by Karen Brooks
At that moment, Beatrix opened her eyes and raised her chin. She smiled; her missing teeth and bloodied mouth and lips made her look like she was wearing a devil-cast mask.
Patrick shuddered just as the other men recoiled. He stepped towards them and lowered his voice. ‘But think on this, gentlemen.
We’ve no need for Edinburgh’s involvement — not yet anyhow,’ he said quickly, before Bell could disagree. ‘The woman has confessed and that’s a grand start. We must handle this ourselves for as long as we’re able. Otherwise, we might never put an end to it.’
Beatrix continued to stare at them, not understanding the significance of what they were saying. The men studiously avoided her gaze and glanced at each other, undecided.
Patrick was fed up with their ambivalence. Much like the constables who’d beaten Beatrix Laing, he knew where to aim so it hurt. ‘After all,’ he said, waving a cavalier hand, ‘which of us can afford to pay for the presence of advocates from the city? Pay for lawyers’ advice? Their upkeep while they eat our food and drink our whisky? Is it you, William? Thomas? You, Robert? For I tell you now, gentlemen, I can’t afford the luxury of Edinburgh magistrates and neither can the town.’
That decided it. They all agreed Patrick was right. The bailies would rather see an old woman beaten bloody and pricked to uncover her accomplices than part with coin. A search would be mounted — first for the wax image and, if that was found, or even if it wasn’t, then, with the help of a pricker, for anyone else who might have aided and abetted Beatrix Laing.
Beatrix Laing who, of her own admission, was a witch in league with the devil.
SEVENTEEN
Duntit f’ae dowg tae devil.
(Pursued by misfortune.)
Sorcha stormed into her cottage, followed more sedately by a crestfallen Nettie and a resigned Captain Ross.
‘They won’t find it,’ said Sorcha, swinging around to face them. ‘Not in Beatrix’s house or Nicolas’s. How can they when, like this pact with the devil, a wax image is just something the men forced her to admit in order to justify arresting her?’
Nettie shooed Captain Ross further into the room and shut the door.
Sorcha fell into a chair and dropped her head into her hands. She could barely think, she was so angry, so despondent. She’d not felt so powerless since… since… Davan died. Back then, as she held his little body in her arms, unable to breathe life into his wee blue form, make his sweet heart beat, she’d made a promise to never again allow herself to be in a situation she couldn’t control. Yet, here she was. Sometimes, no matter how much you wished to alter things, they simply were. It was like what old Thomas Brown would say, ‘You canna hold back the tides.’ It was so unfair. Raising her head, she stamped her foot.
Nettie knelt beside her, prodding the fire back to life. She placed a comforting hand on Sorcha’s leg and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know, lass, I know. This be madness. But we can’t let it affect us. We need to be calm, to think. Let’s have a drink and discuss what to do next. We have to be smart. Beatrix and Nicolas are going to need all the help they can get.’
‘And friends,’ said Sorcha, pulling the scarf from her hair and letting it fall in her lap. ‘And friends.’
‘Aye,’ said Captain Ross. Sorcha had almost forgotten he was there. He stood by the window, his back to them, looking up and down the street. He turned to regard them. ‘It seems your bailies and the reverend want to handle this matter themselves. Made no difference how many times I mentioned Edinburgh, reminded them of the law, legal procedure, they were having none of it.’
‘But,’ said Sorcha, taking the dram Nettie passed to her gratefully, ‘I thought the law states they have to notify the city magistrates in instances of witchcraft. They may have dealt with it themselves last time there was an accusation, but what happened at Bargarran changed everything. Edinburgh did not come out of that affair well.’
‘Let’s pray none of them forget that,’ said Nettie quietly, offering a drink to Captain Ross.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Please, captain, sit down,’ said Sorcha, remembering her manners. ‘I’m not being a very good hostess. I can barely think straight. I could scarce believe what Alick told us at the Tolbooth.’ Alick Brigstowe was the Tolbooth keeper, a man with a large belly, bent legs and a gnarled hand — his other one having been amputated after it became caught in the rigging on her da’s ship. Unable to fish with one arm, Alick had been given the job of managing the Tolbooth thanks to her father, who had used his influence as a boat owner to arrange it. There was no love lost between Alick and the reverend; Alick was one of those led astray by the soldiers and more likely to be found drinking ale on a Sunday than attending kirk. He refused the coin the captain offered him when they first knocked on the door of the Tolbooth and demanded to speak to the bailies, and instead reported back all he could hear through the door. It was his information that allowed them to leave before the constables and warn Nicolas.
‘They beat her,’ said Sorcha then downed her drink in one gulp. ‘They beat poor auld Beatrix.’ She shook her head as if to banish the thought.
‘I’ll never forget the sound of her screams. Thank God her William wasn’t there to hear them.’ Nettie shuddered. ‘The bastards. And now we know exactly what she’s been accused of, thanks to Alick.’
Sorcha stared at the fire as it took hold. Wind whistled down the chimney, blowing smoke back into the room. Squinting through the worst of it, she went over what Alick had revealed. ‘You don’t think Beatrix was telling the truth, do you? That she renounced her baptism?’ She raised her limpid turquoise eyes to Captain Ross, then Nettie.
‘Nae,’ said Captain Ross. ‘I think she was telling the men what they wanted to hear.’
‘I agree,’ said Nettie. ‘Anything to stop being hit. In naming Nicolas, she named someone she knew would be strong against the reverend. Against these base accusations. Nicolas laughed when we told her, bless her. Unlike Beatrix, it’s not worth their while to imprison her.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Captain Ross.
Nettie whirled her whisky as she considered how to answer him. ‘You’re not so ignorant as to miss my meaning, are you, captain? Once someone’s named a witch, then the town council is entitled not only to fine them and their families, but also to take a huge portion of their wealth — something like two-thirds or at least a half. Beatrix has means. Nicolas, on the other hand, is as poor as a kirk-mouse, not worth arresting, not really. I’m not sure what the reverend or the bailies hope to get out of questioning her, except perhaps something to help convict Beatrix, who, of course, possesses both property and coin.’
‘Purge the village of sin, unite them in a quest to renounce the devil, that’s what the reverend said according to Alick,’ added Sorcha dolefully. ‘As if it’s only auld women or the likes of Nicolas who sin in the first place.’
‘What you both say might be true,’ said Captain Ross carefully, ‘but what if, like today, Mrs Laing and Mrs Lawson are… persuaded to name more women as witches? Women with more to lose — or, should I say, to give to the council?’
Nettie and Sorcha shared a look. Sorcha nodded grimly.
Nettie gulped. ‘It’s what we’re afeared of, laddie.’
‘They tried to wrest the boat and house from me once before, after mor died, and failed,’ admitted Sorcha.
‘What she means, captain,’ added Nettie, ‘is the reverend tried — by marrying her off to one of his sons, no less.’
Sorcha grimaced at the thought. ‘Needless to say, I declined the proposal. But surely, accusing any of us of witchcraft is a step too far even for the reverend and bailies.’
Sorcha looked around the room with an objective eye. There wasn’t too much of value here, though the garret was a different matter, filled as it was with nets, creels, ropes, iron and so much more. Memories to her, they’d make good coin if they were to be sold. And then there was the cottage itself, not to mention the boat…
>
Regretting he’d frightened them, the captain tried to change the subject. ‘Push it out of your minds for now. I could be wrong. In the meantime, don’t let the whisky go to waste.’
‘You’re right,’ said Sorcha, refilling their cups. She tipped some more into her own and waited for the other two to lift their quaichs to her. ‘Here’s to Beatrix and Nicolas. May God be on their side for a change.’
‘To Beatrix and Nicolas,’ echoed the captain and Nettie. They drained their drinks.
‘Now,’ said the captain, drawing his stool closer. ‘Let’s discuss our next step. We know from Alick that the reverend and bailies have no intention of informing Edinburgh at present. But what’s to stop me writing to my commanding officer and notifying him what’s going on? What’s to stop him letting the authorities in the city know?’
Sorcha felt a smile begin. ‘Why, nothing. The reverend’s made it clear you have no influence over what Weem people do. Which means, in essence, he has none over you.’
The captain gave an insolent grin. ‘My thoughts exactly. I’ll leave here shortly and attend to it at once. But if I might make a suggestion?’
‘Go ahead, captain, please. We need all the advice we can get, unlike the bailies or the reverend,’ added Sorcha.
‘I think it would be wise if you and Nettie, and perhaps some of the other fishwives, tried not to be seen in each other’s company for a while.’
Nettie and Sorcha looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘What?’ asked Captain Ross. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘I see what you’re about, captain,’ Nettie said through her chuckles. ‘But that would raise more suspicion than it would subdue rumours.’
‘We always work together,’ explained Sorcha. ‘Nettie’s right. If we ceased to do that, then talk would fly.’
‘Like a witch,’ said Nettie, her eyes sparking with mischief.
‘So,’ said Sorcha with a shrug, ‘we’ve no choice but to place our faith in Edinburgh. And in you.’ Their eyes met. Sorcha forgot to breathe.
She lifted her glass in a toast before realising it was empty. Glad to be given something to do so she didn’t have to look at the captain again, she stood and poured.
Captain Ross held his quaich steady until the others were filled. ‘Here’s to the authorities in the city,’ he said.
‘May they see justice done,’ said Sorcha and they knocked cups and drank.
‘I’d best be going.’ Captain Ross put down his quaich. ‘I want this missive away by first light. The sooner we contact Edinburgh about Mrs Laing, the sooner something can be done to prevent what promises to be a travesty.’
Sorcha followed him to the door. As he stepped outside, she grabbed his arm. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Captain Ross. There’s not many in your position would do what you have.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Get involved.’
He smiled. Not for the first time, she wondered what he was thinking behind those dark eyes. ‘Don’t thank me yet, Mrs McIntyre. Let’s see what comes of this.’ He placed his hand over hers. ‘You should be prepared lest nothing happens. The authorities in the city may decide to leave Mrs Laing to the Weem council; especially after what happened in Paisley. As you correctly pointed out, the outcome there did the reputation of the city magistrates no favours.’
Sorcha looked grave. ‘I know that whatever we try may make no difference. But at least we will have tried. What they decide to do once they’ve been alerted is on their conscience.’
They stared at each other for a long moment. Above the captain’s head, clouds scudded across the sky; a flock of gulls floated in the thermals, dark against the sun’s glow. The wind whipped his black hair about his face, across his mouth. She looked at his lips, aware he was staring at hers.
‘Come away in or shut the door, will you?’ called Nettie. ‘The fire’s guttering.’
They broke away from each other, their momentary closeness interrupted. With an apologetic smile and curtsey, Sorcha stepped inside. Captain Ross placed his hat on his head and, with a small salute, strode down the road.
Sorcha closed the door and leaned against it, her hands clasped behind her. She grinned.
‘Look at you,’ chuckled Nettie. ‘Giddy as a wee lassie, and with all that’s happening too. I told you the day you returned he was a good ’un, didn’t I?’
‘You did, Nettie. Even so, I thought he’d never go.’
Peeling herself away from the door, Sorcha went to the fire. She pulled a small doll-like figure from her pocket and studied it. Nettie joined her, so close she could hear her breathing. Made of wax, it had a head of brown wool hair, disproportionate limbs and bright blue beads pressed into its tallow face for eyes. It looked like no one they knew, but they both understood who it was meant to represent. Sorcha had found it beneath Beatrix’s pillow when they’d raced to her cottage after Alick revealed what was happening. The captain had waited outside while the two friends did a quick search of the premises. Shocked to find it, agreeing it meant nothing but a poor attempt at punishment and humour, Sorcha had stuffed it in her pocket. Why they kept it a secret from Captain Ross she wasn’t sure, but she knew it was the right thing to do. The man was risking enough for them already.
‘Here’s to Beatrix and Nicolas,’ she said, holding the small wax figure aloft. What on earth Beatrix was thinking to do something so foolish, so reprehensible as to make a figurine of Peter Morton, she couldn’t fathom. Never mind, no one would find it now.
She threw it on the flames and put an arm around Nettie, drawing her close as they watched the damn thing become engulfed by flames before it swiftly fizzed and melted.
EIGHTEEN
About the beginning of May, his case altered to the worse, by having such strange and unusuall fitts, as did astonish all onlookers…
— Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 13th day of June, 1704
Peter Morton found it hard to remember what it was like to live without pain. Each day the stiffness in his neck and limbs seemed to grow worse. His stomach, unable to hold down anything but watery broths for weeks now, was bloated and sore. Admittedly, it was mainly when Reverend Cowper came to visit and they spoke of the torments experienced by Christian Shaw that his agonies increased. The reverend would become almost ecstatic, holding his hand, murmuring prayers, calling on God and asking Him for the names of those causing Peter’s affliction. Strangely, as the days wore on, each time the reverend asked God to reveal the people responsible for Peter’s fits and contortions and recited possible names, Peter’s pain intensified and he would cry out.
The reverend was so pleased with Peter whenever this happened, he would hold him and pray for him and speak to him as his father never did. Whereas his da seemed almost embarrassed by what was happening to his son and was unable to remain in the room with him, the reverend gloried in it. He visited every day, brought cakes, cheeses and other temptations to try and whet the lad’s appetite. Reverend Cowper would settle in the chair beside the bed and read from the Bible, as well as stories from the city newspapers, and from a book about Christian Shaw, replete with detailed descriptions of her suffering. On two occasions he’d read accounts of events in a place called Salem in the New World. It was a small village in a territory Peter couldn’t pronounce, let alone try and spell, but all the same, it resonated. It was in the colonies, which just went to prove that witchcraft, as the reverend said, knew no bounds. Whereas his da rolled his eyes and snorted when Peter tried to keep him by his side and share what the reverend had told him, Reverend Cowper was never so dismissive. When his da demanded his son rise and return to work, saying he’d had enough of his idleness, the reverend scolded his father thoroughly. After that, his da was banned from the bedroom.
Apart from some of the bailies and their wives, and members of the kirk the reverend trusted, Reverend Cowper was his main visitor. He would sit close to the bed, run his f
ingers through Peter’s hair, not caring if it wasn’t washed or combed, and call him a ‘good lad’, a ‘brave and bonnie man’, and a ‘child of God’. Together, he promised, they’d expose and oust the devil and his assistants from the Weem. He said over and over that he, Reverend Cowper, and God, needed Peter’s help. Ever since, Peter feared to disappoint him.
When the reverend asked to see his legs so he could comprehend why he was experiencing such pain and saw nothing, Peter knew the man was frustrated. He didn’t stay long, nor did he read or praise him that day. So the next day when Peter cried out each time a name was mentioned, arching his back, twisting his neck and huffing and puffing as if he’d run from St Monan’s to the Weem, Peter was pleased to reveal his limbs when the reverend lifted the covers. Covered in red marks like scrapes from a fine needle, crusted in blood, deep at the ends, shallow in others, the gashes were shocking to see. When the reverend asked who put those marks upon him, Peter denied knowing how they got there, only that they added to his terrible torment.
That day, the reverend stayed by Peter’s bedside for hours, reading and talking to him, reminding him over and over how like a son he was. The following day, Peter showed him his arms and stomach. There were bite marks as well as deeper wounds, some bleeding so freely the reverend was forced to ask for an unguent and bandages, but not before he’d invited in the bailies and the doctors from Edinburgh (who were thinking of leaving the town) to inspect his patient.
