Witch! The Alison Balfour Story

by Adrien Leduc

stall, “they’re all gone by noon.”

  William nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat and doing his best to hide his uncertainty.

  It took nearly half an hour – and William had to listen to a great deal of grumbling from Abraham – but they finally made it to the front and Abraham was able to get Isaac’s attention.

  “Looks like you could use an extra set of hands.”

  Isaac looked up from the rack of ribs he was tying and smiled when he discovered who the voice belonged to.

  “Abraham Taillifeir.”

  “Isaac.” Abraham smiled and tipped his hat.

  “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” said Isaac, his smile remaining as he set down his knife, wiped his hands on his blood-stained apron, and came to shake Abraham’s hand.

  Abraham sighed. “It has been awhile, that’s for sure.”

  William watched as the pair shook hands.

  “How’s the family?” asked Isaac. “How’s Alison? And the bairns? You’ve got the two, right?”

  Abraham, looking rather proud, seemed to grow two or three inches taller. “She’s well, thank you. And the bairns are just fine. I’ve got one of them with me here in fact.”

  William felt Abraham’s hand on his upper back and felt himself being pushed forward.

  “And who’s this then, eh?” asked Isaac, leaning over the counter to get a better look at the ten year old.

  “This here is my son, William. He’s ten years old as of this month and ready to work.”

  A look of comprehension seemed to don on Isaac. “Ah...”

  “You can probably guess why we’ve come to see you then,” said Abraham softly.

  Isaac, lips pursed, nodded as he studied William’s face for a moment.

  “He might not look like it,” said Abraham, “but he’s a hard worker. Always willing ter help...have you need of anyone?”

  Isaac nodded and studied the boy once more. “I could use a helper, aye. But I don’t want to be training a complete novice...”

  Those in the crowd gathered behind and to both sides of Abraham and William were starting to grow restless.

  “Come on now...” muttered one large man.

  “Market’ll be closed before I get what I came for...” complained another.

  “All in good time, folks, all in good time!” said Isaac, trouncing on the discontent. He returned his gaze to Abraham. “Tell you what. Let’s do a trial next market day. Bring the boy. Have him here for half six. No later. Fair?”

  Abraham smiled. “Fair.”

  “Very well.” Isaac nodded and switched his gaze to William. “What say you then boy? Would you like to come and work for me? Would you like to learn to do this (he gestured behind him) for a living?”

  William swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded. “Yes, sir. Yes I would.”

  Isaac smiled. “Very well. We shall see next week. Was that everything then? Or did you want to order anything?”

  “We’ll get three links of pork sausage please, Isaac, if you would. Thank you.”

  “Anything for a friend,” said Isaac, deftly cutting three links from a chain and handing them to Abraham who paid with a few coins. He turned then to the most restless customers then and shouted: “Right then! Who’s next?” as Abraham and William squeezed their way out of the throng of people and returned to the wagon to begin their journey home.

  SCENE 6 – EARL PATRICK STEWART AND HIS WIFE

  A short distance away at Kirkwall Castle... Earl Patrick Stewart and Lady Margaret Stewart’s chambers. Fresh off his rant to all of the staff and courtiers, Patrick continues airing his frustrations with his wife, Margaret. It is obvious that theirs was an arranged marriage, and that Margaret is clearly oppressed by her husband who spews verbal abuse at her most days and hits her on occasion.

  “Try to poison me, will they,” Patrick seethed, pacing back and forth. He stopped at the fireplace. “Insolence...treachery...heads will roll.”

  He turned and set his eyes upon his wife who sat in her chair, eyes on her embroidery panel.

  “What say you? You’ve been sullen all morning.”

  Margaret Stewart, formerly Margaret Livingston, sat stoically in her chair. She had decided six months ago, after one of Patrick’s violent outbursts (always exacerbated by his drinking) that she would no longer engage, but would instead accept his vitriol with Christian patience.

  “Hey? Answer me when I’m talking to you. You’re my wife, after all.”

  Eyes still fixed on her embroidery panel, Margaret simply nodded. “I know not what to say, dear husband. For everything I say, especially when you are in this sort of disposition, only seems to make things worse.”

  “Make things worse? Make things worse?” Patrick threw back his head and laughed maniacally. “How on earth, pray tell me woman, can anything possibly be worse!?” He paused for a moment, long enough to stare at his wife with displeasure. “Someone in my own house tried to poison me, Margaret! Do you understand!?”

  In two great bounds he was at his wife’s side, clenching her hair in a tight fist, his eyes locked on hers, flecks of spittle dotting his lips. “Someone tried to kill me!” He wrenched her head back with a mighty pull of the hand and released her. “If someone tried to kill you, Margaret,” he paused to release a laugh which became a hiccup, “would you sit by and accept such treason with your tender grace and humility? Hey?”

  To her credit, the woman did not answer.

  “No!” Patrick roared, taking up a porcelain dish and hurling it at the wall. The dish shattered into a hundred pieces and shook Margaret to her core. “You wouldn’t! You would grab the nearest blade and plunge it into your victim’s breast!”

  (He mimicked plunging a dagger into an imaginary victim). He paused to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

  An unexpected knocking at the door punctured the silence.

  “Who’s there?” Patrick demanded, unsheathing his sword from his side.

  “It is I, dear brother. John, the man you made master of Kirkwall.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. He looked to his wife for support, but none came.

  “Enter,” he said at last, his sword still unsheathed.

  The door opened slowly and John appeared in the doorway. Upon seeing the sword, his expression changed.

  “You have nothing to fear,” said Patrick thickly, “we are brothers after all,” he added, his tone wavering.

  John nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Of course.”

  “What is it? Can you not see we are busy?”

  John glanced around the room, spotted Margaret hunched over her embroidery panel in her chair in the corner and the porcelain fragments scattered about the floor.

  “Er...of course, my lord. Of course. I am most sorry to interrupt you. It’s just...he cast his eyes at the floor as though hesitating.

  Patrick stared at him. “Well? Spit it out!”

  “Well I...” John made a show of tiptoeing the rest of the way into the room and closing the door behind him. “I have some information...some terribly troubling and vexing information.”

  Patrick’s eyebrows seemed to rise. “Oh?”

  Margaret meanwhile, ever alert to John’s weasel-like nature, looked up long enough to study his expression.

  “It’s my servant, Thomas Paplay.”

  Patrick sneered. “And? What of him? Is he leaving? He’s finally realized what a scoundrel you are to work for?”

  “I’ve heard murmurings...whispers...” John continued, ignoring his brother’s stinging remarks.

  Patrick laughed. “Oh please, brother, is there no depth to which you won’t sink?”

  John’s eyes burned into his brother’s. “I only meant to tell you that he is rumored to have been implicated in the plot to poison you...my lord.”

  Watching him closely, Margaret for once was unable to determine whether he was lying or telling the truth.

  “And what would Thomas Paplay have to gain
from my murder?”

  “Well,” John cleared his throat, “he would evidently climb the social ladder now, wouldn’t he. For of course if something were to befall you – and curse my eyes out if my words come true, dear brother – but if some misfortune were to befall you and you were to...die...then I, as next in line would assume the title and rank of Earl of Orkney. And thus, surely Thomas would gain by my ascendancy.”

  Patrick nodded, but said nothing.

  John, unsure how to proceed, inspected his fingernails.

  “Well, dear brother,” said Patrick after what seemed an eternity, “thank you for this information and I shall be sure to have Thomas investigated immediately. Now leave us, and I don’t wish to see you again before supper.”

  SCENE 7 – BAKING AND BRUSHING WITH THE BALFOUR’S

  A few hours later. Abraham and William have returned from the market by now and are outside brushing and caring for the family’s two horses. Inside, Alison and daughter Anna are baking bread, with Alison instructing her daughter on how to properly knead and prep the dough for baking.

  “Now when you roll it out, you need to make sure you put some flour down so it doesn’t stick to the table.”

  Anna watched her mother for a moment and realized she’d been shown this before.

  “I can do it!” she insisted, grabbing at her mother’s hand as Alison went to demonstrate sprinkling flour on the table top.

  “Alright, alright, you do it,” said Alison patiently.

  Mother then looked on (proudly) as daughter tended to the task with that eagerness children display when trying to prove to an adult they can do something. When she was finished, and the table top was covered in a generous layer of brown flour, the