by Adrien Leduc
occasion one or two would return to inform her that her remedies hadn’t worked – and in fact, there had been those who died despite her best efforts to create a remedy for them – the vast majority of folks in Stenness and in the surrounding parishes were happy with her good work. A bonus was that these same folks were often very generous in their gratitude and Alison had been the recipient of numerous chickens, livestock, garden produce, and silver pieces. While Abraham’s land holdings and the earnings they produced was generally enough to take care of the family financially, there were wet and dry seasons where crops had nearly failed or completely failed and Alison’s extra income (including the livestock and garden produce she received) had been most beneficial.
“There we are,” said Alison with a patient sigh.
He hadn’t noticed her until she was over the threshold and closing the door behind her.
“All is well again between them?”
Alison nodded as she made her way to the wash basin. “Aye...for now. William’s getting older and starting to take advantage of his age and size – like all men are prone to do. Best to keep him on a short lead. And if he does get on with Isaac Rendall as an apprentice carver, this can only be a good thing.”
Abraham watched as his wife rinsed her hands in the wash basin and wiped them on her apron. “Aye. I’m sure I can convince him. Isaac and I go back a fair ways. I used to be good friends with his father, you know.”
Alison smiled. “I know. You told me.”
Abraham chuckled. “You’ll have to get used to me repeating myself. I’m an old man now. It happens to the best of us.”
Alison set down the soup ladle she had just taken up in her hand and she made her way over to where her husband sat. He watched her as she took hold of his face in her hands – her hands which were always so soft – and then he closed his eyes as she kissed him on the forehead. “If you are an old man, then you are a wonderful old man. And I don’t know where we would be without you.”
Abraham looked up at her. “I don’t know where I would be without you. You and the bairns...it’s made my life whole.”
Alison smiled and caressed the smooth top of his balding head. “And you have made our lives whole, husband. You have made our lives whole.”
SCENE 11 – THE TORTURE OF THOMAS PAPLAY
Later that evening. Kirkwall Castle dungeons. It is dark and dreary and damp. All of the walls and the ceilings are made of stone. Skulls sit on a shelf in one corner, rats scurry through the shadows, and a fire blazes in one corner. In the middle of the room, bathed in the glow of several lanterns, Henry Colville and two jailers stand over Thomas who is strapped to a wooden board, stripped of all his clothing save for his undergarments.
“Well, well, well,” said Henry as he peered down at Thomas. “Curious how we find ourselves in this position.” Without warning, Henry dropped his elbow into the poor man’s exposed stomach.
Thomas writhed, but made no sound owing to the rag stuffed in his mouth. His eyes, wild with fright, jumped from Henry to the jailers and back again.
“I’ll presume you know why you’re here,” said Henry gravely, making a show of rolling up his sleeves and exposing his pudgy white arms.
Thomas tried to cry out, but no words could escape his incapacitated mouth. He’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. And here he was in the castle dungeon, awaiting what, he did not know...
“You are here,” Henry continued with an air of impatience, “because you conspired to murder my employer, Earl Patrick Stewart, whom you know quite well having served at this castle for nigh on four years.” He dropped his elbow once more into Thomas’ stomach and Thomas writhed in pain yet again. “Now. I’m wanting a confession from you...” His gaze was piercing. “...and we can do this the hard way or we can do this the easy way. What have you to say?”
Thomas shook his head as he tried to speak through the rag in his mouth.
“I’ll remove the rag, but the words out of your mouth had better be good.”
“I didn’t do anything! I swear! I swear upon my mother’s grave! I - ”
Henry rammed the rag back into poor Thomas’ mouth. “I see you’ve opted for the hard way...”
He turned to the jailers and gave a small nod. Thomas follow his gaze, the horrified expression on his face growing more and more horrified with each passing second. The thinner, gangly jailer grinned wickedly, flashing a row of yellow teeth and shuffled to the other side of the room as though to fetch something. The portly jailer, with his simple expression, and presenting very much as what his wife would call a “mouth breather”, ambled after his counterpart.
Thomas looked up at Henry who did not return his gaze, but stared into the darkness after the two jailers.
When the jailers returned a minute later, they dragged between them what appeared to Thomas to be an iron skeleton. Upon further inspection however, and as they neared, he could see that it was an iron casing made into the shape of a man’s body.
Henry gestured with a hand. “The caschillaws. Depending on what you tell me when I remove the rag from your mouth – and I will give you this last chance – I may have no choice but to place you inside. And I can tell you, it gets a little warm when Gerard heats it...” he added, indicating the thinner of the two jailers.
Thomas shook his head, his expression pleading.
Henry smiled. “Are you ready to confess then? Are you ready to tell me everything?”
The servant nodded and Henry removed the rag from his mouth once more.
“I swear, sir, I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent! You have the wrong man! I’m inno - ”
The rag was stuffed back into his mouth, Henry shaking his head in disappointment. “You leave me no choice, I’m afraid, Thomas. You shall be placed into the caschillaws and we can speak again in a day or two. I believe you may have something to say by then.” He smiled, a thin, crooked smile as Gerard and the other jailer freed Thomas from the wooden board just long enough to place him inside the iron body casing. When this was done and the iron casing had been bolted shut, the two jailers carried it to the far side of the room (with poor Thomas inside) where stood the fire and the furnace.
“Heat him up slowly tonight, Gerard,” said Henry dryly as he made to leave. “And make sure Otis doesn’t kill him. I need a confession.”
“Yes, sir!” the jailer replied, his yellow teeth illuminated by the light of the lanterns.
With a nod, Henry exited the dungeon and poor Thomas Paplay was left to wonder what horrors awaited him, his heart aching for his beautiful wife and child.
SCENE 12 – THE MANY MOODS OF PATRICK STEWART
Kirkwall Caste. Monday, December 5, 1594. Earl Patrick Stewart’s apartments. Patrick sits in his chair by the fire at one end of the room while Lady Margaret Stewart sits in a chair at the opposite end of the room, her maid Claire making her hair up for the day.
With a lazy air, Patrick twirled a stray thread on his lapel, and while his expression would appear vacant to any casual observer, his eyes, as they often were, were keen and observant. He liked to sit in this chair, his chair, the chair only he sat in. No one else was allowed to sit in his chair, not even his wife...
He glanced across the room at his wife and her maid, Claire, who stood behind her fixing her hair into a white snood that matched her white dress. It was elaborate work and often took up the better part of most mornings. While Claire worked on Margaret’s hair, the pair discussed the social news happening around the castle.
“Must you two gossip so much?” drawled Patrick irritably after listening to yet another story about Barbara, one of the serving staff and Alan the stable boy. “If those two wish to hump like rabbits...while in my employ mind you...I really don’t give a fiddler’s fart...though if the girl is with child, she really can’t stay on here any longer...” His eyes moved to Claire. “And Claire, you encourage my wife to wag her tongue so.” The maid avoided his gaze. A year ago she’d have met his gaze with her own. She had been attracted t
o him, attracted to the power he wielded. But such a man and his power come with privileges that extend beyond what is acceptable and the last time she had looked at Patrick, he’d forced himself upon her, her gaze clearly an invitation that she wanted him in such a fashion.
“You’re worse than a couple of hens, you lot,” the earl continued. “Always pecking and clucking your beaks about anyone but yourselves. Are you so perfect? Are you above judgment?” When no answer came, he added: “you both need a turn in the Scold’s Bridle.”
“Oh, husband.” Margaret had bit. She’d taken the bait.
“Oh, wife!” Patrick bellowed, leaping out of his chair. “Oh, wife! You in all your infinite glory. You’re wondrous eyes and your wondrous form – a spectacle to be hold. Hark thee, what angel is this who graces us with her celestial presence!?”
Now Claire turned to look at the man for his manner had changed so abruptly she feared what he was capable of. Margaret’s expression, meanwhile, was unreadable.
Patrick looked from one to the other, before setting his gaze once more on Claire. “I’ve a wife who will no longer share a bed with me. I’m forced to listen to this awful gossip. Someone in this castle has tried to poison me! Is there any end to this madness!?”
Margaret, who had obviously heard enough, rose forcefully from her chair, picked up her skirts, and marched from