Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  MacKenzie took a sheet from the table beside the press. It was the front page of a pamphlet entitled Rise against James Stuart, tyrannical Servant of Antichrist. He crumpled it up and threw it at Sinclair. ‘Traitors,’ MacKenzie muttered.

  CHAPTER 53 - All Hallow’s Eve

  THEY SET OFF at eleven o’clock in the darkness, following the path, which they now knew well, through the gardens of Lammersheugh House into the Blinkbonny Woods. They passed Janet Cornfoot’s cottage and began to climb the lower slopes of the Lammermuirs. Rather than forking right to the Devil’s Pool, they continued southwards into the wilds of the hills.

  Scougall’s unease had diminished during the day, but it returned when MacKenzie told him where they were bound. He could not see the sense of risking their lives in such a manner, even assuming the note was genuine. Nevertheless, he recognised that they had to do something. Euphame had little time left.

  As they reached the top of a knoll, flames became visible at a distance of perhaps a mile, caressing the blackness of hill and sky. Scougall thought he could see figures. MacKenzie snuffed out the lantern. ‘Get down, Davie!’

  They crouched in the heather behind a gorse bush. Scougall felt his heart racing. He began to sweat despite the bitter cold. Witches were dancing around a fire over there. They were heading straight into the arms of Satan. It was folly!

  ‘We must get closer!’ snapped MacKenzie.

  They crept along in the darkness. The fire disappeared as the path descended, but the flames came back into view as they began to ascend again. Scougall was sure that he could see figures moving against them. They were too far away to hear anything but the wind.

  As they came closer they could tell that the fire burned within the ruins of an ancient stone castle. ‘Rooklaw Tower,’ whispered MacKenzie.

  Scougall’s courage was melting away. Every grain of his being told him that they should go no further. They were approaching evil. Their souls were in danger. But MacKenzie had a mastery over him, an authority which he dared not disobey. He made a short prayer to God to protect them.

  The fire disappeared again as the path dropped into a valley. At last they reached a ditch which declined gradually before rising steeply to the broken battlements. The tower suddenly loomed above them, a black mass of stone. They clambered up the bank to reach a wall, moving along until they found a section which was breached.

  The only sound was the crackling of the fire, which was burning about fifty feet in front of them in an empty courtyard. There was no sign of anyone. Scougall watched sparks rising like smouldering moths into the blackness. He had convinced himself that he was about to witness a sabbat. His mind was inflamed by images from Sinclair’s book – dancing hags, fornicating witches and the black gentleman. But there was only a fire in a ruined castle. He felt sure that he had seen something. Someone had lit it.

  He was about to say something when a black figure appeared from a doorway behind the flames.

  MacKenzie could practically smell Scougall’s fear. ‘Do not move, Davie! It is a man! A man!’ he whispered insistently.

  But Scougall was deep in the hellish world of his imagination. ‘Satan is here! The Devil is here, sir! He will have us as his own!’ he cried.

  ‘Do not be a fool. It is a man. Now, be quiet!’

  There were voices behind them. As they turned, two men appeared from the darkness pointing muskets. Scougall darted a look back towards the courtyard. The masked figure was getting closer. The devilish vision became the body of a large man.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Scougall. Our little trap has worked! Her ladyship said that you would not be able to resist.’

  He was now only a few feet away. He removed his mask. The grinning face of the colonel was revealed.

  ‘Are you responsible for the death of Lady Lammersheugh?’ asked MacKenzie.

  ‘I had nothing to do with her demise. She was a stupid wench who would not take advice,’ said Clachdean gruffly.

  ‘Then there has been a mistake, sir,’ continued MacKenzie. ‘For the safety of Euphame is our concern, not politics.’

  Scougall was confused by what MacKenzie had just said.

  ‘It was unfortunate that you visited my castle,’ replied the colonel. ‘It would have been better for you both if Mr Scougall had not entered my property.’

  Scougall felt his face redden, despite the darkness and the danger.

  ‘We sought evidence that might help Euphame, Colonel Dewar. We found nothing. We have no interest in politics.’

  ‘I do not believe you, MacKenzie. Your scribe was seen entering my cellars. This letter was intercepted yesterday.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘The stakes are high. The reign of Antichrist is almost over.’ Clachdean had a wry smile on his face so that it was not possible to tell if he meant what he said. ‘It is a matter of life and death,’ he continued. ‘A battle for the soul of Scotland. If we fail, we die as traitors. If we are victorious, the world is ours. The despotic reign of James Stuart will end.’ The colonel moved closer, handing MacKenzie the letter written to Rosehaugh the day before. He was only a couple of feet in front of them. ‘You are a supporter of that regime, Mr MacKenzie, as Clerk of the Court of Session. Your clan has no love of Presbytery!’

  Scougall realised that their suspicions were correct. Another rebellion was planned using the arms in Clachdean Castle. What was happening in Lammersheugh had nothing to do with witchcraft. He had admired the men of the Covenant, the field preachers who risked everything for their beliefs. They were noble in exile. But how was a vile creature like Clachdean concerned with them?

  He felt the muzzle of a musket in his back, pushing him into the courtyard. They were ordered to stand beside a wall about twenty feet in height. Scougall noticed a fireplace about ten feet above them, marking where the floor had collapsed.

  ‘If you try to escape you will be shot. This is an old ruin, a dangerous place to visit at night. I will make a confession, gentlemen. I have no liking for lawyers.’ He spat out the name of the profession as if it was a foul epithet. ‘Those who make a living by the pen, while men like me risk their lives. Do you know how many times I have stared death in the face, what carnage I have witnessed on the battlefields of Cassel, Seneffe and Turckheim? You could not imagine the slaughter, the depravity, the rape and torture.’

  ‘And now there are two other lives to account for before your maker – Janet Cornfoot and Helen Rammage,’ replied MacKenzie sternly.

  ‘Both met natural deaths,’ scoffed Clachdean.

  Scougall looked at MacKenzie, who said, ‘The feather I found in Janet’s cottage came from your hat, Clachdean. I believe you suffocated her with it. You placed the bladder of blood in her corpse to deflect attention form this scheme.’

  The colonel raised his eyebrows and smiled devilishly. ‘Very perceptive, Mr MacKenzie. But I doubt if you have evidence that would stand up in court,’ he mocked.

  ‘The slaughter of Helen Rammage was carried out by your sword, MacKenzie continued. ‘Her head dumped in the midden to keep witches in the minds of the townsfolk rather than guns and powder. If we go missing, the hills will soon be full of troops.’

  ‘We are ready. We will not fail as we did in ’85. The old witch, Cornfoot, saw us on the road. She had to be dealt with. Helen Rammage brought attention to herself unnecessarily. Her family had been well paid. A little discretion might have saved her. She was a fine looking lass.’ The colonel rubbed his groin with a claw-like hand. ‘And now it is your turn, gentlemen.’

  MacKenzie suddenly shouted loudly. The words were incomprehensible. Scougall realised they must be Gaelic.

  The colonel continued speaking, but his voice was drowned out by musket shots. Ricochets echoed round the courtyard. One of his men sank to the ground, holding his stomach. As he screamed, Scougall watched his guts spilling from his abdomen.

  ‘Run, Davie. Run!’ MacKenzie yelled.

  Instinctively Scougall dived to the ground. MacKenzie took cover behind a pile
of stones. Clachdean turned, trying to determine the direction from which the shots were coming. Raising his musket, he fired into the darkness. His men took cover and began to return fire. Scougall rolled down an incline and came clattering into a low wall. A bullet whizzed above his head.

  He looked back at MacKenzie who was on the ground, gesticulating at him to continue. He jumped over the wall into the darkness, making ground for about ten paces before tripping, but he was back on his feet quickly. Musket shots flowered the darkness. He wondered if he was being pursued.The firing continued sporadically. He ran on, crashed into something and fell again. The pain in his leg was awful, but he knew he had to escape. He must survive. He ran on into the night.

  After about twenty minutes he reached flatter ground and noticed water to his left. It was the Devil’s Pool, its surface reflecting the moonlight. Scougall’s heart sank. He sped downhill until he reached the woods. Once in the cover of the trees he ran on for about ten yards, before diving to the ground. He lay still, his heart pounding, his chest on fire. His leg was agony and his head throbbed. Despondency overtook him. MacKenzie might be dead, the victim of a Presbyterian plot, murdered by men he had once seen as heroes for the true religion. But they were just the same as other men, hungry for power and money, willing to use evil to obtain their ends. He thought about the wax doll he had found in his bed. He knew now that it was just a trick to cover the machinations of rebellion. The lives of innocent women were being sacrificed so that one party might take power from another. He felt in his heart that Scotland would be a better country if bishops were banished. The King was a Catholic servant of Antichrist. But the disregard for human life shown by the colonel went against the teachings of Christ.

  Gathering his cloak around him, he decided to remain where he was until dawn. He could still hear distant gunfire, but it soon petered out. The sky cleared and the stars were visible. He prayed to God with all his heart to spare MacKenzie and save the life of Euphame Hay. Scougall was now convinced that she was innocent, Lady Lammersheugh too. He kept praying until he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 54 - A Warlock in the Steeple

  ELIZABETH MURDOCH PULLED her shawl round her shoulders and shuffled out of the gates of Lammersheugh House. She was in a state of panic, having received a message from the minister in the middle of the night that she should attend her husband in the steeple. She was told nothing more by the messenger. She begged God that the auld fool hadnae confessed, that he had said naethin o their trysts in the Lammer Burn, her attempt tae rid him o his cough, the craftin o the wax figure. She hoped that he hadnae confessed tae somethin worse – meetin wi witches and plannin the murder o Lady Girnington. She kenned sic accusations were nonsense. The auld fool wisnae capable o hairmin onything, even wi those huge haunds – a gentle giant he was kenned as, and he wis a guid husband tae her.

  She quickened her pace, trying to run, but her legs were shaking with fear. She thought of Euphame in the Tolbooth, bonnie wee Euphame, such a quiet child, such a saft mistress tae them baith. Wis she now deid like her mither, Lady Lammersheugh, her mistress fir mony years? Such a beauty, wi mair o the witch in her, mair alluring an magical but gane, gane, aw gane. Tears were on her cheeks.

  They had passed their lives as guid Christian folk. They had gone tae the kirk every Sabbath, worshipped the ain true God, had naethin tae dae wi Satan, wirked haird aw their lives, brocht up a family. But now this – John accused as a warlock. He wis weak. She feared that maist of aw, his weakness. The clever men o the parish wid trick him. They wid mak him believe that if he confessed, they might baith gae free. But if he confessed he wid burn, the auld fool. Aw she had ever daen wis say a wee chairm, taught by her mither, a wee chairm tae cure her man, naethin bad. But if he telt them, they wid baith burn!

  In the auld days the session wis mair lenient. Janet wis questioned lang syne fir chairmin. She’d been warned tae stop and she had sworn she wid. An that wis aw. The auld minister wis a canny man, no like the new ain. He kenned that aw the women o the parish said a rhyme or twa tae help them through life. Whit guid wid it dae burnin aw the folk in the parish? She cried again. But Mr Cant was fu o the new order – a just warld, righteousness, abomination an aw that. The auld session clerk Tam Brewster aye gave ye a wee smile whan he saw ye, but Rankine and his sister were cauld creatures, Muschet tae. The parish wis taen ower by a cruel crew.

  She reached the kirk gates. Pausing, she held the iron railing. She was reminded of the cold water in the burn. She did not want to face what was in the steeple. She did not want to see John Murdoch, a confessing warlock.

  The kirk was empty. She plodded down the candle-lit aisle. At the door to the steeple, there was a man. Muschet said nothing to her as he moved aside to let her through the door. There was an impenetrable look on his glum face.

  She climbed the stone stairs, breathing heavily. She felt the tension rise within her, a desperate sense of foreboding. As she entered the room she saw Cant and Rankine. She could not stop herself blurting out: ‘Has the auld fool confessed?’

  ‘He has not, Mrs Murdoch. I am sorry,’ Cant said.

  For a moment her heart leapt with pride for her man. He wis strang aifter aw, strang an true. John Murdoch widnae burn. They were guid folk. God had answered her prayers.

  ‘I am sorry, Elizabeth,’ the minister repeated sombrely, beckoning her with his hand to enter and behold.

  She turned her head to the right, looking into the shadows. Murdoch lay on the floor on his back. He was covered by a white winding sheet.

  ‘He’s deid!’ she shrieked.

  ‘He fell into a stupor and could not be revived,’ said Rankine.

  She knelt down beside him, pulling back the sheet and looking on the face of her dead husband. He lay on the floorboards in sackcloth, stinking of his own excrement. Barefoot and bareheaded. His body covered in hundreds of tiny red marks. His heart could not take the strain of the interrogation, the denial of sleep and the pricker’s pin. She collapsed over him, screaming for God’s help.

  CHAPTER 55 - A Discovery on the Road

  1 November 1687

  SCOUGALL AWOKE UNDER a clear blue sky. He could not feel his feet because of the cold. There was a dawn frost on the grass. From his hiding place he recognised the track which they had followed the night before. Everything seemed calm, a bright winter morning in the hills.

  There were noises in the distance. As he peered out, a cart appeared on the track accompanied by two horsemen. Other figures walked beside it.

  As they came closer he recognised the gait of a man about a foot taller than the others. He was on his feet and ran to greet him.

  ‘Thank God you are safe, Davie!’ MacKenzie beamed at his young friend. Scougall was lost for words. Tears formed in his eyes and he experienced a feeling of joy such as he had not experienced since arriving in Lammersheugh. Good was triumphing over evil. He thought of the wonder of the Resurrection, of life renewed. He recalled his prayer of the night before. MacKenzie embraced him warmly.

  ‘We can share our stories over breakfast.’

  Scougall joined MacKenzie beside the cart. It was only then that he noticed its load. He counted six heads among the bodies slumped on top of each other. He recognised the face of one of Clachdean’s men, but he could not see the colonel himself. They did not speak on the way down to Lammersheugh.

  Exhausted and filthy, they were soon sitting in the inn devouring breakfast.

  ‘Last night did not turn out as I had hoped. Much blood has been spilled. I did not tell you that I sent word to Mr Cockburn, asking him to bring his men to Rooklaw. I admit that I was not sure whom we would face as our enemy, Mr Cockburn or the colonel. But one way or the other we would find out.’ MacKenzie smiled at Cockburn. ‘I believe Clachdean’s plan was to collapse the wall on us, Davie. After you escaped, the skirmish continued for about thirty minutes. I could do little with my small weapon, so I hid as best I could. The colonel was hit in the melée but escaped into the night. He has the
constitution of an ox. Four of his men were killed. Two of Cockburn’s died bravely fighting for the King.’

  ‘We have no time to waste, gentleman. We must make for Girnington House as soon as possible,’ interrupted Cockburn. ‘I will send word to the sheriff that his deputy is gravely injured.’

  Scougall was weary, but resigned to seeing the affair concluded. A few minutes later they were on horseback, following the road to Girnington.

  About a mile from the mansion, at the side of the road, a body was slumped against a fence post, head bowed, legs apart. There was a black movement around the groin where crows feasted on an open wound. The colonel’s belly was a great white sack from which a trail of bloody sausages extruded. His hat was still on his head, his sword lay on the ground. A horse was feeding on the grass nearby. A dark patch of blood could be seen between his legs where the wound had bled copiously.

  They dismounted, scattering the birds. ‘I expect he was making for Girnington,’ said Cockburn pointing up the track.

  ‘He has met a fitting end.’ MacKenzie looked distastefully at the huge figure. ‘As we say in Gaelic, Cruinnichidh na fithich far am bi a’ chairbh, Where the carcase is, the ravens will gather. It is just that the crows have fed upon him!’

  Scougall felt no pity for Clachdean. He had attempted to kill them. He was willing to use the innocent for political ends.

  ‘Come, gentleman. We must bring her ladyship news that he is dead. I think she will be surprised to see us,’ added MacKenzie.

  Before they departed, he searched the colonel’s body and found a small leather bag attached to his belt. MacKenzie emptied the contents into his hand. Gold coins shone in the morning sunlight. He put them back and threw the bag to Scougall. ‘Count these, Davie. Money is behind much of the evil in this parish.’

  MacKenzie removed Clachdean’s hat. ‘This was probably used to suffocate Janet Cornfoot. His sword dismembered Helen Rammage.’ He ripped off the wig to reveal the white baldness of his vast head.