Chapter Thirty-Two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Kirkwall, Orkney

December 1594

ALISON

I am still weeping about Mr.Couper’s murder when Mr.Addis leads me inside the courtroom.

The windows at the back of the room are blotted out by a line of spectators on their feet, three rows deep. On the mezzanine, more have been allowed to congregate behind the bishops. In the very front row, John Stewart sits in his usual spot. And beside him sits Patrick Stewart, Earl of Orkney.

I tremble ferociously at the sight of them both. My stomach clenches, and I feel I might be sick.

Mr.Addis marches me toward the dais, directly past John Stewart and his brother. I keep my head bowed, but as I pass by Earl Patrick I see him from the corner of my eye, tilting his head at me, his black cap removed, revealing the same feathery blond hair as his cousin, the king. Patrick is younger than his brother, John, but as John is illegitimate, Patrick received the earldom when their father Robert died. Earl Patrick is broad-shouldered, his skin remarkably clear, a flaxen beard groomed to a point at his chin. I remember he is newly wedded, and a sudden hope stirs that perhaps this fresh union of the heart might make him tender toward me.

Does he suspect his brother, I wonder. Or does he regard me as the instigator of his attempted murder?

As I sit upon the dais I notice that the open fireplace to my left is stacked with wood, red flames licking the mantelpiece. The heat is welcome, though I see some spectators in the front row remove their shawls and mantles at the warmth of it. That is why the earl has removed his cap.

“Your Graces,” Father Colville calls up to the mezzanine. “I trust you are well.”

“Where is Mr.Couper?” Bishop Sinclair calls down.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Your Grace.” Father Colville beams, and it is as though a bucket of ice water falls upon my skin. He knows , I think. He knows Mr.Couper is dead. And he is lying.

The realization that he lies brings with it another thought. That Father Colville was involved in Mr.Couper’s death.

I slide my eyes from him to John Stewart, then to his brother. I sense I am caught in a trap, and I know not the reason for it.

“Does the witch have an alternative representative?” Bishop Vance asks. I shake my head, feeling exposed, and vulnerable, as though they are all bears and I am waiting to be consumed.

“She does not,” Father Colville answers.

“Very well,” Bishop Vance says, waving his hand.

“Your Grace, I have here an object which you may wish to consider as we proceed today,” Father Colville says.

He nods at Mr.Addis, who passes a hemp sack to Father Colville. As he holds it in the air for all to see, I start at the sight of it—it is my sack, the familiar twine of red wool around the fraying handle.

He turns to me, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Madam, it appears you recognize this sack?”

I decide it would be best not to lie.

“I do.”

“Whose sack is it?”

I swallow, but hold his eye. “It is mine.”

He reaches inside, though his eyes do not leave my face. The object is so small that I can’t make it out, so he brings it to me. It is a piece of wax, about the size of a robin’s egg. I realize it is the charm he described to the court. The charm sent to harm the earl. The evidence he could not find.

“You recognize this, Madam Balfour?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I do not.”

He turns the wax over, revealing lines carved into it. At first, I think it is a rune, the slant lines forming a symbol. But then I realize it is a word.

“Can you read this?” he asks, bringing it to my eyes.

“It says ‘Nyx.’?”

He cocks his head, watching me in a way that is creating heat around my neck.

“What is the object, Father Colville?” Bishop Sinclair calls down.

“Your Grace, it is a piece of wax.”

“And what is the significance of a piece of wax?” Bishop Vance asks impatiently.

“I am told it is a method commonly used by cunning folk to cast a hex,” Father Colville answers. “Wax is melted over a flame, Your Grace, with sundry objects inserted into the mixture while it is yet soft. Then it is fashioned into the shape of whosoever is to be hexed.”

“Madam Balfour,” Father Colville says in a loud voice. “Do you understand this word, ‘Nyx’?”

I glance warily at him. “I believe so.”

Bishop Vance glowers down. “It would be most helpful if you might share your knowledge with the court, madam.”

“It is a Triskele word, Your Grace. It means ‘vengeance.’?”

A murmur rises up among the people in the gallery.

“Vengeance,” Father Colville repeats loudly, turning toward the gallery so that his voice might project all around the room.

“How does the woman know the meaning of this word?” Bishop Sinclair calls down, and I feel my cheeks burn.

“The woman is Triskele, my lord,” Father Colville says. “And as you know, the Triskele are among the fiercest and most powerful sorcerers in the isles of Orkney. Not only that, but this sack and the wax were found in Thomas Paplay’s possession.” He turns to me, eyes gleaming. “Pray you, madam, why would your sack be in the possession of a man who attempted to kill Earl Patrick?”

“I know not,” I say quietly.

“Madam?” Father Coville says. “Are you suggesting Thomas Paplay stole it from your cottage?”

“No, but…”

“When you renounced God,” he shouts in my face, “what was the price? Judas fell for thirty pieces of silver. What was your price?”

“I had no price,” I say, my throat tightening with panic. I see the earl sit forward, and his brother reaches out to place his hand on his arm in a motion of brotherly affection.

“I did not give it to Mr.Paplay,” I say.

Father Colville nods at Mr.Addis then, and he collects something from the side of the room and returns, tying it around my waist.

“What is this?” I say, but he says nothing, fastening me to the chair. He tugs at the bonds, ensuring they hold fast before turning and walking out of the room.

A bronze light bathes the courtroom this morning, the stained-glass windows drenched in winter sun. My heart is beating fast, a film of sweat forming at my shoulder blades. The earl stares impassively, turning his head to one of his guards and having a quiet word in the man’s ear.

I search out David and find him sitting at the desk in the corner, his inkpot and quill laid on the wood and the parchment set out. To his left, I find William, and my breath catches. It is a relief to see him here, though I recognize at once the pain on William’s face. He knows as well as I that Mr.Couper is dead.

He holds my gaze, unblinking, and for a long minute there is no one else in the room with us, no words or sound but the communication that travels between us. He tells me: I am sorry . I tell him: It is well. Please do not fear. I love you.

Father Colville’s gaze turns to Mr.Addis, who has returned and stands next to the fireplace. He pulls on a leather face covering, then long protective gloves, before reaching into the flames and withdrawing what I think are two red swords, the room filling with hot steam from the glowing metal. As he steps closer, I realize—they are not swords at all, but thin strips of metal that bend as he walks.

They are caschielaws.

I start to whimper, thinking of the man in Edinburgh who died when they used caschielaws upon him. Father Colville leans toward me, making a soothing noise, as though I am a child receiving a scolding. “Hush, now. Remember what I said. If you confess, I will spare your life. Please, Alison. You must .”

“Stop this!” a voice shouts from the back, and all heads turn to a boy who is attempting to stride across the room toward me. With a gasp, I realize that the boy is my son. It is Edward. Immediately two guards are upon him, seizing him as he shouts and dragging him to the entrance of the room.

Mr.Addis approaches me and, with a glance at Father Colville that seems to confirm something, crouches by my legs. Then he lifts my skirts and wraps one of the strips of metal around my ankles.

My focus was on Edward, on his shouts of protest, but then bright, radiant pain sends sparks shooting behind my eyes into the black void of my skull. I give a loud, high-pitched shriek, but someone is quickly behind me, fastening a leather belt across my mouth, dulling the sound of my screams to a muffled growl. Mr.Addis binds the second strip of metal around my knees, up around the flesh of my thighs.

“I remind you that the Devil cannot inhabit a body in pain,” Father Colville shouts over my screaming. “This may seem cruel, but it is the only way we purge this woman of Satan and bring us closer to the truth!”

I feel like I am outside my body, someone else screaming. The steam rising from my blistering skin is so thick and tinged with blood that it is as though a great billowing cloud has gathered all around me, that I’m being taken up to heaven by angels. But I see a person coming close—he is no angel. He is Mr.Addis, his face covered with the leather helmet, and he unpeels the metal strips, which have already cooled.

“Alison, do you confess?” Father Colville calls through the veil of smoke, and I open my mouth to howl Yes! Yes, I confess, I confess!

But then a scene flashes before my eyes. I see myself at the edge of a high cliff, a chasm between me and the other side. The ground is so far below my feet that clouds gather in the abyss. William and the children stand on the other side of the cliff, and I know that if I confess, we will forever be separated. I will never see them again. Not even in the next life.

Mr.Addis returns with two different strips of metal, glowing red.

The courtroom collapses to the size of a pearl, and I am swimming in darkness, plunging under to that place where neither prayer nor thought is found.