by Karen Brooks
Worn down not merely by her terrible journey and lack of sustenance and the damn cold, but by his gentle manner, before long she found herself telling him everything.
As the room darkened and the housekeeper came in and out, bringing more food, stoking the fire, asking the minister if there was anything else they needed, casting suspicious but also sympathetic looks in her direction, Janet felt herself relaxing. At one stage, a manservant entered and was instructed to prepare a bed for her. She almost squealed with delight. A bed. A real bed. When was the last time she’d slept in a bed? She could scarce remember. Her mind wandered, her tongue too. Was it the whisky? Aye, possibly. But it was also a compassionate, non-judgemental ear that loosened her lips.
When, after the clock struck seven, the minister asked her outright if she was one of the witches that had been pardoned by Edinburgh, making the Weem a bit of a laughing stock among the other parishes for advertising they’d caught witches and being so righteous about it when they were clearly just unfortunate women, Janet knew she’d found a like-minded soul and sent another prayer to God. So many this day already, the Lord must be suspicious.
Watching the way the reverend spoke to his housekeeper — so kindly; to his manservant — with respect — and to her, with such caring deference, gratitude overwhelmed her. Hot tears welled and, before she could prevent them, fell.
‘There, there,’ said the minister, producing a scented kerchief and passing it to her. ‘You’ve been through so much already, Mrs Cornfoot. More than should be asked of anyone. How about you allow me to get Mrs Glaren to take you to your room?’
Nodding and snuffling, trying to thank the minister, but finding the words were banked up in her throat, she nevertheless managed to convey how very appreciative she was.
The Almighty hadn’t abandoned her after all, but led her to a place of sanctuary and, she hoped, forgiveness for whatever sins He felt she’d committed and that had led to her being hounded by an earthly leader of His flock.
As she climbed into bed and pulled the soft sheets and blankets over her bruised and exhausted body, her last thoughts were of Sorcha, Nettie and the others, and how, when she was back among them, she’d tell them, not all men of God were bad. Some, like the Reverend George Gordon, were akin to angels here on His earth.
Sealing the letter, Reverend Gordon indicated for his manservant to come forward. First he made sure the door was shut, then leaned over the desk and lowered his voice.
‘Listen carefully. As soon as day breaks, you’re to ride to Pittenweem and find the Reverend Patrick Cowper. When you do, give him this letter then wait until he pays you. Do you understand? You’re not to leave his side until that ten pounds is in your hand.’
‘I understand, sir,’ said the servant and, with a small bow, left the room.
George Gordon fell back in his chair and gazed at the fire. He refused to feel remorse. After all, was not the woman a witch? From her own mouth she convicted herself.
Anyway, ten pounds would go a long way to repairing the kirk roof. What was a witch’s life and liberty compared to a house of God?
FORTY-SEVEN
Ye’ll no draw a strae across my nose.
(You’ll not provoke me into a fight.)
30th January 1705
It was impossible to concentrate. Tipping a creel of fish onto the table, Sorcha stared at the silvery bodies slipping and sliding in a slick wash of brine across the wood and, for a moment, forgot what it was she was supposed to be doing.
Janet’s escape had stirred everyone into a frenzy of fear and fury, led by Patrick Cowper. Yesterday, under the pretence of calming them, the reverend incited more anger by inviting that drunken sot Alexander McGregor, and even Peter Morton, to speak outside the Tolbooth. The townsfolk listened and demanded justice.
If she had any sense, she’d tell her friends to gather their things and run. Leave Pittenweem and never look back. Only, they couldn’t. Not while Janet roamed the countryside. Sorcha was afraid not for what might be done to her — Sorcha knew her too well — but what might be done to those she cared about. She also couldn’t leave now she’d heard from Aidan.
Was it a cruel irony or a blessing that just as she thought things couldn’t get any worse, a bundle of letters arrived from Bavaria?
Brought by one of the ships that risked sailing the rivers that wove their way through the lands where war was being waged, they’d been written some time ago.
Just as she’d avoided relaying any bad news to Aidan, so too he had sought to protect her. His letters were full of stories about the countryside the battalions marched through, the witticisms and strange habits of the Duke of Marlborough, also known as General John Churchill, and the other commanders, Cutts and Orkney. He wrote about Bavaria, the wide flowing rivers, the peaked mountains and green grasses. How gun smoke would sit in the valleys for hours after a ceasefire until the northern winds swept down and blew it away. There were fat cows and sweet-faced sheep everywhere, so he never hungered. Rain fell often and the men had to wade through mud, the supply wagons and camp followers becoming drenched or bogged or both. Bread grew mouldy, feet too. But these were the only misfortunes he mentioned. If Sorcha didn’t know better, she’d be persuaded he was one of the gentry embarking on a Grand Tour rather than marching to war. It was from the ship’s captain, Reginald Foggerty, that Sorcha learned many bloody battles had been fought, with great loss of life. The French had been defeated and the allies were victorious, but still the enemy would not surrender.
When Foggerty had left the army to sail home, it was based in a place called Ilbesheim, near Landau where a treaty between Austria and Bavaria had been signed, allowing the Hapsburgs access to Bavarian goods and revenue, effectively marking the end of French dominance in the region. When Captain Foggerty last saw Aidan and agreed to take his letters, he seemed well, apart from a mild fever. The news wasn’t much, but Sorcha drank in every word and tried not to press the tired captain more than necessary.
In every letter, Aidan wrote how he imagined her down by the harbour, close to the sea and, as he followed rivers towards battle and victory, or better still, peace, he knew that water connected them even though they were so far apart.
Gazing out over the ocean, Sorcha tried to imagine Aidan right in that very moment. In her mind she built a bridge that spanned the great distance between them.
A shout brought her back to the present. Another load of fish was tipped onto those waiting for her, some striking her quiescent hands. The bridge, like her daydreams, shattered.
Nettie threw her a look of concern. Sorcha returned a watery smile and began sorting. The catch was still poor, and that was unlikely to change soon. The women gathered around the table and baiting the lines could more than manage. Gone was the blether and laughter that had always accompanied their tasks. There was no song, no whistling, either. Even the men were dour-faced, the bairns too. Everyone was thinking about Janet.
Except for her: she was thinking about Janet and about Aidan.
Billows of seagulls and terns whirled above, cawing and crying, waiting for an opportunity to dive on a boat or an unsupervised table and grab a fish. They watched the fishwives as if they were the prey. Not unlike the men who lined up like regimental soldiers along the harbour wall. Dressed in thick coats, arms folded, some with pipes protruding from their mouths, they’d murmur to each other, their frowns deep, their thoughts dark. Wanting to ensure no other witch walked among them, they’d taken to observing the women at work — any work. The weavers reported being watched, the milkmaids, spinners, seamstresses and nursemaids too. But the one group that attracted the most attention and earned the closest vigilance was the fishwives. After all, Mr Bruce said, had not the reverend pointed out it was the occupation that produced the most witches?
Trying to ignore the men and their baleful stares, Sorcha finished sorting and helped Nettie scale and gut. She was keen to get away.
It wasn’t until hours later, when she’d s
old the last of her fish and bought some smoked herring from Mr Murdoch, that Sorcha was able to go home. Already the day was darkening, even though the bell hadn’t long tolled three of the clock. A low bank of heavy clouds was rolling in from the east. Lightning split the grey heavens, great gashes of brilliance that presaged a mighty storm. With a shudder, Sorcha prayed it didn’t signify anything else.
As she came up the High Street, she finally understood why the lanes were so quiet, why there’d been barely a soul about to sell fish to. At the top of the road a huge crowd had gathered outside the Tolbooth.
Sorcha broke into a run, uncaring that her creel slapped hard against her back. She dropped it at the corner and pushed herself into the throng, trying to find someone who’d tell her what was going on. Familiar faces were contorted into ugly, shouting shapes; people shook their fists; strangers’ faces stared at her with disdain and curiosity as she jostled and thrust through the press of bodies, trying to find someone who would talk to her.
‘Nettie,’ she gasped, clutching her friend.
‘Oh, Sorcha, thank God. I was about to come looking for you.’
‘What? What is it?’
Bumped and shoved, it was hard for Sorcha to keep her footing. Maintaining hold of Nettie, she tried to pull her out of the melee. Around her one name was repeated over and over: Janet’s.
‘Have they found her?’ asked Sorcha, dragging Nettie clear.
Panting, Nettie nodded. ‘Aye. Moira told me a man rode into town this morning with a letter for the reverend. Seems our Janet made it as far as Leuchars before seeking refuge in the kirk there.’
Before Sorcha could ask any more, Isobel and Nicolas joined them, their faces pale, their brows furrowed.
Nettie quickly told them what she’d shared with Sorcha.
Sorcha glanced at the gathering. It was becoming louder. Steel glinted in the strange light that accompanied the gloaming. Knuckles punched the air, arms were brandished like weapons.
‘If Janet sought refuge, why would the minister there inform the reverend?’
Nettie clasped her hands in hers. ‘Because of the reward.’
‘What?’
Isobel’s hand flew to her mouth. Nicolas shook her head, eyes blazing.
‘The ten pounds Reverend Cowper and the bailies offered for the return of Janet,’ said Nettie, outrage making her words blunt. ‘The bastard Leuchars minister is claiming it. The reverend sent the Stuart lads to collect her. They’re bringing her back any moment.’
Sorcha glanced at the growing mob, horrified. This is why people had assembled. ‘To this?’
‘Aye. To this.’ Nettie followed the direction of her gaze.
They looked helplessly at the mass of baying men and some women. The bairns were just imitating the adults, yelling, making angry noises, shaking their wee fists. The air was fizzing with anger, alarm and something else. Sorcha had felt it before, back at the farm on St Andrew’s when she stayed with her sister. When a cow or sheep was killed for the table, the hunting dogs were tied up so they couldn’t interfere. They would watch, their hackles raised, their snouts trembling, howling, their heads raised to the heavens. Their bodies shaking with longing. It was blood lust. That was what Sorcha sensed now.
Her heart seized. Taking Nettie’s arm and gesturing for the others to follow, she walked down as far as the tavern and stood beneath the shingle.
‘We have to do something.’ Sorcha looked left, then right. There were others standing back, cautious, fearful, trying to gauge the mood and getting ready to respond. If only she could round them up, bring them together. There was strength in numbers, wasn’t there? But what if the number was only small?
She had to try. They had to. If they could ensure Janet had a fair hearing, got a fair trial, it would guarantee any others did as well.
Turning to her friends, Sorcha spoke quickly, before she lost her courage. ‘If they’re coming from Leuchars, then they’ll bring Janet from the west. I think we should go to the gate there and, at the very least, accompany her back, don’t you?’
Nettie and Nicolas agreed. Nettie linked her arm through Sorcha’s. Only Isobel hesitated, one eye straying to the fervent pack. Reluctantly, she nodded.
‘Come away, then,’ said Sorcha, putting iron in her voice, in her heart.
‘What about your creel?’ asked Isobel, looking for a reason to delay.
‘It can stay. I’ll fetch it when I go home.’
Home.
Looking at the furious mob, she wondered if the Weem even was that any more.
FORTY-EIGHT
… the rabble was up…
— The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 15th of February 1705
Burning rage was all that kept Janet atop the horse, rage and an acute sense of betrayal and shame at how gullible she’d been. Taken in by a man of God when she should have known better; taken in by his whisky, warm fire, bed and fresh clothes more like. It would never happen again, she scolded herself. Do You hear that, God? You have chosen poorly, sir, and need to rethink whom You allow to speak on Your behalf. They’re lettin’ You down, these men. They pretend a consideration they don’t feel; they lie and cheat and call it Your will. Their hearts are filled with greed. They take Your name in vain.
As she watched the swaying back of Gerard Stuart riding in front of her, aware of his brother Angus behind her, she swore a silent oath. Never again would she darken the door of a kirk except to spit on the threshold. Call her a witch, would they? Well, she’d show Cowper all right. If it was a witch he wanted, a witch he’d get. She muttered curses under her breath, taking pleasure from sending them out into the encroaching evening.
The brothers ignored her dire mumblings and said nothing. Janet eventually slumped into a seething silence. It was with some surprise that, just as the last beams of sunlight touched the glistening snow-covered hills, she saw they’d reached the edge of town. For the first time since she was dragged away from the comfort of that dirty betrumpin’ minister’s kitchen, she felt a flicker of fear. Fear and foreboding. It might have been the eerie light making the Forth glow like a devil’s urn, the forked lightning that split the horizon, or the fact that, as she looked down upon the township, she saw something unexpected — the glimmer of many torches. Tiny fires that could erupt into an inferno.
Forced to dismount, she began to walk towards the dark walls, the men remaining on horseback either side of her, their pikes held high. The scent of the ocean washed over her. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the brackish air to fill her lungs, remind her of simpler times when all she worried about was getting the men to their boats dry, baiting lines, laughing, blethering and arguing with the fishwives as they waited for the catch to come to shore. The air was tinged with smoke, fetid water from puddles and the metallic smell that presaged snowfall; she relished it all and yet… The white rooftops and bleached walls of the cottages with their hollow windows like accusing eyes tormented her. Were people watching? What were they thinking? What was going to happen?
Unaware she’d stopped walking until Gerard prodded her hard in the back, causing her to cry out, she reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. For the first time since they left Leuchars, she became aware of how sore she still was. How much her whole body hurt. Ached from within. This was not physical; this pain rose from her soul and was devouring her breath by breath.
Determined not to let the lads see she was spooked, she lifted her chin and continued.
It was only as she entered the walls that she saw them: Sorcha, Nettie and Nicolas racing up the lane. Janet’s eyes widened and her mouth broke into a grin.
‘Janet!’ cried Sorcha and, blithely ignoring Gerard’s warning, flew into her arms, followed by Nettie and Nicolas.
Janet sank into their embrace, knowing she’d reached, if not a safe harbour, at least a friendly one.
‘What are you doing here, lasses?’ Janet shouldered the women away and drank in th
eir faces. ‘You should be at home by a fire keeping warm.’
‘So should you, Janet,’ said Sorcha, looking accusingly at the Stuart lads. They pretended not to notice. ‘Why, you’re freezing.’ Sorcha removed her shawl and went to wrap it around Janet. Nettie and Nicolas started to do the same.
Janet shook her head. ‘Nae, lasses. Save them for yourselves, I’ll not take them.’
Instead of arguing, Sorcha quickly explained that Isobel had tried to be there too, but halfway to the gate, her father had appeared and forced her to go home. What she didn’t say was how afeared he was for Isobel’s safety.
Janet nodded approval at Mr Adam’s decision. She turned to her guards. ‘Where are you taking me, lads?’
‘The Tolbooth,’ said Gerard Stuart, swinging a leg over his horse and dropping to the ground.
‘To the reverend,’ said Angus simultaneously as he also dismounted.
Sorcha and Nettie exchanged a look.
‘Och, then, lads,’ said Janet. ‘You can let an auld woman fetch a shawl to keep her warm, can’t you? My house is just down there.’ She pointed at the nearby wynd.
The Stuarts eyed each other and shrugged.
‘Sure,’ said Gerard. ‘What harm can it do? We can leave the horses in Mr Murray’s stables. But keep your distance, you hear?’ he said to the women. ‘Mrs Cornfoot is our prisoner and you can’t frat her eyes.’
Angus regarded him strangely. ‘Frat her eyes? You mean fraternise, you great dozie.’
‘Aye. That’s what I said.’ Gerard poked him in the ribs with the butt of his musket.
Sorcha eyed the weapon with distaste. Why on earth were they carrying them? Janet wasn’t dangerous. Her thoughts flew to the crowd outside the Tolbooth. Try convincing those in town that was the case.
She looked at the brothers, turned into custodians for the sake of the reverend’s and bailies’ fear of women. Some women. It didn’t suit them. It never had. ‘We won’t fraternise, Gerard and Angus, but we will walk with our friend. I pray you to at least allow that. The poor woman is old and frail.’
