by Karen Brooks
‘Round them up,’ snapped the reverend. ‘Every last one, and do what we agreed. Take them to the Morton house and let’s see if the boy can corroborate what the witch says. It’s the least Edinburgh would expect.’
Beatrix heard rather than felt movement. The passing of shadows across her eyelids, the draught as their bodies sped away. Even the pricker left, thanks be to God.
They would all leave her in peace.
That was last night. Alick had untied her and, after washing her wounds, helped her back into her grubby shift. He even left her some food and a blanket before he departed. She’d fallen into the deepest of sleeps.
Now, with the cold light of early morning, the brief peace she’d felt deserted her. There was only dread.
Going over all that had happened, she could recall what that pricker had done, all his accusations. They were mere hurts to her body; to her reputation. It was what she’d said to Reverend Cowper that pained her the most.
She remembered the words as if they were seared into her soul.
When asked to identify her accomplices she’d shrieked seven names — the same number as those who’d burned in Paisley back in 1697.
She’d named Isobel Adam, Lillie Wallace, Nettie Horseburgh, Margaret Jack (how her name had come to her, she knew not), Janet Cornfoot, old Thomas Brown and, last of all, she’d said the name the reverend had been trying to get her to speak for days.
Sorcha McIntyre.
TWENTY
You claw ma’ back, I’ll claw yours.
(We’ll see that we both get something out of this.)
They came for Sorcha less than a week after she burned the wax figure.
Down on the shore, sorting the latest catch of herring, cod and other fish into creels for sale later that day, she was unprepared for the constables or the orders they carried.
‘Will you look at them,’ said Nettie, jerking her head towards a group of men marching purposefully along the foreshore. Her arms deep in fish guts, Sorcha stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on a cloth and watched as they approached.
Nicolas Lawson turned and did the same. All the women slowly ceased working and followed the direction of Sorcha’s and Nettie’s gaze.
‘I don’t like the look of this, Nettie,’ said Sorcha quietly, coming around to join her.
‘Me neither.’
‘They appear angry,’ said Lillie Wallace, joining them from over by the nets.
‘Angry?’ huffed Janet Cornfoot, standing up. ‘I think they look afeared.’
Janet was right, thought Sorcha. There was a wide-eyed panic about the men, their tight-lipped mouths, the exaggerated swinging of their arms, the way they puffed out their chests, projecting a fierce determination not to be cowed by women or public opinion.
They’d heard how the constables had beaten Beatrix, a woman old enough to be their grandmother. One of them had copped a tongue-lashing from his own ma, so ashamed was she that he could lay hands on Beatrix, even if it was under orders from the reverend and council. He protested he hadn’t hit her hard, as if that was a suitable defence. Sorcha doubted that was true, even while she wanted to believe it was so.
‘At least the pricker not be with them,’ said Nettie under her breath as the men jumped down onto the sand.
Sorcha shuddered. Alick had told Captain Ross — and Mr Brown, who, upon learning of his wife’s arrest had abandoned what he was doing in the city and come home — what the pricker had done to Beatrix. While the captain had refrained from describing everything the poor woman had endured, his omissions, and the fact William Brown was prostrate with guilt and grief, spoke more loudly than words.
The four constables, lads Sorcha had known their entire lives, came to a halt directly before her and Nettie. All that lay between them and their batons and rope, the metal chains that hung from their shoulders, and the women was a trestle upon which lay the spilled innards of fish and a pile of netting waiting to be mended. Nine women stood the other side, their creels a row of makeshift battlements behind them, silently watching and waiting. Down by the shore, a group of children ceased their play and edged forward, the evident tension quietening them. It was telling that not one of the constables looked at the fishwives, preferring to focus on the equipment, the dead fish, the sea.
The fishermen just returned from inshore paused in their swaying boats or upon the crumbling pier, waiting to see what would happen next. A couple tried to call the bairns to them.
‘What can we do for you, gents?’ asked Nettie light-heartedly. Sorcha could feel her arm trembling as it gently brushed against Sorcha’s side.
Constable Gerard Stuart nudged his brother, Angus. Sorcha knew they were the ones who’d beaten Beatrix. Standing either side of the brothers were Mark Smith and Simon Wood. Simon had gone to school with her brother Erik, Mark with Robbie.
Clearing his throat with a sense of self-importance, Angus pulled out a piece of paper. ‘We’re here to take into custody one Janet Cornfoot, Lillie Wallace, Margaret Jack, Nicolas Lawson, Sorcha McIntyre and Janet White.’
For a moment Sorcha failed to register her own name as she wondered who Janet White was, before understanding they meant Nettie.
When she did, she gasped.
‘On what charge?’ demanded Janet Cornfoot, hands on hips.
‘Conspiring with the witch, Beatrix Laing, to cause mal… male…’ Angus stared at the words on the paper.
‘Witchcraft,’ growled Simon. He was the only one to meet Sorcha’s eyes. ‘Now, you can either come peacefully, or you can come in chains. It’s your choice.’
Some of the women began to protest; Sorcha forced a laugh. Surely, this was a charade. Then she caught the expression on Nettie’s face. After all, they’d taken the wax doll from Beatrix’s house. Was that considered conspiring? How would anyone know what they’d done? Regardless, that was down to her and Nettie; the other women had nothing to do with it.
But the men were serious and the dubious smiles and objections swiftly died.
‘I’ll not be going anywhere quietly with you, young Angus, let me tell —’ began Janet, before Nettie interrupted.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Nettie. ‘We’re no accomplices — just as Beatrix Laing be no witch. Why, you’ve known us your whole lives, lads. Who was it gave you a taste of your first mussel, Mark Smith? And what about you, Simon Wood? Look at me when I’m talking to you, lad. Who was it brought fish soup to your ma when she was poorly? Who wiped your dirty arse when you had the squits?’ The fishwives snickered. ‘Nicolas here even used her special remedies to look after your wee sister when she fell and broke her arm.’ When Simon didn’t respond, Nettie sighed and shrugged. ‘Very well. That’s how it is then. We’ll come with you, lads, but only because you’ll be escorting us back here before the tide turns, won’t they, lasses?’
The women tried to mimic her flippancy. All but Sorcha failed. Untying their aprons, they passed whatever tools they were using to the remaining fishwives. The men at the boats had by now crossed the sand and, with the children by their side, were watching the proceedings with a mixture of rage and concern. Sorcha prayed they wouldn’t do anything foolish lest the women be accused of bewitching the men to do their bidding as well.
Taking her lead from Nettie, she gave the fishermen what she hoped was a reassuring wave. ‘It’s all right, lads, kiddykins. We’ll be back to finish before you know we’ve gone.’
Gerard came and stood on one side of her. ‘Where are you taking us, Gerard?’ asked Sorcha, praying it wasn’t the Tolbooth, though at least if it was, they would see Beatrix.
‘To the Morton house,’ said Gerard and began to lead them away from the shore.
‘The Morton house?’ asked Janet. ‘Since when has it become the place the council does its business?’
Mark gave the old woman a shove. ‘Cease your blether. It’s where we’re ordered to take you. Now, move, lasses.’
The last word was said with such disdain, it was al
l Sorcha could do not to clout him across the ears. The men might have been ordered to take them into custody, but they could show some respect. But it was as if they’d changed — all of them. From former playmates and neighbours into burly, terse guards and the women were transformed into criminals. Nae, she knew what it was they’d suddenly become: witches.
Her stomach flipped and her throat grew dry.
Nettie fell lightly against her and whispered, ‘This does not bode well, hen.’
As they were herded up the High Street, folk came to their doors, spilled out of shops to watch them pass. Most were silent. A couple spat, but whether at the women or the constables, Sorcha couldn’t be certain. Some called out, asking where they were going, why they were being taken.
‘Haven’t you done enough to poor auld Beatrix?’ shouted someone from a window. It was Emma Gilligan, her babe in arms, glaring at the men. ‘Looking for more women to have sport with, are you? You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
The mutters grew and a crowd fell in behind them. The sky above darkened and the promised rain began to fall, a drop or two at first, before it became heavier. Surrounded by the constables, the fishwives continued, heads bowed, their skirts getting wet, their neepyins drenched. What was a bit of water to them?
Sorcha searched the faces lining the street, some withdrawing indoors to avoid the weather, but she saw no sign of the one person she longed to see. Where was Captain Ross? There was no chance his notes to Edinburgh would have been answered yet, it was too soon. She prayed with all her heart he would hear of this and, if he couldn’t prevent what was about to happen, he would at least record it so those in authority would know what was going on.
After all, if they didn’t know, how could they stop it? But perhaps that was what the council wanted — to keep everyone in the dark until it was too late.
TWENTY-ONE
…when any of the women whom he [Peter Morton] accused touched him, and sometimes on their coming into the room, he fell into grievous fits of trouble, and cried out…
— A Just Reproof to the False Reports and Unjust Calumnies in the Foregoing Letter, 1705
When Beatrix Laing was brought into his bedroom, Peter Morton thought he was having a terrible vision. Who was this haggard crone with bruises upon her cheeks, a cut lip, terrible gouges along her arms and a bent, shuffling gait? And what was she doing beside his bed? She smelled worse than his chamber pot. Once the initial wave of panic subsided and he saw the bailies and their wives crammed against one wall of his bedroom together with the doctors from the city, the angry army captain and his good friend the reverend as well, he relaxed.
The reverend had warned him that Beatrix Laing and some other women were being brought before him and he must listen carefully to what was said and be sure to remember what to do. They’d gone over it last night, many times.
Aware of the reverend’s eyes upon him, Peter gave the briefest of nods and turned his bleary gaze upon the woman.
Immediately, he felt his limbs tense, his neck became stiff. His stomach distended and his breathing became laboured. He began to wail — short sharp bursts at first, transforming into caterwauls. Some of the women in the room put their hands over their ears, whimpering at his evident distress.
‘’Tis she who cursed me, ’tis she!’ cried Peter, pointing feebly at the beldam.
Beatrix lowered her head. Her shoulders slumped and, if it hadn’t been for the two men holding her arms, Peter was convinced she would have collapsed to the floor. He wanted to feel sorry for her, but he couldn’t, not when she’d used her vile powers to turn him into this wreck. His body was no longer his own; his thoughts were in disarray. He hurt all over. She might look and act like a feeble old woman, but she was evil.
The reverend signalled to the men, who marched Beatrix out of the bedroom. She’d been there less than a minute.
As soon as she was gone, Peter’s breathing improved, his arms and legs co-operated and his stomach shrank back to its usual size.
‘As I told you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Reverend Cowper, ensuring he scowled at each witness in the room. ‘Peter is badly affected by the mere presence of the witch. She is still, along with her accomplices, casting a terrible spell upon the lad. The devil is powerful in her.’
Peter snivelled.
Captain Ross detached himself from the wall he had been leaning against. ‘It proves nothing,’ he said, daring the reverend to contradict him.
Minutes before Beatrix was shown in, he’d forced his way into the bedroom. The reverend had tried to have him expelled, but the captain, who’d sought out Bailie Bell and handed him a letter with an official seal upon it, refused to move. The bailie had read the letter, frowned, and passed it to the reverend.
Casting his eyes over it, the reverend shrugged. He explained to all present it was from a city advocate, ordering the council to allow Captain Ross to bear witness to events in Pittenweem so there might be a party to record what occurred on Edinburgh’s behalf.
‘Makes no difference to me or anyone here who observes. Or to whom you report, captain.’ He stared meaningfully at the officer. ‘God is the authority here, not Edinburgh, not me, and not some army official, no matter what rank.’
After that, the reverend turned his back on the captain and bent over Peter before ordering Beatrix to be brought in.
When she was led away, her knees buckling so she was practically carried, the captain stepped forward and objected. The reverend swung towards him.
‘I don’t know what you expect, captain, but to me, this proves everything the lad said is true.’
‘Not if he is pretending to be afflicted, reverend.’
There were shocked mutters. The reverend’s eyes narrowed. ‘Pretending? You think the lad is pretending to twist his body into impossible shapes? To starve himself? You saw the size of his belly before. It was as if the lad had swallowed a whale, and now it would scarce accommodate a minnow.’ The captain remained unmoved. ‘Why, I’ll have you know, sir, when the fits are upon him, not even the strongest of men,’ he nodded towards Constable Smith, who had just entered the room, ‘can lift him; nor can they straighten his neck or arms. It’s not natural. It is the work of witchcraft, I tell you.’
‘That may be,’ said the captain. He was calm in the storm of the reverend’s outburst; the nods of agreement from the witnesses. ‘But if the lad can see those you’ve arranged to be brought forward, it hardly counts as proof. Why, he can identify anyone he dislikes, anyone against whom he bears a grudge. Anyone you have a mind to tell him to.’
There were gasps of outrage. Peter saw the reverend’s face redden; felt his own change colour.
The captain continued. ‘Have you forgotten the events in Paisley, sir? Because I assure you my superiors in Edinburgh have not.’
Comparing the soldier and the reverend, Peter thought how tall and regal the captain looked in his uniform. It might be patched and worn, but the man stood straight, he spoke with assuredness and power. Compared to him, the reverend looked small, thin and hunched; his hazy eye spasmed, the lid fluttering as it did when he was nervous. Peter willed his champion to stand straighter, to use his special voice.
‘What do you suggest we do then?’ asked the reverend. Peter detected a sly note.
‘Cover the lad’s eyes,’ said the captain. ‘Don’t let those you’ve arranged to be here speak. Let them come forward and touch the lad anonymously.’
‘Touch him?’ The reverend looked appalled. ‘What? Allow the witches to unleash their power and inflict further injury? I’ll permit no such thing.’ Reverend Cowper paused. ‘That is, unless I may sit beside him and offer him the protection of the Lord.’
There was a noise in the corridor. Bailie Vernour excused himself from the room.
Captain Ross frowned. Clearly, he was unhappy with what the reverend suggested. The other witnesses nodded their approval with this arrangement.
‘Aye, let the reverend sit with him,’ said B
ailie Cook.
Captain Ross raised a brow towards one of the Edinburgh doctors who nodded what appeared to be reluctant acquiescence.
‘Excuse me,’ said Bailie Vernour, squeezing back into the room. ‘Those we ordered taken into custody have arrived.’
Peter heard noises outside, voices, the sound of shuffling feet. His heart began to pound. Dear God, protect me from my tormentors; give me the strength to know who they are and help the good reverend bring them to justice so we might protect our village and all who live here.
‘I must insist you cover the lad’s eyes,’ said Captain Ross.
‘And I insist that if Peter is to be blindfolded, I shall be his protector,’ countered the reverend.
‘The captain and reverend are both in the right,’ said Bailie Bell finally, gesturing for everyone to stop talking. ‘You’re already overstepping the mark, captain. You’ve no authority but, as the letter you carried states, are here to observe. Do that. As a sign of goodwill, we’ll do as you bid and cover the lad’s eyes. Be sure to let your superiors know we were so obliging. The reverend can sit near him and ensure no harm befalls him.’ He made a clicking noise and flapped his hands. ‘Come on. We’re wasting time. We must discover who exactly is responsible for causing Peter’s terrible affliction.’
A cloth was found and placed over Peter’s head. Propped up on pillows, the reverend made Peter comfortable and then sat beside the bed, holding one of the lad’s hands in both of his.
‘Are you ready, Peter?’ he asked kindly.
Peter didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded, panicking slightly at how helpless he felt without his sight. This isn’t what the reverend said would happen.
‘Bring them in one at a time and in no particular order,’ said the reverend.
Unable to see who was shambling towards him, Peter could nevertheless feel the tremors in the unknown fingers that lightly touched his, just as he could feel the reverend squeeze his other hand as tight as he ever had.
