Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  Despite MacKenzie’s injunction to adopt a relaxed air, Scougall kept to the shadows beside the houses, walking with an awkward gait at a fraction of his usual pace. He kept his eyes pinned on Rosina. As she passed the mercat cross and public weighing beam, he could hear the echo of her shoes on the cobbles.

  Suddenly a figure emerged from a door on his right and collided with him. There was a muffled scream. Scougall found himself face to face with a thin middle aged woman. ‘You scared the life out of me, creeping in the shadows at such an hour! See what you’ve made me do,’ she squawked.

  ‘I’m very sorry, madam. Let me help you.’

  Scougall sank to the ground to pick up papers that had fallen from her basket. He handed a pile back to her, noticing the title of one in the half light – The Wrestlings of a Withered Remnant. He owned a copy of the pamphlet himself, purchased from Mr Shields for one penny.

  ‘Wheesht, boy! Out of my way.’

  She bent over and scooped up the rest of the sheets.

  ‘I am sorry, madam,’ he repeated, ‘I take the air. A short walk to clear the mind.’ He watched Rosina in the distance look over her shoulder.

  The thin woman appraised him suspiciously. ‘You would do well to keep to the inn tonight. The woods are dangerous for those who don’t know them. The Devil has many traps. You must be careful.’

  ‘I will… I do not believe we have met.’

  ‘I am Marion Rankine, sister of Theophilus. Everyone in Lammersheugh knows who you are, Mr Scougall. I bid you good evening.’ The woman bowed her head and scuttled back in the direction of the inn.

  He could now barely make out Rosina and he quickened his pace. She disappeared into the gathering mirk. After about a hundred yards he came to the gates of the kirkyard. She must have entered here, Scougall thought. The kirk was in complete darkness, so he turned towards the manse, where there was light coming from a window. The minister must be at home. However, he would have to walk through the graveyard to reach it! The thought caused a burst of anxiety. Rosina must have done so, and she was just a woman. But he had never liked such places. Now he was to walk through the graves in a parish infested by witches. He might interrupt a meeting with the Devil. Fingers of fear crept through him as he became acutely aware of his surroundings; the damp smell of the grass; the sounds of the night, an owl hooting somewhere; dark tombstones encrusted with skulls, hourglasses and other symbols of mortality. Noticing the noise his feet were making on the stone path, he moved onto the grass verge.

  His courage began to slip and he considered retracing his steps. But how could he tell MacKenzie that he had lost her? He knew that he would be sorely disappointed in him. And, above all, he wanted to prove himself a worthy assistant. He might yet have acted the timid clerk, the fearful boy from Musselburgh, had he not thought of Elizabeth again. He knew that Seaforth’s brother would have been brave enough to find out more. And then another terrible thought struck him. If he was found wandering among the graves, he might be accused of witchcraft himself. His mother’s horrified face appeared to him: ‘Ma Davie, a warlock!’ It almost made him laugh.

  He reached the centre of the graveyard. The kirk loomed above him on the right, the manse lay about a hundred yards away, down a slight incline on the left. It would not be beyond his capabilities to reach the window, look inside, or wait to see if Rosina emerged from the door.

  At last he came to the side of the manse, an old building on two levels. He reached the window, hoping to have a quick look in, but the curtain was drawn. About five yards from the door there stood a large tombstone. He crept behind it, pulled his cloak under him, and sat on the cold ground. The light from the window eased his anxiety. A man of God would surely have power over Satan. He decided to stay for half an hour and return if nothing happened.

  Scougall judged that he had been shivering there for ten minutes when he heard a noise. A light appeared on the pathway leading through the churchyard from the Haddington road. He kept his eyes fixed on the white lozenges as they grew. Three figures came into view. He feared that they might be witches.

  As they came closer, he was relieved to find that he was looking at men. He did not recognise the one holding a lantern. Behind him was a huge shambling block with the unmistakeable gait of the colonel. He was followed by a limping figure. Scougall was shocked to realise it was George Sinclair.

  The man holding the lantern passed in the gowns of a preacher and knocked on the door. Scougall caught sight of Cant’s worried face as they entered without exchanging greetings. His mind raced back through the words that Sinclair had spoken in Haddington. His exiled brother would return soon. He was perhaps in Lammersheugh tonight. He decided to tell MacKenzie what he had discovered. But as he rose, another light appeared on the path. He waited until Muschet and Rankine had also entered the manse.

  CHAPTER 37 - Clachdean Castle

  30 October 1687

  THE NEXT MORNING was cold and grey as MacKenzie and Scougall rode past the kirk, taking the fork to the right for a couple of miles until a small castle appeared on the top of a high bank. Beyond, the rounded hilltops were covered in low cloud.

  As they approached Clachdean Castle, it became obvious that it was a rotting pile. The driveway had been neglected, the gardens left to run wild. The castle itself was in a state of decay. The colonel was known to be short of cash, but surely the lands provided enough money to maintain a home in reasonable order, thought MacKenzie.

  As they stood at the door, it began to rain. Scougall was disgusted by the dilapidation of the structure. Green stains of slime covered the white harling. Windows were broken, some boarded up.

  ‘It must have been a fine house when it was built about a hundred years ago,’ began MacKenzie. ‘The gardens have been laid out with care. Now they’re a sorry sight. The colonel applies little of his capital to the upkeep of his house. And this is where Rosina is to be installed as wife!’

  MacKenzie knocked on the blistered door. Scougall shivered, pulling his cloak tightly around him. He watched crows crossing the sky, an ill omen. A longing welled up inside him to be away from the parish of Lammersheugh and its witch-hunt. A meal in his mother’s kitchen on the road back to Edinburgh would cheer him. He longed for a game of golf on the Links. And he had barely given the matter of his marriage any consideration.

  The door was opened by an old servant. ‘The colonel isnae at hame,’ he barked.

  ‘We wish to speak with him. We are lawyers from Edinburgh. May we wait until he returns?’ asked MacKenzie.

  ‘He has gone tae Embro.’

  ‘What business has he there?’

  ‘His ain.’

  ‘Might we have a cup of ale before we return to Lammersheugh?’

  ‘We do not entertain at Clachdean. The colonel has nae wish to welcome visitors.’

  MacKenzie smiled. ‘I see. Perhaps some water for our horses?’

  ‘There’s a trough roond the back o the toor,’ the servant said sharply and closed the door.

  MacKenzie adopted a serious manner as they returned to their horses. ‘We must not let this opportunity slip, Davie. As we say in Gaelic, Buail an t-iarann fhad’s a tha e teth – We must strike while the iron is hot. We need to have a look inside the castle. I suspect that he is the only servant, given the state of the place. We must plan a distraction. I’m relying on you.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘I will take care of the servant. You must get inside. Climb the stair on the left. I believe the colonel’s chambers will be above.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The architecture of the building suggests so.’

  MacKenzie turned to face the tower. He pointed to the turnpike stair leading up the left wall and the oriel window on the first floor.

  ‘I often try to visualise the interior of a building from without. It is an amusement, but a useful one.’

  ‘How am I to get out, sir?’

  ‘Trust me, Davie. I will keep him occupied as lon
g as I can.’

  It went as much against Scougall’s nature to enter a house without permission as it had done to follow a young woman at night. ‘What am I looking for?’ he asked, without concealing his lack of relish for the task.

  ‘I want to know in what state the colonel lives. Make a quick search for any documents or papers. Do not spend time reading them. Determine what they are. If they look important, take them!’

  ‘That would be an infringement of the colonel’s rights!’

  MacKenzie took hold of his arm. ‘An innocent girl rots in the Tolbooth. She may be dead soon. Our actions are justified, Davie. I assure you.’

  Scougall bit his lower lip.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ continued MacKenzie. ‘God is setting you a task infinitely more important than writing an instrument of sasine. It is within our grasp to save Euphame’s life. Her future, if she has one, is in our hands. We must act!’

  Scougall nodded reluctantly. If a girl’s life was in danger, he must follow MacKenzie’s instructions. But it still niggled. It was possible that they were acting on behalf of a witch.

  They led the horses to the troughs on the other side of the castle, where a group of ruined outhouses formed a courtyard. MacKenzie entered an open door. It was empty. He tried the next outhouse. A pile of firewood filled a corner.

  Returning to Scougall, who was standing by the horses, he issued a rapid stream of orders: ‘Stand against the castle wall, Davie. I will call the servant. When he opens the door and comes towards me, slip inside. Do not hesitate! I judge you may have about twenty minutes, if my diversion is successful. Take up position. If he asks me where you are, I will tell him you are retrieving the horses. Quick!’

  Scougall walked back towards the castle, taking up position at the left side of the door so he would not be seen by anyone exiting. MacKenzie smacked the hindquarters of both horses and they sped off towards the road. He disappeared into the outhouse.

  Time seemed to stand still. Scougall must have been waiting for five minutes. He counted slowly to sixty – still nothing. Another long minute passed. Then a light was visible through the small window of the outhouse. It glowed orange. As MacKenzie emerged from the door, flames shot up behind the window, bright against the grey of the afternoon. The outhouse was on fire. The crime of arson was to be added to that of housebreaking!

  MacKenzie began to shout and wave his arms. ‘Fire! Fire!’

  Scougall pushed himself against the damp wall. The flames had kindled his resolve. MacKenzie would not have resorted to such desperate tactics if it was not absolutely necessary. He must conquer his fear.

  The door burst open.

  ‘My pipe fell on some kindling! Where are the buckets?’

  The old servant swore violently as he ran towards the outhouse. Scougall slipped inside.

  CHAPTER 38 - The Edinburgh Tolbooth

  ROSEHAUGH WAS FEELING weary. He was finding it difficult to sleep, haunted by a recurring dream. William Carstares, a minister who had been tortured by the Privy Council a few years before, was about to inflict pain on him. He did not know the manner, whether by thumbscrew or boot, or some other device, for he always awoke just before the pain was to begin. But he had seen the fear on the faces of the tortured, the loss of dignity, of control. How the shit spilled on the floor.

  He wondered if it was reasonable to inflict agony on one’s fellow creature for the security of the kingdom. He had thought it was justified when Scotland was threatened by religious extremists in open rebellion. Now he was not so sure. But a nest of vipers laid in wait. They had failed two years before. He recalled Argyll’s head dropping like a lump of meat from the Maiden. So much blood spilled in this country; the Campbell’s father executed in the same manner in 1661. The words of Macbeth came to him: ‘in blood stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.’

  He passed through the small door on the High Street and entered the Tolbooth, an ancient stone conglomeration on the north side of St Giles’ Kirk. He stopped in the corridor, putting his hands on his stomach. There was the pain again. He stood for a moment waiting for it to ease, as it usually did. He did not have long left. He must do some good before it was too late. Make some amends for what he had inflicted on others.

  He recalled visiting witches in the Tolbooth in the early 1660s. He had written that they were much less common than many supposed, knowing in his heart that there were none. But folk clung to the old views, even his colleagues in the law. He hoped he would never again have to witness anything like the executions of 1661. He was then a young man working on his romance, Aretina, alive with the possibilities of the future; and ambitious, so ambitious. He had craved recognition – as an advocate, as a writer, as a politician. The words had flowed from his lips in court like a Highland stream. Men had listened.

  Perhaps he could do some good for this young woman.

  As he entered the low-ceilinged room, four guards rose to their feet. He was no longer Lord Advocate but he still commanded respect. There was the possibility that he might return to office. ‘I am here to see a client – Euphame Hay.’

  ‘Follow me, sir.’ Taking a large key from his belt, the guard opened a door at the far end of the room. Rosehaugh followed him down a dank corridor into a cavernous chamber. A hellish scene opened up before him, one which he knew only too well. The room was full of despairing cries, a grim sarcophagus of suffering replete with the reek of human excrement.

  They walked through the squalor and entered another corridor. The gaoler opened one of the low wooden doors. Rosehaugh looked at the crumpled figure in the cell.

  ‘She has not confessed yet. She is woken every twenty minutes,’ said the guard perfunctorily.

  Rosehaugh stood on the festering floor looking down on Euphame. He did not know her family but he trusted his kinsman MacKenzie, who rarely asked for favours. Her head was slumped forward. He gently lifted it back to reveal her emaciated face. ‘No… no,’ she groaned.

  She must be strong to have lasted so long without confessing. Her trial was set for two weeks’ time. They would expect a confession by then. If she survived, she had a good chance of acquittal. He would attack the evidence like a hawk. He had written to Tweeddale in London and to Lady Girnington. The Hay kin would hopefully come to her aid. She was the daughter of a laird, if a minor scion of the name, unlike the peasants who usually burned. The thought brought him some cheer. However, he did not think it likely that she would live to see her trial. She was a bag of bones. She could be dead by tomorrow. Her head slumped forward again. She murmured something from between parched lips, a word he did not recognise. He whispered into her ear: ‘I am George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, kinsman of John MacKenzie. I am your advocate.’

  After the door was locked he handed the guard a silver rix dollar. ‘Let her sleep tonight, Mr Moscrop. Let her sleep tonight.’

  CHAPTER 39 - The Cellars of Clachdean

  SCOUGALL’S HEART WAS pounding and he was sweating. He raised his hand to cover his nose. There was a stale meaty odour. His eyes took time to adjust to the gloom as no candles were lit. The interior of the castle was as grim as the outside.

  Following MacKenzie’s directions, he climbed the spiral staircase to the first floor and entered the room at the front. He looked for the oriel window. MacKenzie was right. It was a wood-panelled chamber which must have been impressive in its day. He noticed vermin droppings by his foot; rat rather than mouse. He walked to the window and looked down, catching sight of MacKenzie and the servant carrying buckets into the outhouse. The dingy interior was cold and dark, old curtains and decaying furniture, a few dirty paintings on the walls. He made a quick search but found nothing of interest. There was a door into an adjoining room at the far side.

  The smaller chamber possessed an animal reek and there were signs of habitation. Scougall gauged that the bed had been slept in recently. The stinking sheets were swept back. There was the imprint of a head on the filthy
pillow. In a corner was a wardrobe. He carefully opened the door. It was empty. His eyes darted round the room, trying to take in as much detail as possible. There seemed to be nothing else. Dropping down on his knees, he looked under the bed. A sheet of paper lay crumpled on the floor. He stretched his arm across the dirt to pull it out. It was a pamphlet: The Wrestlings of a Withered Remnant. He stuffed it into his pocket and made a hasty search of the rest of the room, but found nothing.

  He looked in the other chambers on the first floor. There was little in each except for ancient hangings and the odd piece of furniture. He went back to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. Again the four rooms were deserted. It was as if the castle was no longer inhabited, as if it had been cleared. The colonel must spend most of his time elsewhere.

  Scougall descended the stairs. MacKenzie would be disappointed. There was no sign of a charter chest.

  On the ground floor he took his bearings. He guessed that the only rooms he had not examined were towards the front of the castle. Opening the door on his left, he was surprised to see steps disappearing into the darkness. They must lead to the cellars. He was about to close it when he thought of MacKenzie. He rummaged in his pockets, found the stub of a candle and his tinder box. After a couple of attempts, the wick took flame.

  At the bottom of twenty worn steps a vaulted room of arched alcoves opened to view as he raised the candle. It was the castle’s wine cellar. But the alcoves were cleared of all bottles of burgundy and claret.

  Something moved on the floor. There was a scurrying into the darkness, other movements. The rats would not often be disturbed down here.

  After about thirty yards he came to a wall. He placed his hand on the cold stone. There was something different about the alcove on the right. He noticed objects covered by sheets. He pulled one back to reveal a large barrel. There was the smell of gunpowder. Long implements were sticking from another. He moved the candle down and counted the muzzles of twelve muskets. One by one, he dragged off all the sheets. There were ten barrels, enough powder to blow the castle to the four winds, and above two hundred weapons, sufficient for a small army. He wondered why the colonel needed so much firepower. He had been a soldier once. Was he now a trader in arms?