Do you enjoy stories inspired by real history, Scottish folklore, and the mystery surrounding witch trials? Today, I’m sharing the opening chapter of To Condemn a Witch, the first novel in my Tales of the Witchborn series. Chapter One introduces Matilda, a character inspired by a real woman accused and convicted of witchcraft in 18th-century Scotland. Blending historical events with Celtic folklore and a touch of magic, this story explores the lives of women caught between fear, superstition, and the extraordinary gifts they dare not reveal. I hope you enjoy this sneak peek into the world of the Witchborn.

 

Matilda

Scotland—1707

A hot sting from the executioner’s slap jolted Matilda back to life, the noose still tight around her neck. Now gasping on the ground, she curled in a ball, wishing she could raise her tingling old hands to her head to stop the earsplitting ringing, but they were tied behind her back.

“Reckoned you’d get off that easy, witch?” the executioner said, yanking her to standing and removing the noose. His hot breath reeked of ale. “Dinnae fash yourself. The witch hunter’s got something special planned for you.”

Her blurred vision slowly focused beyond the crumbling castle, where she’d been imprisoned for weeks, to the tar-covered stake awaiting her. Her body felt weak, and the sound of her heartbeat thrashed in her ears. This canna be happening.

Staring into the crowd, the smear of color refocused. Wee Fiona, barely seven, held her trembling fingertips against her open mouth, unable to blink her amber eyes. For a fleeting instant, they were brave for each other.

Until there came an overwhelming rush of villagers chanting, “Burn, witch.”

Skinny fishwives fingered bits of iron to protect themselves from Matilda’s spells.

“She said herbs were for ‘healing.’ Lying hag. How many people died from her charms?”

“Matilda’s been a troublemaker since her husband died.”

“She helped my bairn survive the fever…” whispered a woman in a homespun shawl. “You dinnae reckon she used dark magic, did she?”

Clansmen in green plaids grasped Matilda’s armpits, dragging her to the stake as her neighbors spit on her. Reverend MacDonald, a small, knuckly man clenching a large Bible, rambled incessantly about Christ as he walked beside her.

Matilda tried to orient herself. Admiral Goring’s manor stood nestled in the forested hills to her right, looming as large as the man himself. Directly in front was the stake, with the entire village, plus neighboring clans, surrounding to watch. To the left were the worn stone steps leading to the water gate, where an older woman leaned against a cane.

Elspeth. Her traitorous coven sister hovered on the crowd’s edge, ready to escape.

Admiral Goring, in his powdered wig and expensive frock coat, smugly counted eight pounds and four shillings for the executioner as the admiral’s pretty wife rubbed the cross around her neck. “Money well spent,” he said to the witch hunter, a mysterious English nobleman.

Matilda had never seen the witch hunter’s face in the village until her arrest and torture.

“Thou has put down many with the fever,” Admiral Goring called. “It would have been better for the good people of Kirkhaven if they had knit a stone about thy neck and drowned thee at birth.”

The men bound Matilda to the stake, then shoved faggots of wood beneath her bare feet, while the elders of the Kirk lit their torches from within the castle ruins, and started their solemn procession to burn her alive.

“I’m a healer. I’m innocent,” she called out, voice even raspier now than the day of her capture.

The witch hunter’s lips curled into a sickening grin. “I know,” he hissed just loud enough for her ears.

Dressed in a dark-colored coat that shimmered when he moved, he winked at Admiral Goring, then slipped into the crowd like a snake slithering through the grass.

Beside her niece, as if in mockery, Admiral Goring’s two sons stood tall, laughing and joking, enjoying the display of their family’s dominance over hers. Matilda’s stomach soon churned as she watched the witch hunter weave towards Fiona and realized the men’s plan.

“No,” Matilda gasped. “Fiona!”

A break appeared in the gray clouds as a murder of ravens flew from the partially collapsed castle roof, shedding black feathers. Rage bubbled inside her. Did Elspeth use Fiona’s life to pay for her own freedom? Was my life not enough?

Her temper exploded like a struck match, hotter than the approaching torches. Raising her eyes, she called out. “Eisd rium a Dhia. Beira, Queen of Winter, first Cailleach, Goddess, Destroyer, Protector.” The price of her soul would be steep, but worth it. “May your ancient power annihilate mine enemies.”

An icy wind answered from the mountains.

Elspeth desperately shape-shifted into a raven to escape.

“Flying back to London, traitor? Losgadh, fear-brathaidh!” Matilda’s curse burned a sigil above Elspeth’s heart, forever marking her betrayal to the coven, as the raven cawed in agony and flew haphazardly away.

Panic swept through the villagers as they stepped back, gaping at each other. The witch hunter inched closer to Fiona. The torch bearers rushed forward, quickly setting ablaze the wood beneath Matilda’s feet. Curling her toes at the intense heat, Matilda cried out as her skin blistered. Each muscle cramped, making her body writhe in a sick dance.

“Enjoy your last dance with the Devil,” Admiral Goring shouted. “Thy tongue shall never abuse these people again.”

“Witches take your wit and grace from ye,” she hissed.

The left side of Admiral Goring’s face dropped, then froze. The villagers watched in horror as Admiral Goring’s knees gave out and he collapsed, his massive jowls quivering as a dribble of saliva slid down his cheek.

Sunlight flashed against a dagger the witch hunter pulled from his damask waistcoat, bounding forward to Fiona.

“Run!” Matilda shrieked into the chaotic fury.

Fiona stared at her, not understanding all that was going on, not realizing how close she was to death.

“Your sons shall die yet, Admiral,” Matilda shouted.

Another cold gust blew. Admiral Goring’s eldest son, dark blond and handsome, collapsed at Fiona’s feet. The younger son, pale, freckled, still growing into his limbs, held his brother’s arm before a crimson line of blood wet his own cravat.

Did they think they could betray me without consequence? That Beira wouldnae demand her due?

Straightening to full height, her eyes locked on the witch hunter as the flames licked up her dress. “Evil tidings come upon ye. It would be better for the women of the burgh if ye were castrated.”

The witch hunter stopped, instinctively cupping himself, then fled to his waiting horse, past the shrieking crowd dropping their belongings as they stampeded to safety.

For an instant, Matilda connected with Fiona’s devastated eyes, willing her to understand. Protect your magic.

A coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as she bit down on her own tongue. Exhaling her last, furious breath, Matilda’s vengeful spirit ripped from her charred body, floating above the flames.

Alone.

A trapped ghost, cursed to relive her death for eternity until justice could be served against all who betrayed her.

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