What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

dancing under wheeling gulls. In the distance, scarce visible through the haze, the lion’s head of Arthur’s Seat rises over Edinburgh and the king who is the source of her misfortune.

‘Elizabeth Simson. You have been accused of consorting with demons. By your foul practice of witchcraft have you brought famine and pestilence to this land.’

They stand at the end of the long stone pier, sober men all dressed in black. Behind them, closer to shore and the derelict fishermen’s cottages, a crowd has gathered for the show. Not much entertainment to be had in these parts. Not much joy since the crops began to fail and the nets came up empty.

‘It is not too late for your soul to be saved. Confess to the sin of witchcraft, repent and throw yourself upon God’s mercy.’

She stares out across the waves, doing her best to ignore the men behind her. Her time has come, she knows. The God of her tormentors has mercy only for the men who worship him. He has no time for women at all.

‘Do you confess your sins? Willingly and here before these witnesses?’

Finally, she turns and faces the crowd, enjoying the momentary flinch on some faces, the involuntary step back as if she is some fearsome beast and not a tired old woman. What harm could she possibly do them? They have tied her with stout rope, hung heavy weights about her. She can do nothing but stare, and sneer.

‘And should I confess to a crime I have not committed, is that not yet a sin?’

‘Very well. If you will not confess, then it shall be for God himself to decide.’

Their leader, the puffed up laird, nods to his two deputies. They step forward, uncertain at first but with growing conviction as they are not struck down. They guide her to the edge, and she looks down at the choppy water. It is not deep here, but it is deep enough.

‘You will be dead before the year is out, Master Thackray.’ She smiles as the words fall upon superstitious ears. They will take it as a curse, even though it is not. He has the marks on his skin where he has scratched himself, the tiny red spots mostly hidden by his white ruff collar. The ague is not a pleasant way to die, and that gives her some small comfort as she faces her own, swifter end.

‘Foul sorceress, your soul will burn in hell.’ He nods to the two men, and they shove her hard.

It is a short fall to the water. The stones drag her under, and swiftly to the bottom. She panics then, even though she had promised herself she would not. A lifetime of study, of helping these poor, ignorant people, means that she knows all too well how long it takes for a person to drown. Her end will not be long, though it will certainly feel it.

She holds her breath as if it was the most precious thing. The water is cold, sapping away the last of her strength as the light slowly fades to nothing. The panic lessens. She can feel herself slipping away, the blessed release almost upon her.

And then the rope pulls tight, dragging her back upwards. She breaks the surface in an explosion of noise, sucks in air that never tasted so sweet. They haul her limp body back up onto the pier, dump her unceremoniously at the feet of the magistrate. She has no strength to stand, so he crouches down to look her in the eye.

‘Do you confess, Bessie Simson? Will you repent of your sins and accept God into your heart?’

She can see the hope in his eyes. He means to kill her whatever she says, but if she gives him what he wants then he will go home with his conscience clear. So it ever was. So it ever will be.

The weight of her soaked dress drags her down, the ropes around her and the rocks tied to her legs. And yet she struggles to swaying feet. Her throat is raw, her voice husky and ominous as she stares first at the laird, then at all the others who have come to witness her execution.

‘With my dying breath I curse thee,’ she says, and falls back into the sea’s embrace.

33

The tinny electronic beep of his phone woke him from restless sleep. McLean rolled over, remembering a couple of seconds too late that Emma was on another continent. In the time it took him to reach for the handset, his mind went through the alarm at her not being there, through the relief that she hadn’t stormed out on him after yet another row, and on to the realisation that he wouldn’t see her again for weeks, maybe months. Last time they’d spoken, she’d sounded exhausted but excited at the discoveries they were making and the new skills she was learning. Had something happened to spoil that?

‘Hello?’ He did his best to keep the yawn out of his voice, and hoped that whoever was at the other end of the line couldn’t hear the noise of him rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘Morning, sir. Sorry to call so early.’ Not Emma, but the unmistakable voice of Detective Sergeant Sandy Gregg. McLean pulled the phone from his ear for long enough to see that it was past six in the morning. Had he forgotten to set his alarm?

‘It’s not a problem, Sandy. What’s up?’ He swung his legs out from under the duvet, shivering slightly at the chill in the room. Approaching winter had overtaken the elderly and inefficient central heating system in the house, it would seem. Either that or he’d forgotten to switch it on yet.

‘Report’s just come in of a dead body. House over Fountainbridge way.’ She rattled off an address, and McLean’s mind wandered back to his meeting with the NCA detective, Ackerley. The bawbag who’d nicked his car had lived in Fountainbridge, but then so did a lot of other folk.