by Karen Brooks
‘And sat near each other in the kirk today,’ added Peter. Patrick cast him an approving look.
‘Aye, aye,’ nodded Alexander. ‘She was there. I remember now.’
‘And what of Beatrix Laing?’ asked Patrick. Peter nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s unlikely Isobel would dare do something without that auld witch to guide her.’
‘Beatrix was there too.’ Alexander gave a violent tremor. He then named Lillie Wallace and her friend Margaret Jack — they’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth. Why? Because they were witches. Witches stuck together so as to use their collective powers to cause harm — wasn’t that what the reverend said?
Patrick wrote the names down. ‘And what of Sorcha McIntyre? Did you see her, Alexander?’
Peter’s eyes flickered. Patrick knew the boy was torn. But whereas Peter, in his foolish young heart, still carried a torch for Sorcha and wished she could be his, Patrick wanted to rid himself of the temptation she posed, not only to himself, or Peter, but to all the men of the Weem.
He also saw how the love the lad thought he felt for the fishwife had twisted upon itself. So long as Peter didn’t learn that Aidan Ross had been sent to war and, most likely, his death, he could use this jealousy to his advantage.
Time to put it to the test. ‘Did you not say Sorcha was one of those who tormented you the most, Peter?’ asked the reverend.
Peter raised his chin and gazed steadily at Patrick. Doubt marched across his face and Patrick could see he was recalling her lovely features.
‘Does she not enchant men, Peter, and use her female wiles to bewitch them?’ The reverend waited. Rain pummelled the windows. Something thudded deep within the house.
‘Did you not tell me, Peter,’ added Patrick, ‘that she has bewitched a soldier so he has no choice but to do her bidding and that of the other witches?’
Peter took a deep breath; a flicker of annoyance drew his brows together.
Patrick knew he was treading on dangerous ground, revealing a secret like that, but he had to risk it.
‘I did say that,’ said Peter reluctantly.
‘Do you not think she could have been trying, along with Isobel and the others, to bewitch poor Alexander here? That he might have been the first of their victims, even before you? What if the truth is that they waited until Sorcha McIntyre returned to the Weem and then pounced? Imagine what the men in Edinburgh would say to that. How differently they would regard you once that information came to light.’
Alexander was gripping his glass so tightly, his knuckles were white.
Peter wriggled his legs, shifted on the seat as if something uncomfortable was upon the cushion. His lower lip thrust out. ‘All I ken is that Sorcha McIntyre be no ordinary woman. She be —’
‘Aye, aye,’ cried Alexander, his fist thumping the arm of his chair. He slammed down his empty glass. ‘She was there. I remember. I remember everything. They came together, all of them, Thomas Brown among them, and burst into my cottage. They called upon the devil to do me harm. They thought I was asleep, but I was in a trance and saw them. I saw them all.’
Patrick stopped writing. He put down the pen slowly and stared at Alexander McGregor. Why, this was far better than he had hoped. The muckle sumph even named Thomas Brown. How could his death be deemed unlawful if he was a witch? If he was among those hellbent on tormenting McGregor? This would clear both him and the bailies of any wrongdoing in either his imprisonment or death. Patrick wanted to cheer.
Reaching out, he held Alexander’s shoulder reassuringly, much as a proud father would a son. ‘What you have done here tonight, Alexander, is a brave thing. ’Tis righteous.’ Alexander’s cheeks suffused with colour. ‘God will reward you for this.’
The reverend regarded Peter, who stared at the floor, his face unreadable, then the fisherman, whose bloodshot eyes shone with unshed tears. Rising to his feet, he removed his hand from Alexander’s jacket.
‘Between you both, you’ve saved not only your own souls, but the souls of every person in this village. God be praised.’
‘God be praised,’ said Peter and Alexander in unison.
With a grim smile, the reverend went behind his desk and found a fresh piece of paper. He sat and began to write again.
‘What are you doing, reverend?’ asked Alexander, pushing his glass along the desk, a clear signal of what he’d prefer to be doing.
Without looking up, the reverend answered, ‘I’m writing to the bailies.’
‘The bailies? What for?’
‘To do what must be done.’ He raised his head. ‘It’s clear that I was right all along. Edinburgh was swift to judge, not the witches, but me. The council. Swift to judge you, Peter. Now, with Alexander’s testimony, we will be vindicated and the village saved.’ Signing the page with a flourish, he read over what he’d written and sanded it.
Peter poured himself and Alexander another drink.
Patrick tipped the candle and watched as wax dropped onto the back of the folded paper. He waited for it to cool slightly, then pressed his seal against it and gave a satisfied look. ‘Take this, lad,’ he said to Peter. ‘Go straight to Bailie Cook’s house and make sure he reads it now.’
‘May I ask what it says, sir?’ asked Peter, putting down his glass and sliding the letter beneath his jacket.
The reverend stood up and stared past the men, through the window and into the night.
‘It’s an order for the arrest of Isobel Adam. She’s clearly the chief tormentor here and thus the one we must break. Once we’ve questioned her and extracted the names of her accomplices — those you’ve revealed, Alexander — then we can move on them.
‘This time, there’ll be no one to help them, no one to plead mercy on their behalf. This time —’ his eyes took on a faraway look, ‘they’ll not escape the Lord’s justice. Nor will they escape mine. Unlike some, I’ll not suffer a witch to live.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Isabel Adam… in pursuance of a quarrel which Beatrix Laing, formerly mentioned, had with one Alexander McGrigor, a fisher in town, made an attempt to murder the said McGrigor in bed; which was prevented by his awakening and wrestling against them.
— A Just Reproof to the False Reports and Unjust Calumnies in the Foregoing Letter, 1705
Sorcha was by the harbour, watching as her father and brother prepared the boat to leave the Forth and sail into deeper northern waters, following the whitefish. Wind whipped hair into her eyes, the ocean spray stung her face. Gulls swooped overhead, the men were checking lines, folding nets and hammering nails into some loose decking…
Dull thuds interrupted the image, making it quiver before it slowly dissolved.
Stirring, Sorcha lay still upon the bed, trying to bring it back. The pounding began again; this time, she heard her name. ’Twas no dream. She pushed back the covers and scrambled for her shawl in the dark. She collided with Nettie in the main room as, half asleep, they fumbled their way to the front door.
Sorcha reached it first and wrenched it open. In the dim light of the embers in the fireplace she could just make out Mr Adam, Isobel’s father, and Nettie’s daughter from Anster.
‘Rebecca!’ exclaimed Nettie, any sign of sleep vanishing as she reached for her daughter’s hand and dragged her across the threshold. ‘What are you doing here? Come away in.’
‘Mr Adam,’ said Sorcha, moving to allow Rebecca past. ‘Come away in too, please.’ It was raining steadily and both visitors were sodden. Peering out the door, Sorcha couldn’t see anything; just the rain, and the bleak stone wall of the graveyard opposite. The ocean rumbled and rolled. By the time she’d closed the door, a protesting Rebecca was peeling her coat off and Nettie had stoked the fire.
Sorcha quickly lit some candles. Mr Adam was pale and deeply agitated.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me help you with your coat. You’re drookit.’
‘Nae, lass,’ said Mr Adam, raising a gnarled hand to prevent her. ‘I not be staying. I came to warn you both.’
>
‘Warn us?’ asked Nettie, flashing a look at Sorcha as she draped her daughter’s coat over a stool. Rebecca gave up trying to retrieve it. ‘About what?’
Mr Adam pinched the bridge of his nose, as if focussing his thoughts. He took a deep breath. ‘Earlier this morning, the guards and Bailie Cook came for Isobel, before the cock even crowed. Marched her off to that damn Tolbooth. Again.’
Sorcha gasped. Nettie’s hand flew to her mouth. Rebecca appeared stunned.
‘Why?’ asked Sorcha. ‘She was pardoned. We all were. What are they accusing her of now?’
‘What else but witchcraft,’ said Mr Adam then, much to her dismay, buried his face in his large, nobbled hands and began to weep. Sorcha put an arm about him and led him to a chair.
‘Is this why you’re here?’ Nettie turned towards Rebecca.
‘Nae,’ said Rebecca, clearly shocked at the news. ‘It’s pa. He’s back from the city ports, ma, and I fear he’s very poorly.’
Nettie gave an exclamation of despair. Thom had been ill for a long time, eating little, coughing ferociously, claiming whenever asked it was naught and dismissing Nettie’s concern. Sorcha knew living and working in Pittenweem was a way of keeping Nettie’s mind from his troubles as well as helping to earn enough to cover the cost of his treatment. Seeing the way colour fled her face and tears welled, this was a bitter blow. For all her independence, she loved her husband dearly.
‘I said I’d come and fetch you. I ken naught of what Mr Adam is saying. It’s just a coincidence we arrived together. But, ma, he needs you.’ Rebecca snatched up her coat and began to put it back on again, leaving a trail of water across the floor.
‘Give me a moment, lass, and we’ll be on our way.’ Nettie shot an apologetic look at Sorcha.
‘Go. Go,’ said Sorcha. ‘I will send word once I learn exactly what this is about.’ She squeezed Mr Adam’s forearm reassuringly.
Nettie dressed swiftly, throwing some extra garments in her burlap and dropping a kiss on Sorcha’s head. ‘I’ll return when I can.’ She opened the door. ‘If Isobel has been arrested, I’ve nae doubt who’s behind this,’ she said grimly.
After kirk yesterday, they’d had a long discussion about the reverend’s latest sermon.
‘Ma, we have to leave,’ pressed Rebecca, trying to push her mother out the door.
‘I pray Thom will be all right,’ said Sorcha, hugging her friend tightly.
With a grunt, hoisting her bag, draping her coat over it and ensuring her scarf was tied tightly, Nettie signalled to Rebecca she was ready and, with one last wave, left.
‘It’s just you and me now, Mr Adam,’ said Sorcha gently, waiting until the women’s voices had faded. Finding a bottle of whisky, Sorcha poured a dram and pushed it into Mr Adam’s hands. After he’d taken a couple of sips, she sat beside him, her knees almost touching his.
Raising bleary eyes to Sorcha’s, Mr Adam surprised her by grabbing a hold of her hand. ‘Just when I thought this malice nonsense had been put to bed, it starts all over again. This time, they’re saying my lass cast a spell on that drunk Alexander McGregor and sought to murder him in his bed.’
‘Alexander McGregor?’ Sorcha’s head reeled. If there was one thing their arrest had taught them all, it was to only keep company with folk they could trust, who wouldn’t turn on them because of an ill word or misunderstood action. As far as Sorcha knew, Isobel had been nowhere near the likes of Alexander McGregor. Not since the night Sorcha came home and Isobel had burst into the cottage claiming the man had scared her witless.
Oh dear God…
Sorcha leapt to her feet and began to pace. ‘When was she supposed to have done this?’
‘Last Hogmanay.’
Sorcha stopped and made a scoffing noise. ‘But ’twas Isobel who fled from McGregor. As a matter of fact, she came here, to me and Nettie.’
‘I ken what happened. Isobel told me. But McGregor now swears she was casting a spell and if he hadn’t woken and interrupted her, she would have killed him with witchcraft.’
‘It’s a complete nonsense.’ Sorcha began to wear a path between the fireplace and door.
‘The reverend didn’t think so when McGregor told him this last night.’
Sorcha’s heart skipped a beat. ‘He told the reverend?’
‘Aye. ’Twas the reverend who ordered her taken to the Tolbooth so she might be formally questioned — and we ken what that means.’
Sorcha began to worry her nails. Mr Adam sipped his whisky, his frantic arrival settling into something less now he’d shared his burden.
Pressing her hands against her cheeks, Sorcha tried to think. ‘Isobel ran away from McGregor — others saw her. There are witnesses.’
‘Isobel said as much.’
‘The reverend didn’t listen?’
‘Nae, lass. Not him nor the bailies. That’s why I’m here. I have to warn you. The others as well.’
Sorcha stared at Mr Adam. A needle-like pain began to prod and prick. Starting at the base of her neck, it travelled the length of her spine, running in bands around her ribs before lodging in her breast.
‘What about?’ she asked breathlessly.
Mr Adam rose and put down his drink. ‘Isobel wasn’t the only one McGregor named as present in his house that night.’
Even though Sorcha knew what he was going to say next, she had to ask. She had no choice. ‘Who else did he name?’
‘Among others, you, Sorcha McIntyre. He named you.’ Sorcha’s stomach lurched and she lost focus. ‘And you ken what that means, don’t you?’
Sorcha blinked Mr Adam back into existence.
She did. All too well.
It took less than two days for the reverend and council to extract a full confession from Isobel. Rumour had it she wasn’t tortured, she simply blathered the moment the reverend and the bailies appeared in her cell and mentioned the pricker, names and details spilling from her mouth. Beatrix was identified as head of a coven who conspired to murder Mr McGregor in his home. Isobel claimed it was because McGregor refused to rent one of Beatrix’s houses.
Sorcha didn’t doubt what Isobel had confessed, or who’d put the ideas into her head. All it would take was the threat of punishment to have any of them who’d been interned before to confess to anything.
Not sure whether she should sit and wait for the guards to come and arrest her or flee the village like Margaret and Lillie, Sorcha returned to work. If she ran, it would be an admission of guilt and she refused to give the reverend the satisfaction, not over such ridiculous claims. At least while she faked the nets, collected bait and hooked the lines, sorted, gutted and sold the few fish that were caught, her body was occupied, if not her mind.
It was down at the harbour that she heard the gossip. Whereas Edinburgh had thought the evidence upon which she and the others had been interned in the Tolbooth was flimsy and the interrogations dire, the reverend believed that not only would McGregor’s testimony and Isobel’s confession change the minds of city officials, but vindicate him and the council. Thomas Brown’s death would now be seen as just: God’s will made manifest.
Whereas there’d been many in Pittenweem in agreement with the Crown authorities who thought Peter Morton was as great an imposter as Christian Shaw from Paisley, they now expressed fury that the poor lad had not only been disbelieved but mocked. Peter enjoyed a wave of sympathy and support reminiscent of when he was first afflicted.
Sorcha could hear women and old men clecking on their stoops, reminding each other how the lad had suffered and asking what those toffs in the city would ken. They hadn’t seen the way his neck twisted or his belly distended. And what about when he coughed up all that hair and other strange objects? The stories grew wilder, more assured with each telling. Details were added and embroidered. Sorcha grew more despondent.
What had once been a murmur of discontent about the way Peter and, as a consequence, the reverend, the council and the entire town had been treated by Edinburgh, ridic
uled and ignored when they were in the gravest of peril, in a matter of days had transformed into a blame-filled fury.
Alexander McGregor’s testimony was little more than kindling to an already burning flame; a flame about to erupt into a conflagration.
What unnerved Sorcha most was the way attitudes towards her altered from one day to the next. Even after she’d been released from the Tolbooth in autumn, there’d been folk prepared to risk the wrath of those who still believed she was a witch and not only greet her and celebrate her freedom, but continue to defy the reverend and buy their fish from her. No more. Doors were closed in her face. More often she would knock and wait, but no one would answer. It didn’t matter if she called out or smoke belched from the chimney, a curtain was quickly rearranged or a bairn’s cry muffled — she was stranded on the stoop.
With the few fish she did sell, she tried to buy milk, neeps and eggs, but found each farm or shop had suddenly run out. Likewise, when she sought to acquire some needles, and even take her boots to the cordwainer for repair, service was refused.
Dejected, she’d gone to Beatrix’s house to find she told the same story, only worse. Word had spread that Beatrix was leader of a coven and she was not only being shunned, but threatened. There were rumours she was going to be hounded out of town — she and Nicolas, whose once much sought-after homemade remedies were now viewed as something altogether sinister.
They were convicted and punished without even a trial.
Making her way home that evening, Sorcha was more conscious than ever of the way people took great pains not to cross her path, how they whispered behind their hands as they watched her progress up the High Street, her creel upon her back, their words dispersing about their averted faces in a cloud of white. Mothers placed protective arms about their children, some raised their eyes to heaven, their lips moving in silent prayer. Faces appeared at windows, doors slammed, barking dogs were dragged away and muzzled. It was unnerving; chilling, even. If Sorcha hadn’t felt anger build within her, the hot tears burning behind her eyes, she would have felt the cold cloak of doom descend.
