by Alex Dylan
* * *
It had taken them two further days and nights to dig the huge pit, load it with wood and charcoal and set it alight. It had riven the sky like Dante’s inferno; a hellfire warning of unimaginable, immense danger. It would have been seen by all the riding families. Fire legitimised your claim. The Constable of the Realm himself was hot trodding. Devils beware!
Melisande had watched it all with ominous foreboding from the slit window above the Lady’s Walk. She knew that Ross had placed her there deliberately. He could have simply imprisoned her in the damp cells beneath the Keep, isolated in terror and left to lick water from mossy stones. Instead, he chose to torment her by keeping her in the very place that Mary Queen of Scots had paced out her last days of freedom, knowing full well she would not be able to turn away from the drama of the slowly unfolding horror.
Ross was a cruel man and would exact an equally cruel revenge upon her. She vowed that he would extract no vicarious thrill from her suffering. That would annoy him more, she thought with spirit. She would show him her fire.
An inappropriate thought. She shook her head to drive it away. She could not give the memory a chance to catch and grow. There lay madness. She made a tight fist and hit the door full hard with her knuckles. The impact of the heavy wood jarred her hand but as the pain engulfed her senses, it submerged everything else. Big tears streaked down her face as she rubbed fiercely at the back of her hand; she couldn’t be sure if she was scouring her anguish or burnishing it.
She heard the bolts draw back on the outside and Heughan shouldered impatiently past the guards. He exchanged a sharp look with them and they nodded almost imperceptibly, turning back to their posts as though nothing had happened. He was at her side in two strides and wrapped her into his arms.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “The lads are taking a big risk by letting me in here at all.” Melisande stood unmoving and let herself be comforted by the force of his embrace, clinging to him as seaweed on a rock, trying to avoid being dragged away by the rip tide.
“Stop this,” he begged her. “This is not worth dying for. Roddy had the right of it. Just give Mark A’Court what he wants.” He pulled her book from inside his jack and tried to pass it to her. She shook her head and pushed it back at him.
“Have you come to think so much like him that you too would barter me away? I cannot sell myself so cheaply.”
She sighed, a weary smile curving the corners of her mouth. She was tired of struggling, of hiding, of playing games. Airlie’s whisper was in her head, ‘Truth is a strange beast. I wonder if you have the mastery of it.’
She yearned to be complete, to shine in her true colours. Rodrigues had called her his vain Cassiopeia and had often teased her that a peacock even disguised as a drab sparrow could never go unremarked. Yet here she was; the most trivial sparrow ever in need of a god who would notice and not let her fall to the ground. Rodrigues…
“Where’s Roddy?”
“Gone,” he said flatly.
Melisande frowned. “Gone? Gone where?”
“God alone knows,” Heughan said, so quietly that she thought she must have imagined it. All the fight went out of him. They stood looking at one another.
“He would have used it to save you; he just didn’t believe it was enough.”
“I don’t need saving. I don’t need his belief.”
Heughan said nothing and shook his head.
Melisande longed to explain to Heughan about justice and revenge. That, at least, she felt would resonate with him. But the truth was she was persevering for an ideal: the right to think freely and to express those thoughts without fear of suppression, the right for humanity to evolve and discover without God’s censure. Heughan yearned for adventure and exploration, his head filled with Rodrigues’s tales, passion inflamed with wanderlust. He dreamed of golden worlds, his for the plundering. Melisande sought a more esoteric prize. If either were to submit on bended knee and accept boundaries, the world would be shackled with ignorance.
"They can kill me, they can try. They’re wrong if they think it will end with my death. It’s much, much harder to kill an idea.
“Heughan, I must do this. I must bear witness. Otherwise, everything that has passed…” she trailed off.
Heughan saw her eyes glint with shuttered moistness as she turned from him. He was afraid for her, and afraid of her. He struggled to find something to say. He was always so conflicted when he was with Melisande. Alone, he felt secure, well, at least secure in his own confusion.
Thumping and hammering on the door outside was an abrupt intrusion. Heughan hastily pushed her book back inside his jack. One card slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Melisande read stricken concern on his face. She shook her head in flat refusal.
“You believe I am already lost? You are wrong. I will not deny my fear, I will own it and master it,” she was resolute. “I can do this Heughan,” she said. “I will do this. I will be free of Ross and I will bow to no man.”
“My will is my own, my word is my bond,” she said.
“I pledge my word to thy will,” he answered automatically.
"I loan thee my strength, I ride by thy side, I guard us both frae ill.
“Thus joined, aught for one, true to oursel’, mastered by none,” he spoke the words, completing the reiver oath.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He crushed her to him and kissed her hard on the lips. Then he was gone, leaving her to the remainder of the long night.
She saw the card left behind on the floor and turned it over to read its story. A dark prince grinned a welcome in a field of flames and dismemberment.
Death.
The one card left to her.
For the first time ever, she felt truly alone. She had no book and no cards. She had gambled everything by trusting the people she loved.
* * *
A brief conversation with those men among the guards who owed him was all Heughan needed to make his requests clear. They scattered like a handful of chaff, dispersed by the winds of change. Only Willie remained on watch, guarding the guards at the gateway under the Captain’s Tower beyond the half-moon battery. Heughan heard Rodrigues’s voice in his head, ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’ Another one of his favourite sayings: ‘who guards the guards?’
He felt the tug somewhere behind his ribs. Rest in peace, Roddy, my friend, he thought. La’l Un’s got my back.
Heughan slipped into the soft darkness, where there were no patrols, and let his feet carry him to Ross’s chambers. He struggled to recall how exactly he had acquired such easy familiarity with an enemy’s territory. Once at Ross’s door, Heughan lifted the heavy latch noiselessly and slipped inside without hesitation.
Ambrose Middlemore stood brooding by the large window which dominated the room, and framed a subdued Border nightscape. Ross turned around fractionally too late and Heughan was onto him with his sword drawn.
“Go easy, my Lord Middlemore,” he began his formal address with a calm voice, “don’t call out. There is no need and help would come too late.”
He locked wills with Ross, penetrating with his stare until the other man slid his eyes away and submitted to him. Ross dropped defeated into his heavy oaken chair and asked, “What do you want?”
“An exchange,” Heughan bartered.
Ross raised his head with curiosity and slowly eased himself to alertness. A twisted smile started at the corners of his mouth and slid across his face with iniquitous knowingness. When it reached his eyebrows, he said sneeringly, “You can’t have her.”
Heughan kept his hand on the pommel of his sword and looked at the fingers of his other hand, slowly flexing each of them in turn, trying them out as to how they fitted into a tight fist. He smiled his cocky-smile and said to Ross, “Says who?”
Ross was discomforted by Heughan’s calmness and shifted in his seat. “It’s out of my hands now,” he said, wringing them together to squeeze out any last remnants of culpabil
ity. “Mark A’Court has his own agenda and needs a witch to burn.”
“What if I had something that would be more interesting to him?” said Heughan quietly.
“Gold?” Ross swallowed with a gulp that made his Adam’s apple bob.
“Possibly,” said Heughan, looming over him. “Something better, something that Mark A’Court really wants.”
He reached inside his jack and pulled out Melisande’s book, holding it up in front of Ross. Ross looked confused before his eyes brightened expectantly, “A treasure map?”
Heughan shrugged indifferently, “Perhaps.”
Ross licked his lips with anticipation, “Show me.”
Heughan handed him the book. Ross thumbed a few pages disinterestedly until he read something that caused his eyebrows to rise a fraction.
“You promised me riches. This is just old nonsense the king would read as treason.”
Heughan frowned and took the book back from Ross. He turned unfamiliar pages hidden within the distinctive leather binding. “I don’t understand, this isn’t it…?” he tailed off.
Ross laughed unpleasantly. “Do you think that after all these years, I’d fall for a pig in a poke? I’ll not be caught by your reiver tricks.”
Heughan slammed both of his hands down hard on the arms of the chair and breathed heavily into his face. “Listen to me, you fucking idiot. Mark A’Court is looking for a book of hidden knowledge. He has no idea what it looks like, much less what’s in it. This is a book that contains something. It might be what he wants, it might not. It doesn’t actually matter. He just has to believe it’s what he’s seeking.”
Ross darted his eyes back to Heughan, momentarily hooked by his persuasion.
“You can exchange Melisande for this book; set her free and take Mark A’Court something he wants more.”
“More than a witch to burn?” Ross laughed unpleasantly. “There’s nothing he wants more than the spectacle of Melisande at the stake. Come to think of it, there’s nothing I want more than that, right now. I should have killed the fucking bitch years ago. Trouble follows her around like a secret shadow. She’s a witch all right. This justice is the king’s own command and even a vicious bastard like Mark A’Court has to answer to his king.”
Ross shook his head. “Make your goodbyes to Melisande, Heughan. But make them quick. Dawn is coming and tomorrow will see an end to all of this. Melisande will finally have to face her demons on her own.”
“No,” Heughan disagreed quietly, “I will be there to watch her. I promised her.”
Ross snickered throatily, “Have you ever seen a woman burn, boy? Trust me, you won’t want to look for long or else your nightmares ever after will be full of popping, cracking flesh and screams that will rip the fear through your guts. Best you forget her now. Get on your horse and ride away. There’s nothing you can do. You’re too late.”
He turned sideways in his chair, ignoring Heughan and thinking his own dark thoughts.
Heughan stood looking at him for a few moments more. Ross was right; he was too late. He took a shallow breath and turned on his heel to leave.
“She promised me gold, Heughan,” said Ross narrowly. “I might have let her buy her freedom once, not any more. Now she’ll just have to pay with her life.”
He was still laughing harshly to himself as Heughan slipped out of the door.
Willie was waiting for Heughan in the shadow of the Gatekeeper’s arch, fingering the gold he had taken from Melisande. It was his talisman now. It was encouraging him to tackle Heughan, discuss his ideas and get him to use his charms to persuade Melisande to tell them the secret of the gold. Heughan’s swift return surprised him. He scurried to keep up with the big man’s long stride. Heughan didn’t acknowledge him. He walked ahead until they had put the full distance of Castlegate between them.
“I tek it, she dinnae have the answers yer were looking for?” Willie hazarded.
Heughan shook his head grimly. “She’s so fucking stubborn, Willie. It’ll be the death of her.”
Willie wasn’t ready to give up. “Aye, well if she dies, her secrets die with her. That’s an ending of sorts.”
“She hasn’t betrayed us yet,” Heughan said. “Ross said ne’er a word to me about the Tower or anything else. Maybe they really do believe she acted on her own.”
“Well, I say it’s a shame and’t would be an awfy waste of good gold. A man could turn a tidy profit, mebbe invest in a ship,” Willie said slyly.
Heughan wasn’t listening. “Every time I cheat the flames, it costs a woman’s life. Put an arrow in her, La’l Un.”
Willie wasn’t sure he’d heard aright. “Pardon me?”
“Gold can’t save her now but she shouldn’t have to suffer,” Heughan said. “I just can’t see a good end to this. Witch or no, I can’t watch the flames take her. Put an arrow in her, Willie, at the first sign of distress. And don’t let anyone see you, neither. Stay out of sight.” He walked on.
Willie stared at his back. “You poor bastard,” he said to no one in particular.
* * *
The crowd was vast, filling the bowl of the Sorceries, on the mounds of the Eden dyke, all the way around to the Sheepmount and its hastily erected wooden dais, where the bishop, clergy and God’s self-appointed Cerberus, Mark A’Court, stood waiting. For a full thirty feet in front, barely subdued embers glowed angrily, a scorched red wound in a primitive land. Superstitious and simple souls clutched at their talismans and prayed that the devils from hell wouldn’t choose today to climb through such a conveniently opened door to the world of men. Wiser souls realised they were already standing on the platform.
Ross couldn’t contain his confusion for a moment longer. “My Lord Constable, where is the stake and the bundles of faggots? I thought we were going to burn the witch? Although, strangling first would be appropriate, given the nature of her crimes,” he added hopefully.
Mark A’Court turned to him with one elegant eyebrow raised in bemused tolerance. “The ‘nature of her crimes’, Lord Middlemore? I believe that’s what we are all here to determine.”
He swept an arm around the gathering on the dais, as they nodded in turn at his inclusion.
“You would condemn Lady Melisande without evidence?” he tut-tutted with disapproval. “That scarcely seems fair.”
“There’s plenty of evidence, you saw it for yourself…” Ross began to counter but Mark cut him off. “It is not for us to judge,” he said, grandiloquently. “Lady Melisande has elected trial by fire. God will judge the evidence. All we have to do is watch. It’s so much more fun this way.”
“It’s not mean to be about fun,” grumbled Ross indignantly. “It’s meant to be about getting a result and justice and securing a lasting peace.”
“So you can go back to business as usual with the reiver families, skimming your cut and lining your pockets?” asked Mark A’Court smoothly.
Ross coloured.
“You’re not really well-placed to talk about results, are you, Middlemore? Do I need to remind you who it was that actually brought about an end to the problem of the Borders and fattened your gibbets by executing the king’s justice? Or who it was filled your dungeons with prisoners? All you had to do was contain the miscreants for trial and you couldn’t even manage that. Heaven’s above!” Mark rolled his eyes.
Ross stuttered a protest but Mark cut him off.
“You can’t even pretend the Castle is secure right now. You’ve lost the whole of the West Tower and a goodly part of the West Walls into the bargain. The fire at the Barrack Stables destroyed most of the Ward buildings. Haven’t you squandered enough?”
Ross’s lips narrowed white with terse fury.
Mark A’Court decided to needle him some more, purely for the entertainment of seeing how far he could push the man.
“Spare me your protests. You may count yourself lucky that I haven’t yet made a move to have you struck from your appointment. Disappointingly, you haven’t been able to provid
e me with what I want. However, there have been some interesting compensations, and so for the moment, I am feeling magnanimous in my generosity towards you.”
He sipped French wine broached from Ross’s own casks and grinned wolfishly at the blue of the Borders’s skies revealed as the sun burnt through the early clouds.
“Besides, it’s a lovely day for drinking and watching witches fry.”
As they escorted Melisande from the Castle, Mark A’Court’s troops formed an impenetrable cordon and the watching crowds were wary of them. The day still hadn’t quite formed, and Melisande shivered in her simple linen shift. Latent heat shimmered below the morning mist. Mark A’Court had the bishop announce the charges of witchcraft and heresy for owning a banned book. He smiled imperceptibly when the bishop added embellishments by calling Melisande a strumpet who offended God with her heinous crime of literacy. Melisande dug her bare feet into the dew-damp grass, fighting to keep herself grounded. It took all her strength to stop her teeth from chattering and make her denial clear when asked how she pleaded. When asked her to confirm her choice of trial by ordeal, it was all she could do just to nod agreement.
The crowd were growing bored with the legal niceties, shuffling in anticipation of a more exciting spectacle. Mark A’Court waved the priests on with a flourish of his gloved hand, bidding them move a-speed to the trial by ordeal and waste no more of his time. He wasn’t keen to see a woman burn, even if she was a witch, in spite of what he had said to Ross. They all smelled like pigs when they went up in flames and squealed like them just the same. He sighed and signalled the guards to prod Melisande forwards and encourage her to the inevitable.
Melisande was petrified. The fire pit yawned before her. With sudden, sharp pain the fine hairs on her hands and feet were instantly singed away. Fleetingly, she wondered if she would burn the same way once she took the first step. The sourness of vomit tinged the back of her throat as she tried to swallow the fear. She heard someone calling her name and turned towards the sound, seeing Heughan standing on the edge of the crowd, held back by the soldiers. She found his eyes at the same time he found hers.