Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  MacKenzie was woken by the sound of the door opening. He had fallen into a delicious nap after finishing his ale. A small man entered who bore a striking resemblance to Scougall; the dark shadow caused by vigorous growth of facial hair, small eyes. Behind him were two soberly dressed young women. They must be Davie’s twin sisters.

  Scougall rose to make the introductions. ‘Father, Janet, Jean. I am delighted to introduce Mr John MacKenzie.’

  The merchant shook hands with MacKenzie. The girls curtsied: ‘Here is oor ain Davie back hame wi the famous John MacKenzie,’ said Mr Scougall. ‘This is a great pleasure, sir.’

  The twins smiled shyly as MacKenzie bowed his head.

  ‘The food is ready. Tak a seat, Mr MacKenzie,’ called Mrs Scougall from the other side of the room.

  The table was set for a small feast. There was a dish of marrow-bones, a leg of mutton, a loin of veal, two capons and an assortment of vegetables. They took their seats around the wooden table. Before eating Mr Scougall said grace. MacKenzie lowered his head out of respect to his hosts.

  He opened the conversation. ‘How is business, Mr Scougall?’

  ‘It is brisk, sir. We cannae complain.’

  ‘What do you trade in?’

  ‘I deal mainly in fish, sir. I buy frae the men here in Musselburgh and sell tae the merchants in Edinburgh. Ma faither followed the same trade. It is a fairly regular one.’ Scougall’s father passed round the dish of vegetables before continuing: ‘Are ye spending the nicht in Musselburgh, Mr MacKenzie?’

  ‘No. I head for the Bell in Haddington tonight. Tomorrow I must attend the funeral of Lady Lammersheugh.’

  The merchant’s face dropped. He stopped munching on his mouthful of mutton.

  ‘What is it, Father?’ Scougall asked.

  ‘Only what I hae heard in the toon.’ Mr Scougall lowered his voice. ‘Lady Lammersheugh was accused of witchcraft by a confessin witch, Margaret Rammage, and questioned by the Lammersheugh session last week. Three days later her body was found in a pool in the Lammermuirs. Folk are sayin she’s tain her ain life to escape the stake.’

  Scougall’s face whitened. The twins lost their playfulness. Mrs Scougall’s laughter drained away.

  ‘I did not know this, Mr Scougall. It is most distressing news,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I received word that she was dead two days ago. I had not expected such a development. I have known Lady Lammersheugh for many years. I can assure you that such accusations are ill-founded and must be motivated by malice.’

  His mind was racing back through the letter. This news placed everything in a very different light, especially the wellbeing of the girls. The words came to him: only a man of experience and wisdom can unpick the tangled threads which have led to this calamity. Have particular regard to my latterwill which I have recently altered.

  Scougall’s father continued in a respectful but determined tone. ‘There is evidence, sir – the delation o a confessin witch. Lady Lammersheugh must hae selt hersel tae Satan. Some say she used witchcraft tae hairm Lady Girnington, her sister-in-law.’

  ‘These are dark times, Mr MacKenzie,’ Mrs Scougall interjected, ‘dark times for oor land. Satan walks among us. God help us. I fear for ma dochters. He can trick a young girl. Tak her as his ain. Appear as a handsome gentleman dressed in black. Turn her heid wi promises.’ She spoke directly to her daughters. ‘Ca canny, girls. Dinnae linger wi ony strangers.’

  The girls nodded seriously.

  ‘I am sure there is a rational explanation for what has happened,’ said MacKenzie.

  But Scougall knew in his bones that his mother was right. There was great danger in the parish of Lammersheugh.

  CHAPTER 11 - The Burial of a Gentlewoman

  26 October 1687

  MACKENZIE STOOD A few yards behind the mourners in Lammersheugh kirkyard, a cold wind blowing in his face, leaves spinning round his feet. He recalled the words of Genesis, Chapter 3: ‘for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ It had been a similar day all those years before when he had buried Elizabeth, although there were hundreds packed around the graveside then, despite the cold. There had been something else too. Perhaps it was the vibrant colours of the plaids or the sparkle of the Gaelic, or the consolation of family and friends – the presence of the clan.

  The image of his wife’s dead body came to him, lying in a winding sheet of white linen on the bed where she had conceived, given birth and died. He remembered the tumult of emotions following her death – anger, grief, guilt. He had tried to be rational, applying the lessons of stoic philosophers like Marcus Aurelius. But he could not. He felt a knot in his stomach. He knew that unless he acted to loosen it, it would grow until it formed a pit, bottomless and black. And there was the face of the midwife. He had not seen her for twenty years, blaming her, although there was no reason. Women died in childbirth. It was always thus. Why, then, the guilt he carried, the sense that, ultimately, it was he who was responsible? By an act of will, like the prising open of a trap, he forced himself to think outwards, away from himself, away from the past, away from pain, away from the knot.

  He watched the minister consumed by piety in prayer. MacKenzie held no affection for such men, whether Protestant or Papist, Presbyterian or Episcopalian. ‘Priests of all religions are the same,’ as Dryden said in Absalom and Achitophel. He had no time for those who told others what they should believe, what was a sin and what was not. The hypocrisy of the priesthood of all believers, the self-righteousness of men of God, putting themselves between the people and the higher power, if one existed; snuffing out joy; killjoys literally. He hoped that one day Man would be free from such bleak masters.

  Although, not all churchmen were from the same mould, he reflected. There was wisdom and tolerance in Bishop Leighton’s sermons. He was always telling Davie to lay aside his prejudices. But the thought of Archbishop Sharp’s demise came to him; hacked to death on Magus Muir by fanatics. He sensed a similar faith smouldering in the soul of the young minister. He was perhaps thirty-five. He looked fervent, holy, emotional – a fatal combination. He was no doubt sceptical of the present church government and a supporter of the exiles. Many of his more eager colleagues were in the United Provinces, waiting to return. Some were already in Scotland following the last Indulgence. A man, perhaps, after Davie’s heart? But Scougall was a creature of a confined upbringing. His parents were good folk, but rigid in their beliefs. They had little experience of the outside world. Mrs Scougall had never left Musselburgh. There was still hope that Davie might begin to question the dogma of his faith. He was a bright young man.

  The minister articulated each word in a cloying manner, as if to remind the mourners that he was not a Scots speaker, that he had command of English, the language of the Bible. MacKenzie had never met him, but already held strong feelings about him. He must challenge himself more. After all, the stain of witchcraft might have kept other preachers away. Burial was being allowed within the churchyard.

  MacKenzie’s eyes moved round the mourners who stood beside a large stone obelisk, the elaborately carved tomb of the Hays of Lammersheugh. He recognised the two young women as Grissell’s daughters, Euphame and Rosina. If he remembered correctly they would be eighteen and sixteen years old. He knew little of their characters. They had always appeared as shy girls on previous visits. There were two other women, the older one presumably Janet Cornfoot, to whom Grissell had referred to in her letter, the other perhaps a maid or cook from the house.

  There were only two men by the graveside. The people of the town had stayed away. The smear of witchcraft had a powerful effect. One was a lugubrious fellow he knew to be a long-standing servant of the House of Lammersheugh. He could not remember his name. The other was a finely-dressed laird in middle age. A young boy was at his side.

  MacKenzie’s thoughts gravitated towards Scougall. It might be useful to have him here in Lammersheugh. Talking to him stimulated his faculties. Scougall was most useful in that respect. He was also ski
lled with the pen and could keep accurate notes. His own memory was not as good as it used to be. He decided to send Scougall a message requesting he come to Haddington the next day.

  CHAPTER 12 - The Delation of Margaret Rammage

  ‘PLEASE READ Margaret Rammage’s confession, Mr Rankine,’ said the minister from a wooden chair beneath the pulpit.

  A thin man cleared his throat and began to read from a book lying on the small desk in front of him. Rankine had taken considerable care with the entries, which were based on a ream of notes written as Rammage was questioned over a number of occasions. She was now burned to dust, praise be to God. Satan was diminished. He had written a summary of what she had said, before copying it into the book in a neat hand. The work had given him great pleasure. He was serving God. He was assured of eternal bliss as one of the Elect. Satan had tempted him often. A vision of his sister as a sixteen-year-old girl came to him. He experienced a threatened hint of arousal. At least he was tempted less as the years passed. He had fought many battles with the Devil. Now he found her old body repulsive. His erection eased. A place was his in Heaven, despite his sinful life. He was assured of God’s grace.

  In a slow serious voice, he began: ‘“The following is the free and voluntary confession of Margaret Rammage, servant of Janet Cranstoun in Aikenshiels, written by Theophilus Rankine, session clerk of Lammersheugh.”’

  He waited for a moment to indicate that the words following were not his, but those of the witch:

  ‘“I declare that two years ago I was in bed in the house of my mistress, when she woke me and told me that I must speak to a gentleman. She brought me to the hall where I saw a man dressed in black. He was tall and handsome. He wore a hat with a black feather in it. He smiled when he saw me. He took me in his arms and kissed me. He had no breath. He was cold like stone. Nothing more happened that night.

  ‘“The next night when I was going to bed the Devil came to me again. My mistress was not there. He brought me to the fireplace in the hall, where he forced me to lie with him. He told me that I must be his servant.

  ‘“Two weeks later my mistress took me to the Blinkbonny Woods to a meeting with the Devil and other witches. We danced and sang and drank strong liquor. I renounced my baptism, putting one hand over the crown of my head and the other under the sole of my foot. I delivered all that was between my hands unto Satan. He gave me a new name, calling me Jenny. He lay with me in the woods, heavy as a horse on top of me, his penis cold within me like fresh well-water.

  ‘“My mistress Janet Cranstoun was present at this meeting. There was also Marion Campbell, Helen Laing, Katherine Russell, Hugh Black, Margaret Bannatyne, Isobel Dodds, Jean Maxwell, Elspeth Dargie, Catherine Cass, Andrew Love, Bessie MacHimson, Janet Hastie, Marjorie Durie, Margaret Gourlay, Agnes Pride, James Breadhead, Barbara Moncrieff, Helen Deans, John Sinclair, Beatrix Leslie and Bessie Melrose. There was a lady in a green velvet dress wearing a mask. From her voice, I knew she was Lady Lammersheugh. Her daughter Euphame Hay, a thin girl in a fine scarlet dress, was also present.”’

  There was a sigh from an elder in the front pew. ‘Euphame Hay was not mentioned in the previous confession,’ said Cant, shocked to hear her name.

  ‘That is right, sir. Rammage told us that she had forgotten to give a full list of those in attendance the first time she was questioned. Katherine Russell, Margaret Bannatyne and Isobel Dodds were also missing from her first confession.’

  ‘Are you certain that the name of Euphame Hay was provided by her, Mr Rankine?’

  ‘I am, Mr Cant. I asked her the very same question. Did I not Mr Muschet?’

  ‘You did, Mr Rankine,’ replied another elder.

  ‘Please continue,’ said the minister.

  ‘“There were other meetings with the Devil in the woods, and also at the Lint Hauch and the Weird Haugh. When we went to them, we were sometimes in the shape of crows and sometimes in the shape of magpies. Sometimes we went in our own shape. Sometimes the Devil appeared to us as a great dog.

  ‘“I was with many witches at the contriving of the death of the child who was the daughter of Katherine Haliday and her husband William Hair. We made a painting of the bairn which we roasted over a fire. The next week the child fell ill and died.

  ‘“On the night of 12 August in the year of God 1681 we dug up the body of an unbaptised bairn and cut off its arms and legs. Andrew Watson made a pie from it, so that we might eat it and by this means never confess to our witchcraft.

  ‘“I went three times widdershins naked about Andrew Thomson’s house. We cut one of the legs off a mole, put it in a box and buried it outside the threshold of Agnes Pogavie’s home.

  ‘“We fashioned a clay figure of a child to kill the Laird of Wedderlaw’s eldest son. We stuck pins into it. The boy died a month later.

  ‘“I am guilty of divination, of looking into the years to come, which is contrary to the law of God.

  ‘“At our meetings the woman in the green dress sat next to the Devil, serving him as we ate. He was like a stallion after mares with us and sometimes like a man, very eager for carnal copulation at all times, and we desirous of him. We called him Black John.

  ‘“On one occasion he commanded us to open three graves in the kirkyard of Lammersheugh and cut the joints of fingers, toes and knees from the corpses. We divided them amongst us. He told us to keep the joints and to make a powder of them to do evil with.

  ‘“I confess to carnal relations with the Devil in many places throughout the parish. I did fly in the sky. I changed my form into that of a cat.”’

  Rankine was briefly silent, allowing what he had read to sink in.

  ‘“The Devil turned towards us and we went unto him. We did worship him lasciviously, touching him with our hands as he bid us. We took his manhood within our mouths. His discharge was blood. Two women held back; one was dressed in a fine green gown with a mask over her eyes. She had authority over the rest of the witches and warlocks. The green gentlewoman was Lady Lammersheugh. The other was her daughter Euphame Hay. Vile words came from their lips, ordering us to do things to Satan. She told us that we should lie with him in the position of beasts...”’

  One of the elders rose, eyes burning feverishly: ‘Shame on the witch. Shame on her!’

  Rankine was exhilarated as he read the last extract from the minute book:

  ‘“We made a painting in the likeness of Lady Girnington at the bidding of Lady Lammersheugh and roasted it with brandy over a fire in the Blinkbonny Woods.”’

  He indicated with a slight nod of his head that he was finished. The minister rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Rankine. Our parish is infected with much evil. As minister I am obliged to do all I can to root out such vile sin. There is clearly enough evidence to take Euphame Hay into custody for questioning.’

  Trying to restrain his excitement, Rankine added, ‘I have heard that Kincaid is back from the West. His services can be secured for a small fee.’

  The minister hesitated. He had not anticipated the use of such a man.

  ‘It may supply the final piece of evidence, Mr Cant. Provide a watertight case for the High Court. Kincaid is well known for his skills. He will seek out the Devil’s Mark.’

  ‘So be it, Mr Rankine. Let it be put in the minutes that a vote was taken on whether to employ Kincaid to prick Euphame Hay.’

  ‘All those in favour?’ The hands of Muschet and Rankine rose. The minister reluctantly followed suit. He had doubts about the use of such a man. They always appeared as a witch-hunt began, sniffing out the prospect of easy money. But what troubled him particularly was that Kincaid was beneath him. He was not a man of God.

  CHAPTER 13 - A Conversation with Janet Cornfoot

  THE MOURNERS DISPERSED, leaving the old woman alone at the graveside. As MacKenzie approached her, he realised that she was speaking in a slow melodic voice. The rhythm reminded him of the Gaelic charms he had heard in his boyhood. The poetry was the same.

  She turned as hi
s footsteps announced his presence behind her. A dark face was lined by age, eyes milky white. She did not appear to be devastated by grief, but seemed at ease. It was as if she had expected him to arrive at that very moment. ‘I am glad you have come, Mr MacKenzie. I am Grissell’s servant…’

  ‘Janet Cornfoot,’ he said, smiling. ‘I remember you well, though it’s been many years. I believe you are retired from the house?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ She dropped a handful of earth into the grave. ‘I saw Grissell every day. She was like a dochter tae me, bonnie Grissell. Now her bairns are alane. But they still hae auld Janet Cornfoot. You received the letter?’

  ‘I did, Janet. We must talk. The graveside is perhaps not the proper place.’

  ‘Come tae ma hoose the nicht,’ she said.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I bide in the Blinkbonny Wids. Walk thro the gairdens o Lammersheugh, oot o the gate, across the muir, ower the Lammer Burn an intae the wids. Tak the path on the richt until ye come tae a glade. My cottage is there. Knock thrice so I ken it’s you. Now, I hae work tae do.’

  MacKenzie concentrated on retaining the directions. As she passed, she rested her hand on his arm. ‘It cheers me tae see ye here to look aifter the bairns, Mr MacKenzie. I dinnae trust Gideon Purse, the lawyer in Haddington. There are others also who… we’ll talk later.’

  She disappeared into the mist that had descended over the graveyard. MacKenzie stood alone beside the tomb, looking down into the grave. A beautiful woman was in the coffin beneath his feet. He wondered exactly what evil was afoot in Lammersheugh. He must tread carefully. Emotions were running high. Many were eager to cast the finger of accusation. He remembered the dismal spectacle of 1661, the carnage following the Restoration. A strange hysteria took hold of Scotland, as day after day innocent men and women were garrotted and burned. He tried to remember if the Greeks hunted witches. They had tried Socrates, making him drink hemlock for corrupting the youth of Athens. And there was the cruelty of the Romans. The philosophers of old had much to teach us, but the lesson of history was that we repeated the same mistakes. Human nature was set in stone. Some were inclined to be good, others compelled to be evil.