The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  For just a moment I see a flash of a bustling kitchen filled with squabbling servants; then I smell the row upon row of spitted capons roasting over the fire. But when I blink the scene disappears, and I’m standing in the musty dark with Cal and Creelman.

  Other than piles of mice droppings and spider webs everywhere, there are no signs of life. It’s so quiet that every footfall echoes off the flagstones.

  I’m surprised to find so much of the interior of the castle still intact. I was expecting it to be a blackened shell, but as much of the castle was built of stone, parts of it appear to be little damaged by the fire.

  As we approach the main staircase, Creelman warns us to be cautious. ‘The stones are uneven. Careful where you walk, now.’

  Creelman himself moves swiftly even though he holds the crusie and the stick with the coneys tied to it.

  At the top of the stairs there’s a landing that joins another long, dark hallway. To the left, a narrow turnpike stair leads up to a smaller landing and closed door. Creelman starts to head up the stair but Cal points to the black void. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Go have a keek, if you wish. It was once the great hall. Not much to see now.’ Creelman hands Cal the crusie.

  Not wanting to be left alone with Creelman, I follow Cal into the darkness. By the time I catch him, he’s standing at the mouth of an enormous hall. Part of the roof has caved in and the waxing moon peeks between two remaining roof beams. The walls are covered in soot and there’s a huge black stain in the middle of the stone floor. All the earl’s social gatherings would have been held here: festivities, grand receptions and dinners. Now it’s nothing more than a desolate ruin.

  ‘He’s right,’ says Cal. ‘There’s nothing to see.’

  But in a flash the scene changes. Blackened corpses are piled up in the hall. Then the bodies are gone, but skulls are strewn about and there are bones; bones everywhere. The smell of death is overwhelming. My legs waver and Cal catches me before I fall.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘This is where they burned them,’ I whisper.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m there. Or they’re here. I’m not sure, but I can see them. What’s left of them.’

  The dead. Their suffering has seeped into the stones of the castle. All those lives burned away. There was nobody to mourn them, no place for their souls to rest.

  All Cal can see is the ruined hall. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Let’s feast on those coneys. You’ll feel better with some food in you.’ He leads me back down the corridor and takes my arm after I nearly trip, so desperate am I to get away.

  Creelman is still waiting for us at the foot of the stairs leading up to the keep. ‘Everything all right?’ he asks.

  ‘Aye,’ says Cal. ‘Elspet was feeling faint. We’ve not eaten all day.’

  ‘You poor dear. Never mind. It’ll not take long for me to get these rabbits on the fire.’ He gives me another rat-toothed smile.

  ‘Very kind,’ I mumble, making a face at Cal behind his back.

  I try to follow Creelman up the narrow stair, but he drops back so we walk elbow to elbow. There is something about him — his vinegary odour, his fawning smile — that makes me want to run from this place and never return.

  ‘Wait until you see the keep. It’s still rather magnificent. Nobody ever comes up here. Allows me to get on with my work in peace.’

  When we reach the door, Creelman pushes it open, revealing a cavernous chamber with a fire glowing in the hearth. He sets the crusie down on a table and then lights a few candles, illuminating the chamber. Rows of shelves line the walls, most of which are crammed with books and scrolls of parchment piled high. On others there are bottles, jars and pots of all shapes and sizes covered in layers of dust and cobweb. Despite the dirt and damp, the keep is in reasonable repair. Moth-eaten tapestries hang from the walls, a remnant of the castle’s former splendour.

  Creelman walks over to the hearth and stokes it with some dry logs. Cal and I nudge each other out of the way so we can stand closest to it. I take off my wet cloak and throw it over a chair and Cal does the same. Then we watch Creelman slide the coneys onto an iron spit, which he hangs over the fire. I roll my eyes as Cal offers to turn the spit — not quite the selfless act it appears, but Creelman doesn’t seem to mind.

  Before too long, the chamber is warm and filled with the smell of roasting meat. My stomach grumbles loudly, that awful scene from the great hall all but forgotten. Cal was right: we would have been mad to turn down Creelman’s offer of shelter. I don’t know what I was so worried about. The dead will stay dead. They cannot hurt us.

  ‘You’ve heard the story of this castle, I trow,’ Creelman says as he pours cups of spiced ale for Cal and me. Then he goes to the other end of the chamber, takes something out of a small box and brings it over. When he draws near I see he is holding a fine chain, a silver locket swinging from its end. He opens it and shows me faded paintings of a young woman on the left side and a young man on the right.

  Creelman points to the woman. ‘Is she not lovely?’ he says. ‘Her name is Beitris.’

  The woman in the painting has golden hair and fine features. Her hair is scraped back in a plain style, but I can tell she is a beauty.

  ‘She died here,’ he continues. ‘She was a lady’s maid, and I was the steward of this castle. That was near forty years ago. We were to be married at Beltane.’ His eyes fill with tears and he dabs at them with his sleeve. I glance over at Cal, who shows no interest in Creelman’s tale. He’s too busy watching the coneys, willing them to cook faster.

  ‘What happened to her?’ I ask him. ‘Was it the pestilence?’

  Creelman nods. ‘It was early spring, following an unseasonable warm spell. In March of that year I journeyed with the earl and his family to Argyll. It was to be a brief sojourn; the earl’s wife had no need for Beitris so she stayed on here with most of the household. In anticipation of our separation I spent nearly all my earnings on this locket. I presented it to my future wife on the eve of my departure and vowed to her that once I returned we would never again be separated.’

  In the moment of silence that follows, Cal comments that the coneys are nearly done, but Creelman doesn’t seem to hear him. His eyes are glassy. It’s as though he is back there, in that other time.

  ‘In Argyll the earl received word that there’d been an outbreak of the plague at the castle. The burgh council of Dunshee had ordered a period of quaranta — forty days of isolation — with nobody allowed to enter or leave. I rode back to Dunshee at once, to wait for word that it was safe to return to the castle.’

  He takes a ragged breath. As the pause stretches out, I prod him gently. ‘And? What happened?’

  Creelman raises his empty palms. ‘No word ever came. Some of them ran. They didn’t dare stop at Dunshee, of course. I convinced myself Beitris had managed to escape, that she’d send a message to me once she was safe. For months I waited. The little money I had left soon ran out. Folk told me that the castle was lost and I should find another position. But I could never leave my Beitris.’ His mouth twists into a grimace.

  ‘Nobody from Dunshee would go to the castle to bring out the dead. So many died that they put the bodies in the courtyard, and when that was full they piled them in the great hall — that hall yonder, at the end of the passageway.’

  I shudder, his words reminding me of the gruesome scene I witnessed for just a few moments.

  ‘Weeks and then months passed. All communication ceased and we presumed nobody was left alive. The earl sent word that his family would never return to the castle. The burgh council petitioned him that something be done about the bodies, so he ordered the castle to be burned.’

  ‘But how did they burn the castle if nobody would go inside?’ I ask.

  Creelman nods, acknowledging my question. ‘The earl offered a large purse of silver and three men from Dunshee volunteered. I decided to join them — not for the silver, but to s
ee if I could find out what happened to Beitris. We transported barrels of tar in a cart. We wore leather masks with long beaks filled with heather and whin to protect us from the disease.’

  Cal waves at me to get my attention, then shows me a part-eaten coney and beckons me to join him. I scowl at him but he shrugs. Thankfully the old man cannot see. Despite my hunger and exhaustion, I’m transfixed by Creelman’s tale and want him to continue.

  ‘Two of the men carried tar barrels upstairs into the great hall and lit them. I stayed outside and helped the other man pour tar on the corpses in the courtyard. It was ghastly and the stench was overwhelming. Still, I searched each blackened face, but Beitris was not among them. I felt buoyed then, clinging to the hope that she had indeed escaped. That was until the men returned from the great hall.’

  He pauses, wiping a speck of white foam from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What happened when they returned?’

  He clears his throat and inhales deeply, as if to draw up the strength to continue.

  ‘One of the men — Fraser was his name; I can still see him: a base sort of fellow — he said something about a small group living together in one of the upper chambers but said they were near dead from starvation. I said to him, “Folk are still alive? Then we must set them free!” The fire was lit by now, but I was determined to go inside. It took all three of them to hold me back.

  ‘“It’s too late,” Fraser said. “You cannot save them. We put a barrel in their chamber and locked the door.”

  ‘I could not believe what I was hearing. “Murderer!” I screamed at him. I put my hands around his throat and very nearly throttled him. But the others knocked me over the head. Tied me up and left me there, the savages!

  ‘After I came to my senses, all I could do was sit and watch the castle burn. As the fire raged, I looked up and, for just a moment, I caught a glimpse of someone banging on the upstairs window. It was Beitris.

  ‘I knew I had to get inside. It took some time to free myself from the ropes and break down the side door. By then, the worst of the fire had burned out. Once I reached the upper chamber there was nobody left alive. I saw this very locket, clasped in the hand of one of the bodies. My Beitris.’

  Creelman falls silent, his face waxy and drained. I drop my eyes to the floor. He lost his sweetheart decades ago, but the horror of it has not left him. I cannot help but feel for him, as his words bring back the memory of Grizel’s death: those awful last moments that I’ve tried so hard not to think about.

  There follows an awkward silence, until Cal pipes up, ‘Will you not have some of this food? It’s delicious. So tender!’

  Cal holds out a hind quarter. Creelman doesn’t move, other than to put his head in his hands, his fingers pressing against his temples. So as not to disturb him, I tiptoe over to join Cal.

  We eat in silence for a while until Creelman shakes off his memories. ‘Where are my manners? Ah, but you’ve helped yourselves.’

  ‘There’s plenty left,’ says Cal. ‘Here, have some.’

  Creelman declines with a wave of his hand. ‘Nae, not for me. It’s a braw thing, seeing you two enjoy them so.’

  I nod but can’t speak as the meat has burned my tongue. He laughs, his bulging eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Have some more ale,’ he says, filling my cup.

  Cal is already on to the second coney when he says, ‘Are you sure you’ll not have any, Mr Creelman?’

  The old man shakes his head. ‘I do not eat animal flesh. It interferes with my work.’

  The uneasy feeling suddenly returns. ‘But when we met you in the woods, you’d just cleared your traps.’

  ‘Aye, they were for you,’ the old man replies, a smile twitching on his lips.

  I drop the cup but it’s too late. The room swims in front of my eyes.

  ‘Cal?’

  He passes out in front of me.

  THE OFFERING AND THE VESSEL

  It’s well past dawn when I wake. Bright morning sun streams through the unshuttered windows, casting a pale gold light on our predicament. Cal is on his back, spread-eagled on a long wooden table. His limbs are tied fast to each corner, with the rope wound tightly around each table leg.

  Creelman has tied me to a rickety wooden chair that creaks under my weight. My hands are behind my back, the ropes cutting into the soft flesh on my wrists as I struggle to free them. My feet are bound to the front legs of the chair.

  There’s no sign of Creelman. I call to Cal but he has not yet woken from whatever it was the old man put in the ale.

  After a long wait, the door swings open and in walks Creelman.

  ‘Roused at last,’ he says when he sees me. ‘I was rather concerned I’d got the measure of henbane wrong, but all’s well.’

  ‘All’s well? How can you say that? Let us go! You’ve no business keeping us here.’ All the while I struggle against the ropes, as the chair creaks precariously.

  Creelman observes me with cool detachment, then walks over to Cal and prods his shoulder. Cal gives a groggy moan, still dozened by the henbane. ‘The lad will wake soon, then we can begin.’

  ‘Begin what?’ I ask. ‘This has something to do with Beitris, doesn’t it?’

  He pulls up a stool and sits opposite me. ‘Do you know what happened after I found her? That night I walked back to Dunshee and found Fraser and the others in the alehouse, drinking to their newfound wealth. They laughed at me when I asked for my share of the purse and chased me out like a mangy cur. So I waited until they were drunk, and followed Fraser as he came staggering out. It was the last mistake he ever made. Naturally, everybody assumed he was jumped by cutthroats who were out for his silver.’

  ‘You mean, you killed him?’ My voice comes out in a squeak.

  He scowls at me, displeased with the question. ‘Any man would do as I did, if they lost the thing most precious to them. Do not waste a moment feeling sorry for that knave.’

  With a sinking feeling, I realise the situation is far worse than I’d first thought. If he can justify murdering Fraser without showing even a hint of remorse, then he’s capable of anything.

  He continues. ‘There was nothing left for me in Dunshee, so I journeyed to Edinburgh. I’d heard whispers about a secret society of mages. A guild of men learned in the magical arts. Alchemists, astrologers, theurgists . . .’

  My heart stops for a moment. ‘The Guild of the Green Lion?’

  Creelman rubs his scraggly white beard. ‘How is it you’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Did you meet a man called Angus Ancroft?’ My voice is shaking with anticipation now.

  ‘Ancroft? Nae, nobody by that name. There was another man I’d sought out. Wishart. It was rumoured he knew how to bring back the dead. It took me a long time to convince him to take me on as an apprentice. Only after many years of diligent study did my master share his most wonderful secret. And when I had what I needed, I returned here.’

  My sense of dread grows. Grizel would never brook any request for magic that involved necromancy. The living have no business troubling the dead, she always said. Death touches us all at one time or another. We must bear this burden as best we can.

  Though Grizel would never speak of such things to me, Ishbel had once confided that it was indeed possible to bring back the dead. Necromancy was the darkest of all magic, as it involved troking with demons. Ishbel said Grizel knew how to do it, but she had refused to teach Ishbel, telling her that the price of such magic was too high. It’s a place from which the spell-forger cannot return whole, my sister had said. You must summon a demon to aid the ritual, and the demon will demand a piece of your soul as recompense.

  The more Creelman reveals of his story, the sicker I feel. He’s a murderer and he has something awful in store for Cal and me. Our only hope is if I can keep him talking, change his mind somehow.

  ‘Tell me more about Beitris. What sort of person —’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ he says flatly. ‘Her shade is here, like
so many of the others. I came back here to be close to her. I could never touch her, never hold her. Until now. I’ve waited such a long time for the offering and the vessel.’

  ‘The what? What does that mean?’

  ‘Enough of this talk. I’ve kept my beloved waiting long enough. It is time to prepare.’

  Creelman walks to the other side of the chamber and returns carrying a small table that he covers with a scarlet cloth. Underneath each leg of the table he positions discs of wax with strange carvings on them. He sets an unlit candle at one end of the table. Next to it, he places a black bowl and pours in some resinous crystals from a jar. He puts a silver cup on the other side of the table and fills it with water. Opposite the candle he puts a small black bowl into which he adds a handful of salt. I’d seen Grizel prepare for magic rituals many times before and I know the articles on the altar represent fire, air, water and earth.

  ‘You cannot truly mean to do this,’ I say. ‘This magic — it’s dangerous. It’s forbidden! Nobody is supposed to bring back the dead.’

  Creelman ignores me as he kneels on the floor in front of the altar. With a piece of charcoal, he draws an elaborate symbol on the floor, a sigil of some kind. Then he leaves the room without another word.

  The ropes around my wrists are knotted in such a way that they tighten the more I struggle against them. I’m forced to sit still and wait for Creelman to return, my mind racing, trying to figure out exactly what he has planned for us. The offering and the vessel.

  Presently, a soft groan comes from the table.

  ‘Cal, wake up!’

  He groans again, then cranes his neck to see me. ‘Oh, my head. What happened?’

  ‘The old man drugged us with henbane. I’m tied up, same as you.’

  ‘I knew there was something off about him.’

  I snort. ‘What? You couldn’t wait to follow him into a haunted castle! Stupid wolf.’