The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  Cailleach of the winter dark,

  I call you now and beg you hark.

  Heed ye close to my petition,

  I ask most humbly that you listen.

  Aid me now, o winter’s wife,

  Swift and sharp as blade of knife.

  Finster would fain see me dead.

  Bind his tongue with linen thread.

  Seize his malice and tie it tight,

  His cruel intent be broke this night.

  By earth, by sun, by wind and sea,

  Be this my will, so shall it be!

  I repeat the chant over and over, until I’m covered in sweat and I’m shaking. I’ve nothing of Finster’s to tie to the poppet; nothing but my own will, to keep him silent tomorrow. Yet he and I are linked somehow, the silver thread of our destinies entwined. Without the bloodstone, I can only hope that it’s enough for the spell to work.

  I tuck the poppet under my skirt. Then, for the first time in weeks, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  My heart begins to race when the guards come to take me back upstairs to the courtroom. Soon, I’ll find out if I am to live or die. If Finster cannot speak out against me, and the laird — the judge — is prepared to give me a fair trial like Gregor said, then perhaps my death is not inevitable. A giddy thrill rushes through me.

  The courtroom benches are crammed with men waiting to hear the witch hunter’s words. I expect Finster to be called at once, but instead Knox engages with the judge Abernethy in a long discourse about precedents. The bored crowd talks loudly through it all and I cannot follow much of what Knox is saying. The chamber is warm and I find myself dozing off, until suddenly everything grows quiet.

  Knox is on his feet. ‘Eberhard Finster,’ he calls.

  The witch finder strolls in, dressed all in black. Every muscle in my body tenses. His broad shoulders are square and his head is held high. He looks convinced that this is the moment when all his hard work will be rewarded.

  Finster swears to tell the truth. He says his name with ease. I put my hand into the folds of my skirt, touching the poppet and repeating the invocation in my head as I stare at Finster with unblinking eyes.

  Knox begins to question the witch finder. He asks Finster if he is the pursuer in this matter and Finster says it is so. Finster then starts to tell of our confrontation at the river. His eyes sparkle. It’s plain he enjoys the retelling, and being the focus of the crowd’s attention.

  ‘And did you witness any unnatural acts at this time?’

  ‘Aye,’ Finster in a hoarse voice. He stops to clear his throat. ‘I did indeed —’ He wheezes and then rubs his throat.

  He tries again to speak but the words fail to come. All he can manage is a few croaks before collapsing into a coughing fit. The words that usually flow like honey from his tongue have now abandoned him.

  Someone passes him a cup and he drains it, then gestures for some parchment that the clerk passes to him. He scratches at it with a quill and hands it to Knox. The fiscal studies the note for a few moments. Finster rubs at his throat and glares at me.

  ‘My lord, Meister Finster accuses Iona Balfour of witchery. He says she is using some kind of enchantment to prevent him giving evidence before you today.’ He hands the note to the tipstaff, who passes it up to the laird.

  ‘Mistress Balfour, is this true?’ asks Abernethy. ‘Have you bewitched your accuser so he cannot depone against you?’

  ‘Nae, sir, of course not. I’d not know how to do something like that. I’m just a country lass, sir. I don’t even know how I come to be here.’ I do my best to look wide-eyed and blameless.

  ‘Of course she would say that, my lord,’ says Knox. ‘But isn’t it plain? The meister could speak well enough when he walked into this courtroom but a few moments ago. Now he cannot utter a sound!’

  ‘You have seen it before, as have I,’ the laird says to Knox. ‘Many witnesses are indeed struck dumb. It is a nervous condition. That is why some choose to visit the alehouse before giving their evidence.’

  There’s a cheer from the gallery, followed by jeering laughter. The laird calls for order, but it’s clear that Knox is losing control.

  Finster waves another piece of parchment. Knox snatches it from him.

  ‘Meister Finster proposes to write down his evidence. I recommend that we allow this, my lord, and that we remove Mistress Balfour from the courtroom to prevent further mischief.’

  ‘This court accepts spoken evidence only,’ the laird says calmly. ‘And the panel has the right to remain in court to hear the accusations for herself. We shall not change long-established procedures to suit your witness. If Meister Finster cannot depone before this court, then he shall be dismissed forthwith. We shall adjourn for one hour. He must give his evidence directly after the adjournment, or not at all. This court has other matters to hear.’

  ‘My lord, I beg you reconsider. Surely you can see that the panel uses the very methods against her pursuer that would see her sentenced to death!’

  ‘As you say, Knox, but there has been a paucity of evidence so far. Perhaps the meister’s testimony shall be more compelling than what we’ve yet heard, but we must hear it from him.’

  My heart soars on hearing the laird’s words. He appears to be saying that there’s not enough evidence to convict me. The fury on Finster’s face confirms it. He and the fiscal exchange a desperate glance.

  Knox addresses the bench in a solemn tone.

  ‘My lord, it appears that justice might yet be served. I have a proposal: a procedure that the courts have used before, many times. It is my strong view that Meister Finster’s evidence would secure a conviction against Mistress Balfour. However, there is another conclusive way to prove Mistress Balfour’s guilt.’

  ‘Indeed?’ says the laird.

  ‘It is my proposal that we swim her.’

  A murmur of approval ripples through the gallery.

  The laird frowns. ‘A trial by water?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. It is the only way to be certain. Mr Rennie said she could cross water, but it is incumbent upon us to put this to the test. The most eminent scholars in this area all agree that a body of water will reject a witch.’

  ‘The procedure is fatal for the innocent,’ replies the laird.

  ‘Not always,’ interrupts Knox. ‘Some do survive it.’

  I feel like I might be sick. Surely they cannot do this. My eyes land on the laird, silently willing him to refuse.

  ‘When do you propose?’

  ‘This afternoon, following the noontide adjournment. It must be so, to ensure the panel is given no opportunity to disrupt these proceedings further.’

  The laird nods. ‘Very well. I will take my meat. This court will reconvene on the banks of the Nor’ Loch at two.’

  * * *

  I’m on the bank of a stinking loch. Before they brought me here, a guard tied me up.

  ‘Left thumb to right great toe, right thumb to left great toe,’ he had recited as he bound my hands and feet together in front of me. I’m like a calf that’s been trussed up ready for slaughter. In this position, I was slung into the back of a cart and forced to lie on my side for the agonising journey down the steep hill from the courthouse. Now, I’m lying on the ground, hunched over. My back aches and my left thumb, already so ill-treated, throbs with exquisite pain.

  We’re waiting for the laird to arrive. I can hear voices chattering around me. The jury, along with the entire courtroom gallery, have followed the cart here to witness my final humiliation.

  Despite what Knox said, I’ve heard that none survive a trial by water. I’ll not die at the pyre on Castle Hill; instead, I’ll be drowned this very afternoon. To block out the stench and settle my nerves, I press my face into the grass and inhale the mossy fragrance. It’s the first time I’ve been outside for weeks, it seems, and I try to savour what may be my last few moments on earth.

  The courtroom crowd stand in small groups. They stare and whisper and
point. Nobody dares come too close. Perhaps they’re frightened I will cast the evil eye upon them. Aye, I could curse them and their bairns for every generation to come. I’ve never felt so angry, so desperate: public torture for this rabble’s amusement. I want to punish them, all of them, who stand here gawping at me.

  And then I see it. A small cluster of pale yellow primroses nod in the breeze near the water’s edge, as if they’re waving to me. They were Grizel’s favourite flower. As I think of her, a sense of shame creeps inside me. Grizel always said that instead of wishing harm upon another, it’s far better to ask for a blessing on one’s own life.

  So I close my eyes and pray.

  O Bride, goddess of fire and water,

  Sain me in this loch —

  A voice cries out. ‘Look — the witch utters an incantation!’

  One of the guards kicks me on the rump, then pulls a dirty kerchief from inside his sleeve and shoves it into my mouth. ‘Enough of that, Witch.’

  I gag and cough on the filthy rag, trying to spit it out.

  ‘Lord Abernethy has arrived,’ I hear someone call.

  Moments later a carriage pulls up a few feet away from the crowd. Abernethy and Knox climb out. It’s the first time I’ve seen the laird up close. He walks with a slight limp, leaning on a smooth black cane, his gloved hand wrapped around a silver cap. I can only see part of it, but it looks like a serpent’s head, with red jewels for eyes.

  He studies me with a frown.

  ‘Take that rag out of her mouth at once,’ he orders, pointing to me with his cane. ‘She’ll suffocate.’

  ‘She was cursing the crowd, m’lord,’ says the guard.

  I shake my head violently. Abernethy bends down and pulls it out himself.

  ‘Praying,’ I say. ‘Praying to God, m’lord.’

  He turns away without a word to me. ‘Ready the panel for the procedure,’ he says. ‘And be quick about it.’

  Two guards carry me to the edge of the loch and one of them ties a rope around my waist.

  Knox squints at me. He’s even uglier up close, his piggish nose covered with angry red lumps. ‘Iona Balfour, do you confess to witchery? To malefice?’

  I shake my head. ‘I am no witch.’

  He nods to the guard, who lifts me around the waist. He holds me so close I can feel his breath tickling the back of my neck. ‘Prayers’ll not help you now,’ he whispers in my ear.

  The next thing I know, I’m sailing through the air.

  A splash, then the icy brown water steals my breath away. The cold grip of it envelops me. I struggle against it, but with my hands and feet bound I’m unable to move. I feel myself sinking into the murky water.

  In moments I’m fighting for breath, my chest searing. I struggle against the ropes, but they bite into my wrists. The skin on my face burns and my lungs feel as though they will burst. Every part of my being fights for air. I rip the skin around my wrists trying to free my hands, but it’s no use. It’s no use. I can’t fight anymore . . .

  From above the treetops I watch as they pull my body from the water. Lord Abernethy, Knox and the guards form a tight circle around me. They untie my feet and hands and lay me on my back. Abernethy kneels beside me and leans over and —

  I’m falling.

  I’m gasping.

  Then I roll onto my side and vomit up dirty brown loch water.

  ‘This proves nothing,’ Knox is saying.

  ‘She did not float. You said yourself that is the test.’

  ‘You pulled her out too soon. We must do it again.’

  ‘This court is still in session. We are here at your behest. Do not try our patience,’ Lord Abernethy scolds him.

  ‘Pardon, my lord. Only, I fear we did not let nature take its course. She sank, aye — oftentimes they do. But they rise after.’

  ‘After what? After they are dead? She had stopped struggling. That is the test. Once again you have failed to produce evidence of the libel. The charge of malefice is not proven.’

  ‘You’ll not set her free?’ Knox asks, incredulous.

  ‘Not yet,’ Lord Abernethy replies. ‘We shall adjourn until tomorrow afternoon, to give the jury time to consider all the evidence. Ask the tipstaff to arrange some dry clothes for Mistress Balfour. Fetch the blanket from the carriage.’ Abernethy extends a hand and I stand on wobbly legs.

  ‘M’lord . . . so grateful,’ I say through chattering teeth.

  ‘Do not thank me, Mistress Balfour. The jury has yet to hand down its decision. But I shall be giving them clear direction in that regard.’ The corner of his mouth flickers. It takes all my strength not to laugh out loud with relief.

  As I stand, I feel something sticking into my thigh and shake out my skirt. By the time I realise what it is, it’s too late: the poppet has fallen to the ground. To my dismay, Knox bends down and picks it up. Though sodden, it’s perfectly intact.

  He holds up the poppet to show Abernethy. ‘As you say, my lord, the jury must consider all the evidence.’

  My desperate gaze swings from Knox to Abernethy. ‘Please, m’lord. I don’t even know what that is —’

  Abernethy holds up his hand to silence my protests. Then he turns to Knox. ‘The court will reconvene on the morrow. The meister will be given another opportunity to depone. See to it that he is ready.’

  ‘And what about her? Surely you’ll not allow her in the courtroom after this.’ He brandishes the poppet.

  ‘Mistress Balfour will be kept in the cells.’

  Abernethy walks to his carriage without another glance in my direction. I sink to my knees on the cold earth.

  A WITCH BURNING

  Tomorrow, at this hour, they will strangle and burn me, just as they did Grizel.

  After they found the poppet, Lord Abernethy granted Finster another opportunity to speak. I wasn’t allowed in the courtroom that time. Instead, they kept me in the cellar underneath the courthouse. They fitted me with the witch’s bridle so I couldn’t forge any more magic; the guards pushed the iron muzzle over my head, then chained it to a hook on the wall. The bridle bit was covered in spikes, so each time I moved my tongue my mouth filled with blood. They removed it only once a day so I could eat. Not that I had much of an appetite.

  The pain and humiliation of the bridle was brought on by the spell I forged to render Finster speechless. At first, I tried to convince myself that the spell was not forged with ill intent, but there’s no point lying to myself, not now. And it changed nothing. Indeed, I would have been spared the ordeal of nearly drowning in the Nor’ Loch. I can see now why Grizel used to tell Ishbel and me that we should never forge magic for our own gain. Like a black sheep in the flock, impurities of the heart will always make their way into the magic, sullying it.

  I don’t know what happened at the trial, but I imagine the witch hunter spared no mercy when it came time to give his evidence. Even Lord Abernethy could do nothing to help my cause after that.

  They moved me back to the Tolbooth two days ago. Since then I’ve been in the cage with the others awaiting execution. Chained up next to me is a murderess, Bearnas Wallace. They say she killed her husband with a wooden butcher’s mallet right there on the King’s High Street, in front of everybody. She has a lantern jaw and brawny arms; her skirts are still spattered with her spouse’s blood. She hasn’t said a word to anyone, yet she grunts at me when she thinks I’m taking up too much of our shared space.

  They burned two witches on Castle Hill yesterday. One, a woman called Marion, begged and pleaded with the guards to help her daughter, a bairn of seven whose future was parlous now Marion’s kin had disowned her. One of the guards, a cruel man called Campbell, just laughed in a way that made me feel ill and said that somebody would surely have a use for the lass.

  The other, Aggie, was an old beggar woman who wandered about all day, talking to herself. Everybody thought her a mad old crone, but they gave her food and blankets in winter. Once, she hurled abuse at a burgess who’d thrown away her dirty
bundle. Soon after, he lost some gold in a business deal and accused her of casting the evil eye upon him. Everyone knew she was harmless, but they wouldn’t speak out against a burgess. So they sent her to the pyre.

  My fingernails are ragged and bitten to the quick. I pray to Bride for a demonstration, a sign, to show me that she hears my prayers. But there are no signs; nothing that gives me any reason to hope.

  Come the morrow, the Balfour bloodline will come to an end. What might I have done differently? It truly breaks my heart that Ishbel and Cal both died because of me. Even though I tell myself I’ll see them again soon in the Summerlands, it brings me no comfort at all.

  Grizel always said that when your time comes, you know it; it comes as a feeling from deep inside you. She saw it time and again with the old ones in Heatherbrae. That’s how she’d felt too, that last day in Strathcraig. My time is come, child. Everything that lives must also die. That may be so, but I don’t know it, not in my bones like Grizel said I would. I’m not ready to die, not yet.

  Please, Bride. Please.

  * * *

  The sun dips below the window and soon the dungeon is plunged into darkness. Campbell bangs on the iron door, doing his nightly rounds. He enters, carrying a flaming torch in one hand. A bundle of keys hangs from the other. He jangles them together like he always does, the music of a petty tyrant.

  ‘Balfour.’ He grins, his top lip disappearing under a flattened nose. ‘Hope you’ve got a few coins tucked away in there somewhere.’ He waves a key-laden finger at my bodice.

  I fold my arms across my breast and say nothing. He does this every time, the night before they execute someone. He comes by to say something spiteful. Now it’s my turn.

  ‘They told you about the executioner, did they not? You know you must pay his fee?’

  I continue to ignore him, but of course that doesn’t stop him. ‘If you don’t pay him, you know what he’ll do . . .’

  ‘I don’t have any coins,’ I say after a long pause.

  ‘Ah. And you’ve nothing to sell?’