybe you noticed afterward that the one crying out the loudest, later gained the most in riches or property. Hmm. Now, where is that costly crown of mine?” She looked over to where Willie still held it in one hand. “Oh, there it is. Willie has it.”

He promptly dropped the priceless relic on the ground, then glared at her.

She let her gaze wander over the crowd. “Or perhaps you later wondered, as you hadn’t prevented murder, your Lord God would someday hold you accountable? When you simply watched from the sidelines and played no part, good or bad, could you possibly be to blame?”

She laughed, a harshly expelled breath full of the sarcasm she felt. “I’m here to tell you that, yes, you will be held accountable. I’ve seen atrocities committed by men. Seen hundreds of murdered bodies and the bones of helpless victims who had no one to speak for them. I’ve attended church my entire life and I know wrong when I see it. I know that if I don’t speak up and stand for the dead, in whatever capacity I’m able—be that honoring the victims, preventing further abuse, or shining a light on what they treasured, believed, or stood for—that I will personally be held accountable when I kneel before my Maker.”

She made eye contact with anyone she could, anyone whose gazes weren’t firmly planted on the ground. Besides Willie, the only one to hold her gaze was the man in the back. His green eyes burned with the same fervent fire as Willie’s and she knew she was doomed. It only made her anger grow. “When you see wrong and you don’t speak up, when you participate, actively or not, when you light a fire because someone tells you to, when you trap frightened and helpless people, make no mistake, you, personally, will pay for it one day.”

“Burn her.” Willie’s voice was deadly, toxic, and venomous.

~~~

Ian felt like he’d been punched in the gut, the sensation leaving him stunned, astonished, and breathless. The knowledge she’d imparted about the future: of the king, of wars, of queens beheading queens, famines, even the crown he’d so recently buried. The hair on his arms stood on end still. He didn’t believe in witches, but he might have to change his opinion on seers.

But it was actually what she’d said about the others, those who’d been murdered in the past that had amazed and affected him most. She’d given voice to his feelings, thoughts, and all he’d dwelt on all these years whenever thoughts of his mother had risen to the surface. He was breathless, staring, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Her chin lifted and she drew a breath.

What would she say next?
He couldn’t wait to hear more.

“That’s it then, is it? Burn the witch?” There were tears in her eyes. “Well, you know what? Get stuffed, you backward, brutish barbarians. All of you with your stupid superstitions and your murdering ways. If I’m such a big, scary witch, then why don’t I just curse the lot of you right now? Now there’s an idea I can get behind.”

Torch held high, Colin crept a step closer. Dugald advanced behind him.

“Hold it right there, torch boy. Stay where you are or risk annihilation.”

The man actually stopped in his tracks and Ian could see fear and sweat on Colin’s face when he glanced over his shoulder at the others in the crowd as if seeking support, or permission.

“If you’re going to flame me like a roasted marshmallow, then I’m having my say first.” She tilted her head and looked up at the sky. “Grandpa, if you can hear me, I found it. I found The Crown of Scotland. I love you. I’ll see you soon. Save me a place at a dig site in heaven.”

Once again, Ian glanced over his shoulder at the undisturbed dirt around the monument. He’d be asking her about that crown later.

She lowered her head and looked out at the crowd, meeting gazes, her own stern, belligerent. “As for the rest of you. Think long and hard before you do this. I’m going to give you one last chance. You need to untie me, give me the crown, and send me on my way. If I have it in my possession, I will leave this place and swear never to return.”

There were a few murmurs, and Ian was amazed to hear those closest to him whisper in favor of letting her go.
Who was she?

The woman took another breath, and Ian’s attention dropped to her cleavage. Exposed as it was, he imagined most men here were looking their fill—and he had an irrational, possessive desire to take off his shirt and cover her.

“Think about it. You’ve burned witches here before, haven’t you? What happened afterward? Did your animals still die? Did your crops still whither? Did any children sicken?
Burn me and you will all be dead within the year.”

There were gasps in the crowd. Some stepped back, away from the helpless woman standing in the middle of a woodpile, only to be trapped in the crowd. In that moment, Ian adored the female. He well knew that bad things happened all the time. All part of life. She was smart, this girl, working on their everyday fears as she was.

“I mean it.
Let me go,
right now.
Don’t make me say it again.”

The crowd backed further away, a young girl cried out to release the witch, and Ian couldn’t help it—he smiled. The woman was magnificent.

The villagers looked at each other, some trading whispers.

“Remember when all the pigs died?”

“Aye. That was but a year after the witch was burned.”

“What about Connie’s baby?”

Fear grew like fog, spreading from person to person. He’d never seen the like. A powerless girl, holding them all in her palm.

“Colin.” Willie waved a hand to urge the torchbearer forward. “Burn her, quick. She’s cursing us all.”

She smiled at Colin, an amused curve of her lips. “If I were to curse anyone, I’d especially curse the one who set the fire.”

The torchbearer gripped the end of the torch with both hands, but, otherwise, didn’t move.

Ian could see that the woman’s face and chest gleamed with sweat, fear, and admired her spirit all the more.

“Do you truly believe that any of you has the power over witches?” Her voice rang out. “What do you think really happens when you burn a witch? You free her trapped soul from her body and she flies free like a demon and is able to do all the mischief she wants. Burn me, and I’ll never leave this place. Home, sweet home,” she crooned.

Ian laughed. He shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but the girl was incredible. He thought of his own mother, in this same location, same situation...if only things could have been different for her.

Willie still wasn’t ready to give it up. “If you don’t burn a witch, it will rise again. Colin. Light her up!”

The torchbearer shook his head. “I’ll not. My wife expects a babe.”

“I’ll do it myself.” Willie limped to Colin, snatched the torch, and swiveled to face the girl.

Horror and fear writ plain across her face and she struggled against the ropes. “Stop. Don’t do this. I...I...I could tell you things. About the king of England. The barons taking his power. About...about the battle at...at...”

Willie snaked closer, Ian shook his head at Dugald, warning him off, and circled the crowd in the other direction.

The woman straightened again, her chin lifted, and she called out, “Kill me and I will take all your firstborn children with me. Every last one of them born now and in the future. They will
all
be mine!”

Gasps in the crowd had Ian rolling his eyes. She was hitting them where it would hurt, but she’d also just made things harder for him. They’d never forget a threat like that.

Willie held the torch high, looked at the girl in triumph, and flung it toward her.
“Burn, Witch!”

The girl screamed at the top of her lungs as Ian caught the end of the torch. He met her gaze, held it, and memorized her expression of fear mingled with hope and defiance. In that moment, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.