Page 54 of Much Ado About a Scot

“The trial begins for the husband killer.” The young man she knew as Gabriel who had helped her harvest her grain a few days prior smirked at her.

“Daughter of Satan,” Otis Jenkins snarled at her. “May ye burn in the flames of hell.” Beside him, his wife remained silent, a look of resignation on her face.

That look—that there was nothing to be done—was what sent Isobel’s heart racing. Had the entire village judged her as guilty before the trial had even begun?

The sudden tension in her body must have signaled her distress because Malcolm’s arms came around her. “Fear not, milady. Your husband has mounted an excellent defense.”

Instead of listening to the villagers, Isobel shifted her gaze to the sky overhead. Had it always been that blue or the scudding clouds in the sky that light and frothy? The sun shone down and Isobel closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth that seemed to reach even the places in the last few days she’d thought would never be warm again.

When they came to a stop, Isobel shifted her focus from the scenery to the ruins of the stone building before her. The old church had been abandoned by the faithful long ago, but had been transformed in recent years into a courtroom for the Berwick Witch Trials by King James himself.

Malcolm came to a stop, dismounted, then helped her down. “All will be well.”

Isobel took a deep breath, hoping and praying his words would prove to be true as she stepped into the tribunal chamber. The dark stones that made up what remained of the nave were well lit with a multitude of candles and scones on the walls.

At the front of the church, at the crossing and the altar, a long table had been set. Behind the table sat King James at the center with three men she did not recognize on one side and Alaric Wyth, the Lord Advocate, and Reverend Brown on the other. In the corner of the room behind them sat another gray-haired man with a long white beard. All except the king were dressed in scarlet robes and white wigs. These were the men who would determine her fate.

The thought sat heavily upon her as she was escorted to one of two tables that faced her judges. Behind her, the nave filled with the villagers who had watched her ride past, eager to witness her downfall. Yet several faces stood out in the crowd—Freya was near the front, holding Jamie in her arms. Beside her stood Brodie, and beside him were Pringle and David Graham. She took comfort from their presence. On the opposite side of the chamber, still in chains and manacles, were the Earls of Montrose, Atholl, and Gowrie.

Xander and Alan MacGilvaine stood upon seeing her approach the table, and waited for her to be seated before sitting on either side of her. Xander reached over and took her hand in his. While Alan toyed with his hat that sat on the table in front of him.

“It’s going to be all right, Isobel.” Xander squeezed her fingers before releasing her. At the table opposite, sat Francis Stewart, the Earl of Bothwell, alone and unrestrained.

At her puzzled gaze, Alan leaned toward her and whispered, “He intends to provide his own defense.” There was a hint of amusement in his tone.

Nothing about any of this seemed amusing to Isobel as she sat tall and clutched her icy hands together in her lap. When the chamber was filled, the door was shut and those who had not entered moved to the windows and peered inside. Had the entire town showed up for her trial?

The Lord Advocate banged his gavel on the table and silence fell over the chamber. “We begin the trial of Francis Stewart and Isobel Seaton.”

Alan stood to address the court. “Lord Advocate, I move that the trial of these two individuals be separated. The accused have nothing to do with each other, and the charges against my client are far less severe than those charges against Lord Bothwell.”

King James’s face filled with scorn. “How dare you object to such proceedings. I was the one who wished them tried together so as to limit my time away from my court. Or is the king’s time less valuable than either of these two individuals?”

Isobel’s solicitor paled. “I meant no offense, Your Grace. Your time is most valuable, indeed. So are their rights to a fair trial.”

“Fair trial!” the king sputtered as he stood, knocking his chair to the ground. “Witches and warlocks have no rights. Only the ones I choose to give them. I will not stop until I fulfill God’s will, and all witches are vanquished from this land.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Alan muttered. He sank back into his seat. His shoulders slumped. “I tried,” he said softly to both her and Xander.

“Never fear. We have other defenses that our sovereign cannot argue with,” Xander whispered as he sent Isobel an encouraging smile.

“Let us proceed,” the Lord Advocate said in a loud voice. The charges were read from the heavy record book upon the magistrates’ table.

Isobel knew Otis Jenkins had made a claim against her for having used witchcraft to kill her husbands, but she did not know it had been Francis Stewart who had been the one to accuse her of casting a spell to make it rain, and for using what he had called her familiar to attack him. As the charges were read, she turned to look at Lord Bothwell. At the cold gleam in his eyes, she swallowed against the bitter taste of fear.

When the Lord Advocate moved on to the charges against Lord Bothwell, the man leaned back in his chair and a smug smile came to his face. He didn’t appear concerned about his fate at all. Curious.

Once the charges were read, Alaric Wyth left his seat to stand before Isobel. “I call to the witness box, Freya Biggins.”

Freya startled when her name was called. She settled Jamie in Brodie’s arms before she came forward and stepped into the witness box. Her features were strained and her face paled as she stood before Alaric Wyth and the tribunal judges. “Freya Biggins, you are employed by the accused, correct?” the witchfinder asked.

“Aye,” Freya replied, looking down.

“You’ve been with her since the time when she inherited the Seaton estate from her father. Four years is it?”

Freya nodded ever so slightly.

“You must verbalize your response,” Alaric Wyth barked at her.