by Cait Dee
DEDICATION
For Andrew
CONTENTS
Dedication
Grizel’s Gift
Red Thread and Rowan Tree
Goodwife Ishbel
The Cave in the Woods
Guddling Trout
The Shieling
The Tale of the Two Wolves
The Black Castle
The Offering and the Vessel
A Faerie Fort
The Need Fire
The Witch Pricker
Black Moon
Two Trials
A Witch Burning
Acknowledgements
Sources
About the Author
Copyright
GRIZEL’S GIFT
Grizel once told me that magic and fire are kindred things. If you understand how to work with fire it will warm your home, cook your porridge and chase away the shadows at night. But if you fail to heed its power, well . . . it only takes one spark to burn down the thatch.
Her words echo in my mind as I watch Gregor standing by the hearth fire, rubbing its warmth into his hands. Those hands have never kindled a flame.
He’s dressed in a long black coat and breeks, impatient to leave. He looks me up and down with his lizard eyes and tells me to stop tarrying if I wish to ride with him to Strathcraig.
Just you try leaving without me, I want to say to him, but stop myself. I’d only get the back of his hand across my cheek. Worse than that, he’d have a reason to leave me behind. And I can’t let that happen, not today. I need to find a way to see Grizel, to speak to her one last time.
‘Iona!’ My sister Ishbel calls me into the sleeping chamber she shares with her husband. There, she helps me into my Sunday raiment: a bodice and skirt made of coarse black wool that scratches my skin through my petticoats and linen shift. I squirm as she ties the laces of my bodice too tight, but she chides me that lasses of fourteen shouldn’t complain about such things. She combs my long hair and braids it with a silk ribbon. I turn and she inspects her work, slicking down a curl with her spit. Our hair is auburn and wavy, like our mother’s was, and we both have her slight frame and heart-shaped face. But it’s our green eyes that mark us as our father’s daughters. Bright green, like the first shoots of spring. Uncanny Balfour eyes, the folk in Heatherbrae call them.
‘We must away,’ Gregor barks at Ishbel. ‘I’ve pressing business in Strathcraig.’ He pulls on his cloak and walks out the door without waiting for us. Ishbel’s cheeks flush but she says nothing. Not to him, anyway. For the hundredth time this week she tells me not to upset her husband.
Ishbel and I climb into the cart that’s harnessed to Gregor’s bay mare. The old cuddy loathes pulling the cart and we know it will be a slow journey; about a half-day ride from Heatherbrae. We wrap ourselves in blankets to protect us from the winter chill. As we ride through the clachan, nobody comes out to greet us or pay their respects. Folk stay hidden behind locked doors, pretending they don’t see us. Only Malcolm Calder is out, standing at his doorstane to glare at us as we ride past. I glare right back at him until Ishbel pokes me in the ribs. Despite my boldness, my stomach tightens when I sense his eyes fall upon me.
‘A braw morn, Malcolm,’ Gregor calls, but Calder doesn’t reply. He turns on his heel and goes inside, slamming the door behind him.
Gregor lied to Calder, for there is nothing good about this morning. The clouds hang low and a light rain falls, covering our blankets with silver beads. For most of the journey there is no sound except for the creaking wheels of the cart and the icy winds whipping through the long grasses. Ishbel reaches for my hand but I pull it away, lost in my own thoughts.
* * *
As we approach Strathcraig, the road becomes crowded, teeming with carts and folk travelling on foot. Today is Candlemas Eve; one of the quarter days when tenant famers like Gregor must pay their rents to the laird. And if that weren’t a good enough reason to come to town, they hold executions on the quarter days.
My nose wrinkles from the stench of the midden heap just outside the town walls. Once through the gates, we alight from the cart and wait for Gregor to make arrangements with the stableman. Then he leads the way into the town square.
All around the square, merchants have set up makeshift stalls to sell their wares; two of them are squabbling over a stance near the kirk steps. Gregor sidesteps the quarrelling merchants with a scowl. Then, in his highhanded way, he gives Ishbel a few coins and tells her to buy linen for a new sark. I frown at him, incredulous. Does he think this a day to run errands? My gaze falls on Ishbel, willing her to say something to her husband. But, as always, she holds her tongue and watches in silence as Gregor stalks off to the Tolbooth to meet with the town officials, the burgh councillors.
In the middle of the square, near the mercat cross, stands a gibbet, the wood freshly hewn. Next to the gibbet is a post surrounded by bundles of wood. I stare at them, my blood quickening, until Ishbel pulls her arm through mine and forces me to walk with her to the webster’s stall.
The rain falls heavy now, making the cobblestones slick and greasy. Folk huddle under shopowners’ eaves until they are shooed away. The dreich weather will not stop the hordes pouring into the town. Executions are the main attraction on quarter days. And today there is a witch burning, the first one ever in Strathcraig.
Across the square I see a familiar face coming out of the inn. My dark mood lifts a little. While Ishbel haggles with the webster over the price of French linen, I slip away from her side to approach him. But as I draw near, he ducks behind a group of men drinking in front of the alehouse. It’s all I can do to catch him before he disappears into the crowd.
‘Dalziel, wait!’
‘Iona.’ He greets me without a smile, smoothing the elbow of his coat sleeve where I grabbed it.
‘Did you not see me running towards you?’
‘Nae, I did not. Well now, here you are.’ He nods solemnly, then looks over my head, gazing across the crowd as if searching for someone. In the few moments of silence that follow, I can’t help but sneak a look at him. It’s been a twelvemonth since I saw Dalziel last, since he left Heatherbrae to read theology at the university in Aberdeen. He is still tall and slender, but his jawline is more defined and his shoulders broader. He looks like a man now.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.
‘I’m meeting my father. You’ve not seen him, have you?’ He continues to study the crowd. Dalziel’s father, Dougal Rennie, has the landholding next to Gregor. It seems strange that Dougal didn’t arrange for us to ride here together.
I shake my head. ‘Did you hear? About what happened?’
He lowers his eyes. Dalziel has the longest eyelashes of anyone I’ve ever known. They make a girlish frame for his dark blue eyes.
‘Aye,’ he says softly.
‘Why did you not call on me?’
‘I’m not visiting Heatherbrae. That’s why Father’s coming here. To see me.’
I’ve never known Dougal Rennie to put himself out for anybody and consider saying so to Dalziel, but then think the better of it. There’s something about the way he’s behaving that makes the tight feeling in my stomach return. This is not the Dalziel I know. There has never been any awkwardness between us.
‘Did you ride here all alone?’
He shakes his head. ‘They asked me to accompany a professor from the university. Eberhard Finster. A renowned scholar and cleric. From Saxony,’ he adds, puffing out his chest.
I’ve no idea where Saxony is, but I’ll not give Dalziel the satisfaction of asking. ‘What’s he doing here, then?’
‘He knows more about witches than anybody in Aberdeen. Probably the whole of Scotland. They say he even has King Jamie’s ear!’ Dalz
iel’s eyes glimmer with excitement.
My heart stops for a moment. ‘You mean, you brought him here for this?’
His cheeks redden and he kicks at an invisible stone on the ground. ‘Nae,’ he says, his shoulders curling. For a moment he looks like a boy again. ‘Just showed him the way, that’s all.’
But I know Dalziel better than anybody, and I can tell when he’s hiding something.
‘You know where she is? Take me to her!’
He shakes his head. ‘I — I can’t.’
Won’t, more like. ‘Please, Dalziel.’
He stares at his boots.
‘Is she in the Tolbooth?’ I press him.
He responds with a slight nod of the head.
‘Show me — I don’t know the way,’ I lie.
For the first time, Dalziel’s eyes meet mine. I’m astonished by how cold they are.
‘I must go,’ he says. ‘Give my regards to Ishbel.’ Then he strides off towards the square without a backward glance.
‘Dalziel!’ I call after him.
He doesn’t stop, but several of the young men standing outside the alehouse turn to stare at me.
‘Never mind, lassie, I’ll be your sweetheart,’ says one of them. His companions join with him in mocking laughter.
As Dalziel disappears into the crowd, my cheeks burn as if they’d been slapped. Dalziel is my oldest friend. It’s true, we haven’t spoken in the last year, but he can’t have changed so much in that time. It’s one thing to be reviled by Malcolm Calder — I was expecting that — but I can’t believe Dalziel could treat me this way. Or that he could harbour any ill feelings about Grizel, not after all she’s done for him.
‘What say you have a drink with us, lassie?’ asks one of the men, leering at me.
I shoot him a poisonous look but there’s no time to waste. The only thing that matters now is that I see Grizel, so I ignore the men and push the thoughts of Dalziel to the back of my mind.
Grizel is the only parent I can remember having. My mother died in childbed giving birth to me. My father Fingal disappeared when I was a wean, no more than a few months old. Grizel, his sister, was living in Edinburgh at the time and she returned to Heatherbrae to raise Ishbel and me. My aunt told me Fingal drowned while crossing the river during a storm, his body swept away by the current. But Ishbel had it from the old folk in the clachan that our father had abandoned us, unable to cope with his grief and the responsibility of raising two small bairns. I never blamed Grizel for the lie. I knew she was only trying to protect us.
* * *
The Tolbooth is at the end of the main street and I head in that direction. There are a few stragglers still trickling out of the surrounding tenements; they pass me on their way to the square. I do what I can to make myself invisible, the way Grizel showed me: no eye contact, shoulders hunched, disappearing into the shadows. Nobody seems to notice me, or care that I’m walking against the flow.
‘Wee lassie, where are you? Where’d she go — this way?’ The men from the alehouse stagger up the street behind me, laughing and jostling one another drunkenly. I duck behind a wall until they pass, pressing my back against the cold granite. Silently, I curse Dalziel for deserting me.
Once the men have passed, I dash down the street that runs parallel to the town square, until I reach the back of a building with iron bars on a small window just higher than my head. At the front of it there is the pointed spire of the clock tower. The Tolbooth. Gregor is inside somewhere, meeting with the burgh councillors. He’d flog me senseless if he caught me here.
My heart pounds in my chest as if it would burst through my ribcage.
‘Grizel?’ My voice quavering, I call as loud as I dare.
A soft rasp replies, ‘Iona? That you, lass?’
‘Aye! I’m here.’ A nearby wooden bench gives me just enough height to reach through the bars. Just enough height to grasp her fingers. Two of her fingernails are missing and her right thumb is swaddled in a dirty bandage. ‘Oh, Grizel! What’ve they done to you?’
My aunt struggles for the breath to form each word. ‘Cushie doo, I knew you’d come. You must listen. Take Ishbel and leave Heatherbrae. Make haste.’
‘Where shall we go?’
‘To Edinburgh. Angus Ancroft. You must find him. At home, in the byre, you’ll find a stone —’
‘Wait, slow down!’ The words are pouring out of her in desperation, but her voice is hoarse and I’m struggling to understand her. ‘There’s a man in Edinburgh — Angus something?’
‘Ancroft.’
‘And there’s a stone in the cow byre?’
‘Bloodstone.’ The word comes out in a chilling whisper, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
‘What’s a bloodstone?’ I ask in a low voice.
‘Above the door. You’re the guardian now. Take it to Ancroft. Tell nobody you have it, not even Ishbel. Nobody.’
Grizel’s never mentioned either the bloodstone or this Angus Ancroft before. Besides, it’s the season of the wolf and the roads aren’t safe for travel. She can’t really mean for us to leave Heatherbrae. It doesn’t make any sense.
‘Edinburgh is a long way,’ I say, but feel a pang of shame as soon as the words leave my lips.
‘Promise me. You must promise . . .’ Grizel starts to cough, a phlegmy, wretched sound. ‘You’re stronger than you know. So is Ishbel, though she chooses to forget. Take the stone to Edinburgh, to Ancroft. Promise me!’
‘But why? I don’t understand. What does it do?’
‘It’s our birthright; it carries the magic of our bloodline. A Balfour must always be the guardian. Protect it with your life. Mark me, child, there are folk who would kill for the stone. Make haste to Edinburgh, to Ancroft . . .’ Her weak voice trails away.
My head spins as I try to make sense of Grizel’s words. ‘But why can’t I tell Ishbel about it? Why’s she not the guardian? She’s older, and . . .’ I don’t bother to finish. We both know Ishbel’s magic is far stronger than mine will ever be. Not one spell I’ve forged has ever worked. Although she has never said so, I’m sure Grizel often wonders why I’m not more like my sister.
‘You’re the guardian. The portents point to you. But take Ishbel with you. It’s not safe in Heatherbrae. A witch finder is come.’
I try to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘A witch finder?’
‘Finster.’ The word comes out in a ragged wheeze.
The man from Saxony. My mind races, trying to remember what Dalziel said. Does he know Finster is a witch finder? Is that why —
‘Listen!’ Grizel interrupts my thoughts. ‘Find the bloodstone. Then hasten to the capital. There’s not a moment to waste.’
‘But . . . Ishbel won’t want to leave Gregor.’
‘Leave her behind if you have to. Guild of the Green Lion — that’s where you’ll find Ancroft. Stay away from the towns and villages, as the witch finder will look there for you.’
‘Leave Ishbel behind?’ I say. ‘You can’t really mean —’
‘She turned her back on us!’ Grizel can’t hide the anger in her voice. ‘Protect the bloodstone. But don’t use magic, not until you’re certain it’s safe. Finish your apprenticeship. Ancroft will see to it. Green Lion — remember. Now, take my hand. It’s time to say farewell.’
There are a hundred things I need to ask her before these few precious moments are over. We need more time. ‘Grizel, you can stop this. Please!’
Gently she squeezes my fingers. My eyes sting with tears as I feel her deep and abiding love in the gesture. ‘Cushie doo, you know I can’t. That’s not what magic is for.’
‘Aye, but you haven’t done anything wrong! And you don’t know how hard it’s been without you. Everyone’s sided with Malcolm Calder and even Dalziel hates me now.’ I shouldn’t be burdening Grizel with my troubles but I can’t seem to stop the words rushing out of me. ‘And living with Ishbel and Gregor has been horrible and she never listens to me and she won’t leave hi
m, I know she won’t. And I can’t make it all the way to Edinburgh on my own. Please, Grizel, I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be the guardian, I don’t know how, please don’t make me.’
‘Enough now,’ she scolds me as tears stream down my cheeks. ‘I need you to be strong. My time is come, child. Everything that lives must also die. Promise me you’ll take the bloodstone to Edinburgh. Without Ishbel, if you have to. Say the words!’
I lick my lips. ‘I promise, Grizel. I’ll take the stone to Edinburgh. To Ancroft.’
A loud metallic clank echoes from behind Grizel. ‘They’re coming,’ she whispers.
Grizel grips my left hand tight in hers and pulls me closer. I gasp with surprise and pain as she nicks the end of my thumb with something sharp and squeezes out a drop of blood, rubbing our thumbs together.
Then she lets go of my hand. ‘Be brave, cushie doo. I’ll see you once more in the Summerlands. Don’t let them see you cry. Now, go. Go!’
* * *
As I run back towards the square, tears still running down my cheeks, my heart feels as though it will break apart. Two small lads playing in the dirt laugh at me, mimicking my weeping. One of them drops his breeks and shows me his dirty behind. I quickly wipe my face on my sleeve as the boys scamper off, sniggering. I need to be strong, just like I promised Grizel.
The square is heaving with people now. The rain has stopped and a festival atmosphere has taken hold. Folk chatter and laugh together in small groups while bairns run underfoot.
Ishbel is still standing near the webster’s stall on the other side of the square. She’s looking around, probably wondering where I am. As I push my way through the crowd I consider what to say to her. Witch finder or no, my sister won’t readily leave her husband.
There was once a time when Ishbel could do no wrong in Grizel’s eyes. It was astonishing how quickly she came into her magic when she reached womanhood. Grizel would only have to tell her once and Ishbel would know; she’d nod and they’d laugh and whisper together, sharing their secrets. I was resentful, my heart black with bitter envy, but Grizel reassured me that it would be my turn soon enough. Ishbel didn’t care that my feelings were hurt; she lorded it over me, so proud was she of her newfound power. She could have done anything, could have been anyone — but then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.