Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Fynhallow, Orkney

October 1594

ALISON

Samhain: the Witch’s Feast. Edward carries the apples from the orchard in a basket and drops them in front of the fire. They are to be buried beneath the threshold of the house, as we do every year, before going guising and dooking for apples.

“How do I look?” Beatrice asks, twirling in a long white sheet that has been pulled over her head like a ghost. I’m about to chide her for putting holes in a good sheet when I notice the eye holes are coal marks.

“Very ghostly,” I say. “But how do you expect to see?”

“I can see a little,” she says, hitting the coffer with her shin.

“Come here,” I tell her, and I use coal to black the sockets of her eyes and her lips, and ash to whiten her cheeks, before tying the fabric around her neck. I do the same for Edward, and then William appears, wearing a dark bandanna, his eye socket blackened like a pirate.

“Argh!” he roars, and Beatrice gives a shrill scream in response. “I hear tell a banshee haunts these parts,” he says, swiping the air with a wooden cutlass.

“Woooo!” Beatrice says, spreading her arms out wide.

“I think a banshee is meant to scream,” I tell her, cutting an apple into pieces.

The four of us head to the vegetable patch on the field overlooking Fynhallow beach. A row of children are pulling up kale stalks, and Beatrice does the same.

“You have to close your eyes!” little Gundrea tells Beatrice, who immediately squeezes her eyes shut and pulls up her stalk, which is almost as long as she is.

“You’re going to marry a long, thin man,” Gundrea says, appraisingly.

“And look at all the soil at the roots,” Abigail cries, gleefully clawing at a handful of earth and holding it aloft. “That means he’ll be rich!”

Beatrice claps her hands, and the three of them run off toward the bonfire along the bay, white sheets streaming behind them. Edward walks along with me, a little somber. I see his friends Adam and Caleb, dressed in black cloaks and guising at the door of the MacCrimmons’ cottage.

“Why don’t you join them?” I ask him, but he mumbles something that suggests he doesn’t want to. Adam catches sight of Edward but looks away. My heart aches for Edward—they were always so close, so similar in temperament, and now it seems they’re no longer friends.

“William?” a voice calls, and we glance at the cottage opposite, where the orange glow of a lantern lights up a familiar face. Duncan. He waves at us, and we head inside.

By the fire of Duncan’s small cottage, we find a gathering of six others, all rebels—Dougal White and his wife, Ola, Isaac Henderson, John Rathmire, Robert Kent, and Jack McKinnon. The mood is heavy.

“What has happened?” William asks, seeing the looks on the men’s faces.

“Come inside,” Isaac says grimly.

We sit down next to the fire, and Ola passes us both a bowl of hot broth.

“Earl Patrick has put a man to death,” Jack says. “Thomas Paplay. He was executed this afternoon in Kirkwall.”

I start at the name. Thomas Paplay? I think of our meeting in the gardens of the cathedral this past summer. The way he petitioned me for a charm to take a life.

“Thomas Paplay is a servant of John Stewart,” I say, astonished.

“Why would the earl put his own brother’s servant to death?” William asks, shock in his voice.

“It is rumored that he attempted to kill the earl.”

I feel my heart begin to beat faster, a feeling like ice spreading across the skin of my arms and shoulders. I think of the raven I saw in the gardens, the warning I knew it carried as I conversed with the men. Their strange request, and the way John looked at me.

I knew that John would seek out such a charm only for someone who held more power than he, but to attempt to kill his own brother? Surely not.

“Do you think John Stewart knew of this plan?” Robert asks, folding his arms. He speaks with a wry tone, for there have long been whispers that John sought to be earl instead of his younger, legitimate brother. He has grown up being called “John the Bastard,” and is doubtless tired of it. But to kill his own brother?

“Are you all right?” William asks me. I must be pale.

I nod and glance at the floor, hating myself for lying to him. I never told him of the encounter I had with John Stewart and Thomas Paplay at the cathedral in Kirkwall, and I am yet wary of sharing my thoughts. Even among friends.

What if the blame for Earl Patrick’s death is placed upon me?

“We all know that John Stewart wishes to seize the earldom,” Ola says. “And if he succeeds, he’ll be every bit as bad as his brother, if not worse.”

“Surely the earl would kill Stewart,” Dougal says, “if he suspects he was behind this murder plot?”

“It’s a show of strength,” William says. “Earl Patrick has many enemies. He will not simply kill his brother, regardless of whether he suspects his involvement.”

“Aye,” Isaac says, removing a pipe from his lips. “That is right. Thomas Paplay was tortured to death.”

“Tortured?” I ask, an icy sensation creeping across my skin.

“The earl sends a message to anyone who dares to attack him,” Ola says with a whisper.

“It has been one thing for Earl Patrick to set the skat so high that folk are starved to the bone,” William says through gritted teeth. “And we know how much land he has stolen and how many of our people he has enslaved.”

A murmur of agreement rises from our friends as Duncan recounts the earl’s crimes upon our lands, for which he will never be held accountable: He destroyed the archives in the great library on the upper floors of St. Magnus Cathedral. Hundreds of years of Orcadian history, burned. He has taken land from the udallers, or the gentry who lay claim to their land through Viking heritage. And just last summer, he captured a merchant ship in Danzig. The rebels dispatched word of the earl’s piracy to King James, and when Earl Patrick was called to stand before him at the court in Edinburgh, we thought we had at last succeeded. But somehow he managed to persuade the king to set him free.

He reminds me of an eel, too slippery to hold.

“I have learned that the udallers have the ear of Bishop Law,” Will says, referring to the incoming bishop of Orkney. “Bishop Law has the ear of the king. Finally, if we play our cards right, he may listen. And act.”

We look at one another for a long time, in silence. I dare not hope that this could happen. For a moment, I see the Orkney of my childhood—golden fields fat with wheat, the kilns in constant use for the grain. Cows that do not need to be carried from the barns for milking because they’re too weak from starvation to walk.

Earl Patrick’s reign has brought the islands to their knees, even more than the plagues that ravaged us in years gone by. Up here on the islands, so far north from the cities, we are powerless against such tyranny.

Twelve days later

I am making stew by the stove of my cottage when I hear horses hooves thundering up the hillside. I look out and see David Moncrief astride his horse. He is wearing an officer’s uniform and a sword at his belt. My breath catches. Why is he here, approaching my home?

“Who is it, Mother?”

More horses appear on the bank—two more officers, and the broad shoulders of a man dressed in noble furs. It is John Stewart.

I give a gasp, and Edward is by my shoulder, peering at the scene before us. I meet his eyes, and his face is filled with panic.

“They are here for father,” he says. “Aren’t they?”

“Go to the loft,” I tell him hastily. “Fetch your sister.”

“No,” he says, his eyes fixed on the men. “I won’t let them take Father.”

“Mama?” Beatrice calls, hearing the note of fear in my voice. “What is the matter?”

I hear a rattling sound, then see the square shape of a carriage.

They are here to make an arrest.

I lean close to Edward’s ear. “Wake your father,” I whisper. “Tell him to hide. Go .”

His eyes are wide, but he turns sharply to do my bidding as I step toward the men.

“Good morrow,” I call with a smile, using all my strength to remain calm in the face of whatever news befalls us. “What can I do for you, Master Stewart?”

John Stewart has halted his horse close to where I stand, his eyes meeting mine. He remembers me , I think, from our exchange in Kirkwall. I turn to David, who stays mounted. For a moment I wonder if this meeting has to do with Thomas Paplay and his request for a charm. Surely not, I think. I have done no harm.

But then one of the soldiers dismounts and with a grim look stalks toward me. A hand reaches for his sword, and his black eyes settle on my face.

“My husband is not here,” I say, panicked. “He is in Kirkwall.”

“We haven’t come for your husband,” John Stewart shouts with a sneer, and fear seizes me.

The officer seizes my arm and begins to pull me toward the cart. Beatrice darts out of the house after me, shrieking “Mama! Mama!” Edward is there now, and he grabs her. I try to pull away, but the officer is too strong. He drags me toward the carriage.

“We are instructed by the Earl of Orkney to arrest you and bring you to Kirkwall regarding an attempt on his life,” the officer says.

“Sir, I have done nothing!” I want to say more to John Stewart, to remind him of how we walked and talked this past summer. He knows I gave him no charm.

But perhaps his asking me for it was a trap. He asked me in a public place, on a market day, with plenty of folk milling around.

William comes racing out of the house now, Beatrice in his arms, sobbing loudly.

“Have your bairns collect any personal items,” the officer says, flinging open the doors of the carriage with his free hand. “You are to be delivered to Kirkwall on suspicion of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” I say, astonished. The air leaves my lungs. Though King James’s witchcraft trials in North Berwick two years ago are well known, not a single soul has ever been arrested for witchcraft on the isles of Orkney.

“You will not take my mother,” Edward says, stepping forward as though to snatch the warrant from the officer’s hands, but the man lets me go and, pulling a heavy truncheon from his belt, he strikes Edward, hard, on the side of the head, sending him to the ground.

“Edward!” I scream, and I am on my knees beside him, pressing my hands to his head as the skin splits from the blow, spilling ribbons of blood to the grass, arterial and dark.

In a moment William is there, holding Beatrice close to him.

“My wife is innocent!” he shouts, but the soldier who bludgeoned Edward unsheathes a knife and holds it close to his neck.

“Calm,” he tells the soldier, moving Beatrice behind him for protection. “Calm, sir.”

David Moncrief strides toward me, holding open the doors of the carriage. I search his face. “No good will come of arresting me,” I say, my voice trembling. I glance back at John Stewart, who stays mounted. “Please, there must be a mistake in this claim.”

No one acknowledges I have spoken. I turn to William, holding him in a look. We are both filled with terror. Neighbors have gathered outside their homes, but no one rushes to help us—against John Stewart, we have no recourse.

“No!” Edward calls out, but William pulls him away, clapping a hand to his mouth.

My heart feels close to breaking.

David fastens iron cuffs around my wrists, ankles, and neck, like a dog. I stare at him in disbelief. He was there the day that John Stewart asked me for a charm to take a life. He saw me refuse.

He is Triskele. We are childhood friends. But his loyalty is not to me.

He opens the doors to the carriage, forcing me inside.