The Shining City (10 page)

“Och, I dinna think that is true, though it is kind o‟ her to say so. I learned most o‟ my craft from the Keybearer, Isabeau, who learned it from Meghan o‟ the Beasts. I often consult the Keybearer when I am no‟ sure o‟ the best remedy.”

“But I canna be going and bothering the Keybearer, an auld skeelie like me!” Dedrie cried. “Och, I walked the corridor outside your room for close on half an hour afore I got up the courage to knock, and my knees are trembling still. If I had no‟ thought I could help ye . . . if I had no‟

thought it was my beholden duty to tell ye what I ken, well, then . . .”

“What ye ken?” Johanna said sharply. “Ye ken something about this girl . . . this satyricorn who killed my brother?”

Dedrie nodded, pressing her hands together. “Only they willna listen to anything I have to say.

I‟m just a poor auld skeelie, and they all believe those dreadful, dreadful lies that horrible girl told them about my laird. Just because she‟s so young and pretty and looks so guileless. They‟ll let her off the hook for sure, while my poor master—”

“What do ye ken?”

“Ye only have to look at her to see she‟s as slippery as an eel. Why, I met her at the castle, and the playacting that lass put on, it puts me to the blush. She pretended to see ghosts and screamed and threw herself around in fainting fits, which a healer like ye would have kent straightaway were fake but deceived everyone else, and then said she had seen murderers and evil sorceries, and all the time she was trying to deflect attention away from the fact that she was the one who had murdered in cold blood. Aye, and mutilated the body too, and threw it in the river to rot.”

Johanna tried to suppress an involuntary sob, but it burst out of her. She covered her face with her hands.

“I‟m so sorry!” Dedrie cried, seizing one of Johanna‟s hands in her own. “I dinna mean to upset ye. What was I thinking, coming at a time like this? Please forgive me.”

“I‟m sorry,” Johanna said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. “I just canna believe it.

Connor . . . everyone loved Connor! He was so bonny and brave and true—a favorite with the Rìgh and the whole court. The Rìgh leaned on him heavily, ye ken—he was always sending him out to settle one disagreement or another, or to take messages o‟ grave import to the other prionnsachan. I just canna believe he‟s dead!”

“And in such a way! It just doesna seem right.” Dedrie swirled the water in the teapot.

Johanna began to cry again.

“And to let his murderess off the hook, just because they havena any eyewitnesses. It‟s a crying shame! She should be hung out o‟ hand.”

“Do they really think she will be released?” Johanna said, scrubbing at her eyes. “It just doesna seem right!”

“That it does no‟!” Dedrie said emphatically, pouring out the tea and stirring honey into the cup.

“But without any witnesses to stand against her . . . They say she has ensorcelled all those young ladies and gentlemen who traveled with her, and the witch too. She must be very crafty and cunning indeed.”

Johanna sighed, her throat thick with grief.

Dedrie brought the steaming cup over to Johanna and pressed it into her hand. “There ye are. Get this inside ye.”

Johanna gratefully took the cup Dedrie passed to her and sipped at it. The tea was sweet and hot.

She felt her muscles relax.

“And all those dreadful things she‟s been saying about my laird,” the skeelie went on, bustling around and packing away her tins of herbs. “All lies, every one o‟ them, but mud sticks, ye ken; mud sticks. My poor laird has to cool his heels in that blaygird prison now too for months, until his name can be cleared, and there will always be those that say there‟s no smoke without fire, and all because o‟ that sly girl and her lies.”

“But are ye sure she is lying?”

“Sure as the sky is blue!” Dedrie cried. She sat down heavily and mopped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “It just breaks my heart to see my laird so disgraced and downhearted. And did ye ken she drove my lady to her death? Lady Evaline, who was the widow o‟ my laird‟s brother? Lady Evaline believed her dreadful tales and threw herself out her window.”

“How terrible!” Johanna cried.

“Aye, it is. That family has kent such tragedy. And this satyricorn girl out o‟ the mountains cares naught for any o‟ that, but only sees how she can turn it to her own advantage. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“But if ye were to stand witness,” Johanna cried. “At her trial! If ye were to give testimony against her.”

“But I‟m naught but a poor auld skeelie and caught up in the slander against my laird, like all his faithful servants. They willna listen to me.”

“They will! O‟ course they will.”

“Happen if I was here, at the College o‟ Healers, attending ye,” Dedrie said thoughtfully.

“Learning what I could o‟ the art o‟ healing, maybe then they would . . . but no. As long as they think I am one o‟ the laird o‟ Fettercairn‟s party, they will never believe me. Her lies have

blackened us all.”

Johanna sat back, deflated. Her headache was gone, but in its place she felt a strange light-headedness, while all her limbs felt weighed down with stones.

The skeelie came and poured her more tea and rearranged her cushion more comfortably.

Johanna drank the tea down, allowing herself to be comforted.

“If only there was someone to stand sponsor for me and give testimony to my character,” Dedrie said slowly. “Then the judges would believe me. But with that creature‟s lies blackening my good name as well as my laird‟s, they‟ll think I lie to protect my laird, o‟ course they will, as long as he is my patron.” She sighed heavily.

“What if ye were here, at the College o‟ Healers, under my protection?” Johanna demanded.

“Would they believe ye then?”

Dedrie clasped her hands together. “O‟ course they would! How could they no‟ believe me? Och, that would be wonderful! And I could stay here, at the college, and study with ye, ma‟am? Och, please!”

“I‟ll organize a room for ye now,” Johanna said, looking around for the bell. Dedrie brought it to her hand, and she rang it emphatically. Johanna‟s assistant came, and she gave orders for a room near hers to be prepared and a letter to be sent to the prison warden, giving him her assurances on Dedrie‟s behalf. The skeelie made a few shy suggestions as to how the letter could be worded, which the assistant duly noted before withdrawing.

“I do thank ye, ma‟am,” Dedrie said, her round face pink with pleasure. “All my life I‟ve dreamed o‟ doing all I can to help and heal those in need. And to think I can work to serve ye, and help ye, the head o‟ the Royal College o‟ Healers. Och, ye will no‟ regret it, I promise ye.”

“It is ye who helps me,” Johanna said, gazing up at Dedrie with heartfelt gratitude. “It is I who should thank ye.”

“Och, nay. What have I done but my duty? It would‟ve been very wrong o‟ me to let that terrible murdering creature escape justice without trying at least to make sure someone stood witness against her. Here, ma‟am, let me rub lavender and peppermint oil into your forehead. It will make ye feel much better.”

“I am in your debt,” Johanna said, closing her eyes as Dedrie gently massaged her temples.

“No‟ at all,” said the lord of Fettercairn‟s skeelie.

Murderers’ Gallery

R
hiannon lifted her hot, throbbing hands and pressed them against her face, trying to block out the foul smell. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she looked about her anxiously, all her muscles ready for quick and violent action.

The Murderers‟ Gallery was a long, low, windowless room, with walls of weeping stone. Rank, moldy straw was scattered on the rock floor, and a bucket in one corner was overflowing with excrement. Rhiannon could see a dead rat lying not far from her knee, the stink of its rotting body adding to the stench.

There were more than twenty women crowded about the room. Some sat on the ground with

their backs against the wall; others lay on rough stone shelves chipped into it. A few were confined by manacles or thumbscrews, as Rhiannon was, and one sat with her head and hands thrust through holes in a large wooden block. Another prisoner was confined in a cage of wood built under the overhang of rock in the far corner. All Rhiannon could see of her was her hands, gripping the bars with white knuckles, and a great mass of hair through which two eyes glared.

Most of the prisoners looked up at Rhiannon dully, then returned their gaze to the floor without any sign of interest, but one woman gave a snort of bitter laughter. “Welcome to Sorrowgate, sweetheart,” she sneered. “Ye‟re a pretty one, ye are. I bet Octavia drooled over ye. Did she stick her hand up your skirt? I bet she wanted to. I bet she—”

“Leave the lass alone, Clarice,” someone else said wearily. Rhiannon glanced at her. She was young and had a shawl huddled about her thin shoulders. “Look at her; she‟s frightened out o‟

her wits as it is,” the girl went on, sympathy in her eyes.

Rhiannon wanted to deny this, but her throat was so dry and rigid with fear she could not force the words out. She gritted her teeth and tried to slow her uneven pants of breath.

Clarice got to her feet and came towards Rhiannon, her thin face twisted into a cruel leer. “How ye going to make me?” she mocked. “Come on, lassiekin, make me stop.”

She bent over Rhiannon, grinning, and reached one hand down to stroke her long black hair.

Rhiannon jerked her hands up, smashing her thumbscrews into Clarice‟s face. The woman reeled backwards with a scream, then rushed at Rhiannon with raking fingernails, blood streaming from her nose. Rhiannon came up off her knees in a rush, fending the woman off with her confined hands, then kicking her back to the floor. Clarice shrieked.

“Sssh!” the girl said urgently. “Ye‟ll bring Octavia down on us! Leave her alone, for Eà‟s sake!”

Clarice wiped away the blood with the back of her hand, staring at Rhiannon with cold, angry eyes. With her hair tossed back from her face, Rhiannon could see she was missing one ear, an ugly stump all that remained.

“Leave me alone and I‟ll leave ye alone,” Rhiannon said as threateningly as she could, hoping no one noticed how her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

Unexpectedly Clarice laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound. “Fair enough,” she said and stood up, dusting off her bottom with one hand. She went over and sat down on an old sack, wrapping her arms about her legs to keep warm. She kept her cynical gaze on Rhiannon‟s face, her creased and weathered face twisted in a habitual mocking leer.

Rhiannon looked about her warily, clutching her blanket to her chest. The blanket smelled even worse than the smock, but it was thick and warm and acted in some way like a shield.

The girl who had defended her made a beckoning motion with her head and shifted over so there was a gap against the wall. Rhiannon went across to it and sat down, feeling a telltale prickle in her eyes.
I will no’ cry, I will no’ cry
, she told herself fiercely, but the hot tears forced their way through her lids anyway. Rhiannon gulped a breath and lifted her hands, weighed down with the cruel thumbscrews, to defiantly wipe them away.

“Dinna greet, lassie,” the girl beside her whispered. “If ye greet, they‟ll just mock ye more.”

Rhiannon glared angrily at the girl sitting next to her. She had an anxious, crooked face. It looked as if her jaw had once been broken and had not healed properly. Although dressed in the same loose smock as Rhiannon, she wore thick woolen stockings and boots and had a crocheted shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a red woolen cap on her head. Her long brown hair was neatly plaited, and she held in her lap a small basket from which she withdrew a clean white handkerchief. She offered this to Rhiannon who, after a moment‟s hesitation, took it and did her best to scrub her face dry. Her clamped thumbs were beginning to swell, and the movement hurt them. The girl saw this and gently took the handkerchief and dried Rhiannon‟s face for her, then matter-of-factly helped her blow her nose, as if Rhiannon was a small child.

“What‟s your name?” the girl asked, tucking the soiled handkerchief away.

“Rhiannon.”

“No family name?”

Rhiannon shook her head.

“I‟m Bess Balfour. What ye in for?”

Rhiannon had to swallow before she could answer. “Murder.”

“Me too,” Bess said sympathetically. “Who did ye murder?”

“A soldier,” Rhiannon said shortly. “He was trying to kill my mother,” she added after a moment.

“I killed my father,” Bess said. “He was beating my poor auld ma almost to death, and so I grabbed the bedpan and whacked him across the head. He fell and hit his head on the

hearthstone. Cracked his skull.”

“And they locked ye up for that?” Rhiannon said indignantly.

Bess nodded. “I have a lawyer, though,” she said with quiet pride. “He‟s costing my ma every penny she‟s managed to squirrel away over the years but she says he‟s worth it. I just have to wait till the next quarter sessions, when my case will go afore the magistrates, and then he‟ll argue my case for me. My ma and my sisters bring me food and coins to give Octavia, so she‟ll let me have an extra blanket and my shawl. I‟m lucky. If ye havena any family to bring ye money, ye‟ll starve to death in here.”