Chapter Forty-Five

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Kirkwall, Orkney

December 1594

ALISON

The sun has barely risen today, as though it cannot bring itself to bear witness to what I am about to do. If I confess, Orkney will fall. The king will be persuaded by Earl Patrick that the same witchery that almost claimed his life in the North Sea also exists here and must be eradicated. And Earl Patrick will use this as license to increase his tyranny on our land.

But what choice do I have?

“Your Graces,” Father Colville calls from the court. “The witch informed me last night that she wishes to confess at last.” He turns to me, throwing me a look that lies somewhere between scorn and pity.

“Oh?” Bishop Sinclair says, raising himself slightly on the mezzanine. “Her conscience has been pricked?”

“It has, Your Grace. I am only saddened that she allowed the passing of her husband and the injury of her son before we reached this arrangement.”

The bishops murmur in agreement, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Do not answer it, Alison. Do not tell the truth.

“As the witch is dull of intellect and has the voice of a mouse,” Father Colville says, “I will repeat her confession for the benefit of the scribe and the court.”

He throws a meaningful look at David, who prepares his parchment and quill to transcribe my words.

I swallow hard, trying to recall the words that I prepared in my mind last night. The words that will bring this all to an end and spare my children’s lives.

“Your Graces,” I begin. It is difficult to speak. My nose is badly swollen, and my teeth are still loose from when I tried to protect Edward, and the guard knocked me to the floor. I use my tongue to hold them in place as I speak, and close my eyes.

“I wish to share my confession…”

Father Colville repeats this in a loud, clear voice, his eyes on David as he writes it down. He emphasizes the word confession .

“…that I am indeed a witch,” I say. A small murmur rises from the gallery. I keep my eyes on the floor as Father Colville repeats it, unable to conceal the tone of satisfaction in his voice.

“I am as w…wicked as Father Colville has suggested,” I say, tripping over my words. “I…I plotted with Thomas Paplay to k…kill the earl. I would have killed many more if Father Colville had not caught me. My desires…” I falter, my mouth so dry that I find my voice diminishing with each word. “My desires are black as coal. I am a vengeful spirit, a servant of darkness. I know that God has shielded His face from mine forever.”

The truth of this severs my heart. I feel it deeply, the fear that I am forever separated from everyone I love. That I will not see heaven.

“Madam Alison Balfour,” Father Colville says gravely. “You are hereby charged with the practice of witchcraft and an attempt on the life of the earl.”

I stare ahead, lest I give in to the urge to tell him that everything I said was a lie. I expect the courtroom to erupt into a frenzy, for the name-calling and whispers to begin. But it is silent as a grave. Father Colville sweeps his eyes over the crowd, and I sense he is disappointed. At last, he turns to me, fixing his eyes on me a minute longer.

“May God have mercy on your soul,” he says.