Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
After Mr Bollard attended, they ceased to wash, even when they were ordered to. They tipped over the bowls of cold water, cast the soap out of the window. Used the cloths meant for washing and cleaning their teeth to blow their noses, wipe their arses. They made sure their body odour was as foul as their surroundings, that their breath, when it hit their accusers was as putrid as their toilet bucket. They made sure the vermin that set up colonies in the straw and burrowed into their clothes, crawled over their bodies and their fuzzy scalps, were transferred to the men whenever the opportunity arose.
They might have been prisoners, might have been at the whim of these desperate zealots, but they weren’t completely powerless. Not yet. Sorcha wouldn’t allow that to happen. Nor would Nettie.
Reflecting upon how long they’d been there, wondering as she did every moment how much more of this hell they’d have to endure, Sorcha hauled herself upright, aware her legs pained her horribly and that her underarms were tender. She limped to the window and pushed it open as far as she could. The broken latch meant it wouldn’t concede much, but at least she could breathe in the fresh air, push out her arm and feel the rain upon her flesh.
Dear God, she thought for the umpteenth time, how had it come to this? These wicked and patently false accusations. All because of a young lad. All because of a woman’s imprudent tongue. Through Alick, they’d learned that Beatrix was inconsolable about giving up their names. When they learned how long she’d held out, exactly what had been done to her and then, shockingly, experienced it themselves, any anger they’d felt towards her dissolved.
No one should have such punishment inflicted upon them in the first place.
But that was the point. They would all be driven to the same precipice as Beatrix, where they would say anything, do anything, leap into the abyss and condemn themselves, if only the pain would stop. With a shudder, she pushed the idea to the back of her mind, tried not to think about the aches that worried her body, or the wounds marking her flesh. What strength remained she sent to Beatrix, alone in that cold, lightless hell-hole beneath the kirk.
From her vantage point, Sorcha could see the High Street. It was emptier than usual, despite the weather, but still she searched for the one figure she’d come to rely upon to be there most days. She wasn’t disappointed. There he was. The captain. With a leap of her heart, she gazed at him as he sat upon Liath beneath the tavern shingle, staring up at the tower.