by Cait Dee
‘It is not, in this courtroom. That will be all.’ The laird turns to the fiscal. ‘Your next witness, Knox, if you please.’
Gregor stands very still. His gaze swings from the laird to Knox. ‘But —’
‘You are dismissed, Mr Brodie. That will be all.’ Knox speaks slowly, as if talking to a bairn. Gregor walks out of the courtroom to booing and catcalls from the gallery. I don’t hide the smile on my lips as he walks right past me, shoulders stooped, head hanging. He shoots a hateful glance in my direction as he leaves the chamber.
If Gregor thought to destroy me, he failed. I know it’s wrong to hold out any hope, but my heart skips as my eyes meet the laird’s just for a second. He might just give me a fair trial.
But that hope fades when the next witness is called. He strides into the courtroom without a glance in my direction.
‘What is your name?’ Knox asks him.
‘Dalziel Rennie.’ Dalziel swears on the Bible that he will tell the truth.
My knees go weak and I ask for a stool so I can sit.
‘How do you know the panel?’ asks Knox.
‘The panel?’
‘The accused. Mistress Balfour.’
‘Aye. Well. We’ve known each other since . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘All our lives, I suppose. We both grew up in the same clachan. Heatherbrae. I left a year ago, to read at the university in Aberdeen.’
Dalziel’s voice is strained and he looks unsure of himself in front of the rowdy mob. His face looks haggard and pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
‘And what are your relations with the panel?’
‘Relations?’ Dalziel fidgets with a loose button on his coat. ‘We were neighbours. I knew her family. We were once . . . um . . .’
‘Friends?’ The laird completes his sentence for him.
Dalziel nods, his cheeks and throat a blotchy red. It looks as if nothing could pain him more than to say that word aloud.
‘I see. And in all the time you’ve known Mistress Balfour, have you ever known her to use malefice?’ asks Knox.
Dalziel clears his throat again. ‘What do you mean by malefice, exactly?’
The fiscal glares at Dalziel. ‘Sorcery. Charms. Cantrips. Witchcraft. Surely a young man with your education knows what is meant by the term.’
‘Aye, but I was not certain of the legal definition.’
‘You’ve no need to bother yourself with legal definitions, Mr Rennie. You are here to give us the facts. Have you ever witnessed Mistress Balfour perform any acts of witchcraft during the time you have known her?’
There follows a long silence. I can barely breathe and feel like I might pass out at any moment.
‘Mr Rennie?’
‘I have not.’
At that I take a breath, but it’s more like a silent gasp. Dalziel knows enough to see me burned ten times over.
‘Did you not accompany the panel during her flight from Heatherbrae?’
‘Aye, I did.’
‘And did she not perform a spell to unseat your master, Eberhard Finster, from his horse?’
Dalziel licks his lips. ‘Of that I cannot be certain. The meister nearly fell from his horse, to be sure. I don’t know for certain it was magic. Perhaps Meister Finster is simply a poor horseman.’
The courtroom erupts into raucous laughter.
The vein at Knox’s temple throbs. ‘Mr Rennie. Need I remind you that you’ve sworn to tell the truth?’
‘Aye, I’ve done so. And might I say there’s something else that’s been troubling me for a time.’
‘Pray, do share with us your troubles.’
‘My master said that witches cannot cross water. But Iona forded the river to evade capture.’
‘According to your master’s statement, she then called in a mist to thwart the pursuit,’ says Knox.
He frowns. ‘I’m not at all certain she called in the mist. She was running away from us at the time. Hardly the first time the mists have rolled downriver at dusk.’
More laughter.
‘And what of your time together in Dunshee? Can you be certain of that?’ Knox draws in a long, controlled breath. Clearly Dalziel’s testimony is not going as planned. But what he says next might send me to the pyre. All he needs to do is tell them about the need fire. About the calf. My heart thumps so hard that I raise my hand to my chest in a vain attempt to quell it.
‘Iona helped with the sick and dying in Dunshee. She did so without care or concern for her own safety.’
‘Are you saying that Mistress Balfour ministered to the sick? How did she do this?’
‘From what I saw? She gave them water to drink and held their hands.’
‘What else?’
‘I do not know; her eyes were closed. Perhaps she was praying?’
‘Do you mock me, lad?’ Knox shouts, his face purple with rage.
‘Nae, sir. I only tell you what I saw. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.’
‘Just so. And did you see the sick and dying make a full recovery?’
‘Most of them improved. But a few did die. The auld ones . . .’
‘And for those who improved, what is your explanation for it? That their healing must be credited to the power of prayer, you say?’
Dalziel raises the Bible in his hand. ‘It has been known. Or so it says in here.’
There’s a rumble of approval from the crowd. Knox wipes a pool of sweat from his brow and loosens his collar. He stares at Dalziel for a long time, perhaps weighing up what to do with him. Nothing Dalziel has said is strictly untrue. It’s what he’s left out that might just save me.
‘That is all. You are excused,’ says Knox. His hands are curled into tight fists, his arms ramrod straight next to his body.
Dalziel walks out of the courtroom, again without looking in my direction. I watch him leave, puzzling at what brought about this change of heart. Part of me still doesn’t trust him, but then I glance over to Knox, who is still furious. Dalziel could easily have destroyed me just now, but he didn’t. Whatever his reasons, he must know he’ll face Finster’s wrath for it.
* * *
After the tipstaff announces that the court will adjourn for the day, they take me underneath the courtroom to a cellar. It’s cold and damp, but there’s clean straw on the floor. It’s a palace compared to the Tolbooth dungeon.
Before I have a moment to reflect on the events of the morning, the guard unlocks the door. ‘You’ve a visitor.’
Quickly I stand, expecting to see Finster, here to crow about how he will destroy me. But to my dismay, Gregor walks in. He presses a coin into the hand of the guard, who then slinks away. I’ve no desire to spend a moment in Gregor’s company and can’t help but wish the guard doesn’t stray too far.
Gregor’s new clothes look crumpled now. From the smell of him, he’s been soothing his humiliation with a half-mutchkin of usky. I edge towards the wall to put some distance between us.
‘What do you want?’ I ask him.
He slumps against the wall and picks at his teeth, feigning indifference. ‘I’m here to give you counsel, sister. Your life is lost. Finster will see to that, come the morrow. But there might yet be time to save your soul. If you confess your sins, they’ll show you mercy. Make your peace with God, repent your ways and I’ll see to it you receive a Christian burial.’
‘What you did up there was hateful and treacherous. Why stand up in front of all those folk and lie about me? Well, you failed, and only made yourself look the fool. Why, even that laird was on my side.’
‘The laird? Oh, you mean the judge.’ He smirks at my ignorance. ‘Lord Abernethy is not on your side, Iona. Down here, they say witches must get a fair trial. It’s true, you had a chancy time of it, but when Finster speaks, the jury will surely find you guilty. It’ll not matter then what side Abernethy is on. He’ll have no choice but to sentence you to die.’
My cheeks grow hot with anger. ‘
Aye, and I’m sure that will give you great pleasure. You’ve said your piece, now leave.’
‘You didn’t seem surprised to hear of Ishbel’s death,’ he says quickly.
Ishbel. Even the sound of her name sparks a longing in my heart. I’m certain Gregor’s trying to bait me, but it would take more strength than I have not to react.
‘Dalziel told me what happened to her.’
He snorts. ‘Your precious Dalziel. Fled the city after that performance earlier. Finster’s men are out searching for him. Mayhap you’ll be reunited in the Tolbooth dungeon. If they bring him back alive.’ He gives a cheerless smile and then suddenly grows solemn. ‘Did your friend tell you Ishbel died by her own hand?’
‘Dying by her own hand or dying at the stake is not a choice! She knew what would happen when you came that night to arrest her —’
‘Arrest her?’ He interrupts, a glint in his eye. ‘Nae, you’re mistaken. We were not there for Ishbel at all. We came that night for you.’
Gregor’s words take my breath away. ‘You’re lying,’ I whisper.
‘Why would I be there to arrest my own wife? That was not the plan, not in the beginning. You see, Finster knew you went to see your aunt on the day she died. He said Grizel gave you something of great importance. So that night we came to arrest you, but Ishbel got in the way. She helped you escape.’ He looks sullen, like a spoiled bairn. ‘I always thought she loved me above all others, but that night I knew it was not so. Something about her changed, and for the first time I saw her for who she really was.’
‘Ishbel worshipped you!’
He nods. ‘I thought so too, but I was there when she died. Something unnatural had spooked the horses and they ran straight into a tree. The driver and guard were killed, but Ishbel was still alive when I reached her. Her back was broken so she did not have long. I cradled her in my arms. And do you know what your sister said to me with her last breath?’
I give my head a tiny shake.
‘Grizel and Iona are gone and you cannot have me either. May you know only this loss I’m feeling now, for the rest of your sorry life. She cursed me then — my own wife. Can you imagine? I knew then she had wickedness flowing through her veins, just like your aunt. Just like you.’
Gregor lunges at me, but I step aside and he stumbles into the wall. I back into the furthest corner of the cellar; he’s beginning to frighten me now.
‘Guard,’ I call.
‘Shhhh.’ Gregor brings his forefinger to his lips. ‘No need for that. We’re just having a friendly conversation . . .’
‘Guard!’ I’ll not listen to any more of this viper’s venom. ‘Gregor Brodie is leaving.’
Gregor lurches forwards. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me against the wall. ‘Hush, now, I’m trying to help you. Troth, you look just like her, when first we were wed.’
His lips press against mine. He reeks of tobacco and usky. I try to move my head but he’s too strong. He presses all his weight against me.
I bite down on his lip, tasting his blood.
His eyes blaze, and he raises a hand to strike me.
‘Guard!’ I scream. ‘Come quickly!’
He lunges at me again, this time covering my mouth with his sweaty palm. His other hand wraps around my throat. He presses his thumb against my windpipe.
‘Ishbel,’ he whispers. ‘Forgive me.’
In that moment, his secret is laid bare. His words are a key, unlocking an image in my mind. I see it clearly, as though it’s a memory of a scene I’d witnessed with my own eyes. Gregor didn’t cradle my sister in his arms as she died. He put his hands around her white throat, and stole her last breath. His vengeance for her curse.
He must see the knowledge in my eyes, for he releases his grip and takes a step back.
I knee him in the groin and watch him double over, groaning.
‘Murderer!’ I scream at him. ‘You murdered her!’
A rage surges through me the likes of which I’ve never felt before. The iron shackles around my wrists make contact with his jaw and his head snaps up and back. His eyes widen with a mixture of shock and pain.
He mumbles something as a pitiful defence, moments before the shackles strike at his temple, then his nose, then his mouth. They would strike yet again, and again, but hands are pulling me away.
‘Enough now,’ says a guard. ‘You made your point, lassie.’
Gregor lies cowering on his side, shielding his face with his hands. His cheek is starting to swell, his nose smashed and bleeding. Bloody foam is coming from his mouth. He makes a wheezing sound as he struggles for breath.
One of the guards leans over to inspect the damage. ‘Jaw’s broken. Nose, too. Front teeth gone. Looks like your silver merk bought you more than you bargained for, friend.’
The guards drag him away, leaving a trail of his blood streaked across the floor.
* * *
The sun will be rising soon. All through the night Gregor’s words acted on me like a poison, seeping under my skin and into my blood. After hearing what he said, I can’t help but think that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t run, if I’d gone with them that night, Ishbel would still be alive. Ishbel knew how to spook a horse, no matter that she was tied up in the back of the cart. My poor, brave sister. She gave up her life for mine.
Always remember that I love you more than anything. Something had seemed different about Ishbel that last night. She never would have said that before; put her love for me before her husband. What if the love spell was broken, somehow? What if it was broken when she touched the bloodstone?
And yet, her death was all for nocht. Once Finster speaks out against me, the jury will surely find me guilty and condemn me to die. I’ll be taken to the pyre and the whole Balfour line will come to an end. The bloodstone is lost or, worse, in Finster’s hands. Gregor’s right about one thing: I have no hope of getting out of here now. I crumple to the floor, sobbing.
Would you give up so soon? The future is not yet written.
A shiver rolls through my body. ‘Grizel?’ It’s as if she were in the cellar with me. As if she spoke the words herself. I look around but there’s nobody here.
The future is not yet written. They’re words I’d heard many times before.
Ishbel had the Sight, which meant that, sometimes, she could see into the Unseen world. She’d been born with the caul over her eyes. ‘Always a sure sign that a wean will have the gift,’ Grizel used to say. When we were younger, Ishbel would decry the Sight as a curse. The visions would come without warning, usually as a nightmare. She’d wake up screaming, terrifying us all. After she married Gregor, she never spoke of it. I don’t know if she’d found a way to make it stop; more like she chose to hide it from her husband.
The future is not yet written, Grizel would say. Even the things Ishbel sees. Those visions are a warning of what might come to pass, if that man doesn’t change his ways, if that woman takes the wrong path. But still, they have a choice. We all do.
If she were here, Grizel would chide me for my tears. Crying won’t solve anything, cushie doo. I dry my eyes on my sleeve. No amount of crying will stop Finster testifying tomorrow. There must be another way to save myself.
Reformers like Gregor and Finster seem so certain that folk are either good or evil, but Grizel always said that to understand the light, you must also come to know the dark. Just as there’s day and night, there is light and dark in every heart. We all knew that Minister Gourlay was a little too fond of usky, and it was whispered that one of the kirk elders lay with wantons in Strathcraig. And Gregor was a bigger hypocrite than all of them put together, having murdered his own wife.
And so it was a true healer must also learn how to curse. Grizel well knew how to cast the evil eye, but despite Malcolm Calder’s accusations I never once saw her forge that kind of magic. She warned that a spell forged from ill intent would eventually find its way back to the spell forger. A temporary gain might be made in harming an enemy, but magic forg
ed from the fuel of anger and hatred is impure, volatile. She never said it was wrong to curse, only that the consequences were uncertain. And if you’re not able to vanquish your feelings, then you’ve no hope of mastering magic.
There may yet be a way I can stop Finster without harming him. Grizel once told me about a binding spell to render someone speechless. For this kind of magic, she’d call on the Cailleach, the goddess who rules the dark half of the year, until the return of Bride in the spring. Grizel warned me never to call upon the Cailleach unless there was a great need, for she’s not a deity to be trifled with.
I cast my gaze around the cellar, looking for something to use to forge a spell. There’s nothing here other than a pile of straw and the clothes on my back. And, of course, I no longer have the bloodstone. It’s hopeless. My temples are throbbing and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is lie down in the straw and sleep until they come for me.
Open your eyes! Gifts from nature are always within reach, Grizel would say. Spell-forging works best when you use whatever is to hand.
She entreated Ishbel and me to be creative, for magic is born of the imagination. Everything else — the fire, the incense, the ritual objects — is there only to help the spell forger become immersed in the ritual. The magician’s will is everything.
Even still, there’s nothing here I can use. I grab a handful of straw and twist it wretchedly. As I look down at the bundle, it brings to mind the grain dollies that Grizel used to make with the last sheaf cut from the barley harvest. The grain dolly was made to give the spirit of the harvest a home for the winter months. In the old days, the whole village would participate in the blessing of the harvest, but after the kirk elders forbade all the harvest festivals, Grizel had to weave grain dollies in secret.
I run to the door of the cell and peer through the bars. There’s no sign of the guards. Perhaps they’re still busy tending to Gregor’s injuries.
Using threads pulled from my petticoat, I bind the straw together in the form of a cross. Then I separate the bottom section in two. Before long I have something that crudely resembles a man. I wind the last thread about the head of the poppet and in little more than a whisper, lest the guards hear me, I recite the words:
