by Adrien Leduc
Alison was frantic now. “Not my children! Take me instead! Do what you will with me, but spare them!”
“All we need is a confession. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“But I have nothing to confess to!” she roared, her veins bulging from the sides of her head. “How many times do I have to tell you!?”
Gerard returned a minute later with William who began to cry as he saw the scene before him.
“Bawling like an old woman,” Gerard snapped, striking the boy with a fist so hard he fell to the floor.
“Get your hands off my son!” Alison screamed, her entire body shaking as she pulled and strained against the metal chains which held her to the wall.
“She’s a wild one, sir,” said Gerard, picking the boy up off the ground by one arm.
William, his face red and tear-stained, allowed himself to be dragged to a chair.
“Let him go!” Alison roared.
“Confess!” Henry shouted.
“I’ll kill you if you touch my son. I swear to God. I’ll kill you.”
“A threat is that?” asked Henry, his eyes narrowing. “Are you going to curse me now?”
“That’s no threat, that’s a promise,” said Alison. “You let him go right now.”
Henry smiled as he turned from her to the jailers. “Put the boy in the lang irons.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Gerard, his eyes dancing with delight. He shoved the poor boy into Otis. “Hold him while I fetch the lang irons.”
“Please!” Alison screamed, sobbing and hanging her head. “We’ve done nothing!”
We cannot, dear reader, imagine the scene that unfolds. And I, cannot bring myself to write such a scene. Suffice it to say, and your imagination is surely fertile enough to paint the picture, that poor William’s legs were put into metal braces and small wedges of wood were inserted into the gaps in the braces. These wedges were then struck with a mallet – fifty-seven times say the historical accounts. We do not know if William died, though it is likely he did not. Alison still did not give Henry Colville the confession he so badly wanted and it was Anna’s turn to face his wrath next. This, dear reader, was also a travesty of justice, the girl being but six or seven years old. Her thumbs were placed in what were known as the “piniwinkies” – thumbscrews – and it was at this moment that Alison, unable to witness the torture of her young daughter, confessed to having a part in the plot to poison Earl Patrick Stewart. The confession extracted, Anna was allegedly let to live while Alison was hauled away, the date of her trial and execution set for December 15, 1594.
SCENE 18 - THE EXECUTION (MURDER) OF ALISON BALFOUR
December 15, 1594. Shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. The air is chilly and the ground is set with a morning frost. Hundreds have gathered at Heiding Hill, a grass-covered hill a short distance from St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, to witness the burning of the alleged witch Alison Balfour of Stenness.
The stage was set. Her time had come. This is where she would die. This is the moment her life would end. Alison stopped and vomited. The chains around her hands were cold and heavy and as her jailer yanked them, she felt herself fly forward. They were headed for the pyre, this much she knew, the pyre that had been built atop Heiding Hill, the pyre that had been built for her.
The walk from St. Magnus Cathedral (where her trial had taken place an hour earlier) was a short one. They would walk along Watergate Street and then up Buttquoy Street. All eyes were on her and she hated it. Men, women, and children watched from windows and doorways belonging to the shops and homes that rose up two stories on either side of the street. Occasionally one would spit or empty a chamber pot onto her.
How cruel and twisted, these injustices in life, she thought as her eyes scanned the crowd. It made her stomach recoil and she vomited again. The faces were the faces of her friends (or rather, people she had thought were her friends), her neighbours, her fellow parishioners... There was Mrs. Flett who ran the bakery stall at the market, and Sheilagh Spence whose son had been good friends with William, and Isaac Rendall, the butcher...and there was Father Clouston, minister of Stenness Church. He looked away as her gaze met his, looked away and turned his back on her. How these people could think she was a witch...she couldn’t fathom it. People she had known for years. People she’d talked to at the market and sat beside at church. Those among them who didn’t feel she was capable of trying to poison the Earl said nothing. Raised no complaint. Why? Because they were afraid? On the one hand, she couldn’t blame them. After all, if any of them were to contest the charges brought against her they would quite likely find themselves in her position. As well, these were people who knew her well...these were people she had prepared draughts and tonics and salves for and assisted when they or their loved ones were ill. Was that not worth something? Were cold shoulders and stone silence just reward for the benevolent services she had provided them?
“Come on!” her jailer barked, yanking the chain once more, this time forcefully enough that she nearly lost her balance. Ahead, seated on the platform to the right of the pyre, she could see Patrick Stewart, Earl of Orkney. Beside him, the others were already seated: his wife, Margaret, brother John, chamberlain and her torturer Henry Colville, and two other courtiers unfamiliar to her.
Alison drew herself up as she passed through the crowd, their stares a mixture of the sad, curious, and hateful.
“Witch!”
“Satan’s mistress!”
“Filthy whore!”
The insults from several in the crowd stunned her and left her unprepared for the dozen or so rotten potatoes that came hurtling her way, glancing off her breast and forehead.
“Get a move on!” cursed the jailer, yanking the chain again. This time Alison flew forward and was only able to regain her balance at the last possible second.
“Burn in hell!” cried a boy who couldn’t have been older than her William. Behind him stood the woman she presumed to be his mother, her vacant expression conveying her simple nature.
They reached the pyre a moment later and her jailer yanked the chain so hard that this time she fell forward into the mud and muck at her feet.
Raising her head, she looked up at the viewing platform and locked eyes with Patrick Stewart who hastily averted his eyes and looked away.
“Hark, the witch is here!” cried John Stewart, leaping to his feet and pointing to Alison. “Take care, those gathered here today, that her dark magic does not soil you. Stand too close, and this may happen! It is a brave business our jailer and executioner undertake today and you can rest assured that once they’re through, Alison Balfour the witch shall not harm another soul in Orkney!”
The crowd gave a cheer and then John raised his hand for silence. “My brother,” he paused for effect and directed the crowd’s attention to Patrick Stewart, seated at his left, “nearly lost his life because this witch,” he spat as he glared at Alison (the crowd booed), “tried to poison him...she tried to poison my brother! Your earl!” John stomped his feet in anger as the crowd booed once more. Next he rushed dramatically to the chair in which his brother sat and took up a sentry-like stance beside it. “No one! Not even the Devil himself!” his eyes gleamed wicked as he scanned the crowd, “tries to harm my brother and gets away with it! Am I right!?” The crowd cheered and then all eyes turned to Alison as he pointed to her. “We have before us today the woman who has confessed to being a witch and conspiring to poison my brother, your Earl of Orkney.”
Alison shook her head. “I am no witch.”
“Liar! Liar, liar, tell it to the fire!” John shot back, moving to the edge of the stage and peering down at her.
“I am no witch!” It was all becoming too real now. The pyre. The stake she would be tied to. The executioner with his black hood... “I am not a witch!”
Not one heeded her words as the crowd began to chant. “Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
“I am not a witch! I help people!” Alison screamed, frantic no
w as the crowd pressed towards her.
“Silence!” bellowed John from the platform, arms spread before him. The crowd fell silent. “Henry Colville, our earl’s chamberlain, shall now read the charges against the witch, Alison Balfour. Father Clouston will then read the witch her last rites. May God have mercy on her godless soul,” he spat for dramatic effect.
“I am not a witch!”
A backhand from her jailer sent Alison sprawling into the mud.
“Quiet, whore,” the jailer spat, staring down at her.
The taste of blood she had experienced so frequently in the past four days was once again on her tongue.
“Alison Balfour.” Henry Colville’s voice, a voice that made her skin crawl, returned her to the present. “You are charged with engaging in witchcraft and attempting to poison the Earl of Orkney, Patrick Stewart. Under questioning, you confessed to these crimes and you will now face the appropriate sentence which is death by inferno.”
Alison shook her head and climbed slowly to her feet as the paunchy man re-took his chair beside the earl. “How...how can you say these things!? I confessed under torture! My family - ” Another backhand from the jailer and Alison felt her lips split open. Blood filled her mouth, her dry and cracked mouth, dehydrated from so little water over the past four days.
“Jailer,” said John, “rising once more to his feet, “bring the witch to the pyre and