by Karen Brooks
Mistaking her smile, Peter stepped closer. ‘I refused to corroborate what Mr McGregor said, to name you, that’s what I mean.’
Sorcha frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Peter pulled an impatient face. ‘When the reverend asked me to support Mr McGregor in front of the bailies and identify the witches, those he’d revealed had come to murder him, I said it couldn’t possibly be you because I saw you in your cottage that night. I said you never left it. After that, Mr McGregor couldn’t claim you were in his house. He withdrew your name.’
Biting back a sour laugh, Sorcha threw up her hands. ‘Why would you ever have thought to name me in the first place? Why would he? Like the others, I wasn’t there. Like the others, I was at home. That part at least is true. I’m no witch. Though, in case you’ve forgotten, you were ready to call me such once.’
‘That’s because he ma—’ Peter bit his lip. His eyes darted left then right.
‘He? Who do you mean, Peter?’ Sorcha closed the distance between them. Further down the street, a group of small children were chasing a chicken.
Burying his hands in his pockets, Peter shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. All I meant was I could have said you were one of them, but I didn’t.’
‘Nae,’ said Sorcha, her eyes flashing, her anger rising faster than a tide at full moon. ‘But you named innocent women, Peter. Caused them to suffer terribly before and again now. You’ve ruined their lives.’ You almost ruined mine. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’
‘Why? Why do you think?’ He leaned towards her. Their noses almost touched. His chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed. ‘Because they’re not innocent. They are the devil’s servants and they seek to recruit all of us into Satan’s army. Steal our eternal souls. I see they tried to steal yours too. Don’t you ken? In naming them, I’ve saved them. They’ll be baptised now, or if they refuse, God will give them their dues. You should be thanking me, not blaming me.’
Taken aback by his vehemence, his ignorance, Sorcha studied his face, the earnestness in his gaze; earnestness and something else.
‘If that’s so, then why didn’t you name me? If you think you’re saving them, then why not save me too?’
Before she could say anything more, he grabbed her face and kissed her.
His lips were hard. His tongue, clumsy and rough, plunged so deep into her mouth she almost gagged. His whiskers grazed her chin, his fingers dug into her cheeks.
She wrenched herself away, drew back her hand and slapped him with such force her palm burned. ‘You want-o-wut blaggard!’ Fury made her slip into local dialect. ‘You fasionless dowgit. How dare you!’
Peter lightly touched his cheek, which was fast becoming red, and staggered back from the heat of her rage.
‘What’d you do that for? Don’t you understand? Now your capt’n’s gone, you can be mine, Sorcha McIntyre. I can protect you.’
Sorcha gaped in disbelief. ‘You think I’d look at you whether the captain was here or not?’ She spluttered, ‘I’d rather be locked up in that Tolbooth and named a witch than have you ever touch me again, you hear? Protect me? You near killed me.’
Immediately, Sorcha regretted her words. God, she’d called the lad stupid and thoughtless, limp and downtrodden, as if he was an abused pup. His face changed like a summer sky before a storm as a welter of emotions came and went. She saw confusion, before hurt took its place followed by a hardening of his eyes and mouth. His hand rested against where his face flamed. Much to her horror, his eyes began to well. He dashed the tears away.
‘You’ll regret this, Sorcha McIntyre. You mark my words. You tell me you’d rather be locked up than kiss a man who gives you his love; who wishes you safe. Wait and see. What you said’ll come true.’ He tried to glare at her, but his swimming eyes relayed only sadness and pain. ‘And that’ll just prove the reverend right, won’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sorcha, wanting to hate the lad, but finding only pity.
‘I’ll recant and name you the witch that you are. A witch that steals men’s hearts and then fucking well breaks them.’
With one last look of loathing and longing, he turned and stomped down the road, pushing through the group of children, one of whom fell in a puddle and began to howl.
Something Sorcha felt like doing herself.
Just as word of the discovery of another coven of witches spread about the countryside bringing those sightseers prepared to brave the cold and snow back to the Weem, gentlemen from Edinburgh also came. There were a number of lairds among them — Randerston, Lyon and Kellie. Once again the lawyers, Mr Ker of Kippilaw and Mr Robert Cooke, made an appearance.
Insisting on interviewing each of the accused witches without either the reverend or a member of the local council present, they also asked to see Peter Morton.
Sorcha could only imagine how the lad felt about that, especially after he’d been sent home from the city in disgrace. Whereas the townsfolk had been in two minds about his treatment then, this time most were sympathetic and ready to defend his claims. Including, Sorcha imagined, when he named her a witch.
Ignoring the disdainful looks of those gathered outside the Tolbooth, Sorcha had risen before dark and found a position as close to the studded door as she could get. This time, if she was to be identified, she didn’t want to be hauled from her house or taken unawares. She wanted any announcements or news firsthand. No amount of pushing, whispered threats or loud insults were going to move her. Call her a witch, would they? Well, she’d bloody well act like one, she thought, glowering at the Crawford women.
By the time the sun rose, revealing a patchy sky of grey cloud washed with insipid blue, and the wind began to wail up the wynd, bringing with it the sounds of gulls crying, waves crashing and the shouts of the inshore fishermen from across the water, a sizeable mob was spilling into the High Street and milling around the Mercat Cross. The mood was dark. Many had already decided that it didn’t matter what the city toffs declared, the women were guilty and they all knew it.
Sorcha’s heart was a lead weight. In her bag she carried extra blankets, food and a large boat hook. If she had to use force and threats to clear the way for her friends, or defend herself, she would. She also needed to let Nettie know that Thom was bedridden. Unable to work on the foreshore, Sorcha had gone to visit him and Rebecca in Anster. It was evident Thom was not long for this world. Nettie would be crushed.
The town clock tolled midday before the first of the gentlemen emerged from the Tolbooth. Warmly dressed in fine suits and coats, with ruddy-coloured cheeks and fleshy paunches, they were a stark contrast to the dowdy Weem folk with their worn clothes and thin faces.
Talking among themselves, they were largely oblivious to the crowd who, despite bold assertions before the men appeared, parted without a murmur. It wasn’t until a pale face flanked by two burly guards appeared that the crowd reacted.
It was Nettie. Behind her was Isobel, her sweet face bruised and bloodied, then Beatrix and, finally, Nicolas. Sorcha’s throat grew thick. Her vision became blurry. They were there. They were alive. Thoughts battered her mind like waves against the braes. It was going to be all right. It was over.
Thank God. She was wrong. Cowper hadn’t won.
Blinking like startled owls in the light, the women stood together in the doorway. The guards used pikes to keep the crowd, who were becoming restless, back.
‘Nettie!’ cried Sorcha. ‘Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel!’ She waved her arm above her head to attract their attention. Nettie saw her and, with a wide grin, pushed past the guards and beckoned the others to follow.
From within the crowd, Mr Adam came forward, taking his daughter’s hand, ensuring no one shoved or threatened her. Mr Brown also appeared, using his stick to create space, and Mr Lawson. When the women reached Sorcha, she hugged each of them tightly.
‘Come, let’s get away from here. We can talk later.’ Sorcha couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, wondering if there was a guard
waiting to take her into custody. Best not linger. She had what she came for.
‘Come to our house,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I’ll have the lasses run hot baths and Mrs Gower has a stew in the pot. More than enough for all.’
Pulling Beatrix gently to his side, he set off down Cove Wynd. Linking her arm through Nettie’s, Sorcha waited for Isobel and her father and Nicolas and her husband to go ahead, before taking up the rear.
They hadn’t gone very far when they heard a clamour behind them. Spinning around, Sorcha saw two guards holding someone between them. Thinner than anyone had a right to be, with greyish flesh covered in sores, her hair looking more like a bird’s nest than human, was Janet Cornfoot. Hacking and coughing, she stumbled along the cobbles, her dress tripping her up as her crooked toes caught in the ragged hem.
‘Dear God.’ Sorcha stopped. Unwinding her shawl, she pulled out the blankets she’d shoved in her bag and, leaving Nettie where she stood, ran to Janet. The guards tried to prevent her getting too close.
‘Simon Wood and Gerard Stuart. Don’t you dare,’ she growled. Discounting them, she wrapped her shawl around Janet and thrust the blankets into her arms. Then, slowly, carefully, she embraced the woman. She smelled of musty old caves, fear and hunger. Of nightmares and endless days of loneliness. She smelled of defiance.
Janet hugged her back, her grip weak but determined.
‘You’re here.’ Sorcha pulled away from her and scanned her face, took in the wrinkly neck, the missing teeth in the smile that Janet gave, one that even after all this time, reached her eyes.
‘Despite the bastards,’ said Janet. ‘And they’ll ken I am too, Sorcha. Mark my words.’
Before she could say any more, Simon and Gerard shoved her forward. ‘Sorry, Sorcha. We’ve orders from on high. Back to the cave with you, Mrs Cornfoot.’
‘You’re not free?’ began Sorcha.
‘Not yet. Not until the lairds and lawyers consider what I told them, then I’ll be released. But I be fine, Sorcha,’ said Janet, resting a curled hand on her arm. ‘I be fine. Hello there, Nettie, looking good, hen, looking good,’ called Janet. ‘You too, Isobel and Nicolas. But you, Beatrix, you’re still the same auld clash-bag you always were.’
Beatrix began to laugh. They all did. ‘And you too, you silly auld cow,’ cried Beatrix, dissolving into tears as soon as Janet’s back was turned.
They watched as she was led down to St Fillan’s Cave, the crowd at the top of the wynd jeering and shouting.
‘Why are they taking her back?’ Sorcha asked Nettie. ‘What’s there to consider?’
Leaning heavily on her, Nettie grinned in admiration. ‘What I understand, lass, is that Janet, the gennick auld bitch, recanted everything she ever confessed to the reverend. Better still, she told the men from Edinburgh she only said what she did the first time because the reverend beat confessions out of all of us. She warned them not to count anything that was said or signed before or now. That they were as false as the reverend’s claims to be a holy man.’
Sorcha’s mouth dropped open. ‘She said that?’
‘Aye. You can imagine Cowper’s reaction. He told the Edinburgh gents Janet was “a woman of very bad fame” and a liar. That’s why, when the lairds suggested Janet be kept in custody while they investigated her claims further but he was to release us, he didn’t complain. A bird in the hand and all. He has his witch — for now — and while he has Janet, he still has a hold over us.’
‘But surely they didn’t mean for him to keep her in St Fillan’s Cave?’ Sorcha watched as the guards fumbled with the locks to the entrance.
‘They’re not here any more to see where he holds her, are they? The cave or the Tolbooth, he’s obeying their instructions — keeping her under lock and key.’
Sorcha nodded slowly. ‘While he has Janet, he can use her to ensure our co-operation — make sure we don’t make things worse for him.’
‘And no doubt try to make Janet retract what she said.’
They stared at each other in grim contemplation, then, arm in arm, continued towards Beatrix’s house.
As they passed St Fillan’s Cave, Nettie shook her head. ‘If there’s one thing Cowper won’t tolerate, it’s being made to look a fool again — not by anyone.’
‘Especially not a woman,’ said Sorcha.
They walked in silence a while.
‘He won’t hurt Janet further, though, will he? He wouldn’t dare, would he?’ asked Sorcha as they turned onto the shore road. Waves rolled up on the sand before retreating. Rows of kelp had been dumped on the beach, forming a miniature breakwater. Fishwives roamed among the slippery cordons, lifting smaller pieces into their creels. Some were kneeling over by the rocks, prying mussels away. Maybe now they could join them again.
‘Nae, he wouldn’t,’ said Nettie, catching the direction of her gaze. ‘Not now those city gents know what he’s accused of doing. They’ll want to question her further. Us too, no doubt.’ Aware they’d been dawdling and the others were some way ahead, Sorcha and Nettie increased their pace. ‘You wait,’ added Nettie, satisfaction making her voice stronger. ‘Janet will be free soon. Then no one can touch her.’
FORTY
Nor have we ever read or heard of any [witch] grown rich by Witchcraft.
— A True and Full Relation of the Witches at Pittenweem, 1704
The residents of Pittenweem were forced into an uneasy truce. The women accused of witchcraft for a second time were deemed not guilty by the city authorities and the Queen’s law and therefore set at liberty.
All except Janet Cornfoot, who remained in solitary confinement in the damp darkness beneath the kirk.
As December drew to a close, Sorcha, Nettie and Nicolas returned to their trade once more, baiting lines, mending nets, sorting the fish, wielding their knives to scale and gut the catch before throwing it into their creels and padding the snow-covered lanes and wynds to sell them. They may not have been welcomed back to the harbour, but they weren’t entirely rejected, either. Sorcha wondered if it was out of sympathy, for not long after Nettie was released, Thom White died.
Instead of crumbling under the weight of her grief, Nettie used her rage towards those who’d unjustly imprisoned her and taken her away from her husband when he needed her most to fuel her resolve not to kowtow to their desire to drive her away. She refused to have her husband buried in Pittenweem because she didn’t want Reverend Cowper to preside over the service, so Sorcha, Beatrix, Isobel and Nicolas, along with a few of the other fishwives and their men, took the coastal path to Anster one sleet-driven day to pray as Thomas White, mariner and former bailie of Pittenweem, a man once held in high esteem who’d loved his wife so much he’d allowed her freedoms most women only dreamed of, was laid to rest.
After that, Nettie leased her house in Anster and Thom’s in Pittenweem and came to live with Sorcha. It was as if by staying together they could ward off the ongoing hostility of the townsfolk and watch each other’s backs as they made their way to the harbour before dawn each morning and tramped home through the snowdrifts and mizzle each freezing night. They took to roaming the countryside to sell fish together as well. Nicolas often joined them. When they did encounter trouble, usually groups of cupshotten men, they put on a bold face and laughed. It was the best way to silence the jeers and the threats, to make a mockery of those issuing them by reminding them of their mothers, sisters, daughters and their own flaws and foibles.
It didn’t always work.
There were a few who refused to be muzzled or cease their efforts to instil fear. Fuelled by their own inner demons and the words of the minister each Sunday, these people, mostly men, would march up to the women and shake their fists, spit in their faces and try and intimidate them. When it became physical, the men were led away by their companions or wives. Only after they’d gone would Sorcha breathe a sigh of relief and still the trembling in her knees. Only then would her heart return to normal.
Sorcha was afraid it was only a matte
r of time before someone, bolstered by drink, friends, or a sense of godly duty, would do something that could not be undone. And if not His duty, then because of the thoughts Reverend Cowper continued to plant in each and every head at kirk.
Sickened by what the minister said, his ceaseless sermons about witches and the threat they posed to the community, the women nonetheless attended each week. Partly to show a brave front and remind people that they were innocent by law; that the likes of the reverend upon whose every word most hung, was wrong, partly to avoid the hefty fines the reverend threatened should they absent themselves, and partly to arm themselves in the event of more trouble.
Nettie believed the worst was over. ‘Give it time,’ she would say each night as they huddled before the fire. ‘Give it time.’ The men would soon forget about them, especially once winter passed and the drave improved and spring brought warmer weather. Sorcha prayed she was right and echoed Nettie’s optimism in her letters to Aidan, though she still hadn’t heard from him. Never did she reveal what was happening. Instead she imbued her words with hope and dreams of what might transpire if Aidan came home.
Not if… when… she would remind herself.
But as first Yuletide then Hogmanay came and went and there was still no word from Bavaria, and Janet wasn’t released (though there was talk a move to the Tolbooth was imminent), and no directives came from Edinburgh, Sorcha began to doubt Nettie was right.
If there was to be no more trouble and they all really were free according to justice and the law, why was the reverend still preaching so vehemently against witches?
More importantly, why was he still holding Janet captive?
FORTY-ONE
They asked her how she came to say any thing that was not true; she cryed out, alas, alas, I behoved to say so, to please the minister and bailies…
