The Scottish Witch, copyright: Anita Birt

THE SCOTTISH WITCH, A historical romance

THE NORTH OF ENGLAND 1820

CHAPTER ONE

“Can we no' go into town, lass? I'm that weary, my bones ache. Let us find lodgings for the night. The constables will no' find us here.”
“Tomorrow, father, the sun is well down the sky. Soon it will be dark and the rooms all taken. It's a beautiful evening. We'll do better here in God's good fresh air than in a stuffy room at an inn.”
Sunlight filtered through the trees overhead and warmth of the July day lingered in the spinney where they'd sheltered. The scent of newly mown hay drifted on the summer air from a nearby field
Ailsa tucked a wool blanket around her father's gaunt frame. He shivered. His eyes, bright with fever, searched hers.
“What money do we have left?”
“Enough for a night or two's lodging. We'll stay awhile in the town until you're well enough to travel.”
“Then we'll be away to Liverpool and board a ship to Canada.” His voice trailed away and his eyes closed. He was dreaming their dream.
Ailsa brushed back tears and gazed over the Eden River to the town on the far side. Tomorrow they'd cross the bridge to Appleby and seek help. Without nourishing food her father would weaken further; except for a loaf of bread they'd eaten nothing for two days.
He'd forbidden her to spend the gold sovereign sewn into her jacket until they reached Liverpool but soon she'd have to tell him they didn't have sufficient funds to pay their passage. The sovereign would sustain them until he regained his health and she found employment.
Kneeling down she brushed a kiss across his cheek. “I'll be off to fetch something for supper. Rest until I return.”
He opened his eyes and Ailsa forced a smile. “I'll take my bundle with me. If there's no one about, I'll bathe in the river and wash off the dust from the road.”
Her father nodded and raised his hand. “Away then and take your time. You're my bonny lass. I'm not so hungry I can't wait for you to bathe before fetching our supper.”
Ailsa's heart sank into her shabby boots. If she was lucky, supper would be two or three eggs stolen from an unguarded coop or strawberries plucked from a farm wife's garden.
She hurried across the road and struck out along the path by the river. Walking quickly she left the town behind on the far side. At a bend in the river well out of sight of passers-by on the road, she stopped and gazed longingly at the water.
Tempted to bathe before going on, she dropped to her knees on the bank and peered into a quiet pool shaded by an overhanging willow. She longed to strip off her worn, dusty clothing and slide into the water. Almost under her nose, a fish swam lazily into the pool. Salmon! She smothered a peal of laughter. Elated by her discovery she studied the fish. It was a goodly size and would revive her father. Tonight they'd eat well and face the morrow with full stomachs.
A trout jumped farther out and sun-sparkled ripples disturbed the smooth surface of the water. Ailsa's reflection shimmered and stilled. Her dirt-smudged face stared up at her. A boy's scruffy cap hid her tightly braided hair.
Careful not to disturb the fish with a sudden movement she crept backwards up the bank and wasting no time lest it swim away, she shoved her plaid-wrapped bundle out of sight under a shrub. Thieves prowled everywhere. Long months on the road had taught her caution. Trust no one.
She dragged off her boots and socks, draped her shabby tweed jacket on a tree branch, hitched up her breeches and tightened the frayed rope around her waist.
Shirtsleeves rolled above her elbows, she stretched face down on the bank and wriggled toward the river.
Sharp stones pricked through her threadbare shirt. Close to the pool, she anchored her legs and feet firmly around the roots of the willow and hung head first over the riverbank.
She slithered her arms into the cold water. Within minutes the river chilled her but she steadfastly ignored the numbness creeping into her bones as she fluttered her fingers in the crystal clear pool. A fish approached to investigate.
“Thig thugam eisg mhoir,” she whispered in Gaelic. “Come for a nice wee guddle.”
Ailsa curved her hand over the salmon and trailed her fingertips along its sides. Its tail fanned slowly. Its gills opened and closed. She waited patiently for the precise second to strike.
“Now,” she murmured. Lightning quick she thrust her fingers under the gills, flipped the fish clear of the water and landed it beside her.
Freeing her legs and feet, she edged up the river bank with the salmon thrashing wildly in her hand and sat down. She dug her father's clasp knife from her breeches' pocket, flicked it open, slashed deep behind the gills and killed the fish. Blood spattered on her hands.
“What do you think you're doing, boy?” A loud bullying voice stunned Ailsa into shocked silence.
“I spoke to you, boy. Stealing fish, are you? Answer before I take my whip to you.
The man's heavy boot slammed into her ribs. Teeth clamped tight Ailsa scrambled to her feet and prayed he wouldn't see through her disguise. It had been her only protection on the long, difficult journey from the north of Scotland.
Shoulders hunched, the salmon twitching in her hand, she glanced up at the man's dark, scowling face. His pale grey eyes bored into hers. Afraid to let him look too closely, Ailsa bowed her head. Heart thudding against her bruised ribs, knees shaking, she dropped the knife.
“I'm sorry, sir. I'm very hungry and didn't know this fish belonged to anyone.”
“Hungry you may be but this stretch of the river belongs to Lord Redmond. He doesn't take kindly to thieving poachers stealing his salmon.”
He seized her shirt. “Poaching is a crime in England. A very serious crime,” he jeered. “I'll take the evidence to show his lordship. He'll thank me for this and then decide what to do with you.” The man hefted the salmon and dropped it into a leather sack slung over his shoulder. He had a rifle strapped on his back.
“Please sir, may I put on my boots?” She'd run, or jump in the river and swim across. She had to escape and return to her father. He couldn't survive without her.
“Be quick. I don't have all day.”
Fearing another blow, Ailsa sat down to pull on her socks and broken boots. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to tie the knotted cord around her boots. Helpless against a powerful armed man she could do nothing but hope he'd let her go.
“And don't try any tricks.” He picked up her knife, snapped it shut and stuck it in his belt. “Stole this too, I wager. Too good for the likes of you.” He aimed another kick at her. The toe of his boot stabbed the end of her spine. Excruciating pain radiated up her back.
Dazed by his brutal kicks, she dragged on her socks and boots, jumped up and plucked her shabby jacket from the tree. The wet sleeves of her shirt clung to her arms as she thrust them into the rough jacket. Snatching up her bundle, she clutched it against her heaving chest.
The man's strong fingers gouged into her skin-and-bones shoulders as he half-led, half-dragged her along the path. Leaving the river behind they headed into a densely wooded forest. Weak from hunger and fatigue, Ailsa floundered beside him and fell.
He yanked her to her feet. “Stand up, boy. We've a way to go yet then you'll be for it. Off to the hulks for the likes of you and away to Australia on one of them convict ships with other thieving rogues.”
Convict! Australia! Numb with pain, unable to think clearly, the hate-filled words swamped her senses. Stumbling along beside him she lost track of time. It was dark under the trees. Had night fallen?
As suddenly as they'd entered it they emerged from the forest. Ailsa blinked in late afternoon sunlight. Ahead was a great sweep of lawn, magnificent formal gardens and a towering mansion that dominated the landscape. Transfixed, she stared at the building.
Two great wings angled away from a central core. Mullioned windows recessed into weathered gray stone walls reflected the last rays of the setting sun. Golden light shimmered on the glass like eyes empty of life. An ominous quiet loomed over the waning day.
Terrified at what faced her behind those forbidding walls, Ailsa fell to her knees. “Please, sir, don't make me go in there. Whip me and let me go. I'll never go near your river again.”
He pulled her up and smacked the side of her head. Stunned from the blow, she fell against him. Tears spilled down her cheeks. With her free hand, she swiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket.
Don't cry. She bit hard on her lip. Boys don't cry.
The man seized her arm and led her to the rear of the building and shoved her down on a bench beside a closed door.
“Dare to move and I'll have the dogs on you.” He whistled and two huge mastiffs bounded across the cobblestone courtyard. He jabbed a finger at Ailsa. “See he stays there.” Teeth bared the dogs growled deep in their throats. The man entered the house, leaving them on guard.
Ailsa hugged her bundle and tucked her feet under the bench. Some of her panic seeped away. The dangerous animals, stiff hackles ridged along their backs, didn't frighten her. She examined them through lowered lashes careful not to make them nervous with eye contact.
She relaxed, raised her head briefly and risked a smile. The huge dogs examined her. Ailsa breathed deeply and whispered. “I had a dog like you back home. He pretended to be fierce but really wasn't. He was gentle as a lamb just like you.”
Her voice, lulling soft, calmed them. The deep throated rumbling growls ceased. Their hackles flattened. Mindful not to alarm the animals, Ailsa put out one hand, palm up, and leaned towards them.
“My name is Ailsa. I wish I knew yours then we'd be friends. That man caught me guddling a salmon. I'm sure no one would miss one fish. What do you think?”
The dogs cocked their heads seeming to puzzle over the question.
“I want you to lie down.” Ailsa spoke firmly, raised her hand and signaled. “Down.”
They flopped at her feet. Someone had trained them well. “That's much better. Now I can pat you and we'll be friends.”
“How lovely you are.” She crooned and rubbed their shaggy heads. “I knew you weren't fierce. I could tell by your eyes but I have to go before that man comes back.”
Ailsa stretched and stood. “Stay,” she commanded. Tongues lolling, the dogs gazed at her and didn't move.
The sound of boots rapping sharply on the cobblestones startled her. Frozen to the spot she watched a young man stride across the courtyard towards her. Fearing the worst, Ailsa cowered down on the bench and plucked nervously at the twine holding her bundle together.
The man was tall, taller than the other one, taller even than her father. She spied a riding crop in his hand and icy shivers squeezed her chest. Head bent submissively she closed her eyes waiting for him to close in and strike her.
Ailsa's captor threw open the door. “Come here, you young ruffian. The master will see to you.” He twisted her arm and dragged her off the bench.
Glowering at the animals lying at her feet, he lashed out with his boot. “Forgot what I told you. I'll fix that!” The dogs sprang out of reach and slunk off, whining.
“What is this about, Morgan? What has the boy done?”
Ailsa stared at the leather crop tapping idly against black riding boots. Hands clenched, she waited dumbly for the blow to fall.
Morgan doffed his cap. “Caught him poaching salmon, milord. Your father will see to him. You know how strict he is about poaching. He'd sooner lose a pheasant or two than a salmon. Likely this rascal will go to the magistrate for sentencing.”
The man in the shining boots spoke to Ailsa. “Look at me, lad. Have you been poaching?”
Fearing to disobey, she raised her head. His voice was gentle. Different from the other. Not loud or harsh.
His eyes held hers. Mesmerizing eyes. Above the open collar of his white shirt, his face and strongly muscled neck were deeply tanned. She forced herself to look away.
Timeless seconds passed. A familiar tingling swept over her. She dreaded the sixth sense fate had bestowed on her. A fearful premonition overwhelmed her. She had to escape from this place. Away from this man whose dark eyes searched hers; in his questioning gaze danger lurked.
Conscious thought gave way to a vision unfolding behind her eyes. In a brilliantly lighted ballroom, she glimpsed herself dancing with the dark-eyed man. A menacing shadow edged the scene. Evil lurked there. Waiting.
Panic seized her.
No more! She willed the vision to leave her but an image lingered until it too disappeared.
She struggled to breathe. What had she to do with this man?
“Didn't you hear, boy? Lord Grayson spoke to you. Answer him!” Morgan wrenched her shoulder.
Ailsa winced and gulped in air. Pain shot through her bruised ribs. Eyes downcast, she nodded. “Yes sir, I stole a fish.” She peeked up at him from under her cap. His mouth curved in a slight smile.
“Have the boy treated leniently, Morgan. There are plenty of salmon in the river.”
He rested his hand lightly on Ailsa's trembling shoulder. “No more poaching, lad,” the man said. “Speak to my father, Morgan; a warning is all the boy needs.”
He tapped the riding crop on his thigh, frowned slightly, studied Ailsa for several seconds then walked slowly to the whitewashed, stone buildings on the far side of the courtyard.
The touch of Lord Grayson's hand on her shoulder and his comforting words calmed her fears until Morgan pushed her into the house and the walls closed in.
“Warning indeed,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You'll not get away with poaching while I'm gamekeeper here.”
She swallowed a sob. Her father was alone. Without her care he'd die.

Note: Let me know if you want to read on. Sorry about no paragraph indents. I hope to fix the problem next time.

Anita Birt
www.anitabirt.com