Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Kirkwall, Orkney

December 1594

EDWARD

Edward is up in the rafters of St. Magnus Cathedral, in the small room where the ancient manuscripts are kept and where he assists Mr.McNee with carrying pieces of stone and ceramic from the cart on the ground floor. It is a backbreaking job, hefting pieces of red and yellow sandstone, some of the sections almost the same length as him, up and down the stairs. The hoist and pulley is still being set up by Mr.McNee, and Edward wonders what the delay is. It should never take this long to fit a hoist! The stone could easily be pulleyed from the cart directly up to the roof. He can’t help but feel that the delay is personal—a punishment for being the son of a witch.

And so, he has taken to wearing his face scarf all day, not just when he’s working the stone, or digging in the quarry, fearful of being recognized. With the scarf pulled all the way up to his eyeline and his fair hair stained by sandstone dust, he is able to blend in as another mason apprentice, hiding in plain sight.

The manuscript room will be seen by only the earl, for it is merely a storage room for the vast number of dusty manuscripts that are too important to be burned but too ugly to be placed on display. Nonetheless, Earl Patrick has commissioned a vaulted ceiling and four sculptures of heavenly figures holding scrolls at each corner, as though they watch over the old library, and so the task has expanded, requiring the finest craftsmen to teeter on planks of wood high above the ground, tethered by long lines of rope to the roof like puppets lest they fall.

A part of Edward is glad of the work, however tiresome it is. In fact, he enjoys the burning sensation in his arms and the screaming muscles of his legs, the repetitive manner of the task—up and down, up and down, like Sisyphus hefting his boulder—the sonorous groan of the oxen and the chatter spiraling from the cart driver and the men on the lower floor. His mother’s accusation and trial, her internment in the bowels of Kirkwell Castle, has ripped through his life like a storm.

He is to blame. He knows he is.

Every single thought now is about making it right.

As Edward is climbing the staircase for the fifteenth time this morning, he sees a flash of deep red sweep along one of the cathedral’s many narrow hallways. The flick of a rich burgundy cloak made of fine velvet, a glint of gold edging at the collar. His body reacts before his mind catches up. Gold clothing is reserved for royalty. It is Earl Patrick, right here in the cathedral.

He delivers the stone to the workers on the roof. The sculptor calls to him from farther along the line.

“Boy!”

He holds out a chisel, waving it as though he expects Edward to take it, which he moves to do, gingerly walking along one of the planks of wood striated across the open space of the new room. Below, the oxen are reduced to the size of chestnuts. The fall would kill him instantly.

“Swap this for a sharp knife,” the sculptor says, passing him the tool, and Edward takes it with a nod before descending the stairs, slowing a little at the hallway where he spotted the earl.

There is no one around, no one watching, but from a room farther down the hallway Edward can hear voices. He glances over the balustrade at the workmen below, then up at the men in the roof space, before making his way down the same hallway where he saw the earl walk minutes before.

A door stands ajar about halfway along the corridor, an opening of about two inches. The acoustics of the chapel are at extremes—the vast open spaces of the quire and nave carry voices swirling in every direction in an echoing, bell-like fashion, often making it difficult to discern a message clearly. But the small, wood-paneled rooms in the upper floors compact even the slightest whisper, delivering voices in crisp tones.

“This new…installment is not to my liking.”

It’s the earl’s voice. Edward freezes, every hair on his body standing on end—the way the earl said installment is chilling. The trouble he would be in now if he were found here, patently eavesdropping. He should turn back, right now, before he is caught, he knows the penalty is likely to be ten lashes, perhaps the stocks. But he can’t move, can’t persuade his body to turn away.

“What would you have me do, Your Grace?”

Another man’s voice. Older than the earl.

“Get rid of him,” the earl says, and something on the back of Edward’s neck prickles. Him?

“It may be difficult to do so, my lord,” the older man says. “The bishops are in favor of the woman’s lawyer.”

Edward starts. They mean Mr.Couper.

“Father,” Earl Patrick says. “I expect such ministrations to fall within your remit.”

The older man says something he doesn’t quite hear, his pitch dropping. Edward leans forward, glancing around the corner. He must risk being seen if he is to hear more.

He wonders how terrible ten lashes would feel. He once saw a man buckle beneath a single lash, the skin of his back opened in bloody stripes.

He thinks of the way his mother looked in the courtroom. And what he saw.

Holding his breath, he tilts his head forward.

“I pray, you must not worry, my lord,” the older man is saying. “I have already sent someone to ensure this stumbling block is removed.”

“That is well,” the earl says.

Edward hears the door open then, and ducks back.

“Oh, Father Colville?” the earl says, as though he has forgotten something, and the door closes behind him once more.

Father Colville , Edward repeats in his mind, his heart racing. and he suddenly feels like he might collapse, as though the sudden connections forged in his brain are more strenuous than a thousand flights of stairs.

Father Colville.

He forces his legs to move again, to take one step, then two, in the opposite direction, and quickly he is heading not up the stairs but down to the ground floor, where the oxen stand, two gleaming black creatures reeking to high heaven. He is still gripping the blunt tool that the sculptor wanted him to replace for a sharper one, but the thought of his task and even his whereabouts have flung out of his head, and all he can think about is Mr.Couper, Mr.Couper, the lawyer, the lawyer.

The lawyer’s Kirkwall lodgings are two streets away, along the seafront, and Edward races there, praying in his heart that the lawyer is there, that he will receive him. He sees a figure through the window, and bangs on the door, and a moment later Mr.Couper is standing in front of him, puzzled.

Edward remembers his disguise and tears the cloth from his face.

“I am Madam Balfour’s son, Edward,” he says, though he has met Mr.Couper briefly some days before, accompanied by his father. “I…I…”

The run has left him out of breath, and he all but collapses into a chair by the lawyer’s desk, his voice hoarse from dust and fear. Mr.Couper must see this, because he passes him a tankard with fresh, cool water, watching him with a concerned expression as Edward gulps it down.

“I have come from the cathedral,” Edward says at last, his words slurred. Mr.Couper tells him to rest but he shakes his head, insistent.

“I overheard Earl Patrick speaking with Father Colville,” he says, and Mr.Couper straightens, seeing the reason for the boy’s urgency.

“What did he say?”

“I…heard him speak about ‘the woman’s lawyer,’?” Edward says. “He wants rid of him. I think he meant you.”

Mr.Couper’s face changes. He grows paler, Edward thinks, and he repeats the exact words he heard.

Mr.Couper is silent for a long time. He turns away from Edward and approaches his desk, where papers have been set out, some in scrolls and some held flat by paperweights and filled with words. Edward wants to ask him what this all means for his mother, if it means she is doomed, but holds back, fearful of the answer.

“You know of Orkney’s turmoil?” Couper says at last. “The rebels who wish to oust the earl?”

Edward nods. “I do.”

“I had hoped they would have intervened before now. But they have already faced the earl’s oppression, and they are frightened of what he will do next. I believe your mother’s incarceration is an attempt on Earl Patrick’s behalf to show what he will do to all who will withstand him. It is rumored he seeks to sell the Isle of Gunn, did you know that?”

Edward shakes his head.

“The whole island. And Gairsay, too. He will do it, if he isn’t stopped. He will put every family on Gunn out of their home. He won’t care where you go, or how long your family have owned the crofts and fields there.” He looks over at Edward. “It is very, very important that we show Earl Patrick that this will not be tolerated. That Orkney will not stand for it. Do you understand?”

Edward nods, the full scale of events making his head spin. He imagines the whole island seized by the earl. The cottages in flames, the church…and the fairy glen, and the Triskele stones, old as time. All destroyed.

“Where are you staying just now?” Mr.Couper asks. “You are living in Kirkwall, yes?”

“I stay with Mr.McNee,” Edward says. “Though sometimes I just sleep in the belfry.”

Mr.Couper gives a short laugh, and Edward is confused. Has he said something wrong?

“It may be too dangerous for you to go back to Gunn,” Mr.Couper says then. “Where is your father?”

Edward begins to answer, but his words are cut short by a thumping sound at the door. Footsteps, followed by voices. Mr.Couper nods at a crawl space in the wall opposite, only just big enough for Edward to squeeze inside. Mr.Couper moves the fire screen across the entrance right as the door swings open.

“Good morrow, gentlemen,” Mr.Couper says. “How can I be of service?”

“Mr.Couper?” one of the men asks.

Edward holds his breath, silently begging his heart to stop its roaring.

“At your service.”

“The witch’s representative?”

Mr.Couper attempts a laugh. “I’m afraid I know no witches, sir.”

His voice is closer now, as though he is moving backward across the room. Something rolls onto the floor, a sound of glass shattering and a splash—the inkwell, he thinks, being pushed off the desk. Then the rustle of papers.

“Stop that at once!” Mr.Couper says. “These are court documents. The king will hear of this!”

Edward does not hear an answer.

Instead, he hears the dull smack of fists pounding flesh, cries of pain, and Mr.Couper’s unheeded pleas for them to stop.

Edward is trembling now, burying his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out. He hears the scraping of table legs across the wooden floor, followed by the heavy thud of a man’s body hitting the ground.