by Kate Forsyth
Johanna caught her breath in a sob.
‘Och, I’m so sorry, I’ve upset ye again. Come now, do no’ weep. Here, let me dampen that cloth again for ye, it must be hot by now.’ Dedrie rose and uncorked the bottle of lavender water again, bathing Johanna’s temples and then laying the cloth over her eyes. ‘Lay your poor head back now, there ye are. Is that better? Now let me make ye some tea. Chamomile and orange blossoms, I think, and perhaps some rosehips to give ye strength to bear it all.’
‘Ye’ve kent the laird for long?’ Johanna asked, pressing the cloth over her eyes with one hand.
She heard the rustle of Dedrie’s dress as she went to the fire and swung the kettle back over the flames.
‘Och, aye, I’ve worked at Fettercairn Castle since I was a lass. At first I was nurserymaid to the young heir, Laird Malvern’s nephew, but after he died I stayed on at the castle, nursing his mother and anyone else in the Fetterness Valley who needed help. I dinna ken much, but I learnt what I could from those who still had skill, and managed as best I could. The witch-hunts were cruel hard in Ravenshaw in those days, ye ken, and all the old skeelies and cunning men were burnt on the fires, so there was no-one left to teach me.’ Her words were punctuated by the whistle of the kettle, and the clink of glass and china.
‘Aye, they were bad times,’ Johanna said, her eyes still shut. ‘Much knowledge was lost.’
‘And they were no’ the days to be seeking after such skills,’ Dedrie said, unscrewing a lid. ‘I was lucky to be under the protection o’ the laird and no’ accused o’ witchcraft myself, as anyone who grew herbs and plants for healing often were.’
Johanna opened her eyes, glancing over at Dedrie with warm sympathy. The skeelie was pouring boiling water into the teapot. ‘Aye, it was brave o’ ye. The people o’ Fetterness were lucky.’
‘Och, nay! Indeed, I was no’ much o’ a healer at first. Over time, though, I learnt more and I think I helped a wee. I wish I could do more. Which is why I am here, ye see.’ She hesitated, fumbling with the teapot, then turned and straightened up, squaring her shoulders. ‘The thing is, ma’am, I’m wishing to be learning more. The sorceress Nina, the one they call the nightingale, she says ye ken more about the arts o’ healing than anyone …’
‘Och, I dinna think that is true, though it is kind o’ her to say so. I learnt most o’ my craft from the Keybearer, Isabeau, who learnt it from Meghan o’ the Beasts. I often consult the Keybearer when I am no’ sure o’ the best remedy.’
‘But I canna be going and bothering the Keybearer, an auld skeelie like me!’ Dedrie cried. ‘Och, I walked the corridor outside your room for close on half an hour afore I got up the courage to knock, and my knees are trembling still. If I had no’ thought I could help ye … if I had no’ thought it was my beholden duty to tell ye what I ken, well, then …’
‘What ye ken?’ Johanna said sharply. ‘Ye ken something about this girl … this satyricorn who killed my brother?’
Dedrie nodded, pressing her hands together. ‘Only they willna listen to anything I have to say. I’m just a poor auld skeelie, and they all believe those dreadful, dreadful lies that horrible girl told them about my laird. Just because she’s so young and pretty, and looks so guileless. They’ll let her off the hook for sure, while my poor master …’
‘What do ye ken?’
‘Ye only have to look at her to see she’s as slippery as an eel. Why, I met her at the castle, and the play-acting that lass put on, it puts me to the blush. She pretended to see ghosts, and screamed and threw herself round in fainting fits, which a healer like ye would have kent straightaway were fake, but deceived everyone else, and then said she had seen murderers and evil sorceries, and all the time she was trying to deflect attention away from the fact that she was the one who had murdered in cold blood. Aye, and mutilated the body too, and threw it in the river to rot.’
Johanna tried to suppress an involuntary sob, but it burst out of her. She covered her face with her hands.
‘I’m so sorry!’ Dedrie cried, seizing one of Johanna’s hands in her own. ‘I dinna mean to upset ye. What was I thinking, coming at a time like this? Please forgive me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Johanna said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘I just canna believe it. Connor … everyone loved Connor! He was so bonny and brave and true – a favourite with the Rìgh and the whole court. The Rìgh leant on him heavily, ye ken – he was always sending him out to settle one disagreement or another, or to take messages o’ grave import to the other prionnsachan. I just canna believe he’s dead!’
‘And in such a way! It just doesna seem right.’ Dedrie swilled the water in the teapot.
Johanna began to cry again.
‘And to let his murderess off the hook, just because they havena any eyewitnesses. It’s a crying shame! She should be hung out o’ hand.’
‘Do they really think she will be released?’ Johanna said, scrubbing at her eyes. ‘It just doesna seem right!’
‘That it does no’!’ Dedrie said emphatically, pouring out the tea and stirring honey into the cup. ‘But without any witnesses to stand against her … they say she has ensorcelled all those young ladies and gentlemen who travelled with her, and the witch too. She must be very crafty and cunning indeed.’
Johanna sighed, her throat thick with grief.
Dedrie brought the steaming cup over to Johanna and pressed it into her hand. ‘There ye are, get this inside ye.’
Johanna gratefully took the cup Dedrie passed to her and sipped at it. It was sweet and hot. She felt her muscles relax.
‘And all those dreadful things she’s been saying about my laird,’ the skeelie went on, bustling around and packing away her tins of herbs. ‘All lies, every one o’ them, but mud sticks, ye ken, mud sticks. My poor laird has to cool his heels in that blaygird prison now too, for months, until his name can be cleared, and there will always be those that say there’s no smoke without fire, and all because o’ that sly girl and her lies.’
‘But are ye sure she is lying?’
‘Sure as the sky is blue!’ Dedrie cried. She sat down heavily, and mopped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘It just breaks my heart to see my laird so disgraced and downhearted. And did ye ken she drove my lady to her death? Lady Evaline, who was the widow o’ my laird’s brother? Lady Evaline believed her dreadful tales, and threw herself out her window.’
‘How terrible!’ Johanna cried.
‘Aye, it is. That family has kent such tragedy. And this satyricorn girl out o’ the mountains cares naught for any o’ that, but only sees how she can turn it to her own advantage. I just wish there was something I could do.’
‘But if ye were to stand witness,’ Johanna cried. ‘At her trial! If ye were to give testimony against her.’
‘But I’m naught but a poor auld skeelie, and caught up in the slander against my laird, like all his faithful servants. They willna listen to me.’
‘They will! O’ course they will.’
‘Happen if I was here, at the College o’ Healers, attending ye,’ Dedrie said thoughtfully. ‘Learning what I could o’ the art o’ healing, maybe then they would … but no. As long as they think I am one o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s party, they will never believe me. Her lies have blackened us all.’
Johanna sat back, deflated. Her headache was gone, but in its place she felt a strange lightheadedness, while all her limbs felt weighed down with stones.
The skeelie came and poured her more tea, and rearranged her cushion more comfortably. Johanna drank the tea down, allowing herself to be comforted.
‘If only there was someone to stand sponsor for me, and give testimony to my character,’ Dedrie said slowly. ‘Then the judges would believe me. But with that creature’s lies blackening my good name as well as my laird’s, they’ll think I lie to protect my laird, o’ course they will, as long as he is my patron.’ She sighed heavily.
‘What if ye were here, at the College o’ Healers, un
der my protection?’ Johanna demanded. ‘Would they believe ye then?’
Dedrie clasped her hands together. ‘O’ course they would! How could they no’ believe me? Och, that would be wonderful! And I could stay here, at the College, and study with ye, ma’am? Och, please!’
‘I’ll organise a room for ye now,’ Johanna said, looking around for the bell. Dedrie brought it to her hand, and she rang it emphatically. Johanna’s assistant came, and she gave orders for a room near hers to be prepared, and a letter to be sent to the prison warden, giving him her assurances on Dedrie’s behalf. The skeelie made a few shy suggestions as to how the letter could be worded, which the assistant duly noted before withdrawing.
‘I do thank ye, ma’am,’ Dedrie said, her round face pink with pleasure. ‘All my life I’ve dreamt o’ doing all I can to help and heal those in need. And to think I can work to serve ye, and help ye, the head o’ the Royal College o’ Healers. Och, ye will no’ regret it, I promise ye.’
‘It is ye who helps me,’ Johanna said, gazing up at Dedrie with heartfelt gratitude. ‘It is I who should thank ye.’
‘Och, nay. What have I done but my duty? It would’ve been very wrong o’ me to let that terrible murdering creature escape justice, without trying at least to make sure someone stood witness against her. Here, ma’am, let me rub lavender and peppermint oil into your forehead. It will make ye feel much better.’
‘I am in your debt,’ Johanna said, closing her eyes as Dedrie gently massaged her temples.
‘No’ at all,’ said the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie.
Rhiannon lifted her hot, throbbing hands and pressed them against her face, trying to block out the foul smell. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she looked about her anxiously, all her muscles ready for quick and violent action.
The Murderers’ Gallery was a long, low, windowless room, with walls of weeping stone. Rank, mouldy straw was scattered on the rock floor, and a bucket in one corner was overflowing with excrement. Rhiannon could see a dead rat lying not far from her knee, the stink of its rotting body adding to the stench.
There were more than twenty women crowded about the room. Some sat on the ground with their backs against the wall, others lay on rough stone shelves chipped into it. A few were confined by manacles or thumbscrews, as Rhiannon was, and one sat with her head and hands thrust through holes in a large wooden block. Another prisoner was confined in a cage of wood built under the overhang of rock in the far corner. All Rhiannon could see of her was her hands, gripping the bars with white knuckles, and a great mass of hair through which two eyes glared.
Most of the prisoners looked up at Rhiannon dully, then returned their gaze to the floor without any sign of interest, but one woman gave a snort of bitter laughter. ‘Welcome to Sorrowgate, sweetheart,’ she sneered. ‘Ye’re a pretty one, ye are. I bet Octavia drooled over ye. Did she stick her hand up your skirt? I bet she wanted too. I bet she –’
‘Leave the lass alone, Clarice,’ someone else said wearily. Rhiannon glanced at her. She was young, and had a shawl huddled about her thin shoulders. ‘Look at her, she’s frightened out o’ her wits as it is,’ the girl went on, sympathy in her eyes.
Rhiannon wanted to deny this, but her throat was so dry and rigid with fear she could not force the words out. She gritted her teeth and tried to slow her uneven pants of breath.
Clarice got to her feet and came towards Rhiannon, her thin face twisted into a cruel leer. ‘How ye going to make me?’ she mocked. ‘Come on, lassiekin, make me stop.’
She bent over Rhiannon, grinning, and reached one hand down to stroke her long black hair. Rhiannon jerked her hands up, smashing her thumbscrews into Clarice’s face. The woman reeled backwards with a scream, then came at Rhiannon with raking fingernails, blood streaming from her nose. Rhiannon came up off her knees in a rush, fending the woman off with her confined hands, then kicking her back to the floor. Clarice shrieked.
‘Sssh!’ the girl said urgently. ‘Ye’ll bring Octavia down on us! Leave her alone, for Eà’s sake!’
Clarice wiped away the blood with the back of her hand, staring at Rhiannon with cold, angry eyes. With her hair tossed back from her face, Rhiannon could see she was missing one ear, an ugly stump all that remained.
‘Leave me alone and I’ll leave ye alone,’ Rhiannon said, as threateningly as she could, hoping no-one noticed how her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.
Unexpectedly Clarice laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound. ‘Fair enough,’ she said and stood up, dusting off her bottom with one hand. She went over and sat down on an old sack, wrapping her arms about her legs to keep warm. She kept her cynical gaze on Rhiannon’s face, her creased and weathered face twisted in a habitual mocking leer.
Rhiannon looked about her warily, clutching her blanket to her chest. The blanket smelt even worse than the smock, but it was thick and warm and acted in some way like a shield.
The girl who had defended her made a beckoning motion with her head, and shifted over so there was a gap against the wall. Rhiannon went across to it and sat down, feeling a telltale prickle in her eyes. I will no’ cry, I will no’ cry, she told herself fiercely, but the hot tears forced their way through her lids anyway. Rhiannon gulped a breath and lifted her hands, weighed down with the cruel thumbscrews, to defiantly wipe them away.
‘Dinna greet, lassie,’ the girl beside her whispered. ‘If ye greet, they’ll just mock ye more.’
Rhiannon glared angrily at the girl sitting next to her. She had an anxious, crooked face. It looked as if her jaw had once been broken and had not healed properly. Although dressed in the same loose smock as Rhiannon, she wore thick woollen stockings and boots and had a crocheted shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a red woollen cap on her head. Her long brown hair was neatly plaited, and she held in her lap a small basket from which she withdrew a clean white handkerchief. She offered this to Rhiannon who, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and did her best to scrub her face dry. Her clamped thumbs were beginning to swell, and the movement hurt them. The girl saw this and gently took the handkerchief and dried Rhiannon’s face for her, then matter-of-factly helped her blow her nose, as if Rhiannon was a small child.
‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked, tucking the soiled handkerchief away.
‘Rhiannon.’
‘No family name?’
Rhiannon shook her head.
‘I’m Bess Balfour. What ye in for?’
Rhiannon had to swallow before she could answer. ‘Murder.’
‘Me too,’ Bess said sympathetically. ‘Who did ye murder?’
‘A soldier,’ Rhiannon said shortly. ‘He was trying to kill my mother,’ she added after a moment.
‘I killed my father,’ Bess said. ‘He was beating my poor auld ma almost to death, and so I grabbed the bedpan and whacked him across the head. He fell and hit his head on the hearth-stone. Cracked his skull.’
‘And they locked ye up for that?’ Rhiannon said indignantly.
Bess nodded. ‘I have a lawyer, though,’ she said with quiet pride. ‘He’s costing my ma every penny she’s managed to squirrel away over the years but she says he’s worth it. I just have to wait till the next quarter sessions, when my case will go afore the magistrates, and then he’ll argue my case for me. My ma and my sisters bring me food and coins to give Octavia, so she’ll let me have an extra blanket and my shawl. I’m lucky. If ye havena any family to bring ye money ye’ll starve to death in here.’
‘I havena anyone to bring me money,’ Rhiannon said sombrely.
‘What about your ma? Won’t she help ye out?’
‘My ma’s no’ here,’ Rhiannon answered curtly. She wondered if this girl would be so friendly if she knew Rhiannon’s mother was a satyricorn.
‘Ye must’ve had some money since Octavia gave ye a blanket,’ Bess said. ‘Would ye like me to tuck it round ye? Ye canna do it yourself with the thumbscrews on.’
Rhiannon nodded, and Bess reached over and
took her blanket and tucked it round her. Rhiannon hung her head, blinking back another rush of tears.
There was a sudden howl from the woman in the cage, and she rattled the bars, thrusting a wild-eyed face against them. Rhiannon flinched back.
‘Poor mad thing,’ Bess said. ‘I wonder what they’ll do to her after her trial?’
‘What did she do?’
‘Strangled her nurse,’ Bess said with a little shiver. ‘She was in the madhouse, has been there all her life, I was told. They always thought her gentle. But one day she just grabbed her nurse and choked the life out o’ her. They said it took three men to break her grasp.’
‘What about her?’ Rhiannon asked, jerking her head at Clarice, who had finally stopped staring at her and was digging gunk out from under her toenails with her fingernails. ‘Who did she kill?’
‘Och, she dinna kill anyone. She’s a thief. She’s already lost an ear, dinna ye see? If ye get caught again after losing an ear, ye hang for it. Or at least, ye used to. They do no’ hang so many these days. Sometimes they send ye to work in the mines or summat like that.’
‘I thought this was the Murderers’ Gallery?’
‘It is. I mean, that’s what they call it, but no’ everyone in here has killed someone. There are other crimes they’ll hang ye for, like poaching or stealing horses or hawks.’
‘Like me. I’m a prigger o’ prancers,’ the woman on the other side of Rhiannon said, scratching absent-mindedly at her armpit. She was an older woman with a branded face and scraggy arms marked with vague blue tattoos. At Rhiannon’s blank look she grinned, showing crooked, discoloured teeth. ‘Horses,’ she explained. ‘Me and my brother steal horses for a living.’
‘What about her?’ Rhiannon asked, looking across at a young woman sitting on the far side of the room who had been intriguing her for some time. She was rocking a rolled-up blanket in her arms, swaying back and forth and singing to it under her breath.
