Chapter 25
‘I’M AFRAID,’ BEATRIX SAYS, ‘that we may be leaving Kitty in a dangerous situation here at Dunrobin.’
Elspet, Beatrix and Margaret are in the women’s western bedchamber, alone for the first time since Kitty’s revelation of Jamie Bogge’s noble pedigree.
They sit on a wide, curtained bed by the window, gathered close and speaking in whispers.
They haven’t lit the candles; daylight is fading to a grey mist outside and there is a low fire burning in the grate.
‘What do you mean?’ Margaret asks.
‘What if, in Lady Jean’s eagerness to discover who this man is, she’s overlooking an obvious suspect right under her own nose?’
‘The Earl of Sutherland? You’ve alluded to his troubled nature before.’ Margaret sighs. ‘I think it’s time you tell us what you mean.’
‘There have been rumours about the Earl of Sutherland for a long time; the invalid, the mysterious man nobody except Lady Jean ever sees. Back when I used to visit Dunrobin as a child for the hunts – as now – the whole fourth floor of the east wing where the Earl’s rooms are was off-limits to everyone but the countess and a few servants. ’
Beatrix’s voice is low and serious. She avoids their eyes and looks out of the window and over the darkening sea of the Moray Firth.
‘As children we’d dare each other to get closer and closer to the Earl’s chamber. Lady Jean caught us one day. I have never seen her so furious – it was terrifying.’
‘Rumours are one thing,’ Margaret says sharply, ‘but if we must speculate, I can think of a number of possible candidates. What about the Earl of Bothwell for one?’
Beatrix is aghast. ‘He’s just been pardoned of witchcraft. Surely he wouldn’t . . .’
‘Or the Earl of Atholl?’ Margaret goes on.
‘But he’s been investigating – he wants to present a case to the King,’ Beatrix protests.
‘Who’s to say that’s not a smokescreen?’ Margaret challenges.
There’s something else – Elspet remembers the marshal of the hunt’s low howl as they walked away on the day she arrived at Dunrobin. And Atholl’s words at dinner – I’ve picked up many skills from your marshal, Lady Jean.
Before she can speak though, Beatrix has leapt up. ‘We could have a look tonight. Go to the fourth floor – we might learn something or find some of these props Atholl was talking about – elfshot, bones . . . Either way, you were right, Margaret, we should be the ones to discover Bogge’s identity.’
Margaret holds up her hands as if to fend off what Beatrix is saying. ‘Are you suggesting we creep about the corridors of Dunrobin after dark and attempt to spy on our generous host?’
‘We’re not spying on anyone – just checking if they are where people say they are,’ Beatrix says firmly.
‘If Jamie Bogge is Lady Jean’s husband,’ Elspet says slowly, ‘we wouldn’t expose him to the King, would we? We couldn’t repay her kindness like that.’
‘No,’ Beatrix says. ‘I don’t think so . . .’
Elspet is curious – is it possible this mysterious Earl is not an invalid confined to his bed after all? And it’s certainly true that sometimes folk are most blind to the faults of those closest to them.
‘This is the height of recklessness,’ Margaret warns them.
Beatrix shrugs. ‘It’s probably easier if just two of us go anyway. What say you, Mistress Balfour? I know this castle as well as my own home, and if we are caught, I’m sure I can think of an explanation.’
‘What possible explanation could you give?’ Margaret asks, exasperated.
‘That’s the thing about being thought reckless.’ Beatrix smiles. ‘People will believe anything of you.’
Elspet kens she should refuse, that this is one too many risks to take.
The next day will see the start of her journey to court where she must feign the identity of Lady Alvah Gordon to an audience of folk that includes the King of Scotland himself.
The last thing she should be doing is creeping around the home of the woman who’s shown her nothing but kindness, looking for human bones and strange pieces of metal used in rituals.
The thought sends a shudder through her body.
And yet, her desire to ken the identity of Jamie Bogge cannot be ignored. What is the truth about this man?
‘I confess I’d like to know,’ Elspet whispers. ‘It troubles me that his activities are inflaming the witch-hunting panic.’
She thinks of her mormor’s gentle hands, grinding the peedie brown primrose seeds in a pestle and mortar, spreading them onto bread with honey to give to their neighbour to ease his aching joints; or stirring the pot of water infusing with the parnassus grasses that brought relief to the widow Ibister’s stomach pains.
The warmth and comfort her mormor brought to all those she cared for spreads through her every time she remembers her.
The work of the spae-wives, wise women, healers and truth-seers brings fear and suspicion to some – it always has.
But she knows her skills are a gift from God, just as they were to her grandmother before her.
That such a gift could be considered evil, aligned with the Devil, causes a churning unease in her stomach.
She fears for her own life – but also fears all that will be lost if women like her are unable to carry out their work.
‘I will come.’
The darkness is thick. No torches light the silent fourth floor of the east wing of Dunrobin.
After a week living in a grand castle with almost constant light, luxurious fires and candles burning at all hours of the night, Elspet must reacquaint herself with navigating a world of impenetrable night.
Beatrix takes hold of her hand. ‘It’s this way,’ she whispers, and the two of them creep slowly along the passageway, staying close to the wood-panelled wall.
They reach a wide landing space illuminated by grey light from a small window. The main corridor continues ahead and a smaller one heads off to the right. Beatrix grips her hand tighter and whispers, ‘The Earl’s room is there.’
No servants guard the room.
‘Lady Jean still has most of her men guarding the grounds looking out in case the Earl of Orkney’s men return,’ Beatrix explains.
Elspet creeps behind her. When they reach the door of the Earl’s chamber, Beatrix knocks on it softly. Elspet’s heart hammers in her chest. There’s no answer.
‘He must be asleep,’ Beatrix whispers then slowly pushes open the door. Elspet holds her breath as they both step inside the Earl of Sutherland’s chamber.
The room is silent and large, lit by a faint orange light coming from a fire burning low to its embers. In the centre of the shadowy chamber is a large bed, and it is empty. Elspet allows herself to exhale as she looks around the room, half relieved, half disappointed. There’s nobody here.
‘Where is he?’ Beatrix murmurs. ‘If he’s an invalid who can never leave his bed, why isn’t he here?’
Elspet is curious – but she feels ranyie pains stab at her stomach. They can ponder the Earl’s absence back in the safety of their own chamber. ‘Let’s go,’ she says urgently.
‘We could just have a look . . .’ Beatrix begins, stepping towards the Earl’s bed. Lying on top of the deep red brocade fabric are a number of strange shapes. Beatrix picks up one and holds it out for Elspet to see. Her blood runs caal – it’s a peedie rough figure, made of fabric and stuffed.
‘A poppet,’ she whispers. ‘Sometimes charms and spells use something like this to represent a person. An implaister of wax, or a poppet of fabric like this one.’
‘Likenesses of the King – like Atholl said.’
It doesn’t look much like the King to Elspet, but she knows that doesn’t necessarily mean anything – her mind swims back to the stackyard, the rough wax figures in her hand certainly don’t resemble any actual people.
Beatrix holds the figure at arm’s length, examining its lumpen shape, out of place in the luxury of this chamber. ‘And what would you do with . . .’
Before she can finish, a crashing and wailing comes from the far wall of the chamber.
Elspet exchanges a panicked look with Beatrix, who throws the poppet back onto the bed as they both step backwards quickly.
They conceal themselves behind a woollen cloak hanging from a stand next to the door just in time to see a section of the wood panelling in the room open up.
Elspet claps a hand over her mouth – there’s a corridor behind the wall.
Four men stumble loudly into the chamber.
One of them, dressed in a doublet with white lace sleeves and wearing a hooped earring, is raging like a madman.
He’s half dragged, half carried by a man on either side.
The fourth carries a torch to light their way.
‘Leave off me, let me go,’ the man with the earring is saying, thrashing ferociously, sweat pouring off him.
Elspet is frozen to the spot, pressed into the wall, desperately hoping the cloaks are sufficient to hide them.
From his dress, this man must be the Earl of Sutherland – and there’s no doubt from his behaviour that he is unwell.
Despite the violent pleas of their master, the men wrangle their charge towards the bed.
‘Come, my Lord, you must lie down,’ one of them says as they wrestle him down.
The fourth man places the torch in a golden sconce on the wall and retrieves a bottle from a cupboard.
Between them, they force the Earl to drink its contents.
‘How did he get out again?’ one says. ‘The Devil is in him worse than ever. The countess is going to kill us.’
They continue to hold down their charge until, within minutes of drinking the liquid, he’s sleeping like a baby, snuggled down with his poppets under the red brocade of the blanket.
Elspet shrinks further into the wall behind the cloak as the chamber door flies open behind them. The newcomer is obscured by the door, but Elspet recognises the voice at once.
‘He’s been out again?’ Lady Jean hisses, furious. ‘Why does this keep happening? I gave strict instructions. Especially during hunting season; people are here.’
‘I don’t know, my lady, we’ve been giving him the tea you brewed – three times a day as instructed,’ one of the men says, his voice full of contrition.
‘We must increase the dosage then,’ Lady Jean says, ‘and he should be watched at all times, at least until the visitors have left the castle.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ the man says. ‘Hughes will stay for the rest of the night, and I’ll take over in the morning.’
Two of the men leave with Jean, while the man called Hughes remains, sitting in a chair by the bed.
Elspet slowly shifts her weight from one leg to the other as they begin to ache.
She should be getting a good night’s rest before embarking on the long journey to Edinburgh tomorrow, not hiding behind a cloak stand spying on the private business of her hosts.
Hughes yawns, then breaks wind loudly. After a while, the sound of snoring comes from the chair by the bed and Elspet peeps out. The man is slumped to the side, fast asleep. On the bed, the Earl has his head back and mouth open. Both men are dead to the world.
Slowly, carefully, Elspet and Beatrix creep out from behind the cloak stand, open the door a crack and slip out. Breathing a sigh of relief as she sees the empty corridor, Elspet follows Beatrix as they hurry back to their chamber.
‘You see!’ Beatrix hisses. ‘What more proof do we need that the Earl of Sutherland is out and about performing nefarious deeds?’
It’s hard to disagree with this conclusion.
Although Elspet has come to respect and trust the Countess of Sutherland, she kens well the blindness that folk, even wise folk, can have in relation to their loved ones.
Perhaps Beatrix is right – that the evil being perpetrated in the kirkyards of Sutherland originates from inside Dunrobin itself.
They can’t be sure though. The evening’s strange activities have made her more confused than ever.
Even if Kitty does reveal Jamie Bogge’s identity to Lady Jean, the matter is far from simple.
Can they impress the King with their commitment to his cause if the perpetrator of these horrific deeds is Lady Jean’s husband, Beatrix’s brother-in-law, or the man just pardoned whose gaze has Elspet in thrall?
Either way, they leave for court in the morning. It is time to see if their preparations have been enough, if her new skin fits. Lady Alvah Gordon, Queen Anna’s lady-in-waiting, is about the enter the court of the King of Scotland.