Chapter 8
ELSPET’S EYELIDS DROOP AS HER body slumps in the saddle.
Light from the setting sun softens the landscape and the rhythmic movement of the trotting horse lulls her.
Beatrix is in the lead and Elspet’s horse is used to following by now; she can let her attention wander, and he’ll take her in the right direction.
Her gaze rests in the middle distance, focusing on an insect dancing in the air, then slips away. She’s falling deeper, moving inside. She sees her children’s faces – they are smiling, they are cared for. She yearns to stay with them but moves past.
She’s in the stackyard at her friend Katherine’s farm and they’re young again, girls on the verge of womanhood, playing with an overcloak stolen from the Laird of Stenness.
It’s winter and the days are short. Katherine’s mother is out collecting seaware for the fields and her father’s away in Kirkwaa for the day – so they are alone in the grey light of the yard.
They’ve been waiting weeks for this chance.
Elspet backs away from the memory.
In her seidhr state, she’s drifted off to the side of the animal.
Awakening with a jolt, she rights herself quickly.
She hasn’t taken a seidhr journey since leaving Orkneyjar.
These are the waking dreams that show her the way, guide her, reveal truths – but with a sideways glimpse, something in her peripheral vision, messages to be puzzled over and reflected on.
She hasn’t thought of that night in the stackyard for years – what does it mean?
Blinking, she returns to her body. The grimplins light of the day is fading, a wide grey body of water lies ahead of them like a calm sea. Streams of light fall from the setting sun onto its surface.
Beatrix looks at her with curiosity. Sometimes Elspet calls out during seidhr journeys – has she said anything strange, something that might give away these shameful memories?
But Beatrix only smiles. ‘Loch Shin,’ she says. ‘I think we should find somewhere undercover to sleep, if only for a couple of hours. There are some woods not far from here, near the kirk at Lairg at the eastern end of the loch.’
Half her mind still back in Katherine’s stackyard, Elspet is relieved to be staying outdoors again tonight. It may not be comfortable, but she’s not yet ready to present the new face she’ll have to cultivate to pass in Scottish society.
Elspet inhales the cooling evening air as deeply as she can. The moon is a bright crescent in the last of the grimplins; clouds pass across its face in the darkening lift. She gazes at its light, letting it comfort and calm her.
There’s so much she can’t control here, so much unknown.
To dwell on her fears when there’s no useful action she can take to ease them is foolish – it will only dull her wits if she allows this agitation to take over.
She must trust that when the time comes, she’ll find a way to do what is being asked of her.
And that in return the Queen of Scotland will offer her protection, and she’ll be able to return to her children.
‘Tell me who I’ll meet at Dunrobin,’ she says.
‘My mother always stays with Jean for as long as she can. So she’ll certainly be there. And my sister Mary, the Countess of Atholl. You know them both, don’t you, Margaret?’
‘Indeed I do,’ Margaret says flatly. ‘Your mother is a pleasant woman.’
Beatrix lets out a blast of laughter. ‘Yes, I agree – the less said about Mary the better.’
‘You’re not fond of your sister?’ Elspet asks.
‘Mary has always thought herself something above the rest of us, but she’s been unbearable since becoming the Countess of Atholl. I can’t understand it myself – being married to that man wouldn’t be worth all the titles in the world.’
‘You’re not fond of your brother-in-law either?’
‘He’s dreadful,’ Beatrix says, then pauses, looking for the right words. ‘He has no backbone – bends like willow to whoever has the political upper hand at the time.’
‘He must have trouble knowing who to bend to from one week to the next these days,’ Margaret says pointedly.
‘Quite,’ Beatrix agrees. ‘He’s always two steps behind.
He was openly loyal to Bothwell, even when he was an outlaw, because he believed he might succeed in deposing the King.
I mean, plenty of people have a soft spot for Bothwell, but you can’t openly show allegiance to someone like that at court. ’
Beatrix has spoken before of this man during their journey.
The Earl of Bothwell was one of the people charged with the crime they call witchcraft at the North Berwick trials, unusual among those accused for two reasons: he’s an aristocrat and he’s a man.
He escaped execution, unlike many others, but these tales have done much to shatter her illusion that life for the rich families of Edinburgh is luxurious and free of peril.
They continue their ride in the low light of the sinking sun; the surface of the loch ahead turns yellow and then a deep orange, and a peedie collection of buildings appears on the horizon.
‘Lairg,’ Beatrix says. ‘It’s a small village – barely more than the kirk and a house for the parson but still, we’ll steer clear of the lanes and head for the woods behind. We can rest here and we won’t have far to travel tomorrow.’
As they near the village, Beatrix leads her horse down a narrow path around a wall that encloses the kirkyard. Elspet and Margaret follow.
‘Lairg kirk serves all the settlements around here, so the graveyard is large,’ Beatrix explains.
She keeps her voice low and Elspet leans forward to hear her over the horses’ hooves.
She feels a sharp twinge in her belly and is suddenly alert – her ranyie pangs, short stabs of pain in her stomach, tell her when something isn’t right, that she should be alert and careful.
She looks around. To the right, a low stone wall separates them from the wide kirkyard and its jumbled blanket of graves.
Among the flat stones rises an occasional taller memorial – a great crucifix, a stern-looking angel on a plinth.
The twinges continue and unease creeps up Elspet’s spine. Even the horses seem nervous and slow their pace. She’s attended kirk all her life; the Christian faith and the old Orkneyjar traditions coexist happily, and a kirkyard is usually a place of peace and reflection. But not this one.
As they move forward, Elspet stifles a gasp.
Among the stones, separated from them only by the low wall and a few rows of graves, is a group of figures, lit up by the flaming torches they carry.
Dancing orange light illuminates the procession of perhaps ten people, all wearing hooded robes.
They’re walking forward in unison, purposefully, towards the section of the kirkyard with the most densely packed graves.
Elspet’s skin is alive with prickling dread. What are they doing? Could it be the Earl of Orkney’s men? She knows that’s wildly unlikely but something about those people is wrong.
Looking round at Beatrix and Margaret, she sees her fear and confusion reflected in their expressions.
Slowly, silently, Beatrix urges her horse forward along the path and they follow.
The night is growing thicker and Elspet knows, from much time spent outside by firelight, that beyond the pool of illumination cast by the torches, the darkness will be impenetrable.
She holds her breath as they move on past the kirkyard and into the woods.
The three women remain silent as they go deeper into the woods. The trees are dense, the ground tangled with bushes and roots, and they’re forced to come to a stop.
Beatrix speaks in a whisper. ‘It’s too dark to see through the trees. My horse can’t find his footing.’
‘I think we’ve come far enough,’ Elspet says tentatively. ‘Whoever those folk were, they didn’t see us, and they won’t find us here.’ As she says the words, she hopes fervently they’re true.
‘Who were they?’ Beatrix says.
‘Probably people going to work in the kirk. There’s no reason to be alarmed,’ Margaret says. But her voice is unsteady.
‘Well, we can’t go much further now,’ Beatrix says. ‘We should sleep for a few hours.’
They’re protected by the trees, but the group in the kirkyard still feels too close for comfort, and they cease talking.
Elspet thinks of her seidhr visions, unsettling events from her own past. They’re telling her something about the future, but what?
She falls into an uneasy slumber, troubled memories swimming through her mind.