The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  Welcomed warmly her first day back, Sorcha had been carried to the harbour on a current of goodwill. She recalled how they’d all talked over the top of each other, keen to share their news, eager to hear hers. It was easy to forget there were those who weren’t as happy to see her, blaming her as they did for Andy’s death and James Crawford’s. They watched her the way one might a stalking cat, to see which way it would pounce.

  Much to her relief, by the third day Sorcha was again part of the regular grind. The routine was a great comfort, the way her hands didn’t need to be coached and her mind could dwell on other things while she worked. Able to shuck off most of the guilt about her sister and Kennocht and push away the renewed pain of losing Davan by sorting and gutting the catch and working the creels, she was paying her dues, making peace with herself and with her dead. With the sea that both gave and took so much.

  Lost in her reverie, it took Sorcha a moment to register that a horse and rider had come up behind her. She spun around and was astonished to see Captain Ross.

  ‘You have an uncanny way of sneaking up on folk,’ she said, immediately regretting her tone.

  ‘I did hail you, Mrs McIntyre,’ said the captain apologetically, walking the horse forward till it was level with her and touching his hat. ‘I’m sorry. Wasn’t my intention to scare you.’

  Sorcha looked up at him. It appeared he’d been on a long ride. Not only was the mare splattered with mud, but his breeches and boots were as well. His riding cape had received a soaking then dried. His dark hair had mostly escaped the ribbon at his nape and his black eyes, despite appearing tired, managed a twinkle. Seeing it, Sorcha felt guilty.

  ‘Nae,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s me who should be sorry. I was unforgivably rude. I was all dwamish and you startled me.’ She brushed his leg lightly with her fingers, aware of the firmness beneath the smooth fabric, then withdrew her hand swiftly, aware the gesture could be misread.

  His eyes darkened. ‘Considering we’re both so full of apologies, would you allow me to escort you back home so at the least we’ve time to offer them properly?’

  Sorcha laughed. As much as she enjoyed being alone, some company would be nice. ‘That would be most gracious of you, sir. But only if you promise not to say sorry again.’

  The captain grinned. ‘Only if I can extract the same promise from you.’

  ‘Done,’ said Sorcha.

  He dismounted and offered to take the creel strapped across her shoulders, but Sorcha refused. She’d not carried one for so long, it was reassuring to wear it again.

  They walked in peace a while. In the distance, shouts came from the men labouring in the fields. A donkey brayed nearby. She could hear the captain’s breathing, smell the musky odour of his clothes, of him. It was pleasant. More than pleasant. It made her think of rolling seas, the earthy scent of peat smoking.

  ‘That’s a fine ride you have there, Captain Ross,’ said Sorcha finally, flashing an admiring glance at his horse. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Liath,’ said the captain, patting her neck. The horse shuddered in pleasure.

  Sorcha nodded appreciatively. Well, what else would you call a grey horse, but grey?

  ‘Not very imaginative, is it?’ dimpled the captain. ‘I should have called her spirit or ghost, or something with an uncanny ring.’

  ‘I think Liath suits her fine, doesn’t it, girl?’ said Sorcha, leaning across to stroke the horse’s withers.

  They fell into comfortable silence once more.

  All too soon for Sorcha’s liking, the walls of the town loomed, the red rooftops of the nearest cottages peeping above them. Built on the rise, these houses had views of the entire Forth. Sorcha inwardly sighed. She’d so much she wanted to ask the captain — about himself, about soldiering, and here was her chance. The way to get people to reveal aspects of themselves was to offer the same. What did she do? Waste the opportunity.

  As if reading her thoughts, the captain spoke. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs McIntyre?’

  Sorcha gave a flourish of her hand. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Why did you leave town? Seems to me when folk do, they rarely come back. But you did.’

  Throwing caution to the wind, Sorcha began to talk, telling him about Dagny’s invitation, which led to her explaining about her mother, father and brothers as well. She even told him about Andy. Of Davan and the reason she left Dagny’s she made no mention. When she’d finished, they’d breached the walls and reached the corner of Charles and James Streets. The captain had been a good listener. It was only as they nodded greetings to Mr Walker coming out of his cottage, an axe across his shoulders, his dog bounding at his heels, that the captain commented.

  ‘I’m sorry for your losses, Mrs McIntyre.’ He shook his head. ‘Such inadequate words, but I don’t ken what else to say.’ The captain cleared his throat. ‘I’d heard why you left, truth be told. There’s not much you don’t glean in the Weem.’ His mouth curved in a smile that could have been mistaken for a grimace, but disappeared before she could tell. ‘But I wanted to hear it from you. The fishing life is a hard one, but it seems to me you’ve had it harder than most.’

  How curious, thought Sorcha, that was what Nettie said too. A wave of self-pity rose and she felt ashamed of herself for it. There had been enough of that over the years to fill a harbour’s worth of creels and, anyway, wasn’t she alive? Aye, she’d no father, mother, brothers any more, no husband or son, and even her sister was dead to her — well, she was to Dagny. But didn’t that mean she owed it to each and every one of those no longer here to live?

  Unaware she’d said this last bit out loud, it wasn’t until the captain stopped and stared at her, that she understood she had. Red-faced, she found her feet very interesting. ‘That must make me sound so selfish,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Selfish?’ scoffed the captain. Catching her unawares, he took her chin gently in his hand. His fingers were rough, well-used. A shiver of pleasure ran over Sorcha and she prayed he hadn’t felt it. Her cheeks began to burn and it was all she could do to resist pulling away. ‘I would have said sensible, myself,’ he said softly. The last of the light burned in the stygian depths of his eyes, mesmerising her. With eyes that black, how could you ever tell what he was really thinking? ‘You’re right, lass.’ His fingers fell away. ‘We owe it to the dead to live.’

  Sorcha’s stomach flipped. ‘You’ve lost people too?’

  They began walking again, Liath’s hooves resounding on the road. Candlelight flickered in windows as they passed, folk appearing out of the tight alleys and wynds, raising hats, brushing past them, offering a good evening. Most carried baskets or sacks, some bottles of ale; a few pushed barrows. All looked eager for home and a warm fire. From inside the cottages came the rattle of pots, raised voices, someone singing.

  Waiting until they were alone, the captain answered. ‘Aye. My brother and two uncles. They died in battle. Then there was…’ He swallowed and gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Was a long time ago.’

  Sorcha felt the pain of his words. Of what he omitted. She wondered who else he’d lost but didn’t feel she had the right to ask. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Their bodies are buried over there, on foreign soil.’ He jerked his head towards the Forth.

  An image of Robbie laughing, his golden curls batting his cheeks as he baited a line flew into her head. ‘Are you sure they’re dead?’

  The captain frowned. ‘I’m sure. But why do you ask?’

  ‘When I told you about my brothers… it’s not the whole story.’ She felt him studying her. ‘Robbie, the one who’s two years older than me, he went to fight with the Duke of Marlborough’s men in Flanders, then Kaiserswerth. First, we were told the Bavarians had taken him prisoner, then it was the French. We never really knew — mor, Dagny and I. After my mother died, I never heard anything. Now, I doubt I ever will.’

  Captain Ross gave her an inscrutable look. ‘Marlborough, eh? I fought under him o
nce as well. A good soldier, fierce.’

  Sorcha didn’t reply. Fierce or not made no difference to her.

  ‘If your brother fought at Kaiserswerth, he could well have been taken by the French. Many were. An exchange was done.’

  Sorcha looked at him hopefully. ‘You know something about it?’

  ‘Not really. But I know someone who might. I can make enquiries if you like. Find out what I can from my superiors in Edinburgh.’

  Sorcha’s heart filled and she resisted the urge to throw her arms around him. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried not to get her hopes up. She gave him her warmest smile. ‘Captain… To learn anything of Robbie’s fate… well, it would be… it would be…’

  ‘Living.’

  ‘Aye,’ she smiled, grateful he understood. ‘It would be living.’

  ‘Consider it done, then.’ He held her eyes for a beat then kept walking. ‘You ken,’ he said, after they’d gone a few more paces, ‘there’s those who believe Marlborough’s really a Jacobite.’

  Sorcha gave a little snort. ‘I heard that the man changes his cloth to suit his fortunes.’

  The captain chuckled. ‘Just as well, as they change often.’

  It was well known that the duke had served under five different monarchs, shifting from being a staunch supporter of the Stuart scions to William of Orange and back again. Under the current queen, Anne, old King James’s daughter, he’d made his name and fame, leading her armies across the continent the last few years. Not that the duke’s fine reputation had protected either the captain’s family or hers.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said the captain, ‘changing so as to blend in, so you don’t arouse suspicion, is the only way a man can truly work for what he believes in. What he knows is right.’

  Before she could ask what he meant by that — and wondering, fleetingly, if Captain Ross was alluding to himself, and what that might signify — they stopped again. Sorcha was astonished to see they were outside her house. Was he someone worthy of her trust? Or was he simply suggesting that he too, like most of the Weem, and despite fighting in the Queen’s army, was a Jacobite? Why did it even matter to her?

  Annoyed that she was so curious about this incomer, while at the same time acknowledging she wanted her interest sated, she noticed the glimmer had all but gone and the sky was a shifting mass of dark, bruised clouds. It began to spitter; a fine rain that rested upon their clothes and hair.

  Sorcha unstrapped her creel and placed it at her feet. ‘Thank you for bringing me home, captain.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, Mrs McIntyre,’ he said and reached for her hand, but instead of kissing it (for which she was grateful, as she knew her fingers smelled of fish), he bowed over it.

  She dropped a little curtsey and opened the door to reveal Nettie kneeling before the fire burning in the hearth. Scrambling to her feet, Nettie went to take the creel, but when she caught sight of the captain, she retreated into the shadows behind the door.

  Suddenly self-conscious as she stared at the captain, wishing she had a nicer skirt, cleaner hands and face, that her hair wasn’t so windblown around her neepyin, Sorcha wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘If ever you need anything,’ said the captain softly, ‘anything at all, you’ve only to ask.’ With a last touch of his hat, he spun on his heel and mounted his horse. He made a light clicking sound in his throat, and rode off down the cobbles.

  Sorcha watched him from the doorway, oblivious to the rain that had begun to fall. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her heart pounding, her skin hot.

  It wasn’t until another voice whispered in her ear that she tore her eyes away. ‘I ken what I’d ask for,’ said Nettie, jerking her chin towards the captain’s broad swaying back, nudging Sorcha in the ribs. ‘And it’s not something I can repeat out here…’

  With a wicked laugh Nettie dragged her friend out of the wet and shut the door.

  SEVEN

  Ca’ me what ye like but pinnae ca’ me ower.

  (Call me any names you like, but don’t knock me over.)

  Mid-winter arrived, announcing itself in bitter squalls, blashes of rain, roiling fogs and churning seas. Snow fell heavily, coating the cottages and the seafront. A crust of ice formed along the shore, a heaving barrier that sounded like an old man fighting for breath as it crackled and moaned. Out towards the Isle of May the waves were savage, their foam rising high above the rocky crags. The wheeling birds kept their distance. Still the fishermen would take their boats out most days, their wives or another willing female carrying them on their backs, wading through the floating ice to deposit them into the prancing craft. Once aboard, the men would tuck their flannel shirts, their serks, into their thick trousers before scrabbling into their gairnsey jerseys and donning long, thick coats. Some wore hand-knitted grauvits around their necks, tokens from loved ones that also kept them warm.

  Each morning the fishwives would rise before dawn and walk to the harbour, creels laden with their tools strapped to their shoulders. The smell of salt, seaweed and the fresh crispness of freezing air and threatening snow was invigorating.

  The fishwives were both loathed and loved. Unlike regular wives and other women, fishwives had a freedom the others could only dream about. Mainly single women and widows, those who were married surrendered their husbands to the boats and ships. Some only for the day, others for longer periods, often farewelling their men for weeks if not months. Left to their own devices, they were beholden only to themselves, the sea and its laws. Rumours and gossip surrounded all the women — from whose bed they were sharing to how recklessly they spent their hard-earned coin. Most of it was untrue and much of it vicious, but that didn’t stop folk believing it.

  Yet without the fishwives and the work they did, which fed the villagers and kept money in the council coffers, Pittenweem — and the villages beyond that also needed their services — would grind to a halt and all knew it. None more so than the fishwives themselves, who basked in the liberties they could take. Wilfully ignoring the social niceties governing the behaviour of women, refusing to be inhibited by the gossip and slander, they paraded about the streets in groups, chattering loudly, chuckling often, offering their opinions, back-chatting their betters, constantly telling the men what to do. The fishermen, understanding their worth, adored them and sought wives among them; the townsfolk mostly tolerated their presence, even if many lasses secretly longed to be one of them.

  Yet to Reverend Patrick Cowper, the fishwives represented everything he disapproved of: loud, godless women, women either without men to control them, teach them how to behave and keep them tamed and quiet or refusing to accept their rightful ascendancy. That they were able to earn their keep and, in Nettie’s and Sorcha’s cases, had means and property besides, only added to their sins. They troubled him deeply, these wicked women. And now Sorcha McIntyre, the luminous-eyed beauty, was back among them.

  Standing on the western braes, trying to disregard the freezing sleet piercing his exposed flesh, the reverend pulled his coat closer, screwed up his eyes and attempted to find her among the women and children working along the harbour. The smell of seaweed, fish and the decaying carcass of a seal that had washed up on the rocks below reached him. He wondered how the women could bear working in such conditions — the stench, the cold, the wet. And then there was the endless cawing of the birds, their constant nagging as they hovered above or skipped along the ground as close as they dared in an effort to steal food.

  He could see Janet White, the one they called Nettie Horseburgh, a woman who appeared respectable with her mariner husband, even if, unnatural woman that she was, she didn’t dwell under the same roof as him. When Patrick first arrived in Pittenweem twelve years ago, his predecessor, Andrew Bruce, had warned him about the Horseburgh woman, saying she was nothing but trouble. Before Patrick’s time, one of the former bailies, Alexander Griege, named her a witch over her refusal to concede seats in the kirk. What did the hizzie do? Brought a charge of slander against
the man. Nothing ever came of what was said about her, except in the way that bad fame attends a person. Unafraid of men in power, she took them on regardless of the consequences.

  Same with that auld crone, Janet Cornfoot. Now there was a contermashus woman if ever there was one. Known for threatening those who disagreed with her and working charms, most, including Patrick, gave her a wide berth. There she was, over by the harbour wall, clecking away to the Lawson lass — what was her name again? Nicolas? Aye, that was it. Wasn’t enough being a fishwife, she also fancied herself a healer with her potions and lotions. Folk would go to her for medick instead of the local doctor. It wasn’t right. None of those women were right, Patrick felt it in his bones.