The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  Four years ago Gregor arrived in Heatherbrae with little more than the clothes on his back and a dogeared Bible, having inherited a small landholding in Heatherbrae after his uncle died. Back then nobody knew what sort of man he was, but he was of marriageable age and had all his teeth. Inevitably, all the maidens in the clachan vied for his attention.

  At first Ishbel mocked the dour young man who walked with a stoop and never smiled. But she was competitive and hated the idea that one of the other lassies would win his affection. Before sunrise on Midsummer’s morn she woke and pulled up a cluster of marigolds by the roots. Then she hiked to Gregor’s farm. As dawn broke, she planted the flowers in the imprint that one of his boots had made in the earth. A simple spell: once the Midsummer sun’s rays reached the petals, Gregor’s heart would be hers.

  Before that day, Gregor had never shown my sister any favour. By the afternoon he was at the door, begging Grizel for Ishbel’s hand. Our aunt quickly guessed what had happened. She’d told us to stay away from love spells, warning that any magic that bends the will of another is dishonourable. Worse than that, it’s dangerous. She was furious with Ishbel and refused Gregor, but that night Ishbel ran away. A few days later we found out they’d gone to Strathcraig and had wed in secret.

  It was only supposed to be sport. What Ishbel didn’t reckon on was that her love spell would ensnare the forger just as much as her target. Now, neither of them can escape the union. Ishbel and Gregor are thirled together until the spell is broken. I begged Grizel to intervene but she said she wouldn’t. ‘It’s Ishbel’s spell; she must be the one to undo it,’ was all my aunt would say about it. Things were never the same between them after that.

  * * *

  Just as I reach my sister’s side at the stall, a voice rings out.

  ‘Make way, make way for the burgh councillors!’

  Ishbel and I watch in silence as the town officials file into the square in all their finery, taking their seats on the podium. My sister lets out a gasp. Following her gaze, I watch in disbelief as Gregor follows the last councillor onto the podium and takes a seat. Whether by design or accident, he avoids looking in our direction. There is another man on the podium, someone I don’t recognise, but I know him at once. A thickset fellow with wheaten hair, dressed all in black. Finster. He doesn’t take his seat like the others, but walks to the edge of the platform, scanning the sea of people as if searching for something. Or someone.

  ‘Yon body there, he’s a witch finder.’ I point to Finster but Ishbel shushes me, grabbing my hand and pressing it down. Her face is ashen. She keeps hold of my hand and this time I don’t pull it away.

  The prisoners are transported from the Tolbooth in a covered wooden cart. The black-hooded executioner appears and leads a man dressed in filthy rags to the gibbet. He fastens a rope around the prisoner’s neck.

  The bailie stands to read the charges. The prisoner is a highwayman who robbed a nobleman of his purse. The crowd becomes rowdy, booing and hissing.

  A large man standing next to Ishbel leans over to me. ‘You mark him, lass, he’s about to learn how to fly!’ He cackles, revealing a cavernous mouth sparsely filled with blackened teeth. Ishbel pulls me away from him. I shiver, but it’s not from the icy February air.

  The executioner lifts the end of the rope and the man flails, his feet kicking the wind. It takes a long time for his spirit to leave his body, but eventually the kicking stops. The executioner secures the rope so that the body stays suspended. It will hang there for days. The mob bellows its approval, but its lust for blood is not yet sated.

  ‘We need to get to the front,’ I whisper to Ishbel. She shoots a fearful glance towards the podium. ‘Come on,’ I say.

  Ishbel grabs the back of my cloak as I elbow my way through the surging mob.

  Then an uneasy hush falls over the crowd. Two guards lead a frail woman from the cart. She’s dressed in a tattered gown and her silver-streaked black hair has been shaved off. It takes me a moment to recognise her, she looks so small and brittle. Her wrists are blistered and raw from the chains that bind them in front of her. The guards remove the chains, then secure her hands, feet and torso to the wooden post with thick rope.

  It’s been three weeks since they arrested my aunt. In that time her cheeks have grown hollow and her eyes have dropped deep into their sockets. Those eyes search the crowd until I wave my arm and then they rest on Ishbel and me. Gregor almost jumps out of his seat and stares daggers of rage at us. Ishbel shrinks under her husband’s gaze.

  ‘Don’t look at him, look at Grizel — it’s the least you can do!’ I hiss.

  Ishbel puts her arms around my shoulders and holds me close, chin resting on the top of my head.

  Somebody else has seen us, too. Finster’s eyes turn to Ishbel and me in a way that makes my knees buckle. I feel myself starting to wither and it’s all I can do to stop myself from running away and finding somewhere to hide. But I promised Grizel that I’d be strong. I do my best to ignore the witch finder and keep my eyes trained on my aunt.

  A lone voice cries out, soon followed by another, and then another.

  Witch, they say. Witch.

  The crowd pushes forwards again and I struggle to hold on to Ishbel. My feet lift off the ground.

  The bailie unfurls a scroll of parchment. ‘Grizel Balfour, you were accused of murdering Mary Calder and her unborn son in childbed. You were found guilty by a lawfully convened court of working malefice, against the laws of Scotland. On this day, the first of February in the year of Our Lord 1597, you have been sentenced to die. Here, at this place, you will be strangled to death and your body burned to ashes. Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Stop!’ Minister Gourlay leaps up from his seat and rushes over to the bailie.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I turn to Ishbel, who looks so pale she might swoon at any moment.

  ‘Witches aren’t permitted last words,’ she whispers. ‘They fear she’ll use them to curse her accusers.’

  The councillors huddle to discuss the situation for a few moments. The bailie then nods to the executioner, who moves into position behind Grizel. He takes a leather strap and loops it around Grizel’s neck. The mob falls silent as the executioner pulls back the cord.

  Oh, Grizel! What will become of us when you’re gone?

  A strangled cry escapes Grizel’s crushed throat; it is the last sound she’ll ever make in this world. But it’s as though I can’t breathe. My head spins and I grab at Ishbel’s cloak.

  * * *

  Ishbel taps my cheek with cold fingers. We’re away from the crowd now, sitting on the wet cobblestones behind the webster’s stall.

  ‘Grizel?’ I whisper, hoping that by some miracle she has been saved.

  My sister’s eyes brim with tears and she shakes her head. She hugs me so close that I can feel her body racking with silent sobs.

  A dense, sweet smoke blankets the town square. The crowd is already starting to melt away. I try to stand but a wave of dizziness overwhelms me. Ishbel offers me a sip of usky but I shake my head. The smell of it makes me want to retch.

  We watch the fire in silence. It burns bright and fierce, the way Grizel lived her life. Witches don’t get a proper burial, so we honour her this way: bearing witness as her ashes take flight on the winter wind.

  RED THREAD AND ROWAN TREE

  Ishbel is still in bed, lost in slumber. I didn’t sleep at all. The drunken carousing at the inn where we stayed kept me awake all night. Grizel’s final words played over and over in my mind and I spent the entire night trying to decide how much to tell my sister.

  Gregor rose before birdsong and left for another meeting with the council. He’s there now, talking to the men who arrested Grizel, who locked her up in the Tolbooth and signed her death warrant.

  Dawn’s light streams through the tiny window of our chamber, which overlooks the town square. It didn’t keep out the smoke from the fire that burned all night. The back of my throat feels scratched and raw
.

  Through the window I watch two corbies peck out the eyes of the murderer they hanged yesterday. Then I spy an old woman carrying a besom and bucket of water. She makes for the middle of the square. With dismay, I realise what she’s about to do. In moments, she’ll sluice away all that remains of Grizel. If I could just get a handful of those ashes, I can bury them at home in the kailyard. I must do it now, before Gregor comes back.

  I dress quickly, trying not to wake Ishbel, but there’s a knock at the door. The innkeeper’s wife bustles in, wearing a greasy apron and a scowl. In her hands is a wooden tray with three bowls of porridge. She sets the tray down on the table with a spiteful clatter.

  ‘They tell me you’re nieces of the witch,’ she says, one hand on her hip, the other waving towards the window.

  ‘What of it?’ I say. ‘How is that anything to do with you?’

  The woman wipes her hands on the filthy apron. ‘How is that —? Listen, I run a respectable business. If I’d known who you were, I’d never have let you bide here. Disgraceful, it is. If word gets out, it’ll bring my business into disrepute.’

  Blood grows hot in my veins. ‘Your business already has an appalling reputation and that’s not our doing. Everybody knows your meat is spoiled, your butter is rancid and your ale watered down. You needn’t concern yourself, for we’re leaving soon enough. You see, we’ve no more aunts left for them to burn.’ I clasp my hands behind my back so she won’t see them trembling.

  She stands there open-mouthed for a moment. ‘Wicked, insolent lass! Just you see, I’ll tell my husband —’

  ‘Tell him what?’ I interrupt her. ‘That you maligned the wife and sister of Gregor Brodie? He has friends on the burgh council. He’s meeting with them right now. I’ll be sure to tell him when he gets back. What say you to that?’

  The woman lets out a snort of disgust as she storms out, slamming the door behind her. Not without some satisfaction, I realise she’s a little afraid of me.

  After the innkeeper’s wife is gone I run to the window. It’s too late. The old woman has finished her work. All that remains is a dirty black puddle.

  Ishbel stirs and sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes. ‘What was all that about?’ she asks. I’m certain my sister heard the quarrel and pretended to be asleep. She avoids conflict whenever she can; another side effect of the love spell.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say with a sigh. ‘When do we go home?’

  ‘When Gregor gets back, I suppose. Did I see you with Dalziel yesterday?’ She gets out of bed and stretches, then walks over to the table and takes a seat.

  I nod. ‘He’s here to see his father.’ But I quickly change the subject as it pains me to dwell on my encounter with Dalziel. ‘Is Gregor a councillor now?’

  She stares into the bowl, half-heartedly poking at the porridge with her spoon. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about it last night.’

  I roll my eyes, annoyed that she didn’t even ask him.

  Abandoning her breakfast, Ishbel flits about the room, shaking out our clothes from yesterday. She picks up her dress and sniffs.

  ‘Smoke,’ I say. ‘Everything smells of it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, they’ll get an airing on the ride home.’

  ‘Ishbel, I need to tell you something.’

  But before I can continue, the door swings open. In walks Gregor, in one of his moods.

  ‘Why are you not dressed? Do you plan to lie abed all day? Make haste, it’s time to leave.’

  ‘Are you a councillor now, brother?’ I ask him.

  He glances casually out the window. ‘As of this morning. The councillors have bestowed a great honour upon me.’

  ‘Such a great honour, indeed. And at such a modest price.’

  I expect a skelp for my insolence, but Ishbel scurries over to give Gregor an awkward embrace, putting herself between us.

  ‘That is pleasing news, Gregor! Why, we must celebrate. I’ll prepare a feast for supper.’

  ‘I won’t be joining you,’ Gregor replies quickly. ‘I must bide here another day. Council business.’

  Ishbel looks hurt. ‘As you say, husband.’

  Gregor waits for us outside as Ishbel dresses, and then we all head down to the stables. He has arranged for us to ride home with Dalziel’s father, Dougal Rennie.

  Dalziel is at the stables, speaking to his father. He greets us with curt formality and congratulates Gregor on his appointment to the burgh council. He avoids my eyes as he extends a gloved hand to help me into the back of the cart. You would never know that he and I spent every summer of our childhood together, playing in the woods of Heatherbrae. For years, we were inseparable. But he is a man now. As I look at him, I remember that verse from the Bible that Minister Gourlay once read to us, the one about putting away childish things. I want to ask Dalziel when he decided to put me away, but I just nod my thanks as I climb in next to Ishbel.

  ‘Farewell, Iona. Journey well.’ His dark blue eyes give me a look that makes my heart skip a beat.

  * * *

  Dougal Rennie keeps his eyes fixed on the road. A few miles out of Strathcraig, the uncomfortable silence gets too much for Ishbel and she begins her nervous chatter. She asks Dougal how it was to see Dalziel again, and did he not look well and so grown up, and will Dalziel be returning to Heatherbrae now or will he go back to Aberdeen, and does Dougal think his stores will hold through the rest of winter, and will we get an early spring this year, and does he —

  ‘Och, enough!’ Dougal growls. ‘Cease your clattering, woman, or I’ll set you down here and you can both walk home.’

  Ishbel mumbles an apology and makes a face behind his back. I shrug in reply. What did she expect? If it weren’t for the coins I saw Gregor slip Dougal at the stables, he’d never have agreed to take us. I’ve no doubt it pains him to be seen with Grizel Balfour’s kin. Even before she was arrested, Dougal had no love for my aunt.

  Grizel did everything she could to get Dalziel and his mother Aila away from Dougal. On countless occasions Grizel had tended to their injuries and insisted they stay at our bothy until Dougal’s drunken rages abated. It would always be the same: he would bang on Grizel’s door, weeping and begging Aila to come back home with promises it would never happen again. Grizel would counsel Aila not to return to him but she always did. Folk in Heatherbrae were surprised when Dalziel decided to take the cloth, but I wasn’t. Minister Gourlay saw to it that Dalziel escaped Heatherbrae after his mother died. It was he who arranged for Dalziel to study at the university in Aberdeen — far away from Dougal Rennie.

  ‘I’m never coming back, Iona,’ Dalziel had said to me the day he left Heatherbrae. Back then his words cut deep inside me, but now, as I watch his father’s meaty hands holding the reins, I understand the reason for his declaration. Even a few hours spent in Dougal’s morose company is an unnerving experience.

  * * *

  At the end of the long journey, Dougal stops the cart at the top of the track that leads to Gregor’s farmhouse. My legs are cramped from sitting for so long and I stop to shake out the tingling in my foot while Ishbel walks on ahead. As I approach the farmhouse, she calls for me to stay back. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen it. There’s blood spattered all over the front door. A sheep’s head lies wide-eyed in the dirt — a fresh kill by the looks of it. The back of Ishbel’s hand is to her mouth as she tries to stop herself being sick.

  I’m too stunned to move and stand rooted to the ground, staring at the gore splashed over the door and then back at the sheep’s head. By now Ishbel has composed herself and gives me a little shake, telling me to go inside and get the fire started. She stays outside to clean up the mess.

  Once inside, I sit down by the hearth and pick up a piece of flint, but my hands tremor so badly that I cannot make a spark.

  ‘Thank goodness Gregor didn’t have to see that,’ Ishbel huffs, wiping her hands on a rag now sullied with red streaks. At the sight of the bloody cloth, I burst into tears.


  ‘Cushie doo,’ she says gently, using Grizel’s name for me. ‘Go and change out of your good clothes. And wash your face; you’ve dirt from the road all over you.’

  I do as she bids, wondering how she can remain so calm. It’s not like Ishbel at all. It makes me feel better, though, to know that I’m not alone in all this. Now I can tell her what Grizel said and she won’t fall apart. She might even know what to do.

  ‘Ishbel . . .’

  ‘What is it? I need to get supper ready.’

  ‘I saw Grizel yesterday. In the Tolbooth. Before the . . . before.’

  Ishbel perches on the edge of Gregor’s muckle chair and I sit down opposite her on a low wooden stool. ‘Did anybody see you?’ she asks, frowning.

  ‘Nae, I was careful. But Grizel — she said some things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘She said we must leave Heatherbrae. She said it won’t be safe here now.’ With a shudder, I remember the touch of Grizel’s cold fingers; the fear in her voice.

  Ishbel sits back in the chair and regards me with wide eyes.

  ‘Where did she say we should go?’

  ‘Edinburgh. A friend of hers —’

  ‘Edinburgh!’ my sister echoes, as if I’d said Constantinople.

  ‘You saw the witch finder. He’ll come after us now.’ My aunt was the bravest person I’d ever known. She’d not have told us to flee our home unless she truly believed we had no other choice. Although Grizel never said as much, the witch finder wouldn’t need to talk to many folk in Heatherbrae to find out about the Balfours with the uncanny green eyes.

  ‘It’s winter,’ Ishbel protests. ‘This is no time to be on the road.’

  ‘It’d be safer than here!’

  Ishbel stands up and paces the room. ‘Don’t be a wee dafty. Gregor will protect us. He’s a councillor now.’

  The pride in her voice fills me with anger. ‘Aye,’ I say quietly. ‘Just like he protected Grizel.’