The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  She sensed one brewing now. That was the message her mor was giving her. The purple crescents under her own eyes and the glint of uncertainty behind them told her the same.

  ‘What news do you have?’ she asked as she left the bedroom. There was a soft afternoon light. She’d slept for longer than she thought. At least the drizzle had ceased.

  Passing her a warm cup of milk, Nettie indicated a stool by the hearth. ‘You need to sit down.’

  Sorcha’s ribs grew tight. ‘What is it? Beatrix?’

  Nettie sat opposite her and gave a terse nod. ‘Aye. We need to be prepared.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Sorcha, her mouth growing dry but unable to drink. The lone cry of a shearwater broke the stillness.

  ‘The worst,’ said Nettie bluntly. ‘Katherine’s spoken to the bailies.’

  A lance of dread pierced Sorcha’s chest as she held the quaich of warm milk Nettie had poured her. ‘The bailies? What for?’

  Nettie shrugged. ‘To report what Beatrix told us yesterday.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Sorcha’s mind galloped. A shadow passed the window, there were voices. Did folk know what Beatrix had done? Was her name on everyone’s tongue?

  Nettie let out a long sigh. ‘There was nothing Beatrix said while I was there that was worth reporting to anyone, let alone the authorities. But, Sorcha, Katherine Marshal went to Cowper, who summoned the bailies and made her repeat what she’d told him.’

  ‘What did she tell him?’ asked Sorcha quietly.

  Nettie’s eyes locked on her. ‘That’s why I’m here. What exactly did Beatrix say to you about Peter Morton after I left that made Katherine run to Cowper?’

  She tried to recall what was said. ‘She… she said that Peter brought his sickness upon himself — that it was his ill-tongue that attracted… Dear God.’ Sorcha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at Nettie in despair, then slowly lowered her fingers so she could finish. ‘That attracted an evil spirit.’

  Nettie’s head fell into her hands. After a moment, she raised her face. ‘You ken what this means?’

  Beatrix had admitted that Peter Morton was bewitched; that a malevolent spirit possessed him. And now Cowper and the bailies knew.

  ‘Aye.’ Suddenly, Sorcha saw her dream for what it was, a premonition of the worst kind. ‘Will they arrest her again?’ she asked.

  ‘If they haven’t already. It’s only a matter of time.’ Nettie reached over, scrambling for Sorcha’s hand. She didn’t need to say more. Sorcha heard her as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. It was only a matter of time for them all.

  ‘Why’d she do it?’ asked Nettie.

  For a moment, Sorcha was uncertain whether she meant Beatrix or Katherine. Sorcha shrugged. ‘Maybe she thinks it will help Beatrix?’ Nettie shot her a look of disbelief. ‘Maybe she thinks it will remove any suspicion from her. I don’t know. I don’t have the answer.’

  Snatches of conversations, images of Beatrix, her anger when Peter wouldn’t sell nails to her, the bucket, the coal, Peter collapsing, and Reverend Cowper paraded through Sorcha’s mind. Then they were replaced by one of a tall man on a grey horse, with dark eyes and a captivating grin. It was Nettie who once told her the captain was there to protect the women of Pittenweem — not from rogue waves rising out of dark depths, but from the men. She’d meant the incomers, the billeted soldiers. And he’d done that. But what was to stop the captain from protecting them from their own? Had he not invited her to share the burden she was carrying when he found her after the Morton lad was struck down?

  As much as she was loath to do so, perhaps it was time to take him at his word and ask him for help again.

  ‘Nettie,’ she said, standing. She finished her milk and left the cup by the hearth. ‘We have to find Captain Ross.’

  ‘Why? What can he do?’ said Nettie. Her shoulders were slumped, her face pinched.

  ‘What he’s sworn to do — protect us.’

  Nettie began to laugh, but there was no humour in it. ‘No one can protect us from Cowper. Not even God. As the reverend reminds us every kirk session — God is on his side.’

  Sorcha swung her shawl around her shoulders, checked the pins in her hair and gave a grim smile. ‘Maybe he can’t protect us from Cowper’s God, but perhaps he can protect us from the man himself. But we won’t know if we don’t try. Haven’t you always said as much?’

  She stood before Nettie and held out her hands.

  Reluctantly, Nettie placed hers in them and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. ‘I have. I do. I just pray I’m not made to eat my words.’

  As they left the house in search of Captain Ross, Sorcha prayed for that too.

  FIFTEEN

  Keep the heid.

  (Stay calm, don’t get upset.)

  When Captain Aidan Ross saw it was the lovely widow Sorcha McIntyre who wished to speak to him, he regretted he’d no news of her brother to share. He’d written to the civic officials in Edinburgh, and even sent missives to an old friend fighting in France. Thus far he’d heard nothing. He knew the chances of Robbie McIntyre being alive were slim, especially since he’d been taken prisoner four years earlier. No one he knew survived that long in a Bavarian prison, let alone a French one. A swell of pity rose for the woman who, he understood from some of the Weem folk, had never given up hope. With what she’d suffered, it made him admire her even more, marvel at her resilience. There were so many in this small fishing community like her. Hardened by a life dependent on the whims of the sea, yet not above compassion; deeply superstitious, yet accepting of God’s will, too. He’d thought he’d hate every minute he spent in this seaside town with its strange sea-customs and oft unwelcoming folk, but he’d come to know and respect what they did and what they stood for — most of them, anyway.

  He invited Sorcha and her friend Janet Horseburgh, who everyone bar her husband and the reverend called Nettie, into the main room of the cottage where he was quartered.

  The women studied their surroundings. He noted how the light from the windows caught Sorcha’s eyes, turning them into pools of turquoise that reminded him of the lochs in summer on his family’s land back in Skye. More often wreathed in mists and rain, it was a wild place that encouraged tales and songs, much like Fife. He wondered how they fared, his folk. Whether the fish that swam in the lochs were more plentiful than those in the waters lapping the Weem. Listen to him, he sounded more like a local every day rather than the incomer he’d been made to feel by almost everyone — except for the fishwives and fishermen. Except for Sorcha McIntyre.

  What had brought them here? Sorcha was fiercely proud and Nettie more independent than most women of his acquaintance. He smiled at Nettie, admiring her fine profile as she examined the paintings on the walls.

  Some looked askance at Sorcha and Nettie, but there were many who respected them for what they did. He was among them. Respected and, truth be told, desired to get to know them better. Sorcha especially.

  Much better.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked politely, standing near the hearth so they might take the two seats. A servant quickly went to make tea.

  ‘Captain Ross,’ began Sorcha, standing with her back to a chair, but not sitting. ‘We need your help. Again.’

  ‘Whatever I can, lass, if it’s in my power, I will do it.’ He indicated for them to sit and they did, smoothing their skirts, pulling at their cuffs.

  The tension that had made Sorcha’s shoulders square and her face pale seemed to recede a little. She glanced at Nettie, who gave a curt nod, and ventured a smile. His heart skipped to see it. ‘Thank you, I hoped that’s what you would say. Though you may alter your mind when you hear what kind of help we’re seeking.’

  He waited.

  Taking a deep breath, she intertwined her fingers in her lap, fixed her eyes on his face, and began. ‘You know of the sickness that has afflicted Peter Morton and how the reverend and others are attributing it to witchcraft? We had some discussion about this
the day Peter fell ill.’

  Aidan nodded. ‘I do. And I hear they’ve found someone to blame for casting the spell that bewitched the lad.’

  It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Aidan had no time for fear-mongering or those who talked of witchcraft. He’d seen it when he fought on the continent and witnessed the consequences, how people used such accusations to rid themselves of those they considered nuisances, or were jealous of, or from whom they wished to acquire something — mostly property, and mostly from women. Women who dared to assert authority or challenge those who had it. That this kind of reckoning had come to Pittenweem disturbed him more than he liked to admit. It wasn’t the first time practitioners of witchcraft had been found in the town. The last time anyone was declared guilty, and that had been decades ago according to the men in the tavern the night before, the outcome had been catastrophic. He shouldn’t be surprised fear of malice was being stirred up again. The stain of bewitchment lingered in the earth long after the spell was broken, the root uncovered and removed. Even on Skye they’d heard about the Paisley trials and how seven souls were burned. Later, the girl at the centre of the accusations, the one named — the irony — Christian, whom some in authority doubted even then, was termed the Bargarran Imposter and her denunciations deemed false. Too late to save those who died.

  Aware the women were staring at him, he frowned. ‘Sorry. Could you repeat that?’

  Sorcha gave a little sigh. Clearly, whatever he’d failed to hear had taken its toll. She was on the edge of her seat, as if she would run from the room at the slightest provocation.

  Before she could reiterate, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea. Silent while it was poured, Aidan watched as Sorcha took the proffered cup and, instead of drinking, gazed out the window. People were passing on the street, baskets over their arms. A cart was wheeled by, two skinny dogs ran beside it, tails wagging. Out on the waters, the sails of three large ships from the city ports further up the firth headed for the ocean. Flocks of gulls wheeled above the craft and the swells, many winging towards the Isle of May. Heavy clouds slunk over the horizon, hinting at late showers.

  The maid had only just shut the door when Sorcha suddenly swung towards him. ‘A few weeks ago, you were kind enough to warn Beatrix Laing about what happened to Peter Morton.’

  Aidan recalled leaving Sorcha’s cottage and going straight to the Laing woman’s house; the whispered conversation just inside the front door; how hard the woman tried not to show her fear. Careworn, with a pronounced limp and a deep, no-nonsense voice and manner, she’d grimaced when he finished. He liked her even before she expressed concern, not for herself, but for her friends.

  Sorcha lowered her head briefly. ‘We fear —’ she indicated Nettie, ‘that matters have got out of hand. That Beatrix might be accused of witchcraft.’

  The captain nodded grimly. He’d already begun noting events for his superiors. What good it would do, he wasn’t certain, but he felt it was important that someone impartial (if he could be called that), recorded everything to do with Peter Morton and this so-called bewitchment.

  ‘She be no witch, sir,’ said Sorcha. ‘Just a foolish old woman with a sharp tongue.’

  ‘She can no more cast a spell than I can ride a broomstick,’ added Nettie.

  Sorcha shot her an appalled look.

  ‘Perhaps that was a poor choice of words,’ conceded Nettie, looking closely at what remained in her cup. ‘There are some would argue I do. Ride a broom, that is. But you ken what I mean.’

  ‘I do. And it’s a terrible thing to be so accused,’ said Aidan. How could he express the repugnance he felt, the deep uneasiness at what he sensed was afoot? He didn’t want to alarm these women. Sorcha.

  But they had to know. ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, but a short time ago the bailies ordered the arrest of Mrs Laing and the constables took her to the Tolbooth.’ Sorcha’s hand covered her mouth. Nettie shook her head.

  ‘We feared she’d lose her liberty.’ Sorcha looked to Nettie for confirmation. ‘We didn’t realise the bailies had already acted, nor had her taken to the Tolbooth…’

  Aidan cleared his throat, anything to prevent himself from moving to Sorcha and offering her the comfort he so desperately wanted to provide. She was a loyal friend to this Beatrix — both women were. But did she understand, did either of them, what they were risking by coming to him and even discussing — let alone defending — their friend? Aye, they did. His heart swelled — with pride and a deep, deep concern.

  ‘I understand that’s where the bailies — your council — have their offices as well?’ asked Aidan. ‘On the top floor of the Tolbooth?’ He knew the answer, he simply wanted to remind them.

  The women exchanged dire looks. ‘It is,’ said Nettie.

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’ asked Sorcha.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve no authority over their decision. I’ve no authority over anything that happens in Pittenweem unless it directly affects my men.’

  Sorcha’s face fell.

  ‘Surely,’ Aidan said quickly, ‘once they question Mrs Laing, they’ll see what you claim: that she’s simply an auld woman with a sharp tongue.’

  ‘I take it you’ve not met the reverend before?’ Nettie cocked a brow at him.

  Aidan went to speak then fell silent. Of course he knew the reverend. He also knew what Nettie meant.

  ‘They know Beatrix, the type of woman she is — the whole village does. She’s done this kind of thing before and, much to the reverend’s disgust, was cleared of charges. But the bailies — and God knows how many others — are under his thumb,’ said Nettie.

  ‘That,’ added Sorcha, ‘and they’re afraid of incurring his wrath.’

  ‘They’d be fools if they weren’t,’ said Nettie wryly. ‘As the reverend likes to remind us, he talks straight to God.’

  How could Aidan caution these brave women they’d do well to be afraid too? ‘Aye, well…’ Aidan’s hands were suddenly useless and the fire in the hearth became fascinating.

  Jumping to her feet, Sorcha crossed the floor until she stood so close to him, he could smell the sea upon her, the scent of roses, the coolness of the breezes that blew through the streets. The effect was heady, distracting.

  ‘Captain Ross,’ began Sorcha, regarding him earnestly, waiting until he met her eyes. ‘I fear you’re wrong about not holding authority. The people here respect you and, while you might not be the law, you are Her Majesty’s representative. You help keep the peace and, God knows, with Beatrix’s arrest and what she is accused of, that’s about to be disturbed in ways that make me quake in my very soul.’ She urged Nettie to support her. ‘It should make you quake, too — for yourself and your men.’

  Nettie rose and joined them.

  ‘Sorcha is right, captain. We need you to come with us and appeal to the bailies and the reverend — if not to their sense of justice, then to their common sense. We’re afraid they’ll make an example of Beatrix, regardless of what she might have done — or not done. They’ve wanted to for a long time. At least, the reverend has. I think if the people see you, see that you understand what Beatrix really is, just a foolish auld gilly, you’ll bring some balance. Then she’ll at least get a fair hearing.’

  ‘If not fair, a hearing at least.’ Sorcha looked to Nettie for support. ‘We’re concerned —’ she gave a bark of laughter at how inadequate the word was, ‘that if something isn’t done, Beatrix will be tried and convicted before anyone can defend her, before the authorities in the city can act. For isn’t it true, Captain Ross, that in a case like this, Edinburgh should not only be involved, but have the final say?’

  ‘Aye, when it comes to witchcraft, that is so.’

  ‘Then please, at the very least, help us ensure that happens.’

  He’d never noticed how pellucid her eyes, how smooth and pure her complexion, the way the light plucked out seams of fire in her hair.

  Unable t
o help himself, aware he was being manipulated into something that was not mere gallantry but interference in a local dispute and against everything he’d been ordered to do while stationed at the Weem — that it was utter foolhardiness — he nonetheless relented. His superiors had warned him never to become involved in local politics or customs, no matter how disturbing, but he couldn’t let this rest. Not when he feared for the women requesting his help.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, before he could change his mind. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise too much.’

  In a move that startled him, Sorcha took his hands in hers. He felt the pressure of her fingers, the cool dryness of her skin, the calluses hardened over years of baiting lines, repairing nets, and gutting fish. He liked the way they felt. These were hands that knew what it was to work. Were they also hands that knew how to love?

  Heat filled his body, and he found himself squeezing her fingers in return, meeting those crystal eyes and smiling.

  ‘All we ask is that you come with us and do your best,’ said Sorcha. Nettie made a noise of affirmation.

  ‘When?’ asked Aidan, praying his best was good enough.

  ‘Now,’ said Sorcha.

  SIXTEEN

  She deigned to be avenged upon him.

  — A Just Reproof to the False Reports and Unjust Calumnies in the Foregoing Letter, 1705

  ‘Repeat what you just said, Mrs Laing,’ said Reverend Patrick Cowper. ‘I didn’t quite hear you.’

  Beatrix Laing sat with her back to the window on the top floor of the Tolbooth. Seated in one of the five chairs placed in a semi-circle around her, Patrick wished they could hurry proceedings up. After all, it was just a formality.

  It was getting late, the room was growing cooler. He’d no chance to eat his dinner before the constables brought the woman to his house. Gazing out the window, he could glimpse deep blue sky and scudding clouds. They’d been forced to close the window earlier, due to the commotion on the street below, the shouting of those foolish folk protesting the Laing woman’s arrest, as well as those praising it. The noise had been a terrible distraction. But now the chamber stank. The woman’s fear was ripe, as was her obstinacy.