Beyond the Darkness Read online

  Beyond the Darkness

  The Sixth Amulet series

  M.A. Maddock

  Contents

  Map

  SHAW CLAN EMBLEM

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  THE AREZZO MIRROR

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  ORAN’S TRUNK

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  KELPIE

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  DAGGER

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  MOTH

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  LOTUS FLOWER

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  BALLOCH CASTLE WINDOW

  Did you enjoy this book?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Book Club Questions

  Balloch Castle

  Interview With The Author

  About The Editor

  About The Book Designer

  About The Publisher

  About The Publisher

  Copyrights Page

  Dedicated to all struggling writers. Don’t give up!

  * * *

  For Sherlock – Always by my side

  Had Shez not bounced into my life, when he did, I may never have written these novels.

  SHAW CLAN EMBLEM

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Scotland: 1564 – Balloch, Lac Lomond.

  “Leave this place… or you will be next!”

  Those words—her mother’s last—had never stopped haunting her.

  I should have listened.

  The ill-fated young woman now stood in the same place as her mother had done—three months’ earlier—trembling with fear. The small, make-shift courtroom—once a slaughter house—was crammed with eager spectators. She could still smell its lingering, foul stench of death; the irony of it sickened her. Her eyes darted about, as if looking for an escape. But it was a hopeless situation. She knew there was no way out; all the doors and windows were blocked.

  Her heart pounded, as the sinking feeling in her stomach signalled what she had been dreading.

  I’m going to die! she realised, as the rope prickled and burned against the skin of her bound wrists. Oh God! I’m going to—

  Her train of thought was severed by an imperious voice rising above the maddened crowd, along with the pounding of wood on wood, demanding their silence. They hushed one another, straining to listen as he prepared to make his delivery. He then paused and raised his hand, to seize their full attention. He could sense, almost smell their impatience. A faint smirk appeared on the corner of his mouth as he relished in their anticipation, knowing each hungry eye was scrutinising him.

  They can wait, he thought.

  More was yet to come…

  His black, judgemental eyes slid towards her, devoid of emotion. She looked away, repelled by his lecherous stare—the same look he had given her when he came to her cell, on more than one occasion, to “discuss her situation”. She felt nauseated, recalling the stink of his ageing body, his clammy hands, and his musty odour; it still lingered on her skin.

  “I will see to it, you get your reprieve,” he had mumbled in her ear, while stroking her face. Reminded of it, made her skin crawl.

  But she knew he had lied. No—there was never going to be a reprieve. And, with no jury, he had appointed the service of a Witch-Pricker: a man, who, by the positioning of a pin or needle over a naked body, was said to be capable of finding the Witch-mark. The mark, itself, was believed to be permanent, created by the Devil, to seal the loyalty of his initiates. A raked claw-like scar, it was, also, considered a way of exposing Satan’s follower.

  She was fully aware of the Witch-Pricker’s presence; he was the quiet one, standing beside the judge’s pew, tapping the instrument, in question, on his thigh, while staring at her.

  Following the magistrates’ prompt, the Witch-Pricker—his preference, to remain nameless—stepped out into full view. He was an unassuming looking man with a kind, round face and soft features—unusual for someone with such a sinister occupation. Well-dressed, clean, and unshaven, his whole poise exuded youth. His fair hair was thick and lengthy, and neatly tied back. His eyes were piercing blue, and seemed to have a “sympathetic” look about them. As he moved across the stone floor, his stride long and defined, he discreetly surveyed the impatient crowd as their voices dropped into complete silence, watching him. Some, he’d been told, had never witnessed this event, before. He smirked; he would give them a performance they would never forget.

  He then turned his attention to the accused, aware of her eyes boring into him, her face pale and stiff with fear.

  As he approached her, she imagined she saw the twitch of a smile directed at her. But when he looked her straight in the eye, his true demeanour came to light, as his dead-pan stare cast its shadow of doom over her. It was written all over his face. Gone were the soft features, now replaced by ugliness and dishonesty. As he looked her up and down, regarding her pathetic state, he shook his head, sneering at her, making her feel utterly worthless.

  Aware of all eyes watching him, he then leaned towards her… then closer. He sighed in her ear, releasing a subtle moan, before muttering, ‘I’m simply doing “God’s work”.’ The feathery touch of his lips against her skin sickened her.

  The crowd shuffled, maintaining their silence as the Witch-Pricker circled around her like a predator. She swallowed as her eyes tried to follow his movements. Then, when he paused behind her, she tensed.

  Looking to the bench, where the magistrate sat, pride of place, the Witch-Pricker waited calmly for the order to commence. With a wave of his hand, the magistrate gave it.

  He tugged at the stained, putrid gown she had been forced to wear, frowning as he fumbled to remove it, her bound hands making it difficult. She jolted, then tried to recoil, in a desperate bid to keep her dignity. Frustrated, his face hardened, throwing her a warning look. Realising her struggle was useless against the strength of his determination, she yielded.

  With one final tug, he removed what was left of her self-esteem.

  Gasps echoed through the crowd as she stood naked, for all to see. Feeling violated, she promptly lowered her tied hands, covering her modesty, while eyeing the torn garment he had

  flung to the ground, beside her. An uncomfortable silence followed as she stood isolated and exposed, with nothing to cover her, but her shame. Feeling the assault of her spectators’ eyes, as they leered at her vulnerability, she kept a fixed stare on the stone floor and shivered, aware of its coldness as it crept up into her bare feet.

  With a subtle, disdainful nod from her condemner, the Witch-Pricker circled her again—this time, more closely and methodically; it was obvious what he was searching for.

  When he stopped abruptly, subtle gasps could be heard from some of the crowd, as they anticipated his n
ext move. His eyes travelled up and down, narrowing, as he examined her torso. Then, gripping her arm, he swung her round. She almost stumbled. In dramatic fashion, he raised his other hand as high as he could, brandishing the dagger-like implement for all to see, its silver, highly polished and gleaming—scrupulously cleaned, from his last victim.

  ‘Behold!’ he cried out, in a theatrical manner. The crowd gasped, their voices a cacophony of fear and excitement. One thing was clear: he was the “performer” and she their

  “entertainment”. Then, in the same melodramatic way, he pointed the needle to her lower back. She arched forward, feeling the cold pinch of its fine point, against her skin.

  Voices mumbled as the crowd pushed forward, straining to see the small crescent-shaped mole. A sneering curl appeared on the corner of the Witch-Pricker’s mouth; he would now be paid more for discovering it—for discovering any mark, for that matter.

  Struggling under his strong grip, the girl shook her head frantically. ‘’Tis only a birth—’

  ‘Proceed!’

  On the judge’s second command, the Witch-Pricker went to work. Holding her firmly, he stabbed her with the needle. She screamed out in agony. His audience shuffled, almost feeling her discomfort, then stopped, when the judge rose from his seat.

  ‘Well?!’ he bellowed, leaning forward, waiting.

  The Witch-Pricker, running his fingers over the wound turned and, with a slight of hand, pressed his thumb hard, covering it, to stem the blood flow. He then held the girl’s arm up, for all to witness.

  ‘No blood has been drawn, my Lord!’

  More shouts of disbelief rang out across the “courtroom” at the revelation.

  The young woman struggled against the Witch-Pricker’s grip, her wrists burning and raw from the constant friction of the ropes.

  ‘No! He’s lying!’ she screamed.

  ‘Quiet!’ roared the magistrate, still unable to resist letting his eyes travel over her nakedness.

  She drew back, humiliated, her quivering breath visible like puffs of mist.

  He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Continue!’ he called out, lowering himself back into his velvet, cushioned chair.

  Having subtly, and successfully, stemmed the blood flow from the puncture wound, the process was repeated, followed by her constant, whimpering cries for mercy. But no one cared. The humiliation of being stripped before an audience of familiar faces, and prodded like an animal, had made no difference to her appeal, despite her cries with each incision; after all, she had been the daughter of another, accused.

  ‘Once more, my Lord… no blood!’

  As the spectators made their own deliberations, the With-Pricker and judge shared a suspicious look. The young woman noticed it; it had been a mutual one of understanding. She drew a sharp breath when it registered:

  They’re plotting against me!

  The judge smirked, nodding; it had been a tidy arrangement between him and the Witch- Pricker. The girl had to go; she had threatened to reveal his sordid, secret little visits to her cell.

  And, with a few years to retirement, he was not about to risk his position of authority; not to mention the privileges that went with it.

  No, he thought. Not over that little whore!

  With a dismissive gesture of the judge’s hand, the Witch-Pricker knew his job was done. As he turned to walk away, he stopped and looked down, seeing the tattered piece of clothing on the ground. He snatched it up and turned, staring down at the young woman with contempt. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw her garment of “death” at her frail body, and walked away. She welcomed its return.

  A deathly silence spilled out over the “courtroom” for several moments, as the crowd watched the young woman, her hands shaking as she tried to cover herself. And, as she stood, her head lowered in submission, the crowd grew increasingly restless again. They turned their attention to the magistrate, feeding on his hesitation.

  Despite their frustration, the judge maintained his derisive gaze on her, prolonging the inevitable, waiting for his moment. He raised his head slowly, biding his time, until she looked at him, his wanton desire—to see the fear of death in her eyes… and he would see it.

  Forced to obey his silent command, the young woman lifted her head, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her, the whispers had now turned to murmurs, gradually growing louder, with expectation.

  The wait was over.

  ‘In the name of our good Queen, Mary,’ he began, loud and clear, ‘and, in accordance with the Saóirse Act of 1563, you have, hereby, been accused of consorting with the Devil; and indulging in all forms of sorcery associated with him. ’Tis the law of the land—one, may I add, punishable by death… yet to be determined.’

  The court erupted, whipping his audience into a frenzy of approval.

  ‘I’m innocent!’ she cried out, exasperated, trying desperately to be heard over the rapturous crowd.

  The magistrate looked down at her, his expression cold and heartless, as she struggled against the two, willing volunteers gripping her firmly, with their hardened grubby hands.

  ‘What a waste!’ the younger of the them mumbled in her ear, his breath stale from the remnants of strong, peated whisky, still lingering in his mouth.

  She flinched, feeling the tip of his wet tongue slide against her.

  ‘I see myself as reasonable man,’ her condemner said, drawing her attention to him, again. ‘Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to give you a choice—’ He stopped, reminded of another. ‘—or, perhaps, you would like to follow in your mother’s path?’

  ‘Aye, let her burn!’ a voice cried out.

  Her eyes darted to the crowd, thinking she had recognised it, and caught a middle-aged woman cowering away, avoiding recognition.

  The judge raised his brow. ‘Well, it appears they have decided for you.’

  The young woman, reminded of her mother’s harrowing death, shook her head wildly, recalling her agonising cries; the memory of the flames engulfing her; the stench of her burning flesh. They would be forever ingrained in her mind; she needed no reminding.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, lifting her voice, above them. ‘You’ll not do to me, what you did to her.’

  The judge recoiled in his seat of council, taken back by her sudden backlash. ‘So, you wish to avoid the stake?’

  ‘You know I am—’

  ‘So be it!’ he promptly interrupted, fearing she would “talk”.

  The crowd suddenly hushed, exchanging words of anger and confusion. Had he gone mad?

  Was he going to let her go, denying them more “entertainment”?

  The young woman took a sharp breath and stared at him, with a flicker of hope in her eyes. Am I to have my reprieve? she thought. But then she saw it: the contemptuous smirk, appearing on his face.

  Slowly he shook his head, as though he knew what she had been thinking. He had been toying with her all along.

  I should have said something. I should have—

  Again, the crowd cheered, severing her thoughts. Some even laughed, amused by his attempt to humour them.

  The outcome was now inevitable, regardless of her pleas.

  ‘You’re going to—’ She stopped short. ‘Oh my—’

  ‘Bring the prisoner closer!’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong!’ she yelled, fuelled by her rising, inner strength. ‘My only “crime” is one of mercy—for helping the sick of this’—she paused, gritting her teeth— ‘deceitful village. Yet in return, I am rewarded with lies and treachery. I’m innocent! Do you hear me, sir?! Innocent! I won’t let you—’

  ‘Enough!’ he interrupted, slamming down the gavel on the sound-block, silencing her. ‘Remove the Witch!’

  She gasped, horrified. Witch! The demonic word echoed in her mind, making her blood run cold. She had been branded; her new title to be etched in their memory, for the rest of their lives. And, should she be worthy of a headstone, it would be carved for future generations to presume:
>
  “Witch. Guilty! Damned for all eternity.”

  Despite her continuous appeals, they went unheard. Now who would listen to the supplications of a condemned Witch? No-one. With her sentence finally handed down, her spectators turned their eager faces away, now interested in the fate of the next unfortunate victim: on-going accusations of alleged sorcery meant that, they, too, stood no chance against the irrational mind-set and ignorance of their neighbours—especially when death waited in the wings.

  As she was hauled away to her tiny, dank cell, screaming her innocence, the younger of the two gaolers whispered taunts of salacious acts in her ear. Repulsed by the thought of his intimation, she stopped and turned her head, and leaned towards him, her eyes stabbing him with hate, forcing him to recoil.

  ‘I will remember you, in death,’ she quietly vowed, through gritted teeth.

  He backed away. ‘Stay away from me, Witch!’

  His accomplice threw his head back and laughed, displaying his stained, rotting teeth—half of them missing.

  ‘She’s put a curse upon me!’ he retorted, glaring at his senior for mocking him.