Chapter Forty

CHAPTER FORTY

Kirkwall, Orkney

December 1594

ALISON

Mr.Addis leads me up the stairs to the courtroom. The room is dimly lit and the gallery full, the air thick with tension and fear. At the doorway, I lean against the frame for a moment’s rest. My vision is full of stars.

“Move,” Mr.Addis says, tugging my chains, but I shake my head, turning my head to the cold wood, wishing I could disappear. The thought of facing the townsfolk after what has happened to William makes me want to howl and beat the door with my fists. How could they have stood there and watched an innocent man be crushed to death?

And yet, the voice in my head reminds me that the only person to blame for William’s death is Father Colville. It was not Earl Patrick who called to apprehend William, nor the bishops. Father Colville did, and he was the only one with the power to stop it—and now I think upon it, he was likely the one who organized the carts and the boulders. The people are scared. They fear I am a helpmeet of the Devil, that I will cause more pain and suffering than they have already experienced in the last ten years, with rising teinds and skat, poor crops, murder. Father Colville presides over this grim assembly.

The fire is lit again, and I begin to sob. The caschielaws are to be used on me again today. My legs are still agonizing from the last time, the wounds still raw and weeping. I cannot go through it again.

My heart is galloping so fast I can scarcely breathe. I look across the blurred faces in the courtroom, though one hardens into a recognizable shape. It is Solveig.

He nods at me, and touches his chin. I feel my heart slow. Courage.

“Over there,” Mr.Addis says, shoving me to the left of the room, away from the dais. There is a chair in the far corner. He pushes me toward it, and I sink down in relief, my eyes searching out the fire nervously. Perhaps I am not to be tortured today. It is biting cold outside, with the winter heavily upon us. We are but a week away from Yule, and many of the spectators are wrapped up in hats and mittens despite the blazing fire.

“Good morning, Father Colville,” Bishop Vance calls down. “I see the woman is here. You may proceed with your questions.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Father Colville says with a bow. He moves toward me. “Madam Balfour,” he calls out in a loud voice. “I remind you of your charges. That you are accused of assisting in the attempted murder of His Grace, the Earl of Orkney. We have heard testimony after testimony attesting to your wickedness, your talents for dark magic. We have proof that you aided Thomas Paplay in attempting to kill His Grace, the Earl of Orkney. Furthermore, you allowed your husband, William, to die a most terrible and unnecessary death, rather than own up to what you have done.”

He is shouting, and I am trembling, utterly pierced through by his words. To hear him say that I allowed my husband to die is worse, far worse than any accusation he could ever make against me.

He kneels before me, whispering now, his eyes soft. “Remember, Alison. I can make this all end. I can let you return home to your children. All you have to do is confess before the court.”

It takes everything in my power to shake my head. He looks pained, deeply wounded by my response.

Suddenly, the heavy doors creak open. The spectators turn to survey the scene. A voice rings out, and my heart lurches, recognizing the sound instantly.

It is Edward, I rise to my feet to catch sight of him as two guards drag him thrashing and shouting along the back of the gallery. Many of the spectators are on their feet to catch sight of the commotion.

“Let me go!” he cries, his feet clattering against the stone floor. He reaches out and pulls over a chair. One of the guards trips over him, and the remaining guard seizes Edward by the hair, another arm locked around his neck, hooking him up upright.

He faces me, and at once, our eyes lock.

“Mother!” he shouts, a look of gladness on his face.

“Edward!”

“Do not confess!” Edward calls to me as the guards haul him to the dais. He manages to break free of their grasp, slipping his arms out of his shirt and jacket, leaving them clutching his garments as he stands, bare-chested, arms raised, on the raised platform.

Suddenly Mr.Addis lunges at Edward, his fist drawn, slugging him hard across the face, and I give a shout of pain as Edward’s knees buckle and he collapses to the ground like a fallen sapling, the punch knocking him out cold.

Father Colville stands over him and nods to Mr.Addis, who makes for the fire with the guards. A moment later, they approach Edward, still out cold, and I realize they intend on applying the caschielaws to his bare flesh.

My heart races, terror gripping me. “No!” I shriek, scrambling toward them. Father Colville wraps his arms around me, holding me back.

“He’s just a child!” I scream at the guards.

“Madam Balfour, are you ready to forsake your sins and confess?” Father Colville hisses in my ear.

I keep my eyes fixed on Edward. He lies on the ground, unmoving, as Mr.Addis lowers the caschielaws to Edward’s breast. There is a terrible moment where the room is silent save for the hiss of the iron against his tender skin, and then he wakes with a scream so loud it seems to fly around the room, and the sound of it makes me tear free of Father Colville. I throw myself upon Edward’s legs with a shriek.

“Stop!”

One of the guards hooks both hands under my arms and throws me roughly aside, a loud crack ringing out as I fall face-first, breaking my nose.

I try to move but I can’t.

“He’s just a boy,” someone from the crowd shouts. The sentiment spreads like wildfire, the room erupting in protests.

“Stop this!”

“He’s innocent!”

“This is barbaric!”

I manage to sit up, witnessing the whole courtroom now on their feet, their voices rising. Even the bishops get to their feet, their expressions grave as they peer down from the mezzanine at my son, who writhes in agony.

“He’s a child!” a woman shouts loudly, her voice ringing above Edward’s shouts. “He’s done nothing!”

“Enough, Father Colville,” Bishop Vance commands. “And give the witch a rag, will you?”

Father Colville passes me a handkerchief. It is only when I see the white linen turn red that I realize my broken nose is fountaining blood.

“We are satisfied that the woman will not confess,” Bishop Sinclair says. “Let the boy go.”

Father Colville signals the guards to stop, and they drag Edward from the room, the only sound his sobs. I watch, frantic to know he will be well, but the doors swing closed.

“The trial is suspended until tomorrow,” Bishop Vance calls. “We will return in the morning with clear minds and strong hearts.”

“As you ask, Your Grace,” Father Colville says.