by Karen Brooks
He began to think about the latest news of the war. The Duke of Marlborough had enjoyed a mighty victory earlier in the year at the battle of Blenheim on the Danube. There were reports he was rallying troops to march into France and needed extra men. Surely a captain of Aidan Ross’s standing would be of more use over there rather than babysitting soldiers here.
Patrick sat up. He may not have networks in the military, but he knew someone who did. Not insubstantial ones either. A word here, a hint there, a mention of the fine work Captain Ross was doing in Pittenweem and how he was wasted in a small coastal town when a war was being waged on the continent. One never knew what might happen as a consequence.
He smiled at Peter who, astonished, returned it as the reverend half-rose over his desk and gave the lad’s glass a generous splash of whisky.
‘You did well in the city. It’s not an easy thing to face men like those as you did today. You should be proud. If nothing else, it will prepare you for what you have to do next.’
A flash of concern crossed Peter’s face. ‘What’s that, sir?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Just be ready to help me trap some witches, lad. Together, we’ll save the village.’
‘Does it still need saving?’
‘Aye,’ grinned the reverend. ‘It just doesn’t know it yet.’
The boy nodded and sipped his whisky. Patrick appreciated that. Gave him time to think. More than ever, he knew how important it was he didn’t let folk forget about the threat that witchcraft and its practitioners posed to their very souls.
He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkhorn and began to scratch some notes for his next sermon.
As he wrote, his mind drifted. After the lad left, he’d write to his friend in St Andrew’s, someone who was also a proud Covenanter. A colleague and like-minded gentleman who also happened to be the brother of General Overkirk, the man responsible for mustering troops in Holland. Surely the general could use the services of a fine officer? And if not the general, then perhaps the duke himself?
The reverend didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d make sure to praise the captain highly, point out all the attributes that he’d previously resented but now saw would work to his advantage.
Chuckling inwardly, the reverend abandoned his sermon and instead wrote ‘brave’, ‘maintains order’, ‘inspires loyalty’, the list of Captain Ross’s qualities growing with each sip of his drink. Let the captain believe his witch was safe; that this battle was over. The sappie-headed jock didn’t understand who or what he was dealing with.
It wasn’t just a small-town cleric the captain was fighting, but the devil himself, the devil in the guise of a woman. A woman who’d bewitched him, just as she did all who came within her ken.
He regarded the lad on the other side of the desk morosely. Just as she had bewitched Peter Morton.
Only now, through God’s good grace and Patrick Cowper, the lad’s eyes were about to be opened.
THIRTY-FOUR
I’ll sowther her ower.
(I’ll calm her down.)
At last it was official. Those Peter Morton had named as witches, who Reverend Cowper and the bailies had arrested, imprisoned and forced to suffer, had been pardoned by the Privy Council in Edinburgh. It had taken until the middle of November, but now Sorcha had the papers to prove it.
She placed the documents safely in her da’s old sea chest, closed the lid and slowly lowered herself upon it, praying she’d never have to look at them again.
Where was the relief she expected to feel now it was all over? Perhaps in her heart she knew it wasn’t finished. As long as Reverend Cowper kept preaching against witches, against those he felt had unjustly escaped his clutches, and as long as folk listened, it never would be.
She leaned back against the wall and thought over what had led to this moment.
Two days earlier, the rest of the accused witches — with the exception of Isobel Adam, who had gone earlier, and Janet Cornfoot, who remained in St Fillan’s Cave pending additional charges (which was really just an excuse to punish her further and keep her locked up) — had travelled to Edinburgh and faced the sheriff, the Earl of Rothes, the advocate and other officials. Nettie overrode the earl’s arrangements for transporting them and insisted on paying extra, hiring a coach for the journey, as if they were grand ladies and not a bunch of recuperating prisoners. Dressed in the best clothing they owned, they still bore the marks of their confinement, albeit much faded. At least Nicolas could now walk unaided.
They were to leave husbands and family at home and undertake the journey with only a couple of constables as outriders representing Weem officialdom and each other for company. It was how they’d endured in the Tolbooth, and how they would face the city authorities.
That morning they’d met at the Mercat Cross then quietly walked to where the coach and mounted constables waited. Dawn had not yet broken and the last stars were glimmering in the heavens, a nippy breeze snapping at their cloaks, threatening to dislodge their hats. Arms linked, they’d kept their heads bowed, trying not to start when a rat scuttled across their path or a rooster crowed.
It wasn’t until they saw the coach, a dark silhouette against the lightening sky, that they knew they weren’t to travel without friends after all. Aidan, Sergeant Thatcher and two corporals were on horseback, talking to the driver and the constables in low voices.
Upon spying them, the women stopped. Sorcha wriggled free of the group and approached.
‘Aidan,’ she said, nodding to the driver and the soldiers. ‘I thought we agreed. You don’t need to do this.’
‘I’m not going for you, lass,’ said Aidan, looking down at her, his breath a plume of white. ‘I’ve been summoned to Edinburgh again.’
Sorcha’s heart skipped a beat. For all he pretended otherwise, she knew he was really doing it to ensure her safety — hers and that of her friends. ‘Do you know why?’
Aidan shook his head. ‘Nae. But, as I explained to the constables here —’ he gestured towards Simon Wood and Mark Smith, who acknowledged the women before looking away, ‘it’s in our mutual interest we travel together, isn’t it?’
He beckoned the other women forward and, dismounting, he and the sergeant assisted them into the coach, ensuring their legs were covered with blankets, the windows sealed against the cold. As he went to close the door, Sorcha gripped his hand. ‘Thank you.’
Aidan dipped his head, but she caught his smile.
The women barely spoke as day broke, dull and grey with heavy clouds. They knew there’d be words aplenty once they reached Edinburgh. What they secretly prayed was that words would be all that was asked of them. As they rocked from side to side, bumping shoulders and hips, Sorcha noted how Nettie would absent-mindedly rub her wrists; how Nicolas winced any time they met a pothole. Margaret and Lillie remained mute but wary. Beatrix closed her eyes, but from the way her lids moved, it was clear her mind was busy. God knew, Sorcha couldn’t cease ruminating.
On arrival they were ushered one by one into a dim room in a large building, its cold corridors filled with dark-coated men carrying voluminous files. The interviews, which Sorcha had been dreading and they all secretly feared, despite Isobel’s reassurances, might involve Mr Bollard and more beatings, were swift. Unwilling to show any sympathy towards the women, the men weren’t entirely contrary to them either, but at least, the women agreed later, the questions were not nonsensical.
The journey back to Pittenweem, without Aidan, who was ordered to remain in the city, was a different affair to the restrained one of the morning. Within the confines of the coach there was much laughter and the relieved blether of those who’d been spared. Nettie and Nicolas spent most of the trip imitating Lord Rothes, who had the most unfortunate lisp, while Beatrix, Margaret and Lillie revelled in the fact they’d been able to retract what they’d confessed under duress and were believed.
That was the part that gratified Sorcha the most — that they could expla
in what had been done to them and how, unable to endure any more pain, they’d admitted to anything the reverend or the bailies suggested, including pacts with the devil in a variety of guises. The men had tried to hide their discomfort at the women’s revelations, but Sorcha could tell they were appalled. The scribe taking notes in the corner was so disturbed by Sorcha’s evidence, at one stage he’d ceased to write.
Upon returning to the village, Sorcha and Nettie had wasted no time but had gone straight to Bailie Bell’s house and presented him with their pardons. The following day, the constable, Simon Wood, had rapped on their doors, handing over a note from the town council declaring that if they wanted their pardons properly acknowledged, they were to pay a fine of eight pounds each.
Knowing this had nothing to do with Edinburgh and everything to do with putting more money in the town’s coffers as well as being punitive, Nettie and Beatrix had wanted to refuse. Sorcha persuaded them against this, even though Isobel, Nicolas, Margaret and Lillie would struggle to pay.
‘I’ll help,’ said Sorcha; anything to prevent them getting into more trouble.
While Sorcha had assets to her name, ready cash was a different proposition. Not only had Cowper and his associates damaged their reputations immeasurably with their false accusations, they’d also taken away their ability to earn money for an extended period. It was hard to make up the shortfall that six months of no income created. The Mistral was due home any day and it was only the guarantee of its cargo and the coin that would bring that enabled Sorcha to borrow enough to help those she’d promised. After Isobel, Lillie, Margaret and Nicolas sold linens they’d saved for their winding sheets — and thank goodness they’d no use for those at present — and Nettie and Beatrix had added what they could, they’d enough.
As a group they went to the council rooms and handed over their fines to the treasurer, Bailie Whyte, who, if they hadn’t known him better, might have been described as shamefaced.
When Sorcha said as much afterwards, Beatrix had cast her a long look. ‘Aye, and William’s really my selkie lover.’ They’d burst into laughter.
Alone in her bed for the first time in ages, that night Sorcha tossed and turned, praying her boat would reach port soon. Once more the Pittenweem community had rallied behind them and, if there weren’t quite as many folk to champion them as when they were first released, it was reassuring to know not everyone had been swayed by Patrick Cowper and Peter Morton.
Not yet.
It was mainly because of the reverend that they decided to celebrate their release. Forced to attend the kirk each Sunday since they’d been freed — not to go would attract fines they could ill afford and would be seen as an admission of guilt in the eyes of the reverend and his followers — they had to endure his sermons. Every week he warned people against witchcraft, decried the monsters and evil spirits who, he claimed, walked among them. He maintained the devil was loose in the world, even quoting from a sermon given by a Salem preacher, Cotton Mather, published in Wonders of the Invisible World, a book Sorcha knew well, as it had done the rounds among those who could read as soon as it was published. As he spoke, there were some who stared pointedly at the fishwives, craning their necks and casting them looks of fear, pity and even anger. Having to put up with this made Sorcha, Nettie, Beatrix and the other fishwives more determined than ever to defy the man and invite those so inclined to join them for some food and drink to mark their pardon.
Sorcha was brought back to the present by the voices of Nettie and Beatrix. Folk would be arriving soon. She calmly rose from the chest and went to help. Together, they’d spent the morning baking bannocks, stewing some fish they’d hoarded from the last catch, and cutting cheese bought from the farms. Lillie and Margaret had collected oysters and mussels, Therese Larnarch had cooked a coney pie and brought some slices of mutton she’d managed to barter from a farmer out St Monan’s way. There was also a steaming plate of neeps, eggs, and a custard. Bottles of whisky and some wine from France — no doubt courtesy of Thom White and the smugglers — were also among the booty they’d managed to rustle up at short notice.
As she watched her friends laying everything upon the table, she couldn’t help but admire not just the feast, but the defiance that had led to it. Not that she really wanted to celebrate, especially while Janet still languished in St Fillan’s Cave, though she knew the woman wouldn’t begrudge them some festivities — on the contrary, she would have been the first to suggest them. Sorcha, Aidan and the others had done what they could, but neither the council nor Edinburgh were prepared to say what the new charges were that justified Janet still being held. All avenues of appeal were, for the moment, closed. Janet’s liberty — just like the repayment of their bond money — was at the discretion of the Pittenweem council. Part of Sorcha was afraid that celebrating their pardons would rouse Cowper to be harder on Janet than he already was.
All too soon, guests began to arrive. Mrs Fraser was among the first, along with Crabby. Pipes and fiddles appeared and music started. Food and drink were downed and conversation rose and fell, laughter sprinkling it like early winter snow. Despite the general air of gaiety, Sorcha couldn’t escape the feeling that maybe, just maybe, they were counting their fish before the catch.
As the light began to fade and evening fell, she also wondered, as people came and went, some reflecting soberly on what had happened, others less so, where Aidan was. Since she’d left him outside the sheriff’ s offices in the city, all she’d had was a hastily scrawled note, promising he’d return as soon as he could.
Why did her heart quicken painfully when she thought of those words? Was it because his notion of soon didn’t match hers? Or was it the feeling of foreboding they conjured?
Almost as if she was a witch and sensed an evil spell had been cast.
Curled in her da’s armchair, Sorcha cupped her quaich and gazed dreamily into the fire. Outside, the wind howled and rain smacked the windows as if a pagan god was wielding a whip. Between blows, Sorcha could just detect the reassuring rumble of the ocean. She tried to gather her thoughts, aware she’d drunk too many drams to do this altogether successfully.
The detritus of the evening’s festivities was scattered around her. Glasses, quaichs, greasy platters, half-eaten bannocks, crumbs littering the floor. A lump of cheese looked most unappetising melting by the fire; what remained of the bowl of neeps had turned grey. Next door’s chickens would appreciate what remained. Remembering the way Crabby had snuffled along the floor, licking up scraps, they were lucky there was anything left to toss their way. The memory of the dog’s golden head and wagging tail made her smile. Content to roam between legs, accepting pats, all Crabby really wanted was some attention and a full belly. Like most men, Sorcha thought. Most men except for one.
Her mind drifted back to Aidan and she marvelled that such a man had come — nae, ridden — into her life.
For some reason, thinking of Aidan made her conjure an image of Reverend Cowper. There was another man who wanted more from life, but whereas what Aidan wanted was based around love and helping others, what Cowper most desired was all about power and controlling people.
Squinting, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was well past midnight, now Sunday — no longer, in her mind, the Lord’s day, but Cowper’s. She wondered what treats he’d have in store for his congregation, how he would seek to malign the fishwives and link them to witchcraft this time. Would he know about their wee party? What was she thinking? Of course he would.
Finishing her drink, she was disappointed to find only a few drops remaining in the bottle. She’d really had enough. Not enough to push thoughts of Cowper away and not nearly enough to send her to bed. How could she sleep when she still hoped and prayed Aidan would arrive?
She turned to look out the window again. Gusts shook the house and rattled the glass, though the rain had eased. It was a wild night. No one in their right mind would be abroad, certainly not navigating the roads between here and the
city.
There was a raspy cough, the jingle of harness. Sorcha sat up, the room temporarily spinning.
The door opened and in swept Aidan. Drenched, his hair was stuck to his face, his coat sodden. As he plucked at the buttons, Sorcha could see his full-dress uniform beneath. It at least was dry. Instead of taking his coat off, Aidan strode towards her, gripping her hands and pulling her up into his arms.
‘You’re all wet!’ exclaimed Sorcha, laughing but not really objecting as he held her close. When he didn’t speak, didn’t release her immediately, she grew still.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself away slightly, searching his eyes. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong, why would anything be wrong?’
‘Och, I don’t know,’ she said, extracting herself from his arms and gesturing to his apparel. ‘Maybe the fact you’re drookit and dripping on my floor, or that you’ve ridden that damned road,’ she pointed in a vague direction, ‘in the middle of the night in this weather. Risking your neck. And then you have that look.’ She stood on tiptoe, screwing up her eyes and bringing her face close to his.
‘You’re drunk,’ he said, swallowing a grin.
‘Damn right I am. What else would I be? I’m all alone since Nettie escorted poor Thom home. I wanted to be awake in case you turned up, so made that bottle —’ she jabbed the air with a finger, ‘keep me company.’ She swung away from him, her arms flailing momentarily. ‘I’ll get you a drink and we can celebrate my freedom together now you’re here.’ She found a quaich, sniffed it, peered inside and tipped what remained into a bowl. Finding a bottle of whisky that wasn’t drained, she poured. Most of it went into the cup.
