Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Isle of Gunn, Orkney

August 1594

ALISON

Late summer, and still the gardens outside are bursting with color, the rosebushes drowsy with fragrant blossoms. Orkney in August is a heaven in its own right, a place where you can easily imagine angels sitting on the hilltops, the fae gathering in the valley. This is the time of year when I feel I can breathe, when the warm sun turns the sea into a gold disk, when the brae is cloaked with sweet grass, and heather makes the valley seem to blush. The stones at the fairy glen disappear out of sight, swallowed by the wildflowers that push up, like a remembered song.

Today we are to travel to Kirkwall, where William is unveiling his work at the cathedral. It is an important day, not least because we will fetch him home. After many months of working tirelessly on the new quire, he will unveil it before the townsfolk, the clergy, and John Stewart, the Master of Orkney. I am so proud of him, but secretly I am more pleased to be bringing him back to Gunn. So many months apart has me longing for his company, for the feeling of safety he brings to our home. For his touch.

It is this that has me singing this morning as I hang the coverlets and garments out on the line to dry, and when I see Edward return from the byre, I notice he is smiling, too. This pleases me greatly, for he has been melancholic of late, caught up in a dark mood. He has been since he turned thirteen. My mother tells me I was thus at his age, but I worry he is overhearing too much talk of strife in the isles. Gairsay, the isle next to ours, is the most fertile of the isles, and often the earl has made mention of it. Last month, a fierce blaze consumed seven cottages and fourteen acres of crops. Two men died, and their families have been left without food or shelter. We offered to take in several of the children, an offer that was not made lightly—our own supplies have been stretched this season. Without a milking cow, we have no milk, butter, or cheese, and Earl Patrick keeps raising the skat. Edward and I have been working in the udal fields to the south of the island, stolen by the earl.

In the end, the people whose cottages were destroyed went to stay with relatives on other islands. I have no doubt that they will yet be liable for their own skat, despite the destruction of their lands. And when they cannot pay it, Earl Patrick will then seize those lands against the skat. It is easy for him to do, given that udal law means that land is passed on verbally, without written deeds. It is an ancient practice upheld by trust, but one that allows the earl to usurp our property.

When William is not in Kirkwall, he is busy in the quarry, or meeting with the men from Gunn and other islands who seek to redress the earl’s tactics. When William is home, they meet oft in our cottage, sitting by the stove, discussing ways to petition the king. It has become apparent that the king is not sympathetic to the plight of Orcadians, which makes our situation doubly precarious—a tyrannical earl and an apathetic king make us easy pickings.

But I fear that Edward has overheard too much of his father’s conversations. It is a double task, living in such times—protecting my children both from the consequences of an avaricious tyrant and the bitter rage that fills the hearts of simple folk because of it. Edward is softhearted and still tender of age.

But today, the sun has lifted his countenance, and he is holding one of the hens in his arms, still smiling as he approaches.

“What has you in such a fair weather?”

It is Beatrice’s voice, and I turn to see her addressing her brother, her fists on her little hips.

“Kirkwall has me in a fair weather,” he answers. “And…”

He pulls a gleaming red strawberry from his pocket and drops it into his mouth, making both Beatrice and me gasp, but for different reasons.

“Give me!” she shrieks, and I chide him for picking the strawberries too early.

“It’s only one,” he says, laughing as Beatrice attacks him, and I tut and say no more. He races off, Beatrice chasing after, the hen flapping out of his arms. I mark the way his tunic has started to slip above his knees, his legs growing faster than I can weave.

“Good morrow, Alison,” a voice calls. It is Agnes, making her way across the field, accompanied by a shaggy kyloe heifer tethered by a rope. Agnes lives on the other side of Gunn, and I have known her all my life. She is not Triskele, which endears me to her even more since I left. Before, all my friends were Triskele. My mother encouraged me to play with only Triskele children, to speak with only Triskele adults. It made leaving all the more difficult.

“Good morrow,” I say, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. “Is this your new steed?”

“This is your new milking cow,” she says, and I stare, agape.

“I can’t accept,” I say, reaching out to scratch her fluffy nose. “This is too much.”

She turns to Edward, who races past as Beatrice chases him with a stick. “I missed a certain young man’s birthday,” Agnes says, winking. “But what better gift than one that provides milk.”

Edward and Beatrice stop running and stare at the heifer.

“She’s such a bonny color,” Beatrice says, rubbing the ginger flank.

Edward reaches out to touch the kyloe’s horns. “Is she ours now?”

“No,” I say, but Agnes says “Aye” at the same time. “She is,” Agnes tells him, passing me the rope, and I take it, reluctantly.

“You are too kind,” I tell her quietly. “I will have to repay you.”

“The point of a gift is that it is not repaid,” she says with a smile. She watched me cry after our own cow was killed. It was a brutal thing to happen—we loved her, had made the mistake of naming her. Penny, she was called. We couldn’t afford to replace her, and so have depended on my mother’s donations of milk and butter these last eight months.

“Will you be coming with us to the cathedral in Kirkwall?” Beatrice asks her. Agnes reaches out to touch Beatrice’s blonde braids, fastened with a little piece of white ribbon at the ends.

“Sadly, I shall not,” she says. “The boat unsettles my stomach. You must bring me back some sweetmeats.”

Beatrice nods obediently. “I shall.”

···

“Why are you not Triskele, Mama?” Beatrice asks. We are on the boat to Kirkwall, traveling with others who are going to the market. Beatrice is weaving stalks of barley into a doll, her little hands expertly braiding and tying until she is satisfied that the doll is made as she wishes.

“Papa isn’t, either,” Edward interjects.

“You mean, why did I leave?”

“She was born into the Triskele,” Beatrice tells Edward. Then, uncertain: “Weren’t you, Mama?”

I make to answer, but Edward gets there first. “You don’t have to be born into it,” he says. “Anyone can be initiated. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

“Yes,” I say. “Anyone can, so long as the other members of the Triskele approve.”

“How many members are there, Mama?”

“Well, that is difficult to say. The Triskele are all over the world.”

“Even in Persia?”

Beatrice has been learning about the countries of the world. I have taught the children since they were five, ensuring I gift them the education that was gifted me. With a pang, I remember that the only reason I received an education at all was because I was Triskele.

“Yes, even in Persia.”

“What about Egypt?”

“I believe so.”

Her eyes widen, and the questions tumble out of her: Do the Egyptian Triskele hold fast to the same traditions as the Triskele here in Orkney? Do they speak the same language as us?

“It matters not, Beatrice,” Edward chides. “The magic is the same, and that is what matters. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

I hold back from saying what I really want to say, because I know it will get back to my mother—that the Triskele are no longer regarded as a noble, warrior clan of magic-makers and spell-wielders. Instead, they are seen as feral and barbarous, their wisdom outdated and their methods peculiar.

And while Orkney has suffered under a litany of tyrants, wicked men purchasing their authority from the king and using it to seize land and starve the people, the Triskele has done nothing to stop them. Once, I believed they did not act because they were disinterested, that they considered themselves different from Orcadians, and therefore stood impassive to the earl’s evil upon this land. Now I believe that William is right when he says that the real reason the Triskele do not support the rebels is simply because Triskele magic is not as powerful as I once believed. They are not a noble clan, the Protectors of Ancient Magic, but a group of cunning folk. Nothing special at all. Rather, they are shameful.

“Mama?” Beatrice says. “What is The Book of Witching ?”

My jaw tightens at these words falling from my daughter’s mouth.

“Well, it’s a book,” I say simply. “I think you saw it on the night of your initiation.”

“It was very dark,” she says, disappointed. “Grandmother says it’s the most important book in the world.”

“I know what it is,” Edward says proudly.

I turn to him. “You do?”

He pulls his cap down over his eyes and wraps his scarf around his mouth, wiggling his fingers beside his head as he affects a deep voice.

“Not long after the earth’s violent and fiery birth, a book came into existence. With a binding made from the bark of the first tree, and with pages black as moonless night, this book held the secrets of dark magic practiced by the earth’s inhabitants. Whispered tales claimed the book was crafted not by human hands, but by spirits of darkness. It was called The Book of Witching .”

“Is that true, Mama?” Beatrice asks. “The spirits of darkness made the book?”

I hesitate, neither wishing to add to Edward’s dramatic recitation nor to lie. “What I must remind you, my dear, is that your father will be very displeased if he hears that the two of you were initiated into the Triskele.”

“But why, Mama?” Beatrice says. “Why must we not tell him?”

“Because he will be angry,” Edward says. He throws me a sullen look.

“You are both simply too young to understand his reasons,” I say. “And this is a special day. We are here to see the work he has done at the cathedral, and to celebrate it.”

The ship begins to slow, and the docks come into sight. A crowd of people wait there, many of them already waving handkerchiefs to signal to their loved ones. I scan the many faces and spy William, anxiously looking for us.

“Daddy!” Beatrice calls, and he sees us, his face lifting. He races to us, scooping up Beatrice and wrapping an arm around Edward. I hug him, and all four of us are joined together once more. It is the sweetest feeling on earth.

We walk along the cobbled streets toward the cathedral as Beatrice and Edward chatter to their father, telling him about our cow and their sighting of eagles from the brae. William and I can’t get a word in edgewise, but he throws me smiles and winks as he answers the children’s questions. It lifts my spirits to be in Kirkwall, with its crowds and enterprise, the hard stone of the streets calling up hooves and wheels, such a foreign sound. I am used to grass underfoot, and nothing but the rush of the sound and the call of the owls for days on end. And the cathedral, a vision of red and yellow sandstone, its magnificent spire thrusting up to the clouds and the stone gargoyles staring down. I had forgotten how big it was, how resplendent.

“Did you build this whole church, Daddy?” Beatrice asks when we reach the cathedral gardens, which causes the rest of us to laugh.

“I did, aye,” William says. “Only took three months. Impressive, isn’t it?”

Beatrice’s eyes go wide as she stands in the cathedral gardens, staring up at the spire.

“It’s only a wee jest,” William says, and he tells her about the hands that made it, and why. “Vikings built that spire,” he says. “They wanted to build a church that would be a light in the north, and a home for the body of St. Magnus. His bones lie inside a pillar, holding up the spire itself.” Beatrice pulls a face, so he bends his knees to lower himself to her eyeline. “The reason they buried him here is so that, even in death, he would be seen to still be holding up a light to Orkney. And because he’s a saint, his resting place brings people from far away to visit.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because it brings them hope. They feel that, if they touch the pillar wherein his body sleeps, they will be nearer to God.”

Beatrice’s eyes widen. “Can I touch it?”

“Of course.”

Her hand in his, William takes our daughter inside the cathedral, Edward and me following after, to a pillar marked with a skull and crossbones.

“This is it?” she asks, and he nods. She stands still before it, contemplating what he told her, before reaching her hands out slowly to touch it.

“What did you feel?” Edward asks, visibly tempted to do the same. “Did it bring you hope?”

She nods, her face breaking into a smile. “It did.”

Today it is market day, and so the cathedral thrums with people and animals. I love to admire the fabrics, both on the stalls and those worn by the people of Kirkwall. The peasantry may wear only wincey or hemp, dyed in shades of bracken, slate, sable, or thistle. But many elite reside in Kirkwall, and so there are garments of every color: kirtles of red silk, doublets with pink tassels, bodices made of whalebone instead of reeds that scratch the skin. I see Beatrice is similarly breathtaken by the girls her age wearing purple dresses hemmed with rabbit fur, the boys in lace breeches. Such clothing is certainly not washed in lye soap, and thus does not reek of pig fat. The cathedral is full of foul smells, however—the earthen stink of sheep and cows, and the dead, who are buried in shallow graves beneath the flagstones in the nave, the odor of rot faintly detectable beneath the lush garlands of tansies, trefoil, and willowherb hung about the pillars.

William introduces us to his employer, Mr.McNee, the master stonemason in Kirkwall. He is a courteous man, shaking the children’s hands and taking time to praise them for having such a talented craftsman as their father.

“I like masonry, too,” Edward says, and McNee turns to him.

“Do you, now?”

William places a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Finest dry waller on Gunn,” he tells Mr.McNee. “And nimble in the quarry. We have yet to train him in the ways of the ax and point, but I daresay he’ll master those as he has dry walling.”

Edward’s cheeks redden, and he shifts his feet.

“Well then,” Mr.McNee says. “Perhaps we might have work for more than one Balfour. But first, let us celebrate your father’s achievements.”

We follow him to the quire, where fifteen stone arches have been newly sculpted, the pillars carved with designs that match the older patterns around the outside of the cathedral. Mr.McNee holds up a brass bell and rings it three times, drawing quiet across the crowd in this part of the cathedral. He waits a moment, allowing the people to gather. I see a number of masons join us, greeting William—his colleagues, I realize, though I do not recognize them. Clergy and nobles join us, too, interested to discover the reason for the salutation.

“Orcadians of Kirkwall,” Mr.McNee shouts. “I wish you all to join me in a public offering of thanks to our newest stonemason, whose mark you see here at the base of the pillar. We thank thee, William Balfour, for the craft you have bestowed upon the cathedral, and present you with this gift from the earl, a token of thanks from all of Orkney.” Mr.McNee reaches for a wooden box at the base of the pillar and presents it to William. He appears to be surprised, opening it to find a gleaming silver ax therein, holding it aloft for all to see. A round of applause erupts from the crowd, and William shakes Mr.McNee’s hands in thanks.

“Can I fetch sweetmeats, Mama?” Beatrice asks me.

“Sweetmeats?” Beatrice has never tried these.

“For Agnes,” she reminds me.

William takes my hand and squeezes. “Edward, you go with your sister,” he says. “Your mother hasn’t seen my lodgings in the upper chambers.”

I watch Edward dash off, and when I turn I see William has a familiar look in his eye. A look of longing. Silently, he leads me upstairs, introducing me to the workmen and clergy we pass by.

We reach a small room at the very top of the cathedral, where pigeons roost on joists, and where the floors below look terrifyingly far.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door.

“What snug lodgings…” I begin to say, but the rest of my words are stolen by his lips on mine, his hands searching for the hem of my dress. I know what he wants.

And I am glad of it.

···

“I do wish Mr.McNee hadn’t presented the ax on behalf of the earl,” William says as he fastens his belt. “I won’t be able to use it now.”

“You know Earl Patrick has no knowledge that you or the ax exist,” I tell him.

“Even so.”

“What is the talk of rebellion here in Kirkwall?” I ask him, careful, even in this small space, to keep my voice low.

“Still more talk than action,” he says. “But we are gathering in number. The udallers are displeased with the earl.”

“Of course they are,” I say. “He has stolen their lands, after all.”

He frowns in displeasure at the thought of it.

“I think the udallers are beginning to understand that rebellion is the only course of action for Orkney,” William says. “Some of them still believe the Triskele will wave their wands and magic the land back into their possession.”

He scoffs, and I look away, fearful that he may read my mind and discover what my mother has done.

“The Triskele has done nothing,” he says, anger creeping into his voice. “They have stood by while the earl has driven the Orcadians to their knees.”

I watch him pack his satchel, reminding myself how good it is that he will join us once more, that we will be a family again. And I make a note to tell my mother that my children’s initiation does not hold, that they are not to be considered Triskele. William’s ill wishes toward them are shared by many.

I do not wish that for my children.

We head downstairs, and I tell William that I will light candles while he takes his leave of his colleagues.

The north transept is quiet and vacant. Images of saints shine down from the stained-glass windows, and the candles shimmer for lost souls. I light three to remember our lost children. I whisper their names: the boy I named William, and the two little girls, both small as fairies: Eliza and Viola.

As I kneel at the altar, I hear footsteps behind. A priest approaching me, perhaps. But when I turn, I am astonished to see David Moncrief. I last saw him many months ago—January, the Wolf Moon—in the fairy glen on Gunn, when my children were initiated into the Triskele.

We are the same age, born a month apart. He has the same high forehead that bothered him as a boy, and the same kind eyes and deep scars upon his face from the pox that almost killed him many years ago. He received schooling for a time with me when his mother took ill, both receiving tuition on the Triskele language in my mother’s cottage. She wanted me to marry him—Triskele members are strongly encouraged to marry within the tribe—but I met William and fell in love.

“Good morrow,” I say, but he approaches no further, instead touching his chin—a Triskele greeting for I wish you well . I return the gesture.

“Madam Balfour,” he says then. “John Stewart wishes to speak to you in the gardens. Will you follow me?”

“John Stewart?” I say, astonished.

“Aye, madam,” he says, catching my eye a moment longer before beckoning me to follow.

David leads me to the gardens, where I see two men standing beneath a sycamore tree. One I recognize—he is Thomas Paplay, a man I healed some months ago. He is better now, a broad smile upon his face and his black hair swept back from his face. The other is of short stature, shorter than I, and broad as an urn, with unruly copper hair to his shoulders, a scraggly beard that touches his chest.

“Madam Balfour,” David says, “I present you to John Stewart, Master of Orkney and cousin to His Majesty, King James.”

“My lord,” I say, bowing and averting my eyes. I cannot imagine what reason John Stewart has to call upon me, and I wait for him to tell David that he has brought the wrong person before him.

But he makes no such comment, and I see his hand extended, the gleaming jewels upon his fingers. I take it with a nervous kiss.

Thomas takes my hand next, pressing it to his own lips. “Madam Balfour, you know you have my undying thanks.” He glances at John Stewart. “I have told my master of how you saved my life last winter.”

I recall the scene that met me at Thomas Paplay’s home last December. A man clinging to life by his fingernails, his body riven with smallpox, his pulse no more than a whisper. He had been treated with leeches and drained of blood. I kept a cloth tied across my mouth as I boiled cow’s milk and sheep dung on his hearth, then fed the mixture to him, spoon by spoon. An old remedy, utterly foul to both smell and taste, but effective.

Evidently, he recovered.

I had no idea that Thomas Paplay was a servant of John Stewart’s, however, nor David.

“I have a request,” John says. “Walk with me.”

“Of course.”

I glance back at the cathedral, wondering if I should tell William. But John is already walking ahead, and I follow, keeping apace. We move deeper into the gardens, leaving the noise and bustle of the cathedral market behind. I am flanked by John and Thomas, with David following after. I find my heart is racing, not with curiosity, but with a sense of foreboding.

“I have heard that you are skilled at potions, and charms,” John says at last. “Thomas tells me you restored his health, long after the physicians gave up.”

“That is right,” I say.

“I am glad for it,” he says, glancing at Thomas. “I was hopeful that I may ask for another of your charms.”

I stop then, noticing that a raven has perched on the branch of an oak tree ahead. A navy eye turns to me, and I feel a shudder pass through me. It is a warning.

“A charm,” I say, and he nods. “May I ask the nature of the charm?”

I turn to face John and Thomas, ensuring that my expression is easy, a slight smile on my lips. I do not wish to seem unreasonable, or impertinent.

“You do not wish to discuss payment?” John says.

“My lord,” I say softly. “It would be improper to discuss payment before I ascertain whether your request is within my capabilities.”

I see a hardness pass across John’s face. He flicks a look at Thomas, who steps forward.

“Your charm saved my life,” he says. “I would say you are capable, madam. We know you possess the skills we require.”

“You wish me to save a life?” I say lightly. The raven has not moved, though we approach it.

“Not save a life,” Thomas says, glancing at his master.

I stop and hold him in a deep look, searching his face. “You wish me to prepare a charm that will take a life?” I whisper.

His eyes slide to John’s once more, and then he gives a small nod. John’s gaze does not move from my face. David steps forward.

“Madam Balfour, it would be prudent to accept this request.”

A heat grows on the back of my neck. My hand is being forced, I can feel it. I am indeed capable of such a charm, but the thought of it makes me gravely worried—the Master of Orkney has power to hold any one of the citizens of Orkney in prison, or to remove us from our homes, or even to starve us to our death. That he should then require more power leads me to believe that this charm is not for use on someone who holds less status than he.

It is for someone who stands above.

I bow deeply, trying not to reveal the fear such thoughts have caused to sink into my bones.

Who could John Stewart wish to kill?

“My lord, I give you thanks for holding me in such high esteem as to make this request. But you see, this charm can only be made by someone who has not witnessed death. And as I have witnessed much, I am unable.”

It is a lie, but I have no choice. May God forgive me.

John holds me in a dark look. I sense he is angry, but I return his gaze with an apologetic expression, though my heart is hammering in my chest. I have deliberately answered in a way that prevents him from seeking out my mother, and indeed most of the practitioners of magic. I sense that he is quite prepared to use force if necessary, which is why I chose to lie.

“Thank you, Madam Balfour,” Thomas says, disapprovingly. “You may leave us.”

“My lord,” I say, bowing again. “I wish you well in your endeavors.”

I bow again, trembling now, before heading quickly back to the cathedral.