The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  FIFTY-ONE

  Peine forte et dure.

  (Strong and hard punishment.)

  When Sorcha found Janet at Nicolas’s house, she was being washed gently by Nicolas’s sister, Jenny. Nettie rushed to assist. Standing by the window, arms wrapped tightly about each other, their faces pale, were Nicolas’s mother, aunt, a cousin and some of the neighbours. As soon as Sorcha explained that Nicolas knew Janet would come here, but rather than arouse suspicion by coming herself, had gone to the Tolbooth, potentially facing another kind of danger, the men left to see what they could do. Only as they sealed the door again did Sorcha worry about what they might encounter out there. What would happen to those who tried to restore order when there was only chaos?

  With her cheeks washed and the worst of the wounds on her face and head patched, Janet still looked terrible. Her breathing was raspy, loud. One eye was swollen closed, the other redder than a robin’s breast.

  ‘They’ve broken my ribs,’ she wheezed, flinching as she tried to move in the chair.

  ‘Hush. Don’t speak,’ said Sorcha, kneeling at Janet’s feet. She and Nettie dabbed some warm water infused with fennel and lavender on Janet’s ruined hands. The barnacles on the hull of the Sophia had ripped her aged skin, torn strips from her arms and legs. Sorcha could barely look at her face. It was distended with bruises, lumps where rocks and sticks had struck. Her front teeth were missing, her nose had been badly broken and even as she sat there, bubbles of blood and snot leaked from her nostrils.

  Sorcha reached up and softly wiped it away. ‘Och, Janet, I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘Why are you sorry, lass?’ mumbled Janet, her head heavy. ‘This isn’t your doing. This all rests with one person and those too weak to stop him.’

  Sorcha met Janet’s good eye and they both nodded. They weren’t going to say his name, lest by uttering it he be made manifest.

  ‘God will make him pay,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Rather the devil does that,’ wheezed Janet.

  ‘Sooner the better,’ added Nettie, wiping Janet’s nose again.

  Distant shouts and the tramp of boots made Sorcha look up. Nearby doors were hammered upon; dogs barked and whined, bairns wailed.

  ‘They’re coming closer,’ whimpered Jenny.

  ‘Go. Go,’ said Janet weakly. ‘All of you. I don’t want you here when they come lest they turn on you as well.’

  ‘Where will we go?’ asked Mimi Foster, a cousin of Nicolas and Jenny.

  ‘Now’s not the time to run away,’ said Nettie, rising to her feet. She rested her fingers lightly upon Janet’s shoulder.

  Sorcha stood as well. ‘Only by standing up to this, saying it can’t go on, will it stop.’ She took in the frightened faces, the looks of uncertainty that were exchanged. ‘But Janet’s right, you don’t have to do this. This isn’t your fight. You’ve not been accused. Those men out there, they’ve lost all reason. I will stay. I will remain with Janet —’

  ‘Me too,’ said Nettie.

  ‘Nae —’ gasped Janet.

  Sorcha reached for her hand and nursed it. ‘You’re in no condition to argue.’

  ‘Sorcha’s correct.’ Jenny returned to Janet’s side. ‘This isn’t your fight,’ she said to the other women. ‘But it’s my sister there at the Tolbooth, this is her house, and it’s my friends those bastards have hurt.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Mimi, swinging away from the window, fists on hips. ‘You’re my family and friends too. The Weem is my home. I’ll not be turned from it by a frothing tumult. You’re wrong, Sorcha McIntyre. This is our fight.’

  The women looked at each other with shining eyes and grim smiles.

  Sorcha wanted to cheer. How proud of them Nicolas and Beatrix would be. How proud was she? Was Nettie?

  ‘Very well,’ she said, praying they couldn’t hear her racing heart. ‘Then we’ll face the mob together and, like the men who are seeking to defuse this, we’ll try and appeal to common sense.’

  ‘They have none,’ whispered Janet.

  ‘Then we’ll appeal to their purses instead,’ said Nettie and continued bandaging Janet. ‘If Edinburgh finds out about this, how folk sought to take the law into their own hands, punish someone without a trial, then not only will the authorities seek to bring the perpetrators to account, but the entire town will be fined and it will be hefty. Who’s going to want to pay that?’

  The women gazed at her in admiration.

  ‘If there’s one thing Nettie, Beatrix, you, Janet, and even Captain Ross taught me,’ said Sorcha, ‘it’s that loss of money is a pain everyone feels.’

  ‘Depends how much pain a person can tolerate,’ muttered Janet.

  They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Minutes later, there was hammering at the door.

  Sorcha tensed and the words she’d spoken so bravely before dissolved into a puddle of dread. Memories of anger, blood, the glee of the men and the way they had treated Janet crowded her head. She could smell her fear. It wouldn’t do to let the others sense it.

  ‘Open in the name of the Queen!’ bellowed a deep voice.

  One of the women squealed before pressing a hand over her mouth.

  The relief that flooded Sorcha made her knees weak. ‘’Tis all right,’ she said. ‘It’s a friend.’

  Gesturing for Jenny and Mimi to help her, Sorcha pushed the chest they’d used to barricade the door out of the way. In stepped Sergeant Thatcher, followed by four of his men. Still more stood guard outside, their dirks drawn, guns aimed down the street.

  Upon seeing Janet, Sergeant Thatcher blanched. ‘Mrs Cornfoot,’ he gulped. ‘Glad to see you… alive.’ He glanced at Sorcha and Nettie. ‘I thought I told you two to go home.’

  ‘You did,’ said Sorcha.

  Nettie bit back a laugh at his expression.

  Sergeant Thatcher shook his head. ‘Captain Ross did warn me…’ he sighed. ‘The mob aren’t far behind us, I’m afraid, and now that my men are stationed about the cottage, it’s like we’ve hung a shingle over the door. They’ll know exactly where you are, Mrs Cornfoot.’

  ‘They would have found out eventually,’ said Janet.

  The women clustered together by the window again, casting anxious looks outside, but not one of them left.

  ‘The good news is,’ continued the sergeant, ‘the council have assembled some men to help us. They’re making their way here. Once they arrive, we’ll make sure you are safe and comfortable, Mrs Cornfoot, then we’ll see to getting you back home.’

  Janet shook her head, grimacing at the effort. ‘I’ll not be safe there nor comfortable. Not on my own.’ She held her ribs and winced. ‘I want you to take me to the Tolbooth.’

  Sergeant Thatcher raised his brows. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s fortified,’ explained Sorcha. ‘And her friends are there.’ Mine too, she wanted to add. Hopefully, Mr Laing, Mr Lawson and Mr Adam and their companions had reached there safely.

  They began to prepare Janet to be moved. Taking a shawl Jenny offered, Nettie draped it over Janet’s shaking shoulders. Mimi came forward with a hot beverage. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Drink this. It has valerian and some feverfew. It will help ease your pain.’

  Taking it in her hands, the fingers brutally twisted and torn, with Sorcha’s help, Janet swallowed some. A great deal dribbled down her grazed chin. Sorcha blotted it away, trying not to let Janet see how deeply her injuries affected her. Rancour and nausea bubbled inside her.

  Sensing how she was feeling, Nettie rested a hand briefly upon her. Sorcha drew succour from her touch.

  Outside, the sound of people assembling grew. Angry people. Sergeant Thatcher went to the window and pulled back the curtain. ‘The councillors’ men have arrived.’ He grunted. ‘There’s fewer than I’d hoped.’

  Sorcha looked out. Why, half the Weem were milling about the street, unafraid of the soldiers, their guns or the men the council had sent, men who only hours before had been throwing missiles at Janet. Sor
cha’s stomach began doing somersaults.

  ‘What do we do?’

  Sergeant Thatcher gazed at her. His eyes were a brilliant hazel in the firelight, but even she could see the uncertainty in them. ‘Wait. Hopefully, they’ll grow weary of this and leave.’

  An argument rose above the general din, muffled but fierce.

  ‘What are they saying?’ croaked Janet. Nettie tried, unsuccessfully, to divert her.

  Sorcha couldn’t make the words out, but whatever was being said was fraught. There were shouts, then a screech followed by a long, low roar. Steel clashed and clattered, there was a grunt followed by a loud groan. Something slammed against a wall. The women jumped; the windows shook.

  The door was flung open and in burst a group of men. Behind them were the guards, subdued now their firearms and daggers had been forcibly taken. Armed with what they’d snatched from the soldiers and a range of makeshift weapons, the intruders took one look at Janet and, pushing first Nettie then Sorcha to one side, fell upon her.

  ‘She’s here! The witch is here!’

  ‘Nae!’ screamed Sorcha. ‘Leave her alone. Haven’t you done enough?’ Someone kicked out, but she managed to dodge the boot, wrapping her arms around Janet who clung to her, trembling. Nettie landed a blow upon a soldier, earning a fist to the cheek for her efforts. It didn’t stop her crawling back towards Janet and shielding her.

  ‘I’ll not let them take you,’ whispered Sorcha.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Nettie.

  ‘I won’t let them hurt either of you,’ said Janet and tried to stand.

  Slapping aside those who tried to grasp a hold of Janet, Sorcha and Nettie used nails, teeth, feet, whatever they could. Shirts were torn, skirts became caught in someone’s pike, pinned by a knife, ripped.

  Sergeant Thatcher lunged at the men as he tried to pull Sorcha and Nettie to safety. The butt of a rifle connected with his skull and he tumbled to the floor, out cold. More pushed their way through the door, throwing their fists about, waving their weapons, uncaring now the soldiers had been disarmed. A gun discharged. The women screamed. The round went into the ceiling, sending a shower of plaster and straw upon everyone below.

  The fire was kicked, peat and smouldering lumps rolling out of the hearth. Smoke belched and billowed. It was difficult to see; to breathe.

  Torn from Janet’s side, Sorcha fell hard against the window, almost shattering it. There was another scream. Nettie was hurled against a wall and fell to the floor unmoving. Janet was lifted into a pair of burly arms. It was the bearded man who’d tied her up on the beach, the incomer. He was helped by two others Sorcha didn’t recognise and a few others she did.

  Bodies pressed against her, pushing, crying, shrieking, whimpering. Unarmed soldiers barged into the room fists hooked. One was stabbed, another toppled unconscious, too close to the fire. Jenny tried to stamp out the flames before they took, shoving the burning peat back into the hearth.

  Carried out of the house, Janet was flung onto the road. Sorcha clawed at the window, trying to open it, but it was jammed. Pinned against the glass by the press of bodies, she was unable to move; forced to watch as a wide circle formed around Janet.

  The bearded man began shouting instructions, his voice unclear to those inside the house. A couple of men disappeared briefly. There was the splintering shriek of tearing wood. It was the signal the crowd had been waiting for. Their approval was deafening.

  Janet lay bleeding and crying on the road, curled on one side, her knees against her chest, unaware that two men were marching up the road carrying a great wooden door. They halted next to Janet, their eyes fixed on the Englishman.

  The crowd grew quiet. Janet rolled painfully onto her back to see why. When she saw the men, the door held high above their heads, a terrible prescience dawned. She craned her neck as far as she could.

  Sorcha locked eyes with Janet, willing her to focus on her and her alone. The old fishwife lay there, still as could be. As they stared at each other, Sorcha poured all the love and memories of their years together into her gaze: as fishwives, as friends, labouring by the ocean, helping the men. She recalled their shared history, the bonds that linked them in ways others could not comprehend. Slowly fear and uncertainty drained from Janet’s face. A smile curved her lips as she mouthed something.

  As if she stood beside her, Sorcha heard the words clearly. ‘Live for me.’

  They were like a punch to the stomach.

  The bearded man made a chopping motion with his hand and, in one movement, the men holding the door threw it down on Janet. There was no hesitation. It slammed into her, the force making her legs and arms fly upwards. Before it had even settled, the men leapt onto it, jumping up and down, beckoning those watching to join. Pulling volunteers up beside them, they stomped upon the wood, drinking from flasks, bottles, crying out in celebration, as if a woman wasn’t being crushed to death beneath their boots.

  Janet’s head lolled to one side. Her mouth fell open and her tongue escaped. Where her blood flowed, steam rose into the chilly night air, weaving the murderers with their sweaty bodies and hot whisky breath, in an insubstantial mist. All the while the moon shone its lambent glow upon them, making Janet appear ephemeral, ghoulish, and those killing her evil spectres who’d been granted grey flesh for the night.

  Sorcha saw the moment life left Janet. Her eyes, bright with pain and disbelief, widened, grew glazed, then empty.

  Janet Cornfoot was gone.

  Sorcha stayed at the window, unable to look away. She prayed for Janet’s soul and that those who committed such a foul act, including the man who was really responsible, would pay. Eternal damnation was not enough. What was this if not damnation made manifest? She would never forget what she was witnessing. None of them would. She felt scraped, hollow, as if all the light in the world had been extinguished and a great darkness had taken up residence. A darkness thicker than pitch and just as evil smelling and evil tasting.

  Around her, the women wept. Some of the men too.

  Nettie stirred, crawled her way to the window and held Sorcha in her arms. They neither cried nor spoke, simply stared.

  At some point Sergeant Thatcher regained consciousness and, learning what was happening, clambered to his feet and said something to Sorcha. She gave the barest of nods and he left, taking some of the soldiers with him. They could do no more for Janet Cornfoot, and he was certain she and Nettie were safe for the time being. But they could try and help protect those who’d gone to the Tolbooth. Sorcha hoped with all her wrung-out heart that this time, the soldiers’ presence would be a deterrent.

  Those dancing atop Janet didn’t notice them leaving the house; they were too busy.

  Minutes or hours later, Sorcha no longer knew, a cart was dragged up the lane by a man in a large floppy hat, who invited people to jump in the back. When four people obliged, he wheeled it back and forth across the door. Across Janet. When it became stuck on the edges, the men were quick to free it, holding it by the sides to make sure it didn’t roll off.

  A quiet figure among the revelry finally drew Sorcha’s eye. Nudging Nettie, she jerked her chin towards it. He may have his head covered and be draped in a black cloak, but they knew him for what and who he was. Once more, the reverend gazed upon his handiwork. Was he horrified to see what he’d incited? What he’d given birth to?

  ‘God, don’t forgive them,’ whispered Sorcha, ‘for they know exactly what they do.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Nettie softly.

  It wasn’t until the cart was wheeled away and the door finally removed from Janet, allowing the crowd to see she was indeed dead, that people, mostly subdued, started to disperse. Even then, there were those who prised her off the road and held her broken, bloody body up for Sorcha and Nettie to see.

  It’s not Janet. It’s not Janet. Sorcha kept the mantra going. She had to, she had to believe it. This bent, malleable form was not human. It was a scarecrow divested of its stuffing, a skin without contents. Janet wa
s with God now. Her God.

  Annoyed that Sorcha, Nettie and the others appeared unmoved, the men shouted they would be next. Sorcha simply stared through the glass. When the remaining guards hefted weapons in their direction, the men’s bold pronouncements faded.

  ‘To the Tolbooth!’ shouted one of them. ‘There be more witches there!’ The cry was taken up.

  Scooping Janet’s body up, as if she were a great catch brought to land, they swiftly departed, taking her corpse with them. As dawn broke across the Weem, sending the winking, blinking stars to bed and shedding a pale mauve light over the town, the horde marched through the streets, singing, drinking, celebrating, torches raised high.

  Sorcha could hear them. For ages, their voices continued to ring. Finally, after all this time, they had their justice. They’d protected the Weem, each other, their homes, their families — and from what?

  An old fishwife whose greatest sin was to speak the truth.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Dummy wunnae lee.

  (Here is visible evidence, so you need not argue.)

  ‘You said they wouldn’t harm her further, that they’d bring her to the Tolbooth,’ blared Bailie Cook, shoving his face into the reverend’s before beginning to pace again. ‘Well, fuck that. What are we supposed to do now?’ The question was directed at Bailie Vernour.

  Having returned from the Tolbooth, where they’d ordered a group of soldiers guarding the door to find Janet Cornfoot, the Pittenweem council were reconvened in Cook’s dining room. The remnants of their earlier meal as well as the odours of whisky and tobacco mingled with the men’s sweat and trepidation at what they’d just learned — their concern not so much what had happened to Janet Cornfoot, but what her demise portended for them. Their faces were red, their words clipped and angry.

  Patrick Cowper clapped his hands together. He needed to take control of the situation before these weak men capitulated to Bailie Bell’s suggestion and sent to Edinburgh for troops to subdue the townsfolk.