by Karen Brooks
He picked up a clod of earth and flung it down the wynd, feeling gratified when it exploded in a shower of dirt. Instead of being praised for his role in uncovering the coven as he’d anticipated, as the reverend had alluded, he’d been sent home in disgrace. All the while, those who caused his misery were free to wander where they pleased. Where was the justice in that? What reward did he get for naming the devil-loving hizzies but a flea in his ear and a father who could scarce look at his own son any more?
Just as well not all the villagers felt that way. Ever since he’d risen from his bed, there had been those who congratulated him — not only on his recovery, but for identifying the witches in the first place. Keen to use his services, the smithy soon rang once more. He’d only to step in the tavern and men crowded around to slap him on the back, buy him an ale, blather over a dram. Aye, there were many who knew what he’d saved them from…
Only, the reverend believed they weren’t saved at all; they’d merely been granted a reprieve.
Peter prayed he was wrong, but a part of him prayed he was right. Then those boldinits in Edinburgh could eat their words.
Any remorse he felt at the role he’d played in gaoling the women was swept aside in a mixture of rage, pride and bravado. He’d done a good thing. One couldn’t allow witches to run around the place cursing all and sundry and corrupting good Christian souls, could they? That’s what the reverend said over and over.
It was only when he thought of Thomas Brown that the seed of guilt planted all those months ago sprouted once more. Not that it was his fault the auld souff died, of course.
The man’s death had not gone to waste. Despite his daughter’s protests, his property had been confiscated and sold. The money had gone far: beautiful timbers and stone to commence repairs upon the pier had been delivered to the foreshore only a couple of weeks ago. Many would benefit from that and not just those hired to do the construction. The exception was Mr Brown’s daughter, Ellie. Left with a few measly pounds to remember her father by, she’d gone to live with relatives in St Monan’s. He was glad. He didn’t think he could face her.
There were a few he dreaded seeing again, even though God was on his side. God and the reverend. The very first day he left his house he’d seen Beatrix Laing, the foul auld gilly. She’d pretended not to see him as she hirpled up the High Street, leaning on her husband. He’d been shocked to see how small and lean she was. In his mind, she’d taken on the proportions of a giant. Still, her hands were like claws even if they were stuck on stick arms. Her face was shadowed by a bonnet, but it looked like she’d grown a beard, so dark was a patch on the side of her face. With ever-expanding horror, he realised it was a large bruise.
After that, he’d been prepared for how Nettie Horseburgh, Lillie Wallace and the others appeared. But the one he most dreaded to see again was Sorcha McIntyre. Of all the women who’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth, it was Mrs McIntyre who haunted him.
Unable to forget how she was so kind to him that day they walked to the smithy, how she’d laughed and given him a smile that made him feel warm deep inside, as if he were the man he knew himself to be, she’d continued to disturb his dreams. Not in the way he claimed the witches did. Nae, Mrs McIntyre was altogether different.
He cringed at the thought of setting eyes upon her again, not so much because he was remorseful for what he’d done, but because he feared she’d resemble the other women — all angles and horrid, painful-looking scars. Sunken eyes and cheeks, colourless and defiant. He heard she’d been poorly treated and the idea made him shrink inside. But what had he expected? When the reverend insisted Sorcha was a witch and that it was his godly duty to name her and protect the village, Peter knew that she would be punished. Reverend Cowper told him it was long overdue. Mrs McIntyre, he whispered, was a wicked woman, a brazen besom, who swept men off their feet using bewitchment. She manipulated them for her own ends.
The reverend had a point when he spoke of the men in Sorcha’s life. They were all either dead or missing — even her wee bairn had died. Peter’s illness had fallen upon him when he was with her. To the reverend, this proved she was in league with Beatrix Laing, a known witch. Just like her other associates. As much as he was reluctant to concede this, Peter knew there was some truth in what Reverend Cowper said. Why would Sorcha tolerate such company if she was not of a similar mind? If they were not part of a coven working towards a common goal, a common evil? And Isobel and Beatrix weren’t even fishwives…
At the top of the braes Peter stared out over the Forth. It was good to be home. At least here you could breathe, feel the wind, the earth; smell the sea, not be choked by chimney smoke and tobacco or tromp on hard, stinking cobbles, inhale horses’ shit and human feculence or have your ears assaulted by endless noise and blather. Here you could spin with your arms out wide and touch the sky. In the city, you were lucky if it could even peek between tall buildings. Peter twirled around now, remembering how it had felt to be pushed and carried along in a tide of humanity, all smelly clothes, sharp heels, odorous breath and deafening shouts.
Coming to a halt, he shut his eyes until the world stopped spinning, then opened them again. Small whitecaps rippled across the water as the wind fanned its surface. Boats were putting back out to sea, wanting to take advantage of the gloaming, a time when the fish would bite, if they were about. There were people milling on the harbour and the beach to help them, enjoying the unusually balmy weather. He saw children splashing around in the incoming tide, a couple of dogs chasing gulls, barking in joy.
With a deep sigh, he clambered down the rocky slopes, away from prying eyes, intending to explore the tidal pools. There was no one to see him this side of the braes or to stop and ask how he’d gone in Edinburgh. Checking he had his knife, he rather fancied a mussel or two. Perhaps he’d even bring some back for his da. Their relationship had never been the same since that day by the smithy.
Peter was so busy looking for mussels, he didn’t see the woman at first. But he heard her. A sweet voice singing a sailor’s ditty. He almost turned around and headed back towards the cottages, only something convinced him to remain. Approaching the sound cautiously, he squeezed between two large rocks. The tide was turning but the skerries were still exposed, creating numerous pools — some no bigger than a key hole, others so large a few people could sit in them and not touch. Peter used to love exploring them when he was small, gazing into their translucent depths, reaching in to poke the starfish and other creatures, watching the way the tendrils of seaweed swayed to unheard music. Much to the amusement of the fishwives, he’d tell them it was an entirely different world down there, populated by tiny magical beings. An upside-down world, where water was the air they breathed, the lapping waves their wind. Transfixed, he would lie on his belly and wish himself into the place he’d created, where no one went hungry, everyone was friendly, God walked among them and fathers never, ever beat their sons.
Following the siren song, he squatted next to a wet boulder and peered around. The swollen sun had gone behind a cloud, transforming the light into a silvern glow. A woman sat on the edge of one of the larger rock pools. At first he thought she was a mermaid, as he couldn’t see her legs. Her face was turned away, her song a gift to the sea. Able to view her without being seen, Peter drank in the vision. The long neck, the cap of bronze curls, the soothing melody.
Unaware of him, after a time she hauled herself out of the water, hitching her skirts high, and he saw the terrible marks upon her limbs. What he first thought were tricks thrown by the water, he now knew were the scars of torture. The shorn hair, the lacerations, the voice. His heart skipped. It was the widow of the sea, Sorcha McIntyre.
The sea-witch.
Dear God, what he wouldn’t give to fall under her spell. But wasn’t that exactly what had happened? He’d named her and in doing so declared himself a victim of her malice.
But how could a woman who looked like that, sounded like that, be malicious? God, she was a beau
ty, even with the lesions upon her body and the cropped hair. More slender, more frail, she was like a goddess of old; ethereal. A woman like that needed a man. To protect her — even from herself. And what was he, if not a man? Forget what the advocate said, calling him a foolish lad and all but accusing him of lying. He was a man fully grown with hair upon his face, his chest, and a man’s needs. What was Sorcha but a woman to fill those? Why, before he’d fallen ill, she’d all but made her intentions clear.
He glanced over his shoulder one last time, checking there was no other soul in sight. Just the murmur of the incoming tide, the caw of gulls and the dizzy dance of terns. Crabs scuttled across the rocks, a large beetle rolled into the water, making a tiny splash. Flexing his shoulders, puffing out his chest, aware of a disturbing warmth, Peter reached a decision.
He got to his feet and was about to reveal himself when another voice forced him to freeze.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Skipping across the rocks as if he were born to it was the officer from Skye. What was his name? Och, aye, Aidan Ross.
Sorcha dropped her skirts and turned towards him, breaking into a smile that took Peter’s breath away. She’d never smiled like that for him.
The captain caught Sorcha in his arms, lifted her off her feet and spun her around. Arching her back so her body melted into his, Sorcha laughed, the sound an aphrodisiac that set Peter’s heart racing so hard, he fell against the boulder. Lowering his mouth to hers, the captain and Sorcha shared a long, deep kiss.
Peter knew he should look away as heat crawled across his cheeks and neck, but he was transfixed. He’d not seen two people kiss like that before, with such wanting, such… devotion. That was a word the reverend oft used when he spoke of God, Jesus and the power of faith. What Peter saw now, that was devotion. The way they reluctantly ceased, their lips parting as they held each other, gazing into each other’s eyes.
A dreadful ache seized Peter. Starting near his heart, it radiated to his groin, across his chest and into his throat. Anger marched through his mind, making it blaze before it turned freezing cold, leaving him hurting, wanting, needing.
Taking Sorcha’s hand, the captain picked up her stockings and boots and led her away from the rock pool. Understanding they were going to pass his hiding place, Peter ducked back and retraced his steps as quietly as he could, grateful for the sounds of the waves and wind disguising any noise he made. Squeezed between the rocks, he stood still, praying he wouldn’t be seen in the shadows. Water lapped at his boots.
They stopped almost in front of him. The captain kissed Sorcha again, deeply. Her fingers reached up and twined themselves in his long, heavy hair. Peter could hear their breathing, they were so close. He could smell them; their excitement, their evident passion. It excited him, too; excited him into wanting to do something rash…
‘Will I see you tonight?’ asked the captain, resting his forehead against hers.
‘I’m counting on it,’ said Sorcha, a little breathless, then, with a laugh she kissed the captain once more. She took her stockings and boots from him, ran across the rocks and disappeared around the headland.
The captain waited a while, his eyes fixed on where she’d gone. Only when he saw her reappear on the sands did he turn.
Peter didn’t dare move.
Pausing a moment, the captain looked in his direction. Could he see him? He shut his eyes only to find when he opened them, the man had vanished. Where to, he couldn’t tell.
Peter waited a few more moments before emerging from his hiding place, his boots thoroughly soaked, and began the climb back up towards the braes. His mind sizzled and whirred. He couldn’t wipe away the image of the two kissing, touching. It sickened him. It filled him with yearning. It made him furious.
He wondered what the reverend would make of it, Sorcha McIntyre and Captain Ross. What did it signify?
What it told Peter was that the reverend was right all along. Sorcha was a brazen besom who played with men’s feelings and led them on with only one purpose — to enact mischief.
Sending a prayer of thanks to the good Lord that he was saved from bewitchment this time, he began to wonder what Sorcha intended to do with the captain. More importantly, what tasks had he already performed on her behalf? There were the letters he’d written that had caused no end of strife… but what else had he done? What else was he being primed to do?
With renewed purpose, the shame of Edinburgh and desire for Sorcha burning in his heart, Peter set out to find the man with all the answers: Reverend Patrick Cowper.
THIRTY-THREE
I never let dab.
(I told no one.)
Patrick Cowper ignored his eldest daughter’s entreaties to join the family for supper and retired to his study, a bottle of whisky in one hand, a plate of bannocks and hare in the other. Until he heard how Peter Morton fared in Edinburgh, he wouldn’t be able to sit still, let alone tolerate mindless blather.
When the knock came shortly after six of the clock, it took all Patrick’s willpower to remain patiently behind his desk and pretend an indifference he didn’t feel.
As he watched Peter cross the floor, he noted the redness of his cheeks, the sweat that beaded his brow. Had he run from Edinburgh? The lad was alive with a simmering intensity, keen to speak, but why could he not meet his eyes?
‘Sit, lad, sit,’ said Patrick, rising to his feet, coming around the desk and clapping Peter on the back as he took a seat. He noticed his boots were wet, his stockings as well. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and seaweed. By which route had he come?
‘You’ll have a dram with me?’ asked Patrick and, without waiting for an answer, collected another glass, poured and passed it over.
The lad gulped the drink, coughing and wheezing, rubbing his chest.
Patrick waited for him to regain his composure. ‘Well,’ he began, easing himself into his chair, fingers spread on the desk as he fixed his eyes upon Peter. ‘Tell me what happened, tell me everything.’
Peter did.
Patrick resisted the urge to swear when Peter related how the earl, the advocate and the other gentlemen had treated him. He forced himself to remain calm. So what if those puddocks didn’t believe the lad? They weren’t from here. Hadn’t seen what those women had done. What they were… But they would. God help him, they would.
When he finished, Peter sat quietly. Patrick’s mind raced. Now he had to deliver another blow. News had come that Isobel Adam, the first of the women to be sent to Edinburgh for questioning by the Privy Council back in October, had been set free. No longer was she on a bond awaiting trial. Despite her confession, Edinburgh had ordered that every charge against her be dropped. She would not face trial. It had been all Patrick could do not to tear the missive bearing the news into shreds and shove it down the messenger’s throat.
It was clear what had happened. Those ridiculous men had paid no account to what he and the councillors reported, or the gents from St Andrew’s who believed the women guilty despite their recanting; nor to the confessions signed by the witches or eyewitness accounts of Peter’s afflictions, or indeed the word of the lad himself. Instead they took the word of a pretty young lass. A pretty young lass and an interfering captain…
What had Councillor Cleiland told him? Turned out, the captain’s commanding officer, a Colonel Leslie Johns, was a cousin of the Earl of Rothes. How bloody convenient. Seemed the captain had bested him after all. The reverend had no doubt that now Isobel’s charges had been dropped, those against the remaining women would be as well.
Patrick poured himself another dram, ignoring Peter’s plaintive look into his own empty glass.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the spitting of the fire and the voices of passers-by. From elsewhere in the house came the irritating sound of a child crying. Drumming his fingers against the desktop, Patrick chewed his lip.
This would not do. Those women could not go unpunished. It wasn’t right or righteous.
Didn’t the Bible say, ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live’? Yet here were Edinburgh and the Queen’s representatives ignoring God’s commandment. Ignoring him, Reverend Patrick Cowper.
Yet what was he to do? He’d tried to keep the good folk of the Weem safe and what happened? Many had turned against him. Turned against him even as he was trying to save their souls from perdition.
It was that fucking captain who ruined everything. Him and his endless letters and entreaties to those in power. Him and his connections.
Was there nothing to be done about him?
Unaware he’d spoken aloud, the reverend jumped when Peter replied, ‘But I think there is, sir. That’s what else I have to tell you.’
‘Och, and what’s that, Peter?’ said the reverend, only half-listening as he tried to formulate plans of his own. Peter was a good lad, but simple. He’d obeyed him in every regard and it still wasn’t enough.
Peter quickly told him what he’d witnessed at the skerries. How it was evident Sorcha and the captain were lovers.
The reverend watched the lad carefully, noting how jealousy thickened his words and clogged his throat. How his cheeks flooded with deeper colour; the way the lad moved a finger around his neck, loosening his scarf. How he shifted in the chair a few times. He buried a smile in a cough. The lad was so transparent. But maybe, just maybe, Peter’s clear affection for Sorcha McIntyre could work to his advantage. It had been hard to get the lad to incriminate her… but he had. Unwillingly. Maybe now she was so clearly involved with someone else, an incomer responsible for their current tribulations no less, it would be different.
If only he were able to remove the captain for a time, or better still, for good. That would make things a great deal easier. The reverend stared at his whisky, swirling it in the glass, watching the way the light turned the fluid into a whirlpool of umbers and gold. Aidan Ross wasn’t the only one with connections. He had them too — in St Andrew’s, no less. Why, that was almost as good as Edinburgh.
