The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  It’s late afternoon when Finster opens the door of the upstairs chamber the next day. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes twinkle. His clothes have been pressed and his boots shine with a fresh coat of dubbin. There’s no sign of Dalziel.

  ‘Iona Balfour,’ says Finster. ‘I hope you’ve spent the night reflecting on our last conversation? I shall have my answer —’

  ‘Where’s Cal?’ I interrupt.

  Finster rubs his chin, as if considering how much to tell me. ‘Your friend is safely tucked away. It was fascinating to watch his metamorphosis. I once agreed with the king’s view that the werewolf was but a creature of myth, but now I stand corrected. I’ve offered to send His Grace the pelt.’ His mouth curves in a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘But Dalziel told me King Jamie’s coming here, to Dunshee, to see for himself,’ I say.

  The comment has the desired effect. Finster’s neck turns red with a rage that I can see him struggling to suppress. Dalziel will bear the brunt of that rage. It will be my parting gift to him.

  ‘How is your thumb?’ Finster asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

  I raise my left hand for him to see. The thumb has swollen to near twice its size.

  ‘We will get that seen to in a moment,’ says Finster. ‘While we’re alone, I’d like to give you one last chance. Mr Rennie might also have mentioned that the pilliwinks were only the beginning. I’m prepared to spare you the worst of what’s to come, if you tell me about the stone. You have my word that you’ll receive a merciful death, a swift death. When the time comes.’

  As if I could ever trust this man’s word after what he did to Cal.

  ‘I told you,’ I respond. ‘I don’t know anything about —’

  He grabs my hand and presses down on my wounded thumb until I fall to my knees with pain. My mouth opens in a silent cry but no sound comes out.

  ‘What powers does it hold?’ he demands, his blue eyes lit with fury. ‘How do I access them?’

  I crumple to the floor, shaking my head.

  ‘You will tell me, or you’ll be dead by nightfall.’

  ‘The hole,’ I croak.

  Finster lets go of my hand and I fight back the desire to vomit. I double over and take a deep breath. ‘Grizel said . . .’

  ‘What? What did she say?’

  ‘She said you must pass yourself through the hole in the centre. I didn’t understand and there was no time for her to explain. But I think I’ve finally worked it out. If you could just show me the stone — if it wasn’t destroyed, that is . . .’

  He gives out a laugh; an unexpected response given his anger only moments ago. ‘I warned you, I can always tell when somebody is lying. And you are lying to me now.’

  He hits me with a force that takes my breath away. I stumble backwards and bang my head on the table as I fall on the floor.

  He’s upon me now, his clenched fist about to come down on me.

  The door bursts open. ‘Meister!’ Dalziel and a guard are standing in the doorway; Dalziel is open-mouthed with shock.

  Finster stands and smooths down his coat. ‘We must finish the preparations,’ he says calmly. ‘Get her cleaned up.’

  The guard grabs my arm and forces me to my feet. I exchange a look with Dalziel, for a moment feeling a twinge of regret for revealing to Finster what Dalziel said. I’d always suspected the witch finder would be a cruel master; now I’m certain of it.

  The guard leads me down the hallway and takes me into another chamber, where a woman awaits. She is old, dressed in a black gown; her steel grey hair is pulled back from her face and covered by a crisp white kertch.

  A steaming tub of hot water sits in the middle of the room. The woman pulls my clothes off me and orders me to climb into the tub. I sink into the water, all the filth and caked blood soaking away. The woman takes a scrubbing brush and scours my skin so hard I cry out for her to stop. The wounds from Leitch’s needle open, staining the water red.

  She hauls me out of the tub and dries me with a rough linen towel. Then she dresses me in a clean shift and striped petticoat underneath a peat-coloured skirt, before roughly lacing me up in a bodice. She binds my thumb in a bandage. I can’t help but wonder why Finster would go to so much bother to clean me up when all he plans to do is kill me.

  The witch hunter enters the room just as the woman drapes a length of plaid around my shoulders.

  ‘Is she ready?’ he asks the woman.

  ‘Aye, but I can’t do much with the lass. Look at the state of her. She’s a mess!’

  Instead of returning to the chamber with the fireplace, Finster leads me down a flight of stairs and out through the back door of the Tolbooth. There is a cart waiting outside, enclosed with iron bars — the kind they use for thieves and murderers.

  Two guards stand beside it talking quietly. One of them, a stocky fellow with a bull neck and small eyes, looks me up and down the same way Gregor used to. Then he shackles my hands and feet. Finster speaks in a low voice to the other guard, an older man with thinning grey hair, before disappearing around the side of the building.

  ‘Black moon,’ the thickset guard complains to the older man once Finster is out of earshot. ‘We’ll not be able to see the road.’

  ‘It’s not far, Nairn. Horses know the way.’

  ‘Still, I don’t see why we couldn’t wait until the morrow. Black moons are unchancy.’

  The older man looks resigned to the task. ‘Get on with it, and stop complaining.’

  The guard called Nairn looks at me again. To avoid his gaze I drop my eyes to the ground. In the flicker of the lamplight I catch sight of a large black feather lying near my feet. Pretending to cough, I bend to pick it up. By the look of its blue-black sheen, it’s the tail feather of a raven. Grizel always said that ravens were messengers from the Unseen world. Taking it as a good omen, I hide the feather under my cloak.

  Finster returns, accompanied by Dalziel. The witch finder addresses the older guard. ‘We’ll meet you at the house, Forbes. Keep the horses under close rein,’ he cautions.

  Forbes gives a small bow. Then Finster and Dalziel climb astride Finster’s mare and ride towards the town gates at a canter.

  Forbes helps me into the back of the cart, as my hands and feet are chained. Stepping over a pile of rags in the corner, I take a seat on the wooden bench. The pile of rags moves slightly. I nudge it with my foot and it groans and shifts. The top of a head emerges; a streak of ginger hair.

  ‘Cal!’ I kneel beside him and peel the rags from his face. His left eye is purple. His nose is caked with blood and looks like it’s broken.

  ‘It’s Iona,’ I whisper. ‘Can you hear me?’

  His right eyelid flutters open and I look into his golden eye. ‘Witch,’ he murmurs. He tries to smile but all he can manage is a grimace of pain.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ I ask him.

  He lifts up his sark to show me. The pale skin of his torso is streaked purple, red and yellow. There’s a bruise in the rough shape of a man’s foot. Some of his ribs look broken.

  I slide down next to him and cradle his head in my lap. ‘What can I do?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head and takes hold of my hand. My eyes fill with tears.

  Nairn glares at us through the bars. ‘What’s going on in there? Stop talking or I’ll have you flogged. You, lass! Get away from him, he’s filthy. Better yet, you can ride up front with me.’

  When Nairn comes around to fetch me, I press the raven’s feather into Cal’s hand. ‘Black moon,’ I whisper.

  Nairn takes hold of the chain that links the shackles on my wrists and pulls me towards him. I stumble out of the cart and fall roughly into his arms. He laughs. He smells like he’s spent all day at the alehouse.

  ‘Nairn!’ Forbes chastises him.

  ‘Och, a bit of sport is all. You ride on ahead; I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘You heard him. We’re supposed to ride together.’

  Nairn laughs. ‘I think I can handle
a wee lassie! And that lad is in no state to cause me any bother.’

  After hesitating, Forbes nods and then mounts his horse.

  As I watch him ride through the gates, I find myself wishing he’d stayed close. Nairn grins at me, pinching my cheek.

  With my hands and feet bound I struggle to step up to the driver’s seat. Nairn grabs me under the arms and lifts me up next to him.

  ‘I’m right here,’ I say over my shoulder. Cal is struggling to sit up. He rolls himself onto one side and then pushes up with his hands until his back is resting against one of the bars. He’s holding the feather in his hand.

  Nairn clicks his tongue and the horses lurch forwards.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask him.

  ‘They warned me about you. I’m not supposed to say.’

  ‘They were right to warn you. I’m dangerous. Safer if you put me back in the cart.’

  Nairn grins. ‘You look harmless enough to me. ’Sides, it’s a cold night. I need a body to keep me warm.’ He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to him. Smothering my disgust, I try to ignore his embrace. But as we ride on, his hand burrows under my plaid until it reaches the top of my bodice.

  Stunned, I move away, but his arm stiffens, holding me fast. His hot words are in my ear. ‘Do you want me to hurt your friend?’

  I shake my head, terrified.

  ‘Because I will. I’ll hurt him and it’ll be all your fault. Understand?’

  I nod slowly, tears stinging my eyes.

  ‘Then do as I say, and we’ll both enjoy the journey.’ He squeezes my bandaged thumb until I cry out in pain.

  Behind us, a strange sound comes from the back of the cart.

  ‘It’s alright, Cal.’ I look over my shoulder, to reassure him. What I see there makes me turn back to Nairn. To distract him, I say, ‘Very well. I’ll do as you wish, but only if you promise not to hurt my friend.’

  Nairn puts his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me close to him.

  ‘Give me a kiss,’ he says.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a dark mass moving overhead. Then it dives towards us. I pull away from Nairn, and duck.

  The next thing I hear is the sound of Nairn’s panicked screams. An enormous raven has launched itself at his head. The guard tries to beat it away with his left hand, while his right holds tight to the reins. His face, meanwhile, is left unprotected. Moments later his shrieks fill the air.

  After a short, frenzied attack the raven flies up and lands on the iron bars of the cart, a dark shadow against the stars. A golden eye peers down at me.

  ‘Kaaaark,’ the raven calls. ‘Kaarrk. Kaaaarrrkk!’

  I turn to Nairn. There’s a deep laceration on his forehead and what looks like a claw mark running from above his right eye all the way down his cheek. His free hand tries to wipe the blood away, but instead he smears it over his face, with gruesome effect. Blood trickles down his cheek and drips onto his clothes.

  The raven flaps its wings and soon circles high above us, barely visible in the moonless sky. Then it swoops down towards the horses.

  The horses shy and then bolt. In the commotion, Nairn drops the reins. I struggle to hang on to my seat as the horses gallop down the road.

  Nairn stands and tries to grab the reins but now he can’t reach them. The horses race through the darkness, their speed unchecked. I can’t see where we’re going.

  A rider gallops towards us. It’s Forbes. He steers his horse alongside ours, then somehow manages to grab the reins. The horses slow to a canter, then a lively trot. Eventually the cart judders to a halt. I’m out of breath, my whole body shaking with fright.

  Forbes explodes. ‘Are you a complete and utter fool, man? How could you let this happen?’ Forbes stops short when he sees Nairn’s bloody face. ‘Good God! What happened?’

  ‘She did this! She summoned a winged creature to attack me.’

  Forbes looks away, blenching.

  ‘How bad is it?’ asks Nairn.

  ‘I — I cannot say,’ replies the older man, pressing a knuckle to his pursed lips. He composes himself quickly. ‘They’re sure to have a physician at the house. He may be able to do something for you. I’ll take her with me,’ he continues. ‘You drive on with the lad. Do you think you can manage that?’

  Nairn nods, but he is weeping with fright and pain.

  I glance over my shoulder. The bundle of rags is still piled in the back of the cart as if Cal were passed out inside. The raven is nowhere to be seen.

  Journey well, my friend!

  Without a word to me, Forbes lifts me onto the crupper of his courser so that I am sitting with my shackled legs hanging over the side, and orders me to hold on tight to his waist. I look back at Nairn, who draws a bloodied forefinger slowly across his throat.

  I wonder if I should try to explain myself to Forbes, but there’s no time. We ride off down the road at a gallop. Forbes whips his mount so hard I’m fearful I’ll fall off at this speed. We are moving so fast it takes my breath away. In the darkness, the landscape flashes by unseen. There are no landmarks or lights on the road and I can barely make out the road ahead. But the courser appears to know the way, just as he had said.

  After a time, we arrive at a set of wrought-iron gates set back from the road. A soldier appears, wearing a chain mail cowl and a cuirass with a red lion on it. Once through the gates, we ride up to the front entrance of a stately home. This is no change-house, but a fine manor house of the kind where the laird of Strathcraig lived. Someone of importance bides here.

  Forbes dismounts and pulls me off the courser, which is covered in a lathery sweat after our ride. Another soldier opens the front door.

  ‘This is she?’ he asks.

  ‘Aye. Guard her close. She’s disfigured one man this night,’ Forbes warns.

  The soldier’s lip curls and then he spits on the floor in front of me. ‘She’ll not do any harm in the pit.’ He jerks his head and two more soldiers lead me past the kitchen and down a narrow flight of stairs.

  We stop when we reach the foot of the stairs. One of the soldiers pulls up an iron grate from the floor while the other removes my shackles.

  ‘In,’ says one of the men, pointing to the dark hole in the floor.

  Fearful, I take a step back, unable to see the bottom of the pit.

  Before I can protest, the soldier lifts me from the waist and drops me into the hole. I fall into the darkness, landing heavily on my knees, my outstretched hands breaking my fall. The soldiers peer down at me as I stand on wobbly legs and check myself for injuries. My wrists are sore and I’ll have a bruised knee, but nothing’s broken. The grate scrapes along the floor above me until it is securely in place. Then the light disappears as the soldiers walk away with the crusie, leaving me here alone.

  Once the lamplight is gone, the pit is so utterly dark that I can’t see my own hand in front of my face. But the ground appears to be clean and there’s a pile of straw that doesn’t smell too terrible, so I sit down to wait for what’s to come.

  * * *

  It’s a long wait. Unlike the Tolbooth dungeon, there are no watchers here, yet I’m unable to fall asleep. Every part of me is on edge, jumping at the sound of footsteps or creaking floorboards overhead, convinced that they are finally coming. But then, in the long silences, there is no peace either as I’m terrified they’ve forgotten all about me. Given the choice of rotting in this pit and further torture, I would choose whatever Finster has planned for me rather than wasting away down here. If the witch hunter is trying to unlock the bloodstone’s secrets then he needs me, at least for a while longer.

  The only respite from my fear and dread is the thought of Cal. My heart eases when I think of him as a raven. He got to fly, just like he’d always wanted. Now he is somewhere safe, far away from here.

  Eventually I hear the sound of footfalls coming down the stairs, and then scraping iron as the grate is removed. Light floods in and someone throws down a rope. Shielding m
y eyes from the glare, I grab at the rope, but barely have the strength to hold on to it.

  Two soldiers haul me up. Then they lead me upstairs through a corridor lit by flaming torches.

  We enter a chamber lit by beeswax candles. It is large and finely dressed, with tapestries on the walls and a large stag’s head over the hearth. The centre of the room is bare, except for a long piece of thick rope hanging over a roof beam. The rope curls all the way to the floor on either side. My throat tightens and I begin to breathe in short gasps, quickly becoming light-headed.

  Finster and Dalziel sit on a wooden bench at the far side of the chamber. In front of the hearth fire, seated on a wainscot armchair, sits a hooded figure. A dark woollen cloak hides his face, but he wears the finest raiment underneath it: a doublet of deep red velvet embroidered with gold thread. On his finger is a gold ring set with an enormous red stone. His fine leather boots have no scuff marks or dirt on them. Perhaps he is the laird who lives here in the manor house.

  Finster turns to the hooded figure. ‘As I was saying, you would be familiar with the strappado, used by the Spaniards during the Inquisition?’

  The hooded figure nods.

  ‘This is not dissimilar. It has been used with some success in other parts of Scotland.’ Finster then turns to address one of the soldiers. ‘If you please, prepare the prisoner.’

  The soldier leads me to the centre of the room. He brings my hands together behind me and then ties the rope around my wrists and thumbs. My heart bangs so loudly it’s as though I can hear it echoing off the walls. My legs feel as though they’re about to give way.

  The witch hunter turns to me. ‘Iona Balfour, you have denied that you are a witch. Yet you bear the witch’s mark, which proves you were bit by the Devil himself and that you made an unholy pact with him. Do you still mean to deny it, or do you wish to confess?’

  My head spins as I try to weigh up my options. A confession might mean I avoid whatever fresh nightmare is about to unfold. But if I confess now, it will be straight to the pyre.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve nothing to confess. I never struck a bargain with the Devil.’ But my voice is hollow; it’s a poor mask for the dread in the pit of my stomach.