The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  ‘The rest of you are to work in pairs.’ He began to allocate tasks. ‘The reverend wants you to go to St Monan’s, and you lot to Anster and Crail, see if anyone has seen sight or sound of the witch. She can’t have gone far, not in the state she was in and in this cold —’ Gerard suddenly spotted Sorcha and Nettie. Pushing aside the soldiers, he marched up to them. ‘Where have you been?’

  Sorcha glanced at Nettie in surprise. ‘And a fine morning to you too, Gerard.’

  Gerard snarled.

  ‘Why, nowhere yet, lad,’ said Sorcha with a smile. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘You haven’t seen anything of that auld witch, Janet Cornfoot?’

  ‘How could we?’ said Nettie. ‘She’s locked in the Tolbooth, isn’t she?’ She nodded towards Janet’s cell.

  Gerard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll both learn about it soon enough. She’s escaped. And if you’ve had anything to do with it, you’ll take her place.’ He pointed at the building. ‘Care if we search your cottage, Sorcha?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ sad Sorcha, aware they’d find nothing to incriminate her or anyone else.

  With a barely concealed look of disappointment, he swung away, but before he could rejoin the men, there were shouts and raised voices. The sound of boots, shoes, and the steady tramp of feet grew.

  Marching up Cove Wynd was a large group. Some were waving pitchforks, others hammers, axes — two even wielded old swords. While their words were at first unclear, their intentions were not.

  ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

  ‘Raise your weapons for God!’

  ‘Find her, find them all!’

  There were cheers. Doors were wrenched open and figures darted out to join the mob. More stood on their stoops and watched the rabble pass. As the swelling crowd came into view, Sorcha saw who led them. It was none other than the reverend.

  Within a few yards, the horde had grown to twice its size. Some remained at a distance, watching, waiting, whether to join or flee, Sorcha couldn’t be certain. But she knew what she must do.

  Clearly news of Janet’s escape had spread. The people were looking for scapegoats; just as Gerard threatened, they wanted women to replace the one they’d lost.

  They wanted a witch.

  There was only one place she and Nettie would be safe.

  Ensuring their creels were fastened securely, Sorcha and Nettie darted into Routine Row and began to run up the incline. They bolted past men running towards the High Street, ignoring them. Some women stood in their doorways and cheered. They didn’t dare respond, or look. If they were quick, they should reach the harbour and the safety of the other fishwives and fishermen before the mob found them.

  If they didn’t, then God help them.

  FORTY-FIVE

  … it is the fashion to [refer to the witch cases of Pittenweem]… in a strain of mingled contempt and indignation at the superstition and severity of the ‘sapient Bailies of this benighted burgh;’ but it is easy to prove that in that matter they were neither in their creed nor their action worse than their neighbours. The minister for the time, Mr Couper, who seems to have lacked prudence and moderation, was more culpable than they.

  — David Cook, Preface to The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1867

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Patrick Cowper, pacing the room, ‘we’re better off without her.’ He swung around to face the other councillors.

  He’d insisted on bringing them into the cell where Janet Cornfoot had been held so they could see for themselves what her unnatural strength had done. How she’d pried the grating off with her own two hands before leaping from the window. They weren’t to know a bairn could have breathed on the metal bars and they would have fallen. He’d ordered Camron to remove the evidence and sweep the floor. He’d also insisted clean straw be laid and her blankets brought from upstairs. It had to look as if they’d at least attended to her basic needs. She was entitled to that, as the lairds from Edinburgh had been keen to remind him.

  Outside, the crowd had increased. There were those baying for blood, for justice. Wild rumours were spreading that Janet had flown off in the night, that she’d cursed the town; that all the witches were planning to have a sabbat and recruit whoever remained to the devil’s cause. Children were crying; some women were openly weeping. Others were white-faced. The men were furious. They wanted this to end, to put a stop to the terror and suspicion, only they didn’t know how.

  They didn’t, but Patrick did.

  Still, no one in the cell said anything. They shifted uneasily on their well-shod feet. Not even their coats and cloaks could keep out the bitter cold. The air was freezing; the walls damp and the place reeked of putrid water, rotting food, sweat and old stockings. Dried blood had seeped into the floor. The air was thick with that too, and silent screams. Patrick saw William Bell ploughing his hair with his fingers, as was his habit, staring and swallowing. He half-expected the man to lose his breakfast. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Patrick longed to retreat to the comfort of his study, a fire and a dram, but he had to persuade these men that what he was about to propose was right; that he was right. That they all were.

  By God, but they were weak men. Bailie Whyte was again conveniently out of town. Bailies William Bell and Robert Vernour wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cleiland was making notes — about what, Patrick couldn’t fathom — anything to avoid a decision. Only Robert Cook had the gumption not only to hold his gaze, but nod in consent.

  ‘She won’t last long out there at this time of year.’ Cook gestured towards the window. ‘More snow’s due.’ He picked at a scab on his large chin. ‘You said she had nothing in here with her?’

  A cheer erupted outside.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Patrick, forced to raise his voice to be heard. ‘As Camron can confirm.’

  The bailies turned to Camron who blushed to the roots of his thinning hair and gulped.

  ‘Men are searching nearby towns as we speak. Others are checking the convicted witches’ houses and combing the fields. We’ll find her,’ said Patrick. He waited for someone to challenge his use of the word ‘convicted’. No-one did.

  ‘And what of the rest of those McGregor named?’ asked Bailie Cook when no one spoke. ‘What are we going to do about them?’

  ‘Nothing… yet,’ said Patrick. ‘Our priority has to be the Cornfoot woman. Once we have her back in custody, then we can discuss what to do with the others.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Bailie Bell finally. ‘Only, the people might seek retribution — for Cornfoot’s escape. They may well hold her friends, her fellow accused, responsible.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re right,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Maybe. But shouldn’t we be keeping those women safe? After all, Edinburgh acquitted them.’ Bailie Bell pointed to the window. ‘Listen to the folk out there. They want blood. They want justice.’

  ‘Let’s be clear here: they want witches’ blood.’ Patrick folded his arms.

  The men stared at each other.

  ‘In order to distract them from doing anything… hasty,’ said Bailie Cook, ‘to guarantee their, let’s say, co-operation in apprehending the main offender, I think we need to offer a reward for Mrs Cornfoot’s return.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Patrick, worried the kirk might be asked to provide it.

  The bailies exchanged a look. ‘Ten pounds should suffice,’ said Bailie Vernour. The others nodded.

  ‘I take it the town council will raise the money?’ asked Patrick.

  Wincing, Vernour looked to Cleiland, who gave his agreement. The other men assented too.

  ‘Very well,’ said Patrick, suppressing a grin. ‘Ten pounds it is then. Camron, ask the Stuart brothers and Sergeant Thatcher to meet me at the manse. I will organise for news of the reward to go not only to the people of the Weem, but to outlying parishes as well.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Bailie Bell as anothe
r roar came from outside.

  ‘Aye. The sooner we catch the witch Cornfoot, the sooner we can ensure that this time, the right judgement is delivered.’

  Patrick gestured for the bailies to proceed him out of the cell, his mind racing. At last he had the freedom to bring at least one of the women to trial. While he might not have Sorcha McIntyre in his grasp yet, it wouldn’t be long before all the witches would face the Lord’s justice for their devilish crimes.

  And this time, there’d be nothing Captain Ross or Edinburgh could do about it.

  FORTY-SIX

  God forgive the minister.

  — The words of Janet Cornfoot to Mr Ker of Kippilaw and Mr Robert Cooke the Advocate, 1704

  In all her three score and ten — or more — years, Janet couldn’t remember being so cold. Or stiff. Or sore. Barely able to move as the frost that coated her clothing during the night seeped into her limbs and froze them, she rolled onto her side, crackling and groaning, and forced her eyes open.

  Never again would she think kindly of woods or barns, even if they were attached to large farmhouses or filled with straw and the warm bodies, breath and farts of bovines and sheep. Not after the night she’d endured. At least there were water troughs nearby. Not too proud to drink from them, once she’d cracked the sheet of ice that coated the top, she’d drunk her fill. You’d think the bloody animals would be grateful she’d given them access to their water and let her sleep beside them. Not these dour mulls.

  Unable to curl against the hawkit cattle or sheep because, as soon as they felt her trying to settle next to them, they started lowing, kicking and bleating, drawing the attention of the farmers, she’d been forced to move on. Back out into the wretched snow, tramping through drifts and along muddy roads. Shaking with fatigue as well as cold, her ankle aching, by the time she’d finally found an empty barn and some stinking straw to burrow in, the moon was in its descent.

  She’d no idea where she was, but prayed she was still heading towards St Andrew’s.

  In the pale light piercing the planks of splintered wood that formed the walls of her sanctuary, she could see it for what it was. A broken-down sty. It still smelled of the pigs that had once rooted about within its tight confines. The trough was empty, the straw brittle and dry — thank the Lord. Barely protecting her from the hard ground and bitter night, it was better than nothing.

  It took all her strength to sit up and slap some warmth back into her limbs. Each time her hand connected with her flesh, it was as if hot bolts had been driven into her palms, her fingers. God, but she was freezing. Her breath poured out of her mouth and nostrils in clouds. Peering through the opening where a door had once hung, she could see it had snowed again. It lay upon the ground, drifting into the sty like a wave, frozen solid before it touched her. Maybe she could find a vessel to gather some in and, maybe, if she was really fortunate, the means to start a fire and melt some. All her food had gone. How long ago had she eaten the bannocks and coney Sorcha had given her? Was it only one night? Felt like years.

  What a numptie she was. She’d underestimated not only how long it would take her to get to St Andrew’s, but her strength. She also hadn’t considered how slow it would be travelling on foot this time of year, what with her ankle paining, snow to wade through, the occasional passers-by to hide from and the little bit of foraging she’d managed to do that had done naught but make her stomach cramp.

  With the help of the sty walls, which creaked as she leaned against them, she hauled herself upright. Unsteady, she waited until the room stopped spinning, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

  If she didn’t get moving and soon, she never would again. Aye, well, as tempting as that was, she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

  First taking a piss, she searched for something to put snow in. There was nothing but a rusty pail with a great broken seam.

  Nae bother, she thought, throwing it against the wall. The noise was loud in the great silence. It was as if the world had gone quiet. There wasn’t a sound. No birdsong, no animals, no voices. That at least was good. If she could just get going again, she’d be in St Andrew’s and sitting in front of her sister’s hearth being coddled with soup, bread and whisky by evening.

  With those cheery notions swimming in her head, she set off across country, careful to avoid the farmhouse that appeared at the top of a rise a short time later, staying within the trees and praying that if the people did see her, they’d think she was a gypsy or a stray animal and pay her no heed.

  As she trudged along, she wondered what was happening back in the Weem. Would they send a search party out? Or would the reverend think she was too much trouble? Either way, she didn’t care, so long as Cowper didn’t punish those she’d left behind for her sins. Her perceived sins. Anger made her forget her hunger, her weariness, her sore body. She began to move faster.

  Uncertain how long she’d been walking, placing one worn boot in front of the other, her stockings sodden, her head pounding, her mind wandering, it took Janet a moment to understand that what she saw looming through the trees before her was not a figment of her fevered mind, but an actual kirk.

  Staggering out of the woods, she noted how dark the day had become, how thickly the snow fell. For all she was an escaped witch, an emissary of the devil who had turned from God and denied her baptism, the huge grey stone building with its cross piercing the heavens was one of the most welcome sights she’d ever seen.

  Dropping to her knees, she crawled the last few feet to its door and rested her back against it. Why, with its little graveyard, the falling curtain of snow and the black skeletons of the trees, it was quite pretty really. She sent a prayer to the God she thought had forsaken her, twisted slightly and, with her last remaining strength, banged on the wood.

  The Reverend George Gordon was dozing in his office when he thought he heard something. He tried to ignore it, but the noise persisted, and a flare of annoyance at the intrusion dashed away his last chance of returning to sleep.

  He pushed back his chair and, ensuring his robes were in place, left his office at the back of the kirk and marched up the aisle, imagining what he’d say to the men who, no doubt, had forgotten they’d stopped by earlier and were there to repeat the news he already knew: a witch had escaped Pittenweem and there was a ten-pound reward for whoever should find her.

  What he could do with ten pounds! Who on God’s good earth couldn’t use such an amount these days? Unless, of course, they were the Queen with a royal treasury at her disposal. Or Laird Bairnscliff with his numerous houses. Or Mr Craigieburn, who owned more sheep and ships than a man had a right to yet couldn’t find it within his tight-arsed heart to donate enough to repair the roof of the kirk.

  ‘Come away with you,’ he called out to whoever was knocking. It wasn’t loud, just persistent, like a spoiled child demanding attention. Maybe it wasn’t those rough-looking soldiers after all. Maybe it was a bairn seeking shelter from the elements.

  He reached the door and unlatched it, offering a prayer of forgiveness as he did. He knew he shouldn’t be locking the door, but after finding that family slumbering away inside over Hogmanay, and the fire they’d lit at the base of the pulpit, well, he didn’t want to risk just anybody entering.

  ‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Reverend Gordon, as a body fell back against his feet. ‘What have we here?’

  Two grey-blue eyes in a weather-bitten face stared up at him. ‘A wretch that seeks your help and that of the good Lord.’ The voice quavered with misery.

  Offering a hand, he helped the woman sit up. The poor thing was filthy and she smelled of the outdoors and something less palatable. She was nithered from being out in the weather, shaking like a half-drowned kitten. Her hands, which she’d wrapped with cloth she’d clearly torn from her skirt, were reddened and callused. Her lips and cheeks were cracked, her breath foul. Her boots were also held together with strips of fabric and he could see grey toes and torn, grubby nails where her stockings had worn away
.

  ‘Well, lass,’ he called her, even though she looked old enough and thin enough to be his grandmother — and she dead these last ten years, God bless her. ‘You’ve come to the right place. The Lord will protect you and so will I. Now, come away in and let’s get some food and a drink into you. Then, if you can, I want you to tell me what it is that’s brought you all the way out here to Leuchars on such a plashin’ day.’

  Janet could scarce believe her good fortune. Relatively clean, wrapped in warm blankets and placed by a roaring fire, she sat with a whisky in one hand and a freshly baked bannock in the other. It was like she’d died and gone to God’s good heaven. Not that there was a bad one, she supposed.

  When the minister first found her, she’d no intention of revealing who she was. He was a man of God, wasn’t he? She knew what that meant. Someone who hid behind the name of the Lord and His teachings to excuse their own shortcomings. Shortcomings in Patrick Cowper’s case being insecurity, greed, lust for power and a desire to have everyone conform to his way of thinking. The man was a beast; someone who feared what he didn’t understand. What he didn’t understand most of all, as far as she could discern, was women. Rather than seek common ground, he burned it so no one could tread there. She’d met a few ministers in her long life and was yet to meet one who’d prove her estimation wrong. It was just unfortunate that Cowper was the worst of those she’d encountered. She’d no doubt this ruddy-faced man who smelled of sleep, ale and mutton was no different.

  And yet, he was.

  Helping her into his office first, he swiftly decided she needed more comfort than the sparse room could offer and led her to the house that adjoined the kirk with encouraging words. He summoned his housekeeper to not only bring hot water so Janet might wash and find some clothes for her to change into, but extra blankets and, even better, food. The whisky he brought himself from another room, deeper in the house.