The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  There comes the sound of male voices shouting in the alleyway above us.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Cal cries.

  I blink at him.

  ‘Down here,’ comes a familiar voice. ‘The tunnel.’

  Dalziel. On hearing his voice, something changes. It’s as if someone has slapped me out of my stupor.

  ‘Look!’ I say to Cal, pointing to the gate. ‘We can squeeze through.’ The iron bars are spaced wide enough for a slender person to wedge himself between them.

  He looks uncertain. ‘You first.’

  I shake my head. ‘Nae, you. You’re skinnier.’

  He steps both legs through with ease, then his torso with a little more effort. His head nearly gets stuck but I push his crown with my hand until finally he’s able to wrench it through.

  ‘Go,’ I say. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  Boots clamber down the wooden stair.

  I pull the bloodstone from around my neck and thrust it into Cal’s outstretched hand.

  ‘It’s me they want, not you. Take the stone to Edinburgh. Find Angus Ancroft. Look for the Green Lion.’

  ‘Iona, please!’

  ‘Better one free than both captured. Ancroft. Don’t let me down.’

  Finster, Dalziel and several soldiers burst into the chamber as Cal’s fingers curl around the bloodstone. One of the soldiers has his claymore drawn and he strikes at Cal through the bars. Cal clumsily tries to dodge the blade but it makes contact, the sharp edge slicing his shoulder.

  ‘Cal, run!’ I scream.

  ‘Where’s the key?’ Finster demands as Cal’s retreating footsteps echo from the tunnel.

  Finster and the soldiers are distracted and I seize the opportunity to try to get away, but my path is blocked by Dalziel. He grabs me in an awkward embrace then shoves me towards one of the soldiers, who roughly shackles my wrists together.

  Dalziel then holds out his hand, offering the key to Finster in his upturned palm.

  ‘Judas!’ I spit at him.

  A soldier cuffs me with his mail-covered wrist. I fall to my knees, blood trickling down the side of my head.

  ‘Take her to the Tolbooth,’ says Finster. ‘I’ll deal with her there. She can join her friend Euan in the cells. And find out where the tunnel leads. I want the boy — alive or dead. Go!’

  My heart pounds. They already have Euan in a dungeon, and Cal’s stumbling through the dark woods, wounded and bleeding.

  ‘Meister!’ I cry. ‘I’ll go quietly with you, if you promise me no harm will come to my friends. They’ve done nothing.’

  Finster turns to look at me. ‘You’re in no position to make demands, Iona Balfour,’ he replies, with a coldness in his voice to match his eyes. ‘See to it she gets to the Tolbooth,’ he says to Dalziel, who nods in assent.

  ‘You should’ve listened to me,’ Dalziel murmurs as he seizes my arm. ‘Why did you not leave Dunshee like I told you? I’ll not be able to save you now.’

  THE WITCH PRICKER

  Days pass before I see Finster again. Perhaps three. Or is it five? It’s hard to know how many. They put me in a cell below the Tolbooth. Time loses its meaning when you cannot see the sun.

  My eyes burn with sleeplessness. I can barely keep them open. Two men work in shifts outside my cell, their candle the only light down here. Watchers, they’re called. Whenever I start to fall asleep, they use an iron bar to bang on the wooden door of my cell. The few times I do manage to fall asleep, they throw a bucket of icy water over me.

  The only sign of life other than the watchers are the black rats that share the cell. They make their nests in the dirty straw, each night growing bolder. Now they nip at my toes. I scream at them to get away, but the watchers just laugh as I fight them off.

  And I’ve never been so hungry. Once a day they give me a hunk of hard bread and a cup of water with bits of dirt floating in it. I only take tiny sips of the water, trying to strain it with my teeth.

  The waiting is the worst of it. My mind plays all kinds of tricks. I keep seeing things. Grizel and Ishbel — they reach out to me with their cold hands. Once, I called out to Grizel to save me from this place, from the witch finder, but the watcher hauled me to my feet and made me stand with my forehead pressed to the stone wall, for hours it seemed, until I fell to the ground.

  I don’t mind the thought of dying so much. It’s what comes before that fills my heart with dread. I remember how Grizel looked that day. The wise woman of Heatherbrae, the strongest person I’ve ever known, brought low by torture and humiliation.

  And with a deep and relentless ache inside, I remember what Grizel told me that last day. Don’t use magic. Stay out of the towns and villages. Guard the bloodstone with your life. I didn’t heed her warnings and now look where it’s got me.

  All my hope now rests with Cal: I pray to Bride she protects him on the journey to Edinburgh, and that he’ll be able to find Angus Ancroft when he gets there. If he makes it, then at least something will have come of this. It won’t all have been for nocht.

  * * *

  A guard unlocks the door — a new one, not a watcher. He stands over me, holding a lamp that he shines in my face. I squint at the light, too tired to move, until he jerks me up by my shackled wrists. He ignores my cry of pain and without a word leads me out of the cell, up one flight of stairs and another, then down a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway he raps on a closed door.

  Somebody bids him come in. The door swings open. Inside a large chamber Finster sits in a leather chair, warming himself by the fire. It’s morning and the sunlight streams through an undressed window, hurting my eyes.

  ‘Iona Balfour,’ he says as I enter. ‘How are you feeling this fine morn? I must say, the air is brisk and dry in this part of the country. Good for the constitution.’ His eyes twinkle with amusement.

  Inside me, fear battles exhaustion, subduing it. Suddenly I feel awake, alert.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Finster up close. He is quite old; perhaps forty. He’s a large man with a barrel chest. Today, his wheaten hair frames his face in carefully sculpted wisps. His square face and broad forehead would be unremarkable, neither handsome nor plain, if it weren’t for those ice blue eyes. They shine with an otherworldly light, the same way Balfour eyes are green and the Alderwoods’ are gold. And now those eyes are fixed on me.

  ‘The food is such a disappointment, though,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Oats for breakfast, oats for dinner, oats for supper. Oats, oats and more oats. Where I come from, we feed them to our horses.’ He chuckles.

  I glance at the guard, whose jaw tightens.

  ‘Let me go!’ A familiar voice comes from behind the closed door and I hear the sound of someone striking a blow.

  ‘Cal?’ I throw a wild look at Finster, who gives me a wink as he opens the door.

  Cal is in the hallway, on his knees, with his hands tied. His lip is cut and his left eye is swollen shut.

  ‘What have you done?’ I scream at Finster. ‘Cal!’ I try to run to him but the witch hunter grabs my arm to hold me back.

  ‘My men found your friend lurking outside the Tolbooth just before dawn. He was trying to find a way in. To rescue you, doubtless. Sadly, he failed.’ Finster beckons to the guard, who leads Cal into the chamber by the ear and forces him to kneel.

  ‘Do you have it?’ Finster asks the guard.

  The man hands something over. Even before Finster opens his palm to show me, I know what it is.

  The witch hunter has my bloodstone.

  ‘Your friend was carrying this when he was captured and he fought hard to protect it. Do you know what it is?’

  I press my lips together and shake my head, praying he can’t hear the thumping of my heart.

  ‘Means nothing to you?’

  ‘Nae,’ I whisper.

  ‘Then you’ll not care if I get rid of it. Baird, give it to the blacksmith. Ask him to smash it to pieces.’

  ‘Stop!’ If he destroys the bloodstone, then al
l hope is lost.

  The witch finder raises his hand to his ear in a theatrical manner. ‘Hmmm? Did you say something?’

  I bite my lip. Hundreds of thoughts are racing through my head but I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t play straight into Finster’s hands.

  ‘You said before that you didn’t want me to hurt your friend. I’m a reasonable man, so I’ll give you a choice. You can save the boy —’ he nods to Cal ‘— or you can save this.’ He holds the leather cord from his fingertips so the bloodstone is level with my eyes.

  My gaze swings wildly from the bloodstone to Cal. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. My friend hangs his head, refusing to look at me.

  It’s like my heart is being ripped in two. It’s an impossible choice: if I save Cal, then the bloodstone will be destroyed. Gone forever.

  ‘I’m waiting. Surely Calum Alderwood’s life is more valuable than this worthless bauble. Well then. How about I sweeten the deal? If you choose your friend, he’ll walk out of here unharmed. Right this moment.’

  The bloodstone is a part of me. Grizel said it holds the magic of our family’s ancestral line. It’s all I have left of the Balfours. And I promised Grizel. I’m the guardian and I promised her. I said I’d protect it with my life . . .

  ‘I need your decision. Now.’

  I swallow hard.

  ‘Cal.’ My voice comes out in a croak. ‘I choose Cal.’

  Forgive me, Grizel.

  ‘Very well.’ Finster hands the bloodstone back to the guard called Baird. ‘Make sure you watch the blacksmith destroy it. But first, take the boy downstairs. I’ll deal with him later.’

  ‘Iona?’ Cal calls to me, confusion in his eyes, as the guards drag him out the door.

  Panic fills my whole body and I feel like I can’t breathe.

  ‘Wait! You just said Cal would leave here unharmed.’

  Finster walks up to me and grabs a fistful of my hair. His face is inches away from mine.

  ‘I do not bargain with servants of the Devil, Iona Balfour. The sooner you understand that, the better.’

  ‘Cal!’ I scream, as the guard drags him out of the chamber. The door slams shut behind them.

  ‘Enough of these dramatics. We’ve a long day ahead of us. Go, sit.’ He gives me a little push towards a wooden stool opposite his leather chair.

  I sit as ordered, but Finster doesn’t. Instead, he stands gazing out the window.

  I tuck my hands beneath my thighs and blink back my tears. Don’t let them see you cry.

  ‘What will you do to him?’ I ask.

  ‘You should worry less about your friend and more about yourself. He can keep his cousin company in the dungeon for a time.’

  ‘Euan? But he didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must disagree. He harboured a wanted fugitive in his home. He must be made an example.’

  I feel like I might throw up. ‘And Bessie? The bairn?’

  ‘Bairn? Who do you —? Oh! You mean the young girl. I am still getting used to your Scots words. She’s presented an interesting theological conundrum. I’ve written to the Archbishop for guidance. My view is that she has been tainted by the unnatural act that kept her alive, but your old friend Mr Rennie thinks otherwise. He’s argued that the child is innocent and should be spared. He made a compelling case. So you see, Iona Balfour, I’m giving it due consideration.’

  ‘It’s just Iona. You don’t have to keep saying my last name.’

  ‘One must use the true name of a creature of magic. You cannot use your power against me if I call you by your true name.’

  A bitter laugh escapes my lips. ‘What power? I’m hardly a threat to you. My life is in your hands.’

  ‘So it may seem in this world of appearances. But we both know that is not the end of the matter.’

  There’s a knock at the door and Finster opens it.

  Dalziel enters the chamber, carrying a bronze censer billowing fragrant smoke. He swings it about, deliberately avoiding my eyes as he passes me.

  ‘Are you Romish now, Dalziel?’ I ask him. He doesn’t answer, but only glances at Finster.

  ‘This is an ancient method to cleanse a space of evil influence. True, the papists use it. For centuries, they have waged war against the Enemy. I am interested only in methods that work, not their origin. I have discussed this at length with the king. His Grace has licensed me to use any means necessary to rid his kingdom of witchcraft. So you see how important you are, that King James himself would take up his valuable time with such matters. Hmmm?’ He gives a tight smile, his thin lips disappearing against his teeth, then waves a hand at Dalziel. ‘Enough of this, it’s making my eyes water. Send for Leitch.’

  While we wait for Dalziel to return, the witch finder stands in front of the hearth staring into the flames, his hands clasped behind his back. His sudden silence unnerves me. At least when he’s talking I don’t feel so scared. It’s like we have work to do together — even though I know that his work is to break me.

  ‘I thought you were going to question me,’ I say.

  ‘All in good time, Iona Balfour. First, we must gather the evidence we need.’

  A drop of sweat forms on my brow and trickles down the side of my face. I’d wipe my face with my hand, but I don’t want the witch finder to see how badly I’m trembling.

  The door swings open again and Dalziel leads in an old man. He has a humpback and what little hair remains on his head hangs from his speckled scalp in oily, yellow-white strands. He wears a soiled black coat over his black breeks. Covering the bottom half of his bandy legs are yellowed woollen hose that might once have been white.

  ‘Well now,’ the old man says to Finster as he approaches me for closer inspection. ‘She’s a bonnie lass, this one. Fairer than the usual old hags, Meister. I shall enjoy my work this day.’

  I shrink away from the old man, my heart pounding with fear. He stinks of rotting meat and I don’t want him coming anywhere near me. I shoot Dalziel a panicked look but he continues to avoid my eyes.

  ‘Get to work, Leitch.’ Finster sounds impatient. ‘I’m not paying for your chatter.’

  Leitch shuffles to the wooden table. ‘Paying?’ he mutters. ‘I’ve not seen a bodle. You’ve got me on commission. I’ve had to journey all the way from Aberdeen on my own purse! And with the city teeming with witches. I could’ve made enough to live on for a year if I’d stayed.’

  ‘Enough!’ Finster barks.

  I jump with fright and so does Dalziel, but the old man looks unfazed.

  From inside his coat Leitch takes out a calfskin roll and lays it on the table. ‘Bring her over here.’ He jerks a filthy forefinger at Dalziel, who tries to take my arm, but I pull it away.

  ‘I can still walk,’ I growl at him.

  ‘Take off your clothing,’ Leitch says, busying himself at the table.

  My face burns. ‘I will not!’ I say, with shock and indignation.

  ‘Take off your gown and your smallclothes and lie face down on the table,’ Leitch says, louder and slower, as if talking to a simpleton.

  I look at him askance. ‘Nae, I will not. Dalziel!’ I turn to face him, to force him to look at me, to acknowledge what the old man has just asked of me, but he walks away and stands next to Finster.

  Another betrayal; this time he condemns me by his silence. All I want to do is run: run out of this chamber, out of the Tolbooth, out of Dunshee. But there’s no escape. In my desperation, my eyes land on Finster. ‘Please,’ I beg him.

  ‘Take off your clothing or Leitch will cut it off you,’ Finster says flatly.

  ‘Done that before,’ Leitch agrees, pursing his wet lips.

  With shaking fingers, I untie the laces of my bodice as slowly as I can.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Leitch urges as I slip off my bodice and skirt, and then my petticoats, until I’m standing in front of three grown men in nothing but my shift. My eyes sting with salty tears.

  ‘That comes off
too,’ says Leitch.

  I’m weeping now. At least Dalziel has the decency to turn his back.

  ‘Do not turn away,’ Finster says to him. ‘You must see her for what she is. Not your childhood friend, but an agent of Satan. Never forget it.’

  Dalziel nods, accepting his mentor’s correction without question. His eyes meet mine for the first time since he entered the room. They shine with superiority and something else — exhilaration.

  I turn from his gaze as I step out of my shift, covering myself as best I can with my hands. Leitch snorts. ‘D’you think I’ve not seen pappies before? There,’ he says, pointing to the table. ‘Lie down on your front.’

  This is the first time in my life I’ve ever been naked in front of anybody except Grizel and Ishbel. The room is warm from the fire but I can’t stop shivering.

  I lie face down like I’m told. Leitch runs his calloused hands over my skin, starting with my back, then over my buttocks and legs. I shrink at his touch, each muscle tensing in turn. This is worse than torture. This is worse than somebody trying to kill you.

  ‘The skin is remarkably unblemished,’ I hear Leitch say. ‘A few freckles. One or two moles — we will test them. Other side.’ He jabs me in the arm with his finger.

  I roll onto my back, telling myself the ordeal will end sooner if I do as he says.

  His fingers run over the skin of my chest and belly. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if not seeing them standing over me will somehow mean it’s not real.

  ‘Ah,’ says Leitch. ‘A possible candidate.’ His fingertips prod a spot on my side, just underneath my ribcage. I have a small birthmark there. I open my eyes to see Finster and Leitch peering at it.

  I open my mouth to explain but instead I let out a shriek of pain.

  ‘What was that?’ I cry.

  ‘Don’t squirm,’ Leitch chides me. In his hand is a bodkin.

  ‘She feels pain, so it’s not the witch mark,’ he tells Finster.