Page 20 of Leila’s Legacy

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Leila stood before a beast uglier than any she had ever known. The people had congealed into a mass, crowding one another to get a better look at her, heedless of being in such proximity to those who might be spreading the contagion. Sweat prickled at her armpits and palms despite the frigid air and left her skin clammy.

She didn’t want to face these people. She didn’t want to be here. All her life, she had known moments like these would happen, and all her life she had dreaded them. It was why she stayed within the familiar walls of Werrick Castle. Now, she was thrust from its safety and living her greatest terror, one that would not be over until she was slain by the Lion.

Lord Armstrong turned to her with a smile curving his lips. His gaze passed over her in obvious approval of the wool kirtle. It was loose around her waist and the sleeves and hem were too long, most likely a garment belonging to Lady Armstrong or a daughter, if they had one.

Leila turned her attention to the Lion where he stood at Lord Armstrong’s side. Better to see him this way, in a stance of complacency rather than with the gentle kindness he had exhibited in the dungeon.

“Walk among the people, witch,” Lord Armstrong commanded. “Let them see ye for what ye are.”

Hard hands shoved at Leila’s lower back, sending her sprawling forward. By some miracle, she managed to keep upright without tripping over her overlong hem. Next time she might not be so lucky.

If she would be presented to the masses with such degradation, she would maintain her dignity in any way she could. The way Lord Werrick had raised her. She grasped her skirt in her bound hands and tried to lift the hem as daintily as possible as she walked out into the waiting crowd.

Threatening hisses rose around her like demons in a nightmare as the people pressed closer to her. A woman spit at her, the action coarse and intentionally vulgar. But Leila had known this would happen. She had seen this in a vision once, or at least part of it, with people rallying against her. It had been confusing at the time, lost in a place with no reference. She understood it now, as well as the poignancy. Except there had been a shadow descending on her in the vision.

She turned her face to the gray sky. Would the clouds fall over the sun to cast such a shadow? And what would happen then?

Something smacked her neck, hard and wet where it struck. She staggered in that moment, taken aback by the iciness that still clung to her skin. Her toe caught on her hem and she stumbled, managing to catch herself at the last minute. The scent of earth was strong in her nostrils. Mud. They were throwing mud at her.

“Go back to hell, ye slattern.” An older woman sent a head of cabbage hurtling toward her.

Leila maintained her dignity as much as was possible and turned her head to avoid the hurled vegetable. It hit the ground where it lay intact. In that one moment, she had a ridiculous thought that the people were not so bad off if they were throwing perfectly edible vegetables when in the last year, the rains had wiped out enough crops to keep the people of Scotland and England hungry.

A hurled spray of mud splashed over Leila’s skirt. One man stepped forward and shoved her. She might have been able to keep her footing, were it not for the long hem. The tips of her shoes pinned her skirt to the ground, drawing it tight and preventing her from stepping properly forward to keep her balance. She crashed into the soupy earth as cheers rose up all around her.

A foot in front of her lifted to stomp down on her, but she scrambled to her feet. A peasant with his few remaining teeth bared tried to push her to the ground once more, but she edged away from him in time to avoid another spill.

“Dinna kill her before she can be tried,” Lord Armstrong called out in a bored droll.

“Then she shouldna have brought on the pestilence,” someone cried out.

A balding man sent his fist rushing toward Leila. She threw her bound hands up in front of her face, blocking the hit as she ducked away.

A glance toward the center of the village revealed the large stone prison. Too far away. Her heart pounded with such a frenzy, it left her head light and spinning. She knew the Lion would be the one to take her life, aye—but it didn’t mean all the bones in her body wouldn’t be broken by the villagers first.

Would this hell have no end?

Thoughts of her family crowded into her mind. How she would never be able to tell them she truly loved them; how appreciative she was for the way they had loved her when she had always been so undeserving. A knot of tension clenched at the back of her throat, but she swallowed hard to clear it. She would not give these people the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

They pressed into her path, crowding close enough that she could smell foul breath and sweat and the lingering sickly sweetness of illness. It would be impossible to fend them all off at once. Especially now, as people were pelting her with food, shoving at her, spitting at her.

Her ears were filled with their vile hate; her body assaulted from where rough hands shoved at her. The kirtle was soaked through from her fall and clung icy and wet to her body and while she tried to be stronger than the cold, she could not help but shiver.

A parsnip flew through the air, flying toward her.

Leila tensed in preparation for it to hit when the shadow fell over her. Another attacker. She held her ground, prepared to fight. Except the person did not hit or shove or even shout.

A glance upward revealed a targe held aloft in the air by someone with a leather cloak hanging like a curtain of protection. Bits of refuse bounced off the wooden shield and the cloak rippled under the assault, but still the man did not move. He held his ground, targe lifted with a solid body, his back straight and proud, daring any mortal to challenge him. She knew him before she looked higher to his face.

There he was, strong jaw clenched, hazel eyes narrowed and facing forward as he shielded her from the villagers’ wrath. The Lion.

Leila wanted nothing more than to sink back against his large chest, to give into the trembling weakness of her legs and the clawing fear scrabbling within her. But she was raised as a daughter of Lord Werrick. She was above fear, above simpering.

“You needn’t do this.” Leila notched her chin higher.

He tilted his head. “I disagree.”