The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  … he [Reverend Patrick Cowper] exercised more of the civil authority than any of the other bailies…

  — An Answer of a Letter From a Gentleman of Fife, 1705

  Clouds scudded across the moon, turning the path that ran along the seashore between Anster and Pittenweem into a nether world of shadows followed by bursts of silver. Not even her thick woollen shawl protected Sorcha from the barbs of icy-cold sea-spray that showered her. Blasts of wind drove the watery arrows deep.

  Sorcha thought about Beatrix, safe now, staying with Nettie’s daughter Rebecca and her husband in Anster until the fuss died down. Until either the reverend’s temper — and thus that of the kirk — was restored, or Edinburgh brought the threatened legal proceedings against the council. What a brave lass Nettie’s daughter was, welcoming Beatrix, giving her a comfortable bed in the attic and a small space where she could read, or sew or otherwise occupy herself. It was worth the risk to visit her and ensure she was settled — well, as settled as one could be when they were all but hounded from hearth and home. At least, with a few exceptions, no one knew Beatrix’s whereabouts. Between them, Sorcha and Nettie spread a rumour that Beatrix was wandering outside the Weem walls, awaiting the reverend’s pardon, and seriously considering moving to St Andrew’s once that occurred. It was gossip Mr Brown, who remained in Pittenweem for his wife’s sake, and the Lawsons, also fuelled.

  As Sorcha walked, she lifted her head occasionally to gaze across the shifting waters of the Forth, catching sight of the lighthouse on the Isle of May and the dark silhouettes of ships anchored in the wide expanse. Soon, she prayed, one of those ships would bring Aidan home. Thinking of Aidan brought to mind Sergeant Thatcher, and how less than a week ago he’d come to the cottage door to bid her farewell.

  After the murder of Janet Cornfoot, he had accepted a posting to join his captain in Bavaria. A number of the billeted soldiers would also be leaving and would be replaced, and a new officer appointed.

  ‘I never thought I’d say this, Mrs McIntyre, Sorcha,’ he’d said quickly as she started to correct him. He smiled. They’d been through too much together to rest on formalities. ‘But I think it be, if not safer, then more honourable fighting the bloody French for Queen and country in a foreign land than fighting auld women and an enemy I cannot see here in Fife; even if it’s in God’s name.’

  Stepping forward, uncaring who might see, Sorcha had thrown her arms around him. ‘Be safe, Stephen. And please, bring Aidan home with you.’

  When she planted a kiss on his cheek, she was astonished to see it redden. Squeezing her tightly, delighted by her affection, he’d released her reluctantly. ‘I’ll do my best, lass. Now, do you have a letter for him?’

  Sorcha did and gave it to the sergeant, who’d tucked it beneath his plaid, bowed and left.

  Though he’d only been gone a short time, she missed him terribly. The town wasn’t the same without the sergeant and his men, even though a few of Aidan’s soldiers still remained, awaiting the arrival of the new troops. Truth was, the town wasn’t the same without Aidan.

  Keeping her head down as the wind grew worse and the salty water stung her eyes, Sorcha thought of all that happened since he left. Believing Janet’s death and the arrest of the men responsible would mark the end of their torment, she’d been wrong.

  Furious that, once again, Edinburgh had undermined his authority, Patrick Cowper renewed his efforts to rouse the fears of those in the parish still worried about the so-called witches being free. If he couldn’t punish the women himself, then he’d make sure the townsfolk did it for him, only this time, within the bounds of the law.

  As a consequence, Beatrix especially, but Nicolas as well, were having a miserable time. To an extent, Isobel was protected by her father. Sorcha, by the families of the fishermen contracted to her boat, while both she and Nettie were shielded by Janet’s relatives and friends, who never forgot what they did that night or the letter Sorcha had written to Edinburgh. If only the protection she had could be extended to Beatrix and Nicolas. But people were afraid. Neighbours still turned on neighbours and the reverend did nothing to stop it. On the contrary, he encouraged it.

  Shopkeepers refused Beatrix and Mr Brown service. The windows to Beatrix’s house were broken. It wasn’t rational or fair that Beatrix became the object of folk’s anger, but nothing about this was.

  When Beatrix was told that if she was ever discovered alone, she’d be treated the way Janet was, she could stand it no longer. With her husband’s blessing, she wasted no time, and before the bailies had even left to go to the city, had appealed to Edinburgh to demand the Pittenweem council provide her with protection so she might go about her daily business.

  When the reverend found out, he ordered her brought to the Tolbooth — the place where Janet’s murderers were confined — so they might discuss the matter further. Warned of his intention to seize her once more, with Nettie’s help, Beatrix disappeared.

  In the meantime, acting on the advice of the reverend (and Sorcha knew what that meant), the remaining council members ignored Edinburgh’s directive to help Beatrix. They replied declaring that they couldn’t provide a bond to protect Beatrix Laing against any rabble that might assault her, because ‘she may be murthered in the night without their knowledge’.

  The hypocrisy infuriated Sorcha. They refused to offer surety for Beatrix because anyone might kill her at any time and they’d know naught about it.

  Visiting Beatrix in Anster that afternoon, bringing her much-needed news and messages of support, Sorcha was content that her friend at least was safe. Happy was too much to expect when she was torn from her home, worried about her husband, and in danger.

  Reaching the outskirts of Pittenweem, Sorcha adjusted her creel and decided to continue along the foreshore. It might be cold, but at least here, closer to the wall, the spray wasn’t so bad or the wind so wild. Directly in front of her were the rounded shapes of the western braes, where Thomas Brown’s body had been so carelessly thrown before it disappeared. Janet had suffered the ignominy of a shallow grave. Three days after she’d been consigned to the dirt, her sister, cousins and neighbours, with help from Mr Adam and Nicolas’s husband, had crept up one night and dug up her body for burial elsewhere. Sorcha had donated coin to help pay for a service, but that was all. The family wouldn’t allow her to do more. They didn’t want anyone to know where Janet was laid to rest, lest they also be punished should they be caught.

  The reverend and council had been furious but, in this instance, they’d also been impotent. A situation Sorcha knew the reverend would find intolerable; if he could, he would make someone pay. The notion filled her with disquiet.

  She wondered if it was thoughts of the reverend that made her finally turn away from the sea and wander up Cove Wynd. Walking past the houses, she could see the glow of lanterns and candles, smell the peat burning in hearths and see the flicker of shadows as folk moved by the curtained windows. There was conversation, some laughter. In one house an argument raged and a cheeky bairn demanded attention. Passing St Fillan’s Cave, she thought of those who’d wasted months in there, first Beatrix, then Janet. Only one had survived — and was currently in exile. All because of superstition, fear, spite, and something so deep and dark Sorcha was too afraid to prod it.

  In her heart she knew that whatever started this whole series of tragic events, it was still there. Waiting, biding its time. Whether it would bring everything to a conclusion or envelop them in more misery, she was uncertain. All she knew was that she could feel it, a great black mass with gnashing teeth that threatened to blot out the light, to burrow into her soul.

  There were lights on in the manse, too, as she walked past. Through the window she spotted a fire blazing. It was the reverend’s study. The flames cast a lambent glow, revealing an unoccupied desk stacked with neat piles of paper and a glass decanter half-filled with umber liquid. Where was the reverend, she wondered. She’d feel safer if she kn
ew. Perhaps he was watching her even now.

  She picked up her pace, lifted her chin, and searched the darkness more thoroughly. The bell tolled the hour, making her leap in her skin and flatten herself against a wall. Eleven of the clock. It was that instinctive reaction to a loud noise that not only covered her approach, but meant she saw him first.

  Propped against the door of the Tolbooth, the reverend was in a huddle with five wretched figures.

  On the other side of the road, Sorcha stayed as still as she could. Who was the reverend talking to at this time of night? And outside the Tolbooth?

  The clouds parted, and the moon’s luminescence shone upon the scene. Sorcha sucked in her breath. Reverend Patrick Cowper was not only in hushed conversation with the men who’d been arrested for Janet’s murder, but he was cutting their bonds. As they rubbed their wrists, she watched him place a coin in each fist. Then he pointed first towards Routine Row, then the High Street and, finally, Cove Wynd.

  With terse nods and a few grunts, the men bowed and left one by one. Two headed towards her and Sorcha prayed they wouldn’t sense her. Adrift in their own thoughts, they passed swiftly, their stench lingering long after they’d gone.

  Only after the men had well and truly departed did Sorcha breathe again. Now it was her turn to bring a tale home for Nettie. For if she wasn’t mistaken, Reverend Cowper had just set free the prisoners. Prisoners, if she understood correctly, the Privy Council in Edinburgh had demanded be sent to the city for trial. Patrick Cowper was breaking the law by letting the felons go. Or had he found others to blame for Janet’s death? The thought made her feel sick. She wanted to be home, safe in her cottage; she wanted to share what she’d just witnessed, try to unravel what it meant.

  About to continue on, something held her back. Sure enough, the reverend remained, staring in her direction. Had he heard her? Seen her? Her heart was thumping loud enough to accompany pipes. Forcing herself to keep utterly still, she tried to fix on him. Praying he wasn’t heading home just yet, that he wouldn’t pass her hiding place, she stayed where she was, growing colder even while sweat slipped between her breasts.

  Finally, with a shake of his head, he turned and re-entered the Tolbooth, closing the door behind him.

  Sorcha waited a few minutes longer, then finally peeled herself away from the wall and retraced her steps back towards the harbour. She would walk the long way home tonight, back along the seashore and past the old priory, and think about what she’d just seen.

  She didn’t doubt that it boded no good for the Weem. No good for her and the other fishwives.

  Upon reaching the harbourfront, she wasted no more time but adjusted her creel, picked up her skirts and, throwing caution aside, ran.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  That’s the end o’ an auld sang.

  (Something familiar has gone forever.)

  Only once she reached the safety of her cottage did Sorcha relax. She closed the door, leaned against it, and expelled the air from her lungs.

  ‘I was about to come looking for you,’ said Nettie, peeling her arms out of the coat she’d been in the middle of donning. ‘What took you so long, hen? Is everything all right in Anster?’

  They’d agreed it would arouse suspicion if both of them had gone to Anster to sell fish, let alone visited Rebecca, so Nettie had remained in the Weem.

  Unwrapping her shawl and draping it near the fire to dry, Sorcha shook her head as if to clear it. ‘You’re not going to believe what I just witnessed.’

  ‘Before you tell me that,’ said Nettie, patting the chair opposite, ‘sit and tell me how Beatrix fares. How’s my daughter?’

  As Sorcha swiftly explained Beatrix was safe, there was no sign of her having been followed, and how welcome she’d been made to feel, Nettie smiled.

  ‘We were right to send her away. You ken the council are still looking for her?’

  Taking the cup of tea Nettie proffered, Sorcha looked at her quizzically. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because guards came here.’

  Sorcha put down her cup slowly. ‘Again? They didn’t hurt you?’

  Nettie waved a hand in the air as she sat down, taking off her boots. ‘Nae, hen. Threatened, aye, but it was from them I learned that on the morrow they’re going further afield. Seems the reverend’s determined to find Beatrix. Claims he’s concerned for her welfare.’

  Sorcha snorted, then drained her tea and put the cup down carefully. ‘He can be as determined as he likes, soon it won’t matter.’

  ‘How so?’

  A mysterious smile hovered on Sorcha’s lips. ‘Because I’ve the means to end this persecution once and for all. To ensure we’re left alone and that the reverend will never threaten us or our loved ones again.’

  She had Nettie’s full attention now. ‘What? You saw him making a pact with the devil?’

  ‘Just as good.’ Sorcha laughed at the expression on Nettie’s face. ‘You asked what took me so long to get home? Well, I decided to go via the harbour and, as you’re wont to do, turn up Cove Wynd. Happens I saw Reverend Cowper. Guess what he was up to?’

  Nettie shrugged. ‘Running naked among the tombstones?’

  ‘Nae,’ chuckled Sorcha then grew serious. ‘He was releasing the prisoners from the Tolbooth.’

  Nettie’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. ‘Get away with you. He was not.’

  ‘Och, he was. I also saw him give them money and tell them to get away from Pittenweem as fast as they could.’

  Nettie flung herself back in the chair and stared, a smile slowly forming. ‘So, the bastard’s finally shown his true colours.’ At once, her features altered. ‘But why would anyone believe you over him? After all, you be a woman; a witch too, remember?’

  ‘Cowper might call me a witch, but even I can’t magic prisoners out of the Tolbooth. God knows, if I could, I would have made us vanish all those months ago. Nae,’ said Sorcha as Nettie’s mischievous grin reappeared, ‘this time the evidence speaks for itself. Forget Beatrix, if the guards should go in search of one of these prisoners, I’m sure it wouldn’t take much for them to confess who it was released them, let alone why. The reverend’s afeared of what they’ll tell Edinburgh… what their stories about what happened the night Janet died will reveal about him.’

  Nettie gave a whoop and jumped out of her chair. She began to pace. ‘You ken what this means? If word of what he did reaches the city, the reverend’ll be for the stocks.’

  ‘Or worse,’ nodded Sorcha. ‘Breaking the law, releasing felons the officials ordered the council arrest, and when a delegation from the Weem was in the city as well. He’ll lose the kirk.’

  Nettie spun around. ‘He could lose his life.’ She mimicked being hung.

  They both nodded gravely as Nettie lowered her fingers.

  The possibilities stretched between them.

  ‘Does he ken you saw him?’

  Sorcha shuddered, remembering her fear of being discovered, how close he was to her. ‘I don’t think so. But he’ll know once I confront him.’

  Nettie frowned. ‘Confront him? Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, I understand we have to use this information, but shouldn’t you wait? Inform Edinburgh first?’

  ‘Why? What good has that done so far?’ asked Sorcha. Then she saw the expression on Nettie’s face and gave a long sigh. ‘Nae, you’re right.’ Rising, she searched the shelves for a bottle of whisky. Finding one, she grabbed two quaichs and poured. Passing one over to Nettie, she tapped the lip of hers against her friend’s. ‘Confronting him will only warn him. He’ll come up with a story to explain the escape, one that likely condemns us further.’ She sank back into her seat. ‘It’s just that he’s determined to tear Fife apart to find Beatrix and, once he does, he’ll have her tortured again, no matter what he states. Don’t forget, like you, she’s still an accused witch — one that’s fled. He can arrest and question her. This could stop that.’

  ‘But if we wait and allow the reverend to weave his we
b of lies, apportion blame and excuses as to why the prisoners escaped, then the truth comes out, it will be even worse for him.’

  Sorcha’s eyes sparkled. ‘That’s true. You be a wicked woman, Nettie Horseburgh.’

  ‘Nae, hen,’ said Nettie smiling. ‘Like you, I be a wicked witch. A sea-witch.’

  They both snickered.

  Suddenly serious, Sorcha sat up. ‘Very well. I’ll write to Edinburgh and give them a chance to act. While we’re waiting, I think we should let Beatrix and the others know what’s happening. It will not only forewarn them, but offer them some reassurance as well.’

  ‘Aye, it will,’ said Nettie.

  ‘Do you think Rebecca can hide Beatrix for a couple more days?’

  ‘I’m certain she can.’ Nettie drank slowly then stared at the window, not really seeing it. ‘I’ll go to Anster first thing, let the lasses know what’s going on.’

  Sorcha nodded approvingly. ‘That’s a grand idea. I’ll tell the others.’

  Nettie narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything rash while I’m gone, are you, hen? Like accosting the reverend yourself?’

  ‘Me?’ asked Sorcha, trying to look innocent and failing. She threw up her hands. ‘I promise. I won’t even think about confronting him until we hear from Edinburgh and you’re back. How’s that?’

  Trying to look satisfied, Nettie eventually agreed. ‘Very well.’ She settled into the chair and crossed her ankles. ‘It’ll be good to see Rebecca and Billy, that fine man of hers, Beatrix too. We can hide her in the cellar if we have to.’

  Sorcha grinned. ‘So long as there’s whisky for her, there’ll be no complaints.’

  They chuckled softly.

  ‘If we leave before dawn breaks,’ continued Sorcha, ‘I can be back home before the sun rises. And if you stay away for a day or two, if anyone asks where you are, I can say you left for Anster this afternoon. That’s long before the reverend released the murdering bastards.’