Page 91 of The Changeling

Lord Patrick’s eyes glinted, and he gestured to the man with the hammer to undo the collar about her neck.

‘This is not seemly,’ Lord George protested. He was ignored.

The lord of Monzie hustled Mam within the church, his arm like an iron band holding her against his body. Some of the men left in the churchyard sniggered and made lewd comments, but many looked discomfited. A sharp cry of pain, then a loud bang. I flew up into the air. Her wrists still bound, Mam ran fleet as a deer out the side door, down the road and across the narrow humpbacked bridge that crossed the Shaggie Burn. Lord Patrick stumbled out of the church, his breeches undone, his hands clasped to his groin. ‘The whore bit me! Catch her!’

The men ran to their horses and galloped in pursuit. I flew about their heads, flapping my wings, pecking at their eyes. Spooked, many of the horses reared and bucked, throwing their riders.

Mam scrambled down the steep side of the Shaggie Burn. The horses all shied and refused to follow. Lord Patrick was mounted now, and furiously whipping his horse in pursuit. I flew at him, claws raking, and he drew his sword and slashed it about him. I barely managed to escape, black feathers fluttering down from my tail. He spurred his horse on ruthlessly, and it went sliding down the gully in a clatter of stones. Mam ran through the burn and up the far side, then sprinted across the golden barley field, hair whipping behind her. Lord Patrick’s horse reared and shied, refusing to cross the rocky burn. For a moment I thought Mam could do it – she could escape. But then he whipped his horse so mercilessly, it leapt the stream, crashed to its knees in the rocks, then staggered up and galloped after her, snorting and wild-eyed. Blood streamed down its legs.

I swooped at him again, cawing and striking at his face with my claws. His horse reared and threw him. He hit the ground with a thud, and his horse cantered on, riderless. Looking over her shoulder, Mam saw it and held out her hand, whickering. The beast was exhausted and in pain. It trotted to her, and dropped its nose into her outstretched palm.

‘Good boy, good boy,’ she soothed. ‘Stand now.’

In a moment she had the reins looped into her hands, still bound cruelly tight at the wrists. She rested them on the pommel, put one bare foot into the stirrup, bounced on the ball of her foot, and was up and in the saddle in seconds, riding astride, her chemise rucked up to reveal her long, bare legs. Lord Patrick was on his feet, racing after her, but he was too late. His gelding cantered away, ridden by his captive.

I was amazed. My gentle mam, so capable and fierce. Nan was the one with power, I had always thought. But now I knew there were many kinds of strength.

Mam raced across the fields, her fair hair like a banner. But her horse was injured, and the other men were in hot pursuit. Slowly they gained on her, despite all my attempts to peck at their faces and slow them down.

Into the shadow of the Knock, she rode. The men galloped down the road, cutting off her escape. Lord Patrick ran and waved down one of his men. He pulled up his mount, and Lord Patrick ordered him down and leapt up in his place. He belaboured the mare with his whip till it caught up with the other horses.

Mam urged her exhausted steed up the steep side of the Knock, following the path we had climbed every year for the Samhain fires, till the preacher had come and called such celebrations ungodly. I soared above her, urging her on with my caws. She reached the summit, but her poor horse foundered and fell to its bleeding knees. Mam was hurt. She managed to get to her feet and limp away.

Lord Patrick bent low in the saddle, spurring his beast on. He galloped behind her, reached down and caught Mam by the hair. She screamed and fell, and was dragged a few paces, before he reined in his horse and jumped down. Mam tried to get up, but he kicked her down again and put his boot on her throat, pressing hard. She choked and clawed at the leather.

Again, I swooped at his head, but he drew a pistol from his belt, loaded it and fired at me, so close the bullet singed my wing feathers. I wheeled away, shrieking. The other men galloped up, some laughing and cheering, but a few looking sick and frightened.

‘She … must … pay …’ Lord Patrick panted. He saw the old barrel we had once used to dook for apples on All Hallows’ Eve. He dragged Mam to it, and shoved her in it. She fought back, but he was too strong for her. He hit her hard, and she fell limp. He crammed her in, then jammed the lid on tight, so she could not get out. I dived for his face again, and once again he drew his sword and swung it wildly about his head. I could not get close to him, though I tried. Grunting, he rolled the barrel to the edge of the crag, only stopping to slash at me again and again. No-one helped him. Even Pastor Malison looked aghast.

‘Bloody … witch …’ Lord Patrick wheezed. ‘I’ll … teach you.’

He put his boot on the barrel, then shoved it over.

I shrieked. Swooped for him. I’d scratch his eyes out. I’d rip his throat out.

The barrel rolled down the hill, gathering speed. It bounced, spun, bounced higher. I tried to stop it, but I was just a hollow- boned bird, just beak and claws and feathers. The barrel almost crushed me. I swerved out of the way, then flew low, following the barrel as it bounced and spun and jounced down the hill and into the field below.

Lord Patrick jumped onto his horse and galloped after it. His men followed, but I could tell they were disturbed and shaken.

Who could have guessed such blackness lay hidden in his heart? He had always been so austere, so judgemental. He had been a pillar of the new church. He had frowned on any transgression; even a little girl singing as she hopped along the path, avoiding all the cracks.

Perhaps his wife could have told us. She had been a sweet- faced, merry-hearted girl when she wed him. Now she was gaunt and silent.

But he was the laird of Monzie. Who dared oppose him?

The barrel broke as it hit the valley floor. Mam lay unmoving in its ruins. But when Lord Patrick nudged her with his boot, she groaned and stirred. Some of her limbs were wrong. Broken. Out of joint.

She opened one swollen eye, and looked up at Lord Patrick as he bent over her. Somehow she found the strength to spit at him.

‘Gather firewood,’ Lord Patrick ordered, dragging Mam out of the barrel. ‘We’ll burn the witch.’

She moaned.

Lord George had not been part of the wild chase up the hill.

But he had seen the barrel bouncing down the hill, and had ridden fast to meet the men.

He caught at Lord Patrick’s arm. ‘You cannot! There has been no trial, no due process, no sentence passed by a magistrate.’