Chapter 4
Elspet Balfour
ELSPET TAKES A DEEP brEATH of fresh, crisp air, closing her eyes as it fills her.
The light morning driv has cleared and the sun is high; a cool wind blows off the loch.
It’s been a quiet morning collecting plants.
The comforting weight of her cloth satchel is at her waist, bulging with a good supply of grass of parnassus for treating the widow Ibister’s stomach pains and plenty of small primrose flowers, their petals brown and wilting now their season is past, but it’s just the right time for collecting the dry seeds that relieve her neighbour’s aching joints.
A crowd of ravens swarm overhead and Elspet opens her eyes, letting her gaze slacken as she traces their flight paths across the lift.
This is the flock that lives in the copse on her pennyland, the small area of ground around her hoose.
The ravens are unusually agitated today, crying loudly in chaotic, swirling flight.
There’s no pattern she can discern; the birds are confused, tangled.
Elspet frowns and continues her slow walk home, taking the winding route around Stenness loch.
She steps around a large rock at the water’s edge.
What could the ravens’ disorder mean? Might it be this worrying news from South?
They say the Scottish King’s obsession with killing witches is growing.
That he’s become suspicious of midwives, spae-wives and wise women; unable to distinguish between old wisdom and the darkness of devil worship, he calls it all witchcraft and condemns it.
The King’s campaign hasn’t reached Orkneyjar yet, but they say it’s only a matter of time.
Yes, there are women like the Bakken sisters in Shapinsay who threaten their neighbours with curses if they refuse to give them food or money.
More than once, Elspet has been asked to cast protection over an islander who caught one of the sisters looking at them with evil intent.
And it’s true, there are less than honest practices of those who sell a good wind to the sailors who pass through the islands.
But everyone has to earn money to buy their bread somehow.
The news that even those who work to do good, people like Elspet, who have the gifts of truth-seeing and healing, might also be targeted, is more worrying.
She pushes these thoughts from her mind, though, as she hears the shouts of her children up ahead.
Turning past the hill-dyke into their lane, she smiles – there they are, running and chasing each other around the hazel tree.
Elspet pauses to catch a glimpse of their private world before they notice her.
At seven, Broden is taking his first steps out of childhood, often quiet and thoughtful, studying his surroundings intently for what he can learn.
Gillie is still a peedie lass of five, running full pelt at the world, hurling herself into everything with enthusiasm.
They’re growing so fast. Gillie looks taller now than she did when she broke her fast this morning.
There won’t be many more years when Elspet will come home to find them here, playing on their pennyland.
That fact strikes her like a blow and she wants to freeze time, right there, keep it forever: the warm sun on the hazel tree, her children running and shouting outside the house they share.
If only her abilities stretched that far.
When she can resist no longer, she calls to them. They run, laughing as they collide with her, and Elspet holds them tight, savouring the moment of stillness until they start jostling each other; pushing to compete for the best spot snuggled into their mother’s skirts.
Broden looks up at her, his eyes wide and serious. ‘Soldiers came looking for you, Mamma.’
Elspet’s blood runs caal and ranyie pangs churn in her belly. She closes her eyes for a moment; ravens fly in chaotic circles through the blackness. This must be what the birds were warning her about.
‘What did they say?’ She tries to keep her voice light.
‘The Earl of Orkney wants to see you,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘You must go to the palace.’
No, no, not again. Anything but that. Elspet fights back the cry in her throat and forces a smile onto her face; her children mustn’t see she’s afraid.
As she attempts to gather her thoughts, the sound of hooves approaches behind them, and she spins around.
Have the soldiers come back so soon? Elspet is often called to the home of someone who’s unwell or needs guidance or advice.
Folk rush to her at any hour of the day or night.
But, given what Broden has just told her, she looks back with dread.
It is not the Earl’s musketeers, though.
These figures on horseback look quite different.
Elspet breathes a sigh of relief, then her interest is piqued.
The two in the lead are women, which is unusual enough in itself, but these are noblewomen in fine clothes, accompanied by two men who ride behind them like servants.
What might two gentlewomen, strangers, want with her?
She looks up into their faces as they draw closer, clearing her mind and letting her thoughts flow freely to see their intentions, friendly or otherwise.
The older of the women is tall and appears to be somewhere in her fourth decade, only a little younger than Elspet, and wears a crumpled but rich gown of deep green.
She holds herself rigidly upright, and has wide, drooping eyes in an otherwise hard-edged face.
Wisps of dark brown hair, streaked with grey, escape the tight coif under her bonnet.
Her companion is younger with light hair and open curiosity shining from green eyes. They both have the milk-white skin of women who rarely go outside – completely out of place here with the Orkneyjar wind blowing through their hair. But Elspet feels no fear looking into their faces.
She holds her children close as the ladies dismount.
The older woman frowns slightly, her hand moving up to smooth the strands of hair that have come loose.
‘I am looking for the spae-wife.’ She has the clipped Scots accent of a noblewoman.
There are plenty of settlers from South in Orkneyjar, their tongue melding with the native Norn, vowels softened over years in the islands, but this lady’s voice is pure Scotland, and aristocratic to boot.
‘We were told she lived here. Do you know where we can find her?’
‘There are some who call me that. I am Elspet Balfour.’
The woman looks confused. ‘We understood the spae-wife to be . . .’ She pauses, as if searching for the right word. ‘I expected you to be older.’
Elspet smiles. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
Her visitor steps forward. ‘My name is Lady Margaret Livingston. And this is Lady Beatrix Ruthven.’
The younger woman grins widely as she regards Elspet while Margaret continues. ‘We are here at the request of Her Majesty the Queen. May we speak with you?’
Now it’s Elspet’s turn to lose her composure.
Emissaries of the King’s wife? What can they possibly want?
Knowing the King’s current preoccupation, this does not bode well.
Could they be here to accuse her of the same crimes as those poor souls at North Berwick?
But the women’s faces bear candid expressions that look, if anything, more worried than her own.
‘Do you wish me ill?’ she asks simply. If they do, she hardly expects an honest answer, but their reaction will tell her a lot.
Lady Margaret shakes her head. ‘No, we don’t.
Although I understand why you might suspect that.
We are here on a matter of some delicacy.
’ She glances back at the men who accompany them; they are still mounted, looking awkward, a few paces behind.
It seems they’ve been instructed not to intrude on the conversation.
Elspet is torn, and struggling to tear her mind from what her son told her about the Earl’s soldiers.
But something tells her not to turn these women away.
Elspet would be able to sense if they were trying to deceive her; she feels none of the tension in her belly that comes when someone is lying.
Besides, she can’t help wanting to know what has brought them to her door.
Beatrix’s eyes are wide. ‘Please. We have travelled such a long way.’
Elspet nods. She looks down at Gillie and Broden, then hands the satchel of herbs to her son. ‘Take these inside for me.’
The children do as they’re asked, looking back as they run inside.
Elspet smooths down her skirts. ‘I don’t have long to spare. But shall we go for a peedie walk?’
She leads Margaret and Beatrix down a short rocky path at the side of the pennyland. As they descend, the wide stretch of Skalpafloi opens out in front of them. The women pause to admire the landscape and Elspet finds some reassurance in this.
She leads them through a copse of trees to the edge of the water and indicates some fallen trunks where they can sit. ‘I’m sure this isn’t what you’re used to, but we should be comfortable for a while. This is Skalpafloi, our Orkneyjar sea. It’s a good place to sit and clear the head.’
Beatrix smiles as she takes in the water framed by lush green meadows.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She sits awkwardly on one of the tree trunks.
As she bends down, a pendant with a vivid green jewel slips from the front of her dress.
Elspet finds herself staring into its depths before Beatrix tucks it back out of sight.
She looks embarrassed as she sees Elspet looking. ‘It’s been in my family for generations. It gives powerful protection from harm – apparently.’
‘It looks a strong charm indeed,’ Elspet says.
Margaret clears her throat as she sits, her posture as deliberate as if she were at a fine dinner. ‘We come to discuss an important and sensitive matter with you.’
‘I can see that.’ Elspet keeps her voice gentle.