Cait Duggan [Duggan - The Last Balfour

For Andrew

CONTENTS

Grizel once told me that magic and fire are kindred things. If you understand how to work with fire it will warm your home, cook your porridge and chase away the shadows at night. But if you fail to heed its power, well... it only takes one spark to burn down the thatch.

Her words echo in my mind as I watch Gregor standing by the hearth fire, rubbing its warmth into his hands. Those hands have never kindled a flame.

Hes dressed in a long black coat and breeks, impatient to leave. He looks me up and down with his lizard eyes and tells me to stop tarrying if I wish to ride with him to Strathcraig.

Just you try leaving without me, I want to say to him, but stop myself. Id only get the back of his hand across my cheek. Worse than that, hed have a reason to leave me behind. And I cant let that happen, not today. I need to find a way to see Grizel, to speak to her one last time.

Iona! My sister Ishbel calls me into the sleeping chamber she shares with her husband. There, she helps me into my Sunday raiment: a bodice and skirt made of coarse black wool that scratches my skin through my petticoats and linen shift. I squirm as she ties the laces of my bodice too tight, but she chides me that lasses of fourteen shouldnt complain about such things. She combs my long hair and braids it with a silk ribbon. I turn and she inspects her work, slicking down a curl with her spit. Our hair is auburn and wavy, like our mothers was, and we both have her slight frame and heart-shaped face. But its our green eyes that mark us as our fathers daughters. Bright green, like the first shoots of spring. Uncanny Balfour eyes, the folk in Heatherbrae call them.

We must away, Gregor barks at Ishbel. Ive pressing business in Strathcraig. He pulls on his cloak and walks out the door without waiting for us. Ishbels cheeks flush but she says nothing. Not to him, anyway. For the hundredth time this week she tells me not to upset her husband.

Ishbel and I climb into the cart thats harnessed to Gregors bay mare. The old cuddy loathes pulling the cart and we know it will be a slow journey; about a half-day ride from Heatherbrae. We wrap ourselves in blankets to protect us from the winter chill. As we ride through the clachan, nobody comes out to greet us or pay their respects. Folk stay hidden behind locked doors, pretending they dont see us. Only Malcolm Calder is out, standing at his doorstane to glare at us as we ride past. I glare right back at him until Ishbel pokes me in the ribs. Despite my boldness, my stomach tightens when I sense his eyes fall upon me.

A braw morn, Malcolm, Gregor calls, but Calder doesnt reply. He turns on his heel and goes inside, slamming the door behind him.

Gregor lied to Calder, for there is nothing good about this morning. The clouds hang low and a light rain falls, covering our blankets with silver beads. For most of the journey there is no sound except for the creaking wheels of the cart and the icy winds whipping through the long grasses. Ishbel reaches for my hand but I pull it away, lost in my own thoughts.

* * *

As we approach Strathcraig, the road becomes crowded, teeming with carts and folk travelling on foot. Today is Candlemas Eve; one of the quarter days when tenant famers like Gregor must pay their rents to the laird. And if that werent a good enough reason to come to town, they hold executions on the quarter days.

My nose wrinkles from the stench of the midden heap just outside the town walls. Once through the gates, we alight from the cart and wait for Gregor to make arrangements with the stableman. Then he leads the way into the town square.

All around the square, merchants have set up makeshift stalls to sell their wares; two of them are squabbling over a stance near the kirk steps. Gregor sidesteps the quarrelling merchants with a scowl. Then, in his highhanded way, he gives Ishbel a few coins and tells her to buy linen for a new sark. I frown at him, incredulous. Does he think this a day to run errands? My gaze falls on Ishbel, willing her to say something to her husband. But, as always, she holds her tongue and watches in silence as Gregor stalks off to the Tolbooth to meet with the town officials, the burgh councillors.

In the middle of the square, near the mercat cross, stands a gibbet, the wood freshly hewn. Next to the gibbet is a post surrounded by bundles of wood. I stare at them, my blood quickening, until Ishbel pulls her arm through mine and forces me to walk with her to the websters stall.

The rain falls heavy now, making the cobblestones slick and greasy. Folk huddle under shopowners eaves until they are shooed away. The dreich weather will not stop the hordes pouring into the town. Executions are the main attraction on quarter days. And today there is a witch burning, the first one ever in Strathcraig.

Across the square I see a familiar face coming out of the inn. My dark mood lifts a little. While Ishbel haggles with the webster over the price of French linen, I slip away from her side to approach him. But as I draw near, he ducks behind a group of men drinking in front of the alehouse. Its all I can do to catch him before he disappears into the crowd.

Dalziel, wait!

Iona. He greets me without a smile, smoothing the elbow of his coat sleeve where I grabbed it.

Did you not see me running towards you?

Nae, I did not. Well now, here you are. He nods solemnly, then looks over my head, gazing across the crowd as if searching for someone. In the few moments of silence that follow, I cant help but sneak a look at him. Its been a twelvemonth since I saw Dalziel last, since he left Heatherbrae to read theology at the university in Aberdeen. He is still tall and slender, but his jawline is more defined and his shoulders broader. He looks like a man now.

What are you doing here? I ask him.

Im meeting my father. Youve not seen him, have you? He continues to study the crowd. Dalziels father, Dougal Rennie, has the landholding next to Gregor. It seems strange that Dougal didnt arrange for us to ride here together.

I shake my head. Did you hear? About what happened?

He lowers his eyes. Dalziel has the longest eyelashes of anyone Ive ever known. They make a girlish frame for his dark blue eyes.

Aye, he says softly.

Why did you not call on me?

Im not visiting Heatherbrae. Thats why Fathers coming here. To see me.

Ive never known Dougal Rennie to put himself out for anybody and consider saying so to Dalziel, but then think the better of it. Theres something about the way hes behaving that makes the tight feeling in my stomach return. This is not the Dalziel I know. There has never been any awkwardness between us.

Did you ride here all alone?

He shakes his head. They asked me to accompany a professor from the university. Eberhard Finster. A renowned scholar and cleric. From Saxony, he adds, puffing out his chest.

Ive no idea where Saxony is, but Ill not give Dalziel the satisfaction of asking. Whats he doing here, then?

He knows more about witches than anybody in Aberdeen. Probably the whole of Scotland. They say he even has King Jamies ear! Dalziels eyes glimmer with excitement.

My heart stops for a moment. You mean, you brought him here for this?

His cheeks redden and he kicks at an invisible stone on the ground. Nae, he says, his shoulders curling. For a moment he looks like a boy again. Just showed him the way, thats all.

But I know Dalziel better than anybody, and I can tell when hes hiding something.

You know where she is? Take me to her!

He shakes his head. I I cant.