Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Kirkwall, Orkney

November 1594

ALISON

The dungeon beneath the earl’s palace conveys none of the grandeur of its upper floors—it is nothing more than a cave, a lair for beasts and dark fears. At the end of the stairs is a stone chamber lit by a flaming wall sconce, a single fire for the jailer. At the end of the chamber is a cell gridded by bars, a series of squeaks signaling the presence of rats. I spy a window high up on the wall, glimpsing the road that runs along the castle toward the sea.

I am shaking so terribly that I cannot stop. I am not to be set free, not returned to my home. I will not see my children, or William. I am to be kept here, in the cell at the far end of the chamber. There is no comfort or warmth here. Stone, iron, rot.

“Search her,” a voice says.

I jump with a shout. I had not seen the figures at the end of the hall, but now the light from Mr.Addis’s torch reveals them: David Moncrief and John Stewart. I expect to see Earl Patrick, but only David, John, Mr.Addis, and Father Colville are here.

John Stewart was the one who ordered the earl to be slain, I am sure of it. His own brother! And as Thomas Paplay accused me, John Stewart is seeing to it that I stay silent.

But he and David both know the truth. They know I am innocent.

“Remove your clothing,” Father Colville says.

I am panting, a prayer rolling off my lips. Please, God, do not make me…

“She is uttering a spell,” Mr.Addis growls, reaching for the knife at his belt.

His accusation makes me start, and I turn to Father Colville. “My lord, I…”

But Father Colville tugs the chains, hard, metal against my joints forcing me painfully forward into the weak light. Meekly I pull off my cloak, then my apron and kirtle, my bodice, and my shift.

“And your coif, my child.”

I hesitate.

He repeats the same order again and again, each time tugging the chain, until I have removed the shoes from my feet and the coif and forehead cloth from my head. It feels shameful to be without them, my long hair tumbling freely to my hips.

Father Colville offers a somber nod to Mr.Addis, who takes out his knife, the blade glinting in candlelight as it sweeps toward my face. Then, seizing my hair in his fist, he begins to cut.

···

Outside it has started to rain, and all the candles are quaking in their sconces. My long hair is shorn in minutes and lies folded about my feet like a wounded animal. It has never been cut; the same coal black hair I’ve had since I was a girl, shorn to the skin. My scalp prickles and bleeds from Mr.Addis’s rough hand.

Never has any man seen me naked, except my husband. And without my hair, I feel doubly naked. I stand now in front of John Stewart, Father Colville, Mr.Addis, and David, my skin shining like a ghost, the bones of my rib cage poking through like a comb. But then, John Stewart steps forward, raising his hand, and I flinch and give a cry. He means to strike me.

But instead he reaches down to gather up my shift. With a look of disgust, he throws it to me.

“Remember your children,” he says, for my ears only, a warning look in his eyes. I hold my shift against my body as Father Colville steps forward into the light that pools from the moon on the stone floor.

“Alison,” Father Colville says, “we offer you a chance to confess your sins before Christ the Almighty and his angels, here in this holy place.” He nods. “You may speak.”

“Thank you,” I say meekly, my eyes on the ground. I am still shaking, and I can’t feel my hands. I want to fall to my knees and beg him to let me go. Instead, I petition him softly.

“Father, if I may?”

He nods, and I strain to keep the sob in my throat from escaping. “As God is my witness, Father, I am not guilty of this charge.”

My voice breaks, and there is a long, drawn-out silence as he considers my words. I am sincere, he must see this.

“We bestow this mercy upon you,” he says, his voice brimming with pity and concern. “My child, I urge you to unshackle yourself from the wiles of Satan.”

“But I am not in Satan’s charge,” I say. “I did not hex the earl. It is as I said.”

Father Colville looks crestfallen, and I see him glance at John Stewart.

“We must search for marks upon the skin made by the Devil,” John Stewart tells the parson, who nods.

Dare I say it aloud? That John Stewart asked me for a charm.

They would not believe me. I am only a woman, a spaewife, and he the Master of Orkney.

“Sit, please,” Father Colville tells me, when Mr.Addis fetches a chair from the shadows. David lifts a candle from the wall sconce and brings it toward me as I lower into the chair, still covering myself with my shift as best I can. I feel like I am outside my body, drifting around the room. I try to fling my thoughts far, far away, as though I might cast my mind from this room, and with it, my soul, leaving only my body for this man to press and pry as he likes. I am not here, I am not here. I search for a place deep in my mind where I can hide.

Father Colville lays his hands on the crown of my shorn head, pressing his fingertips over the scalp. He runs his hands down to my ears, David’s candle drawing closer to help him see.

“What is that?” he asks, finding something on my neck. He is addressing David, who lowers alongside him to see.

“I’m not sure.”

“Let us check it.”

Father Colville reaches into the pocket of his robe and produces a long, thin needle, which he raises to my neck. I jump with a shout of pain as he stabs the skin above my collarbone. The pain is like a beesting, a bead of blood running quickly down my chest.

I am in my parent’s house, my father still alive. I am on the beach at Fynhallow gathering dulse for soup, watching the dolphins scythe the smooth water.

He finds another spot at my elbow, then several at my thighs, each time jabbing the skin with the needle, a hot sting followed by a thread of blood.

“Open your mouth,” Father Colville says.

I am not here. I am not here .

“Wider.”

David flinches as his candle drips hot wax on his hand. I tilt my head back, feeling the warmth of the candle close to my face, the hiss of the lilac flame. My heart is clanging in my chest.

Father Colville puts his thumb against the roof of my mouth, the fingers of his other hand pressing against my jaw. His thumb finds my tongue and lifts it, pushing it up. He lifts the needle and I squeeze my eyes tight, numbing myself out of the room, away from the presence of these men.

I am with William, laughing by the fire.

Edward is playing knucklebones with his friend Adam.

Beatrice is plaiting the hair of her woolen doll.

“There,” Father Colville says with a gasp. He draws back, astonished, and turns to David. “And she gave no reaction.”

“A mark,” Mr.Addis hisses from the shadows. “The Devil’s mark.”

“You are certain?” John Stewart says.

“Under her tongue,” Father Colville says, nodding. John Stewart steps forward and looks down into my mouth, then withdraws quickly.

Father Colville closes my mouth with his hands. I look down and see that my pale skin is streaked with blood.

My heart is thundering in my chest, and my teeth begin to chatter.

“My child, the evidence is plain to see,” Father Colville says at last. “You cannot deny it.”

A dull ache starts up in my mouth from where the needle was drawn. The rest of my body feels numb, as though I’m floating.

“When did He do this?” Father Colville says.

“Who?”

“You know very well who…” he says, but Mr.Addis interrupts.

“Beg pardon, Father. Perhaps the madam confers with the Devil by a different name.”

Father Colville turns to me. “Is that true?”

“N…no,” I stammer. “I do not…”

“It is said by some that he appears as a black dog,” Father Colville says. “Or a cat.”

“I have seen no dog,” I say.

“So, a cat, then?” Father Colville says.

I fall silent, my mind spinning. The darkness shrouds the men’s faces, their voices bouncing off the walls and punching the air from all directions. I am suddenly weary from the journey, and faint from the pricking. I struggle to gather my thoughts.

“Her silence is agreement,” John Stewart says.

“I have not conversed with the Devil,” I say, though my voice is weak, a ghost of a voice.

“When does He come?” Father Colville says, ignoring my protestation. “At night?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. David is looking at me close by with pity. He withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me, and for a moment I do not know why. I follow his gaze to my legs and see they are streaked with blood from Father Colville’s needle.

“Thank you,” I say.

He fetches my dress and boots from the corner of the room and sets them by my side. For a moment, I think he does this out of kindness. But then he holds me in a long, fearful look, his eyes narrowed, and I know his mind.

He fears I left the Triskele because I am the Devil’s servant.

He believes I am a witch.