Frey & McGray: A Fever of the Blood - Part 1

1624 - 31 October

‘Open the curtains,’ Lord Ambrose demanded, almost gagging from the effort. ‘I need to see them die.’

Jane tried to push him back to bed. The man was frail - ancient, some people said - and had been ill for months, but he’d managed to stand up and walk the five feet that separated him from the window. Jane winced at the sheer hatred that moved his old bones.

‘You’ll hardly see a thing, master. ’Tis new moon night.’

‘Open them, you filthy wench!’ he roared, pulling his arms away, breaking into a fit of coughing, spitting phlegm and blood all over the white nightgown into which Jane had just changed him.

The maid snorted. No matter how often she washed and changed him, the old man constantly reeked of urine and disease; the stench saturated the very stones of the chamber.

‘Very well,’ she said, wiping his chest and mouth vigorously with a damp cloth. ‘But then you’ll have a good long rest.’

‘Indeed I shall rest,’ he grumbled.

His bony, blotchy hand was already clenching the drapes. They could hear the cries of the crowd. Jane pushed him aside and drew the curtains at the perfect time. The execution was about to begin. Through the diamond-paned glass they saw the castle and Lancaster’s main square, where roaring torches cast ominous shadows over hundreds of heads. The gallows were ready and people clustered around them like restless ants.

The old man unlatched the window, and a blast of icy wind filled the room.

‘Here they come,’ he said, straining to see.

The six witches were marching miserably across the main square, their feet shackled, dragging heavy chains that rattled on the cobbles. Centuries would come and go, but the echoes of those rusty links would linger, for the hags’ souls would never find rest. Dressed in rags, their faces soiled, their hair grey and greasy, they were the very image of wickedness, and the crowd showed no mercy: men, women and children shouted, mocked and threw rotten vegetables at the sentenced women. Jane squinted in disgust, hating that multitude of morbid, heartless bullies who’d be attending church the following morning, calling themselves good Christians.

The witches’ backs were crooked and their feet bare, but they still reached the gallows with some dignity. They did not beg, moan or cry, not even when the executioner covered their faces with filthy hoods that still reeked of previous victims. He slipped the ropes over their heads, tightening the knots, as the bishop prayed and offered them pardon.

Lord Ambrose did not blink or breathe, clutching the windowsill with trembling hands. He let out a faint gasp when he saw the witches drop into the air.

They did not die right away though. For a ghastly moment their bodies writhed like worms on a fishing line, as the mob cheered wildly. Then, even as they convulsed in agony, the witches’ arms rose slowly, straight like masts, all six pointing at the same spot, somewhere in the crowd. People instinctively stepped aside, as if the bony fingers were about to spurt fire. One man, however, remained petrified. An imposing man swathed in beaver fur.

‘Is that your son, master?’ Jane breathlessly asked Lord Ambrose, even though she knew too well. ‘Is that Master Edward?’

‘We should have burned them,’ Lord Ambrose whispered. There was terror in his eyes, a terror such as Jane had never seen.

From under the filthy hood of one of the agonised witches - nobody could tell which one - resounded a horrid voice, deep and howling despite the ropes around their necks. All Lord Ambrose could hear of the curse was the number 13. But the crowd heard it in its entirety, and the terrified townsfolk began to rush away.

The arms rose further still, this time pointing at the highest level of the town’s largest house. Jane shivered. The witches were pointing at them, directly at the open window, their eyes apparently seeing through their cowls and blindfolds. Right then, as if pushed by invisible hands, Lord Ambrose fell backwards, his bones cracking as he hit the floor. He knocked over his chamber pot, spilling its nauseating contents all around himself.

The most illustrious and powerful lord of the house of Ambrose, whose great-grandfather had fought alongside kings in the Wars of the Roses, was now expiring in a puddle of his own filth. Jane nearly uttered the name of the Holy Virgin. She wanted to cross herself, but the window was wide open with hundreds of Protestant partisans to see.

‘Witches hanged on a new moon night,’ she muttered, looking down at the square and remembering it was All Hallows’ Eve.

1882 - 2 December

Dr Clouston could not help feeling like a thief, slipping away like this in the middle of the night. He stroked his beard and contemplated the distant glow of Edinburgh, the city diminishing as the carriage drove him quietly into the frosted wilderness. Tom was doing a good job of keeping the horses as quiet as possible, but the price was moving at a frustratingly slow pace.

A sudden noise made Clouston jump in his seat. Turning so quickly that he hurt his neck, he saw that it was the flapping of an approaching raven. The bird squawked loudly, almost sarcastically. Clouston took a deep breath, trying to compose his shattered nerves, but his anxiety combined with the icy weather made him shiver.

From the moment he began his studies in psychiatry, almost three decades ago, he had known that his profession would take him to the darkest of places, that he would witness not only the indignities of the mentally ill but also the occasionally horrible reactions of his patients’ kin. Madness was a terrible thing; it brought the best and the worst out of people, and tonight, sadly, he was about to face the latter.

Such cases usually flocked to him, but this one was different. This one he’d brought upon himself...

TOMORROW: Lady Anne

THE Dance of the Serpents, the sequel to A Fever of the Blood is now on sale in hardback, priced £18.99

A message from the Editor:

Thank you for reading this story on our website. While I have your attention, I also have an important request to make of you.

The dramatic events of 2020 are having a major impact on many of our advertisers - and consequently the revenue we receive. We are now more reliant than ever on you taking out a digital subscription to support our journalism.

Subscribe to the Edinburgh Evening News online and enjoy unlimited access to trusted, fact-checked news and sport from Edinburgh and the Lothians. Visit https://www.edinburghnews.scotsman.com/subscriptions now to sign up.

By supporting us, we are able to support you in providing trusted, fact-checked content for this website.

Joy Yates