by Kate Forsyth
Once she was as clean as she could make herself, she dug out a little jar of ointment that smelt strongly and burnt like fire when she rubbed it on, relieving the pain in her joints greatly.
Pausing often to rest, she dressed in the grey gown that she carried in her pack and pulled the demure white cap over her hair, tucking as much of her hair as she could beneath it. She hung the pouch, laden with its precious cargo, inside her dress, next to her skin.
As she prepared herself she went over her story, searching for flaws and polishing up details until she felt certain she could lie convincingly. She had no compunction about lying, despite her vows, for she knew death was the reward for truthfulness, and Isabeau had no wish to die just yet.
She was marched out of the cell block and into the courtyard where she was hoisted into a cart drawn by a huge old carthorse. Because of the injury to her hand, the guards did not bind them, but secured her firmly to the cart with a rope around her neck. Isabeau braced her injured hand against her, as the cart rumbled out of the courtyard and into the streets of the town.
Immediately Isabeau was aware that her trial was not going to be a quiet little affair. The streets of Caeryla were lined with people, some who booed her and threw rotten fruit at her, some who looked on with anxious pity. Unable to deflect the missiles with her magic for fear of betraying herself, Isabeau endured in silence, holding her head high.
‘Bloody witch!’ the crowd catcalled. ‘Evil sorceress.’
Isabeau did her best to look like a simple country lass who did not understand what was happening to her, but inside she burned with rage, wanting to let fly with fireballs, as she had done during the battle with the Red Guards after her Test.
The carthorse strained to pull the weight of the vehicle up the steep cobbled streets to the castle, which was perched on a high crag of land overlooking the town and the misty waters of the loch. Several times Isabeau was almost thrown to the floor as the cart lurched over the stones, but she managed to retain her balance, biting her lip bloody against the pain in her hand. A young boy threw a tomato at her and caught her full on the cheek, causing the crowd to jeer, but she shook it off and stared defiantly at the people. One young man, dressed in a bright blue jerkin, looked at her with a start of recognition, and Isabeau turned to watch him as the cart rolled on, sure that she had seen him somewhere before too. The thought only increased her unease.
At last they were inside the castle walls, and the guards were pushing her into the great hall where public trials were performed. The walls were lined with curious onlookers, and on a beautifully carved seat on a dais sat a young boy, no more than seven years of age and very dark, with black hair and eyes and smooth olive skin. Isabeau curtsied to him and bowed to the judges—two men and a woman in crimson. With a chill of the blood she recognised the witch-sniffer Glynelda, and was glad that the Grand-Seeker had never really seen her. That was her only hope.
A herald stood up and made a long formal greeting to lords and ladies both, then read the charges, couched in convoluted terms. Tired and aching in every joint as she was, Isabeau could hardly understand them, and so when she was asked what she said in response, faltered. ‘I’m sorry, but I dinna understand wha’ it is ye be saying.’
The crowd murmured, laughing a little and Isabeau flushed. The Laird Serinyza leant forward and said in a high, clear child’s voice, ‘Ye are accused o’ witchcraft.’
Isabeau shrank back. ‘Me? Witchcraft?’ She let tears well up. ‘But I’m naught but a country lass, my lord. I be Mari Collene, from Byllars, and my family be well known in our district for piety and lawfulness. Indeed, my da once saved our laird from drowning, and so we be allowed in the keep, to bring our goods and chattels in for bartering.’
As she had hoped, the naturalness of her story had an impact on the crowd, who muttered among themselves. Once again she thanked Meghan’s obsession with secrecy, which meant Isabeau’s story was virtually watertight. There was a Collene family in Byllars, a small village in the highlands, and a Collene had saved the local laird from drowning, resulting in the said privileges Isabeau had just quoted. The Collene family even had a skeelie who was always off somewhere hunting herbs and who usually had a grandchild or two about her. The family was written in the district records and there were several granddaughters named Mari, which was why Meghan had picked that name for her ward. Isabeau had been practising this story since she was a babe in arms.
One of the judges leant down and fixed her with a stern eye. ‘Ye are accused o’ stealing a horse by the foul practice o’ witchcraft, young woman, and o’ rescuing an enemy o’ the state. Ye then resisted arrest and several times attempted to escape our rightful custody, again by the use o’ your foul sorceries. As if these crimes are no’ heinous enough, ye are also charged with the murder o’ the Baron Yutta, Grand-Questioner o’ the Anti-Witchcraft League. What do ye say to that?’
‘I never stole no horse,’ Isabeau sobbed. ‘None o’ it’s true! Och, please believe me, m’laird. I’ve been beaten and tortured and locked up, and I’ve committed no wrong-doing!’
‘Ye rode into Caeryla on a fine blood stallion. Do ye expect us to believe a simple country lass like yourself would own such a thing?’
‘Och, no, your lairdship. The horse is no’ mine.’ The words caused a sensation, but Isabeau went on bravely. ‘But the horse did used to be my da’s until he was stolen, many a long year ago.’
‘Are ye now accusing me o’ stealing?’ the Lady Glynelda said in tones of such ice that Isabeau began to stammer and falter in earnest.
‘No, no, my lady, I would never say such a thing, no. But happen ye did buy the horse from someone who bought it from someone who did, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Ye ken that the stallion Garlen once belonged to the Banrìgh herself, and is o’ the very best stock?’ the Grand-Seeker said in contemptuous tones, but Isabeau nodded eagerly.
‘Och, aye, he’s a fine stallion, my lady, o’ the Angharar bloodline.’ Isabeau then rattled off the bloodlines of the horse, thankful both for the guards’ conversation she had overheard, and her own excellent memory. Again she could tell she had impressed the crowd, although the judges remained sceptical. They asked her more questions about the bloodlines, hoping to trip her up, but Isabeau was very careful, and grateful for her thorough knowledge of horses. All the horses on the island were descended from those brought in the Great Crossing, since horses were not native to Eileanan, but only a few were descended from Cuinn Lionheart’s six great stallions. It was from that stock that Lasair was descended, bred on the wide plains of Tìreich by the great Horse-Laird Ahearn himself.
‘And how does a country girl ken this much about horses?’ the witch-sniffer asked. ‘It is obvious she is a professional horse thief.’
‘I’m no horse thief!’ Isabeau cried angrily. ‘Och, I beg your pardon, my lady, but the Collene family is a respectful family and nobody has ever said such a thing o’ us. No, my da is employed in the laird’s stables, and we do be horse trainers and breeders for many generations.’ This last part was not true, the real Collenes being huntsmen, but Isabeau thought she could get away with that one. ‘Lasair was given to my da as a wee foal, as a boon gift for the saving o’ the laird’s life.’
‘What did ye call the stallion?’ the seeker said, frowning.
‘Lasair. That’s his name.’ She told them she walked the many miles to Caeryla in order to run errands for her da, and her skeelie grandmother, until she came upon Lasair grazing untethered on the moors. Recognising him immediately, Isabeau had called the stallion to her, and ridden it the last few miles to the town, where she had been planning to ask advice about what to do with him. Although the stallion had been stolen from her da many years ago, he had a new brand on his flank and she, Mari, had not known what the legalities were about a horse stolen years earlier.
Back and forth the questioning went, but they could cut no holes in Isabeau’s story. Suddenly the seeker picked up a large p
aperweight and threw it at Isabeau’s head. Isabeau’s instinctive reaction was to deflect it with her magic but she remembered in time, and let it come. It hit her hard between the eyes and down she went, bleeding.
Immediately the court was in an uproar, and Laird Serinyza protested angrily. The seeker herself was a little disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry, my laird,’ she said. ‘That is a common trick to catch out a witch, who usually can deflect such things.’
‘I’m no witch,’ Isabeau sobbed, trying to staunch the flow of blood with her hand. ‘I said I’m no witch. Why do ye hurt me so?’
Laird Serinyza instructed the leech to attend to her, and soon Isabeau’s head was bound up and the tumult in the courtroom had died down. Isabeau made much of her injury, sobbing still and holding her head. Between her sobs, she told the court again of how she had been tortured and held up her blood-stained, bandaged hand for them to see.
The witch-sniffer reminded the court of how Isabeau had tried to escape, using her witchcraft to do so.
‘I picked the lock wi’ my hairpin!’ Isabeau exclaimed, and the Grand-Seeker shot her a look of such loathing that Isabeau felt fear close her throat.
The judges began to argue in low voices. The Lady Glynelda had to admit she had not seen the thief that stole her mare, that it had been night and she had been asleep. In high-flown language she described how she had tracked them by following the traces of enchantment she had found in the air, and the physical evidence such as hoofprints and the marks of a fire where the thief had stopped. She said the thief had helped an enemy of the state escape—a foul uile-bheist their beloved Banrìgh was anxious to recapture, before he spread more evil. She had been bringing the uile-bheist back to Caeryla for judgement, and he had escaped in the night with the help of the thief who had turned all their other horses loose. It was only by commandeering the Red Guards watching the Pass that she had been able to follow them at all.
Laird Serinyza asked the Grand-Seeker whether she could smell any scent of witchcraft now, and the witch-sniffer nodded her head. Isabeau’s heart sank. Hours had passed since she had last used the Power, and she had washed herself thoroughly, but evidently that was not enough.
‘Och, aye, there’s a smell here, for sure,’ the seeker said. ‘I can smell the stink o’ it, and all the hair on my neck is bristling.’
‘That could be the serpent,’ the young laird said calmly. ‘I have been taught it is a magical creature, and this castle is always filled with the mists from the loch. That may be what brings the scent o’ enchantment.’
The witch-sniffer scowled, as if hating the idea that any magical creature be allowed to exist. Indeed, Isabeau wondered why they had not hunted it down, considering any magical creature was anathema to the Awl, but thought perhaps it was too convenient as both executioner and the town’s defence.
‘It is true there is always a stink on this place, my laird,’ said the seeker, ‘but this is something different. I examined the cell where the witch had been incarcerated, and there were clear traces of witchcraft, a quite different thing to the smell of a faery-serpent. The lock stank o’ it.’
Isabeau’s heart dropped. She wondered how it was witch sniffers were able to smell magic so clearly. Was it a Talent? Or were they trained in some way? Surely, if it were a inherent ability, they too were witches?
The trial dragged on. The judges were now arguing about Isabeau’s story, the Lady Glynelda insistent that she was lying, the other judges half convinced by Isabeau’s story. One, in particular, stood up against the Grand-Seeker, an elderly man with ordered waves of white hair and a green velvet doublet. He said wearily, ‘Have we no’ tired o’ feeding our people to the serpent o’ the loch, or sending them to Dùn Gorm to be burnt? She seems a mere country lass, and surely too young to have been taught the Skills the Grand-Questioner is so sure she’s been displaying. The laws o’ the Truth promise that none shall be Questioned without first having been proved guilty. Yet she has been put to the rack, and given the pilliwinkes, a cruel torture for no proven crime. And we have no positive identification, no first-hand witnesses. Everything is said to be proven by the fact that she used sorcery, yet she is so young, how could she be capable o’ such craft and cunning?’
For the first time Isabeau felt hope, but she stood demurely, head lowered.
‘Ye are very free with the terms o’ the witches, Laird Bailey. They slide off your tongue with great familiarity and comfort.’ The Grand-Seeker’s voice dripped with poisoned honey.
‘Ye must forgive me, Lady Glynelda Grand-Seeker. I am an auld man, and sometimes the times o’ my youth are clearer to me than my middle years, and so my language also. I just wish that we should be careful and canny in our judging—make sure we do not cry “witch!” when the peculiar effects o’ chance may be all that is at play.’
‘Chance! Indeed, I can see today is no’ as clear to ye as your past, my laird, when ye think chance can have had a hand in this. Chance that my horse is stolen and this lass happens to be riding it? Chance that she escapes us again and again, although I have the best trackers in Rionnagan? Chance that she is hidden by a village witch or that she kills Baron Yutta?’
The young laird held his hand up for silence. ‘Please, let us stop this bickering,’ he said, and immediately the judges fell silent, though they did not look too pleased to be told what to do by a seven-year-old boy, dwarfed by his huge chair. ‘I think I have a solution,’ he said. ‘The accused says she found the stallion loose on the moors and it recognised her, coming to her when she called. Surely if that were true, it would prove the stallion knows the accused and therefore that she is telling the truth. Why do we no’ call in the stallion?’
A flood of relief broke over Isabeau, though one of the judges sneered and said, ‘Really, my laird, calling in a horse as a witness is ridiculous …’ Laughter broke out here and there in the packed hall, while the murmurs of conversation rose high. Eventually, however, the young laird prevailed, and Lasair was brought in, whinnying and flailing out with sharp hooves at the man who led him. He whickered anxiously at Isabeau, who dared not reply. Laird Serinzya instructed the Grand-Seeker Glynelda to come down from the dais and stand in the square with Isabeau and she did so, her face stiff with outrage. A few of the crowd snickered and she glared round at them with anger clearly written on her face. The crowd fell silent.
Lasair was led to the centre of the room, where he reared, so that the groom had to fight to retain hold on his rein. Then the groom let go, and Isabeau held out her hand and whickered, saying, ‘Lasair’, while the Seeker called impatiently, ‘Garlen!’
The chestnut tossed his beautiful head, and dashed over to Isabeau, leaning against her and whickering anxiously.
Lady Glynelda was saying crossly, ‘In Truth, I’ve never called the damn horse in my life. That’s what I have a groom for!’, and the Laird Serinyza said, ‘See, the stallion does ken her’, and Isabeau tried not to grin in relief. The whole room seemed to relax, and Isabeau held her breath, sure now she would be freed. The Laird was the highest authority in his holding, the highest point of law except for the Rìgh himself.
‘Is there any more evidence to be brought to bear in the charges o’ horse theft, sorcery, resisting arrest and murder?’ the herald said.
‘Aye,’ the Grand-Seeker shouted, ‘and I think this will close the case.’ She held something up between two fingers and everyone in the courtroom strained forward in an attempt to see, but whatever she held appeared invisible, making the witch-sniffer seem rather ludicrous. Seeing the boy’s puzzled look, Lady Glynelda got to her feet and walked over to the dark-haired laird perched on the edge of his huge chair. The young laird’s face fell and Isabeau’s heart with it. The Grand-Seeker smiled.
‘I found this caught on a branch near where the uile-bheist we had captured was lying asleep,’ she said in tones ringing with triumph. ‘It proves the accused was skulking in the bushes while we made camp! We ken that witchcraft must have been used to free the
uile-bheist, so it therefore proves that the accused is a witch!’
Isabeau strained desperately to see what it was the Grand-Seeker was holding up so triumphantly before the courts, while murmurs of, ‘What is it?’ ran round the room like a plague. No-one could see anything in the witch-sniffer’s hands. ‘It also proves that the accursed witch enchanted and stole my stallion Garlen and the ponies o’ the trackers, who hunted down the uile-bheist for us. To these heinous crimes are added the wicked and abominable murder o’ the Grand-Questioner o’ the great Awl, also by the foul practice o’ sorcery!’
Only then did she walk over to Isabeau and show her what she held in her hand—a long thread of bright red hair. Then she yanked Isabeau’s linen cap off, pulling on her hair so hard that Isabeau fell to her knees with a scream of pain. With great ostentation, the seeker compared the strand to Isabeau’s ruddy tresses. ‘Of these charges the accused is proven guilty!’
Isabeau tried to wrench her hair free, but the seeker tightened her grip so Isabeau thought she’d pull her hair out by the roots. ‘Look at the length o’ this hair! I would wager my entire year’s salary that these luscious locks have never been touched by scissors. This girl is a witch! No’ a doubt! And she freed that uile-bheist we hunted down in the mountains, and she killed the Grand-Questioner when he tried to discover the nature o’ her witchcraft. I say drown her! Feed her to the loch-serpent!’
As the crowd began to chant, ‘Drown her! Drown her!’, Isabeau kicked the Grand-Seeker sharply in the stomach, wrenched her hair out of her weakened grasp, and leapt onto Lasair’s back. Before anyone could do more than cry out, the stallion was galloping down the great hall while the screaming crowd tried to get out of the way. One man leapt in front of the wild-eyed horse and was knocked down for his trouble. While the Red Guards ran after, shouting and waving their spears, the Grand-Seeker Glynelda screamed, ‘Stop her! She’s stolen my horse again!’ and the young laird on his throne laughed till tears ran down his cheeks.
