Page 30 of The Heather Wife
Sorcha nodded and began walking, Agnes keeping pace beside her as she shared her thoughts on the judgement that would need to be made. Agnes did not speak on behalf of Elspeth or Liam, but she too pleaded for Niall's exile rather than death, having known him since youth. She insisted he was a man who loved his friends and had been misled by two of his closest companions.
By the time they reached the home of the woman nearing her time to deliver her bairn, Agnes had finished what she needed to say and bid Sorcha a good day. Sorcha knocked on the door, drawing a deep breath to clear her mind. For a fleeting instant, she longed for the ease of setting her burdens on another’s shoulders—but such ease had never been hers. She steeled her resolve, knowing the path forward would test both her heart and her judgment.
Chapter 24
Sorcha
The past few days had been a blur of voices. From dawn until the sun dipped low, Sorcha had found herself cornered in corridors, tugged aside in the yard, or stopped at her work by one clan member or another. Some had spoken to her passionately, others with polite deference, and still others with open eagerness—each determined to have their say on Niall, on Elspeth, on Liam, and on what punishment they deemed fitting for their traitorous kin. By now she felt she knew every opinion in the glen.
It wore at her, each word like a stone tossed into her lap until she near buckled beneath the weight. Still, she listened, for was that not what they had asked of her—to hear them?
What surprised her most was how many had spoken on Niall's behalf. His rash decision had opened the gate to raiders, yet person after person vouched for his loyalty, his years of service, his steady character until that single mistake—until he was led astray by those he trusted most. Even the elders, grizzled and cautious, counseled leniency: banishment rather than the harsher punishments she had weighed.
But Elspeth and her brother had no such defenders. Theclan had turned its back on them. Their recent treachery, coupled with years of underhanded cruelty toward their kin, left only silence in their defense—silence as damning as any accusation.
Only their parents remained stubborn. Marion and John shadowed Sorcha from task to task, spitting names at her, hissing jeers under their breath as she passed—petty cruelties meant to unsettle her. Sorcha, however, did not flinch. Their malice stung sharper than she wished to admit, for it reminded her of when she had first arrived at Starthloch, of every slight endured with her chin held high. But she had survived worse than their whispers, and she would not bend now.
That night, weariness pressed heavy on her shoulders as she made her way back to the keep. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, her body ached as though each bone were weighted with lead. The thought of bread, broth, and her bed was the only thing that kept her feet moving across the flagstones.
The courtyard lay empty, shadows spilling long in the torchlight. She had just stepped beneath the outer stair when a pair of rough hands clamped hard around her waist and hauled her back.
The breath punched from her lungs. An iron grip locked about her middle, lifting her feet clear of the ground. For the barest heartbeat, fear flickered cold through her veins—but she smothered it, as she always had. Fear was useless. Fear had no place here.
Without panic, Sorcha slid her fingers into the folds of her girdle, found the hilt of the small dirk hidden there, and wrenched it free. Moonlight glinted off the steel as it flashed once before she struck.
She slashed across the arms that held her. A grunt, hot breath against her ear—and then she was free, her boots back on stone. Sorcha spun, shoving her attacker hard against the wall of the blacksmith’s shop. The dagger’s flat pressed into his throat, slicing skin just enough for blood to rise in a thin red line.
“What can I do for ye, John?” she hissed.
He glared but gave no answer. She pressed the blade harder, the cut widening. Still, he stayed obstinate.
“Striking a woman from behind,” she mocked, her voice low and scornful, “that’s the deed of a coward.”
His eyes flared at the word, pride stung. “I am ridding our clan of a problem—what my children failed to finish.”
“Well,” Sorcha said coldly, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth, “ye’ve failed as well.”
She wrenched him from the wall, quick and merciless. He loomed over her, heavy with muscle, but she twisted his arm behind his back, locking his bulk tight against her smaller frame. The point of her dirk dug between his shoulders, sharp enough that any sudden lunge would spill blood.
“Walk,” she hissed. Her voice was quiet, deadly. “Or bleed.”
He resisted for a heartbeat, but the bite of steel forced him forward. Sorcha drove him across the courtyard, steps firm, relentless. Her heart hammered, but her hand never shook. Torchlight caught the sweat streaking down his temple, his jaw clenched tight with humiliation.
At the keep doors she gave a savage shove, propelling him inside. His boots stumbled against the stone floor as she marched him straight into the hall, blade never wavering.
The murmur of voices faltered. Heads turned. Clan members rose from benches, eyes widening at the sight ofJohn—Elspeth and Liam’s father—being driven in at knifepoint by the woman he had sought to silence. The hush carried weight, thick with disbelief and dawning respect.
Sorcha’s voice rang out, low and cutting, as she thrust him forward into the center of the hall. Domhnall rose, the elders with him, their faces taut with shock.
“Here stands a man who strikes from shadows and behind women’s backs,” she declared, her gaze sweeping the room. “His aim was to finish what his children failed to do—rid the clan of me.”
She kicked the back of his knee. John crumpled onto the rush-strewn floor with a grunt. Sorcha pressed the blade to his neck before he could move.
“Speak, coward.”
Silence stretched, the hall holding its breath. Sorcha let it hang, then straightened, her voice clear and unwavering as it cut through the hush.
“You wished me to take charge. You chose me to act as regent for the laird. Then hear me now: John will join his children and the other traitors in the cells. I promised you judgment on the six already held on the morrow—aye, now there will be seven. And you shall hear each verdict openly, before us all—and see the punishments carried out. I have heard your voices. The day of reckoning is come.”
