Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kirkwall, Orkney

December 1594

ALISON

It is snowing, white flakes piling up on the ground, just visible through the small window at the top of the dungeon wall. I shiver in my cell, huddled against the wall and holding my shawl around me for warmth. It is too cold for sleep, and I cannot stop the thoughts that beat inside my head.

Why did the book appear to me?

It was taunting me, reminding me that I cannot leave the Triskele, however much I wish to.

Or perhaps God allowed it to appear to me to remind me that I have a choice. But what was the image that I saw, of the woman in the bed, and the woman who I sensed was her mother?

Over and over, the questions circle my mind. My mother taught David and me that the book shows only what is needed, but I am inclined to believe it teases and mocks at will. The book could show me a way of escaping the dungeon, if it wished, or some foreknowledge that would give me advantage in the trial. But it does not.

It is a sin to complain, this I know, but I cannot help it. I know this is self-pity. But it gnaws at me, the absence of God that I feel here in the dungeon, and in the courtroom. When Father Colville speaks, I no longer believe he is serving God. And I recall what I saw, that night that Father Coville and the others claimed to see a hare in the shadows, a familiar.

I saw no hare, but I saw a tall man made of shadow, striding through the window and into the night. Was this the Devil? I believe it was. Why else would I find myself so caught up in this nightmarish situation? And yet, God has allowed it.

The next morning, I am woken by Mr.Addis banging on the bars.

“Wake up, witch,” he growls. “You’ve a visitor.”

“Oh!” I say, for behind him I see William.

“Not so fast,” Mr.Addis says. “I’ll need payment first.”

I do not remind him of the potion I made for his arse worms. Instead, I pull off my stockings and pass them to him, imploring him to accept them. With a grunt, he turns and allows William to rush to me.

He kneels by the bars, setting down a basket and searching for my hands to take in his.

“My God,” he says. “You are starving.”

He passes the items of his basket to me: roasted plovers, raisins, a quail, and a cup of sack. I eat it all in one sitting, stuffing as much of it into my mouth as I can manage. It has been days since I last ate.

“Agnes sent you this,” he says, passing something wrapped in linen through the bars. It is a hat, woven from brown wool. I pull it over my coif and immediately feel the benefit of its warmth.

“Blessed Agnes,” I say, pressing my hands down on the thick wool. “Please thank her for me, won’t you?”

“Beatrice sent a gift, too.” Will slips a shell through the bars. I see she has drawn on it with charcoal. “She missed you,” he says.

I hold the shell in my palm and look it over. This is no childish portrait—Beatrice has embellished the stone with a Triskele symbol of a hawk, its wings outstretched, a double arrow just beneath. The hawk means bravery, but the outstretched wings mean hope. The double arrow means unrestrained, constant love between two people. Her message strikes me hard: she wishes me to have courage, to know that there is hope, that she loves me and knows I love her. And she is calling on the gods, known so intimately by the Triskele, to set me free.

“What is it?” William asks, watching me study the shell. “She would not explain such an odd drawing.”

I hesitate, because I do not wish to lie to him, and yet I have lied so much by omission: I have not confessed to William that my mother has taught our daughter the Triskele symbols. And now she is using it to pass me messages.

“I know not,” I say quietly. “How are the children?”

He hesitates. “Beatrice is well.”

“And Edward?”

“Edward is still not himself. He is staying away from the cottage for long stretches of time. Sometimes all night.”

I think back to the initiation. Perhaps he is meeting with the Triskele. I dare not mention this to William.

“Perhaps I could bring him here,” he says. “To see you.”

I am torn at this. I am desperate to see my son, and William must be worried in the extreme to consider bringing Edward into this place.

I cannot eat another morsel.

“Will,” I say, breathless. “I think you should leave the islands.”

“What?” he says, his face falling. “I just got here.”

He begins to recount his long journey from Gunn, how the ship home isn’t until tomorrow morning and how he is staying with his employer in his cottage beside the cathedral.

“I mean, I think you should take the children and my mother and leave Orkney altogether,” I tell him. “It’s not safe.”

“Where would we go?”

“Edinburgh,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“Edinburgh? Where the tack is twice as much as Orkney? Where the king is intent on pitching stakes on every hill and burning witches?”

“Orkney is no better,” I tell him quietly. “You know that.”

“I’m told the pest is rampant there,” he says. “The plague pits burn constantly, the cemeteries at capacity. All must stay inside for fifteen days to stop it spreading, on pain of death.”

“The Highlands, then,” I tell him. “Perhaps seek out your cousin in Inverness?”

“Inverness? You know we cannot, Alison…”

“I see what has happened,” I whisper, my voice dropping. “Will, I know why I am here, why they have imprisoned me. John Stewart approached me this past summer, that day at the cathedral. He asked me for a charm to take a life. I believe he wished that charm for the earl.”

His face falls. “Did you make such a charm?”

“Of course not. But likely the earl suspects his brother of this attempt on his life, and so John is eager to pass blame. He has killed Thomas Paplay. And now, because I am accused of aiding Thomas by witchcraft, he will also kill me.”

My words hang like swords in the air. William blinks hard, taking this news into his thoughts.

“Oh, Alison,” he says, taking my hand in his. “You must tell this to Father Colville.”

“I have . I have told him, and he insists that I am guilty.” I swallow back hot tears of frustration. “I believe he wishes me to be found guilty instead of John Stewart.”

“I will procure a lawyer,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. “A lawyer?”

“Andrew Couper. You will remember his father is the clerk at St. Magnus Cathedral.”

I nod, thinking quickly. Andrew Couper is a young, bright man. The last time I saw him he had barely grown a beard. “But how…”

My question trails off. I dare not ask. How can we afford such a thing as a lawyer?

“We have some friends yet, my love,” he says. “I asked Isaac and Duncan to approach Mr.Couper. Next thing I know, someone has volunteered to cover his fee.”

“Who was it?” I ask, thinking of the faces of our former friends in the gallery. I have felt so very friendless, so the knowledge that someone has paid for a lawyer brings tears of thanks to my eyes.

“It does not matter. What matters is that things are changing,” William says. “I think the day is fast coming that we will pull the islands back from the lion’s jaw. We will send our own message: Orkney will not be defeated.”

I do not share his confidence, but there is a look in William’s eyes and a power in his voice that heartens me.

The fight in him has returned.