by Karen Brooks
Nettie bit back a laugh.
Sorcha mouthed ‘Sorry’ at Janet, who waved her apology away.
‘She weren’t so frail when she was resisting arrest,’ muttered Angus.
‘Resisting?’ said Janet, turning towards him. ‘I was trying to keep my balance while you dragged me across the minister’s flagstones. Which I couldn’t do with my hands tied.’
It was only then that Sorcha realised why Janet hadn’t returned their hold. Her wrists were bound.
Angus glared at Janet and might have been ready to change his mind about allowing her to get some extra clothes, when Nettie, one hand gently upon Janet’s back, encouraged her forward.
‘At least untie her, Angus. How can she fetch anything like that?’
By the time Janet was unbound and with Angus breathing down her neck the entire time, had fetched a shawl, Sorcha, Nettie and Nicolas weren’t the only ones accompanying her to the Tolbooth. Word flew around and more and more people ran up the hill from the tavern, the shops and the harbour, spilling out of their houses, lanterns raised, pikes, shovels and other instruments in their hands. Whether it was to defend or attack Janet, Sorcha couldn’t be sure, but she liked it not.
Some ran back towards the centre of town and soon a cry went up that made Janet stop in her tracks.
‘The witch has been found! The witch has been found.’
‘Dear God,’ whispered Janet, pulling closer to Sorcha and Nettie. ‘Get away, lasses, while you still can. I don’t want you tarred with the brush they’re going to feather me with.’
Sorcha felt sickened as she glanced at the faces around them in the torchlight; some were sympathetic, but most possessed an open-mouthed zeal that the flames captured and cast into crazed shadows. From the looks on Nettie’s and Nicolas’s faces, they were too. Mr Adam had the right of it. ‘We’re not leaving you until we find the minister. Not even he can ignore the danger you’re in.’
Janet’s fingers gripped her so tightly, Sorcha knew they’d leave marks. She wanted to say something, offer Janet some solace, promise that it would be all right. But she could not.
When they arrived at the Tolbooth, at first Sorcha wondered where the mob they’d left only a short time before had gone — until she understood they were still there, surrounding her, Janet, Nettie and the guards. Not only had the crowd followed them, but they’d run along parallel lanes, baying and cat-calling, encouraging folk to join them, and were even now converging alongside the women outside the Tolbooth. There was not one friendly face. Nicolas was no longer with them, pushed aside before they reached the High Street. Sorcha prayed she was all right.
Spit rained on them with a savagery she’d never heard or felt the like of before.
As if Janet was possessed of a scythe, a path to the door of the Tolbooth opened. Folk grew quiet, staring at her as though she was an exotic creature washed up with the tide, instead of a woman they’d known their whole lives and whose family had lived in the Weem for generations. Janet may have escaped the town as the Cornfoot crone, but Sorcha knew that by returning in the company of guards, with a reward upon her head, she’d become the felon the reverend had tried to make her. He’d remade her to fit his purpose.
As a witch.
Gerard went to the door of the Tolbooth and banged on it. Janet, with Sorcha and Nettie either side, were immediately behind him.
The door opened a fraction. It was Camron.
‘Summon the reverend, Camron.’ Gerard’s voice was loud enough to be heard. There were noises of approval.
‘He’s not here,’ whimpered Camron. Clearing his throat, his words carried this time. ‘The reverend’s at Bailie Cook’s house, having dinner.’ Before Gerard could ask further questions, Camron slammed the door. There was the sound of a latch dropping.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Angus, standing behind Sorcha.
‘Go to Bailie Cook’s house,’ said Gerard, scanning the crowd. For the first time, Sorcha saw concern flash in his eyes.
The mob, which had grown silent when the door opened, began to mutter again. Shoving people out of his way, using his musket and pike as extensions of his arms, Gerard cleared a passage. People stood aside, eyes fixed on Janet, sneers, leers and what Sorcha could only describe as hatred contorting their faces.
As they made their way towards the bailie’s house, the horde fell in behind. A simmering, roiling mass that, like a great wave, threatened to break over them any minute.
Sorcha was afraid to let go of Janet’s arm. She could feel the woman shaking; her bones like sticks about to snap. When Nettie took Janet’s other arm, steering her away from a group that poured out of a house, their eyes met and Sorcha could see her own anxiety echoed in her friend’s. Aware of the bodies moving around them, some creeping up as if to cut them off, Sorcha cast about for an escape route should such a thing become necessary.
When they arrived at Bailie Cook’s house, the chatter lulled and folk grew orderly, shifting back from the door and making space. Sorcha wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or angry that they could quell their passions for the authorities.
Upon seeing who stood on his threshold, Bailie Robert Cook said nothing. He held a napkin in his hand and used it to wipe the glistening grease from his mouth, then signalled for them to wait and spun on his heel, going back inside.
Seconds later, the person everyone wanted to see appeared. Sorcha saw the flare of triumph that lit the reverend’s eyes, even the beclouded one appeared to sparkle with victory before he rearranged his features into a semblance of regret. She willed Nettie to remain silent. Janet too.
‘So, Janet Cornfoot,’ he began, his eyes alighting upon Sorcha then Nettie. ‘You’ve returned.’
‘Not by choice,’ said Janet.
There was a low growl.
Sorcha tugged at her clothing. It was time to stay mute.
‘Now you’ll finally answer for your crimes.’
The assembled crowd gave a cheer. Someone called out, ‘Burn the witch!’
Nettie inhaled sharply.
Reverend Cowper raised a hand and shook his head. Waiting for the chatter to cease, he spoke, projecting his voice as if he was delivering a sermon. The light from the crowd’s torches shone in his face, made the evening falling around them darker than pitch and impossible to penetrate. Yet Sorcha sensed movement beyond the circle of people around her, even if she couldn’t see who or what was there.
‘Nae, nae,’ said the reverend, fondly, with such tolerance it was as if he was addressing an obstinate bairn. ‘That’s not the way we do things in Pittenweem, is it?’ His brows drew together. ‘Not that we have any say in how we do things here any more. Not since poor Peter was beset with his troubles.’ There were more grumblings. ‘Since then, it’s Edinburgh that’s seen fit to dictate to us Fifers. Telling us how we must treat those who seek to undermine our community. Those who sin against God and commit heresy, threatening our Christian souls.’ He gave a smile that was all yellow teeth and chalky lips.
There were jeers at his words.
‘What would they ken?’
‘They canna tell us what to do!’
There were shouts of endorsement at this daring.
‘Indeed, they cannot. Not any more.’ Again, Cowper used his hands to pacify the assembly. ‘Once this is over, I will be letting them know as much. Justice begins and ends here. With us. In the Weem.’
The crowd broke into defiant cheers. ‘Bless you, reverend,’ shouted a voice.
‘What do you want us to do with the auld woman, reverend?’ asked Gerard. The wind had picked up, bringing with it splinters of ice that plunged into exposed flesh, forcing breath out. The sky was a great glowering bruise above their heads. Flashes of lightning writhed within it, God’s weapons primed.
Reverend Cowper lifted his face to the firmament. Throwing out his arms, he stood silhouetted against the doorway, his dark robes and pale hands picked out by the torchlight, casting giant shadows against neighbouring h
ouses. His lips moved as, eyes closed, he prayed. He was larger than life. Larger than death.
The mob were awed into silence, as Sorcha had no doubt he knew they would be. After all, it wasn’t every day you witnessed your minister communing with the Almighty.
When the reverend finished, he carefully surveyed all who waited before him. There were so many. Sorcha knew how much hinged on whatever he said next. What would this crowd do if his words didn’t satisfy their need for justice? Justice, as he’d been reminding them every Sunday, that had been denied them before. Would they listen or turn on him? Sorcha’s heart was beating so hard it hurt. What would the reverend tell them? He had the people of the Weem in the palm of his hand.
She felt Nettie’s fingers searching for hers. Sorcha grasped them, bringing them together with Janet’s. The three women huddled, hands bunched in a tight knot, mirroring the one in Sorcha’s heart.
Finally the reverend released a great sigh, as if what he was about to say was not his will, his choice. ‘Do whatever you please with her,’ he said sharply. He locked eyes with Janet. ‘I care not.’
‘You can’t! Nae!’ shouted Sorcha, reaching for him, but her words bounced off his retreating back and were drowned by the roar of the exultant throng.
The door shut behind him.
Nettie strode to it and beat her fist hard upon the wood.
Gerard and Angus looked at each other.
The reverend’s words were passed among the astonished crowd.
‘Get her back to the Tolbooth,’ yelled Sorcha to the Stuart brothers, trying to be heard as people surged forward. Nettie gave up on the door and flew to Janet’s side.
Angus and Gerard began to clear the way. Sorcha and Nettie followed, keeping Janet between them and the lads’ boots in sight, not daring to make eye contact with anyone. The noise around her grew louder and louder.
A stone struck Sorcha’s shoulder. She cried out. Another struck Angus on the chest and he staggered into her. Someone darted forward and swung a stick at Janet’s head. Blood sprayed across her face and she fell to one knee, her flailing arm hitting Sorcha, blinding her momentarily. Forced to let Janet go, Sorcha was bumped aside. There were shouts, a great tearing sound, followed by breaking glass. More stones were thrown, passing over Sorcha’s head. Separated from Janet, Nettie was struck in the temple. Sorcha tried to reach her and to ensure Janet was in her sights as well. The milling bodies, the pushing and shoving, made it hard.
A gunshot rang out.
The mob scattered, exposing Gerard standing in their midst, his musket smoking.
‘Get back, all of you!’ The veins on his neck were ropes; his eyes started from his head. ‘Go home. You’ve nae business being here.’
Horrified by what he’d done, firing his weapon, Gerard twisted one way then the other, the musket pointing into the crowd, causing folk to squeal and retreat. For the first time, the entrance to the wynd was free; there was a way out, a way to get to the Tolbooth.
Sorcha reached Nettie, who was dazed, and helped her to her feet, taking the kerchief someone shoved in her hand and pushing it against Nettie’s temple to stop the bleeding. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Janet. While everyone was distracted, unable to look away from Gerard and his gun, she’d managed to make her way to the edge of the pack. Small, bent and so very, very ancient, her eyes gleamed with possibility, her mouth cracked a smile.
Sorcha surveyed the fierce, frightened faces, the men and women twisted by prejudice, terror and so much more. They wanted, needed, to see what they believed to be retribution served. But what the reverend suggested was not justice. He could not wash his hands of Janet as if he was Pontius Pilate and leave her fate to the angry mob.
Nettie whispered to her. Sorcha nodded and, leaving Nettie where she was, tried to reach Janet and lead her to the relative safety of the Tolbooth before something terrible happened. Nettie was right. She had to do it now, while people were startled into co-operation by an anxious lad with a deadly weapon.
A few of the men decided Gerard needed to be taught a lesson. Sorcha recognised Clem Brady and Seumas Cowper. Another man moved stealthily towards Gerard. She’d never seen him before. Circling around Gerard, he lunged and snatched the musket out of his hands.
‘Och!’ exclaimed Gerard and went to wrest it back. Before he could, the stranger swung it and smacked Gerard on the side of the head. He fell to the ground. Immediately, Seumas began to kick him. Others ran forward and joined in.
Across the road, Janet locked eyes with Sorcha and gave a slight shake of her head, warning her not to interfere — either with Gerard’s beating or her intentions. Through bloodied lips, she blew a kiss, then winked. Faster and more furtively than Sorcha could have imagined, Janet darted down a darkened wynd.
It was a mere second before the crowd realised the focus of their rage had vanished. When they did, the spell of the musket broke.
Seumas raised his head, Clem Brady and the stranger too. With an almighty bellow, they pointed to where Janet had been.
‘Don’t let her escape,’ Seumas shouted.
In a crush of men, a few women and steel, led by the three who’d beaten Gerard bloody, the crowd took off after Janet Cornfoot, the witch who had got away once.
If they had any say in it this time, she would not again.
FORTY-NINE
What’s done cannot be undone.
— Macbeth, Act V scene i
It took Sorcha a moment to gain her bearings. When she did, she went to check on Gerard. Angus was trying to help him sit up. Gerard’s lip was bleeding, there was a long gash on his forehead. One eye was already swelling. He groaned and spat a great glob of blood on the road.
‘One of us must go to the bailie’s house,’ said Nettie, nodding in the direction of Bailie Cook’s place. ‘Tell them what’s happened.’
‘You’re right,’ conceded Sorcha, passing a kerchief to Gerard. She knew they had to separate to give Janet a chance. ‘But we need to be careful.’
They were one whisky away from becoming the targets of this witch-frenzy.
‘I’ll go with Gerard,’ said Nettie, indicating the constable who, daubing at his head, gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll be safe enough.’
‘Then Angus and I will try and follow Janet.’ Sorcha waited for agreement from Angus before looking towards the water.
Angus hoisted Gerard to his feet. Those who hadn’t bolted down to the harbour approached cautiously.
Sorcha wiped a hand across her forehead. ‘Once we find her, we’ll take her to the Tolbooth.’ She didn’t add what she was thinking — if it wasn’t too late.
Nettie folded her into a tight hug. Sorcha squeezed her one last time, then before she could change her mind or allow the terror batting at the edges of her mind to overcome her, signalled to Angus. Nettie and Gerard left at the same time.
The closer Sorcha and Angus came to the waterfront, the louder the clamour became. There were shouts, taunts and mocking laughter. Dogs barked frenetically; somewhere, a horse whinnied. A scream rang out before it was abruptly cut off. Rounding a corner, Sorcha almost collided with the rear of the crowd. Leaping up and down, she saw what had slowed them.
Seumas Cowper and a couple of other men she didn’t know appeared to have taken charge and had not only caught up with Janet, but herded her towards the seawall, the crowd forming a tight circle around her. One of them darted forward and punched her in the head, knocking her down. A great cheer resounded. Two men grabbed her by the ankles and began to drag her over the wall and down towards the water.
‘Nae!’ screamed Sorcha, but her cry was lost in the melee.
‘Lynch her!’ the crowd began to chant.
‘Throw her in the sea.’ ‘Cuck the witch!’
Trying to lever her way through the press of people, blocking her ears to their bellowing, Sorcha forgot all about Angus as she tried to squeeze her way between the furious, excited men, but it was impossible. Unable to reach Janet, she could hea
r her terror-stricken howls as she was dragged over the seawall and dropped onto the sand.
Much to Sorcha’s relief, a contingent of soldiers appeared, led by none other than Sergeant Thatcher. With weapons drawn, they tried to prevent the rabble joining the men on the beach. But it was as if they weren’t there. Townsfolk simply barged past, pushing them aside like brushwood. Weapons were wrenched from hands. A thickset man snatched a gun from a soldier and levelled it at him.
‘This doesn’t concern you,’ he yelled. ‘Keep your distance, or else.’ He wasn’t even a local, but English.
‘Do as he says, lads,’ barked Sergeant Thatcher, palms outstretched in a gesture of peace. His features were twisted in fury, but with so many against them, he had no choice. He had to protect his men.
Throwing their hands up in surrender, the soldiers backed away. Sorcha’s heart deflated. If the soldiers couldn’t do anything, who could? Skirting past, she heard Sergeant Thatcher issuing instructions to two of his men who, waiting until the bearded Englishman left, bolted up another wynd. Where were they going? Surely they were needed here, even if it was only to protect the other villagers?
She hoped Nettie and Gerard had reached the bailie’s house and alerted the council. It was their only hope to stop what the reverend had started.
When she finally reached the harbour wall, the crowd lined its edges, facing the beach and pier. Men leapt onto the dusky sands, charging towards a large group closer to the sea. Somewhere, in the midst of all those people, was Janet. Sorcha could see shadows between the bursts of light from torches as others dared to run along the ruined pier, eager to witness what was unfolding. Men jumped onto the wreck of the Sophia and rushed to the prow of the ship to shout encouragement to those dragging Janet forward, beckoning them closer.
Didn’t they know how dangerous it was up there? The wood was rotting, the deck slick with barnacles and seaweed. Walking upon it was to invite doom. As Sorcha watched in disbelief, three men clambered up the tallest mast, one of them carrying a coil of rope over his shoulder. It was then, with a sinking heart, she understood they knew damn well what they were risking and why.
