Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Orkney

November 1594

ALISON

The journey from Gunn to Kirkwall should take no more than an hour, but today the sea is furious, insistent on driving us back from the port, as though it knows as well as I do that the charges against me are spurious.

I watch John Stewart and the other men carefully as they sit at the far end of the boat, leaving me in the locked carriage, the iron bands on my wrists a sickening taunt. Over and over in my mind I think of Edward, how he fought for me, and the terrible sound of the baton against his head. It breaks my heart not to tend to him. Not to comfort him in my arms.

The boatman changes course, sailing east toward Stromness. White squalls slam down inside the boat, causing the skin of my wrists and ankles to chafe against my iron bonds, which are fastened to the bow.

By the time we arrive at the port, the sky is ink black, the wet streets quiet and desolate as the carriage moves over the cobbles, the horses’ hooves echoing off the long walls of the palace. I start to shiver, fear setting in deep.

A shout from outside brings the carriage to a halt. Through the slats of the carriage I see thick walls that rise up, and with a sharp inhalation I realize where we are: this is Kirkwall Castle.

I hear the driver step down. He drags something wet from the back of his throat and spits it on the ground before unlocking the door. He tugs the chain, pulling me along the floor to the lip of the carriage, holding the chain around my neck to pull me close enough to smell his stinking breath.

“Rank witch,” he hisses.

The orange glow of a second torchlight falls across the ground, showing the meeting of stone with grass, and the shadow of a figure headed toward us. It is John Stewart, his familiar swaying gait, the red scorch of his beard. I shrink back from him, but he ignores me, addressing the driver in a tired voice.

“Bring her hither, Mr.Addis.”

We are at the back door of the castle, a looming door studded with sharp iron prongs. It creaks open at our approach. John speaks to the doorman, and at once we are led inside, the driver—Mr.Addis—tugging me behind him.

I have never been inside the castle, and the entrance hall feels consuming, muscular walls shrouding us closely, a dog’s bark from somewhere deep in the structure echoing off the stone. Overhead is an iron chandelier as big as a cart, twelve candles guttering and dancing in the draft from the hallway. The air is scented with cloves and oranges.

Footsteps sound, a different pace to John Stewart’s. Another light flares ahead, gilding the arch of a doorway wrought in dense stone, and the outline of a figure appears suddenly in the gloom.

“Your Grace,” Mr.Addis says with a nod. “I brought your witch.”

A man steps forward into the firelight. I see he is a parson, his robes made of sumptuous black velvet, the cassock of embroidered linen. A leather belt with a heavy brass buckle cinctures the cassock.

I flinch as he moves toward me, so close I can smell his scent—peat and earth, a faint tang of sweat.

“Well,” he says to John, eyeing me with an arched eyebrow. “Bring her forward.”

I feel myself tugged toward the parson, though I keep my gaze on the ground, allowing him to look upon me. If I meet his gaze, it may be taken as defiance. On this land, and within these walls, I am conscious of how I might appear as guilty. I am not, but that does not matter.

“My child,” the parson says, reaching out to lift my chin toward him. His gaze is gentle, his blue eyes soft beneath thick white eyebrows. “I am Father Colville, the king’s chamberlain. I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

I nod, but this news terrifies me. The king’s chamberlain! I am in grave trouble.

“Master John told me I’d be paid tonight,” Mr.Addis says in a gravelly voice. He shuffles forward to my side, as though not wanting to be dismissed quite so soon.

“And you shall,” Father Colville says. “God thanks you, Mr.Addis. Madam Alison Balfour,” he says, with a gracious bow. “Follow me.”

John gives me a long, silent look before turning to walk out of the castle.

···

The parson leads me up a staircase that spirals to the very top of the castle, stone steps ribboning into a confine so tight I must press my arms to my sides in order to climb.

The stairs deliver us to the upper chamber that sits out over the courtyard, a small window allowing the moonlight to pour across the wooden floor. Father Colville sets the candle on a table in a corner. Then he removes his cap and ruffles the thinning white hair on his crown, which is damp with sweat. The journey up the stairs has tired him. He has small blue eyes that seem to linger on me a moment longer than is common, as though he sees something that others do not. His manner is calming, though I am thrumming with fear. I watch how carefully he removes the scarf across his shoulder, folding it gently, with reverence, before setting it on a chair by the wall.

“Shall we begin in prayer?” he asks.

He lifts the hem of his robe and kneels by the small altar by the window, his palms pressed together and his face turned to the dark sky. I lower awkwardly and kneel beside him. I am shaking from head to toe, and I hope he does not notice.

“Father, we pray unto Thee for Thy Spirit to attend us this night.” He speaks in somber tones, his eyes open and his head still held aloft, as though he converses with Christ in the flesh. “Bestow upon us Thy grace, and help us purge ourselves of the evil we hold within our hearts. Amen.”

“Amen,” I murmur. My mind is wheeling around ways to disclose to the parson what I believe—that John Stewart is trying to blame me for something I did not do in order to cover his own tracks.

“We shall read from Peter, in the New Testament,” he says, opening the Bible. “First Peter, chapter four, verses twelve and thirteen. You know it?”

I open my mouth, willing some memory of this verse to come to mind. “I forget,” I say at last.

“Saint Peter here is telling us that we are not to avoid fiery trials, but to embrace them, as Christ embraced His own suffering. It is by suffering that we are purified, and therefore find joy. Do you believe this, my child?”

“Yes,” I say. “It brings us closer to God.”

“You are right. The Devil can possess our bodies, but not when we suffer.”

The air in my lungs seems frozen and spiked somehow, like sharp icicles. I nod, but my jaw is tight.

“Let us speak of the reason you are here,” he says, folding his hands beneath his chin. “You are accused of a very serious crime, my child. An attempt on the life of the earl.”

I begin to shake my head. “I would never…”

“Be careful that you mind who I serve,” he says, cocking his head. “I serve God, and He cannot be deceived.”

I force myself to look him in the eye, keeping my voice measured. “Father, I swear to God that I had no part in this.”

“There are indeed many who would seek the earl’s life,” he continues. “And many who would pay handsomely for assistance. I see you are a woman of humble means.”

“I have sufficient,” I say, then thinking better of it: “But even if I were to starve, and my children to starve, I would not seek a man’s life.”

“Your children? How many?”

“I have two on the earth, Father. Three are with Christ in heaven.”

“They were baptized?”

I swallow. “Two were.”

“So one is in Purgatory, with the Devil,” he says, nodding as though there cannot be any alternative.

His words feel like a knife to my flesh. “I…believe the child is with God. An innocent child taken to His grace.”

He stares at me as though I am a fool, but I cannot take back my words. My mother has always said I was too honest, but then she has also said that I must always be honest. I have never found the distinction between these two rules.

“You know that Thomas Paplay was charged with conspiring to kill?” he says.

I give a cautious nod. “I heard he was arrested, Father. And that he was executed.”

“He confessed. The caschielaws drove out the Devil from him, and he spoke the truth.”

I lift my eyes to his, stricken. “Caschielaws?”

He nods, and smiles.

The caschielaws are metal bands cooked in fire until they gleam red as pokers, hot enough to strip the skin clean off with a single touch. They are set upon the skin of a criminal and left there for a time, then replaced with another freshly cooked set of metal bands, to ensure the pain meted by the heat against flesh is constant. I have only ever heard of the caschielaws used once, in Edinburgh, upon a man who had brutally killed a child. He died within hours.

“The earl survived the attack, though he was gravely ill,” Father Colville says. “A physician attended him. He found an object, a hexed charm, beneath Earl Patrick’s bed. Tell me, are you able to create a charm to hex a person?”

I draw a sharp breath, the implication of his question hitting me like a spike. “I would never…”

“I asked if you are able ,” he says. “Are you able to make such charms? Please, do not lie, my child.”

The candlelight flickers, animate, as though a third figure is in the room. My cheeks burn. “My magic is for good,” I say finally, the vise around my throat tightening. “Yes, I believe I may be able. But I did not.”

“You are able,” he repeats softly, trying the words out, like the sounds of a new language, fresh in his mouth. “What if I told you that Thomas Paplay said that you were the one who hexed the charm he used on the earl?”

My mouth falls open. “But that is a lie,” I say.

“But you were seen, my child. In the cathedral, speaking with Mr.Paplay, merely days before the earl took ill.”

“He did approach me in the cathedral garden,” I say, wondering how to tell him what was said. I wish to appear helpful, eager to search out the truth with him. A collaborator in finding justice. “And he asked after a charm.”

“Which charm?”

I stiffen. “He did not say, Father.” It is a lie, but I feel panic at the thought of telling the king’s chamberlain that a member of the royal family, the king’s own cousin, approached me for a charm that would end a life. It will immediately implicate John in the earl’s poisoning. What penalty will befall me if I make such a claim?

“Thomas Paplay told Earl Patrick that you provided him with a charm of wax,” Father Colville says. “With something inscribed into it.”

“I did not,” I say, straightening.

“Others say you have provided them with a similar token in the past.”

“I have, Father. But that was in the past.”

“Why would he name you?” he asks. “He swore upon his children’s lives and before God that you gave him the charm.”

“I do not know, Father.” This man does not trust me. That he sees I am lying.

“Thomas Paplay swore before God to tell the truth,” Father Colville says tersely. “Let me remind you, madam, that this man was the servant of the Master of Orkney, John Stewart. A trusted, loyal servant.”

But he tried to kill the earl , I think. His eyes move across my face, as though trying to read my mind. He does not have to say it—he does not have the charm to show to me, and it bothers him.

“Do you have the charm? Perhaps if I see it, I can understand who did make it.”

“Perhaps you orchestrated this,” he says, ignoring my request. “Perhaps it was not Thomas’s will to kill the earl, but yours.”

“Mine?” I say, shocked.

“My child,” he says softly. “If you confess your crimes to me now, I will spare your life.”

I open my mouth, confused. “But I…I am innocent of this charge, Father.”

The look of softness slips from his face.

“Then I cannot help you.”

I open my mouth to plead with him. He must help me. Surely he cannot insist upon a confession, if I am innocent?

But he rises from his chair, signaling that our conference is over. He nods at Mr.Addis, who steps into the doorway before turning to signal that I am to follow them down the stairs.

To the dungeon.