The clacking of wheels grew louder, and a farmer with his horse and cart appeared before her. He was a tall man with a long black beard, and his horse, thick and tall, was also black. The farmer’s cart was piled high with green sheaves of spring barley. He doffed his cap and gave a slight bow. “Mistress,” he murmured.
“Good afternoon,” Katharine answered. “Twould appear a good harvest?”
“Yes, Mistress, the Lord has brought rain and sun for the corn.” Corn was what the people here called any kind of grain. Oats, barley, wheat . . . it was all corn.
Such a polite man, Katharine thought. She had seen him in kirk.
As he clattered away, she continued her walk and her reflections. Illumination was the word Thomas Hogg had used. She had illuminated him. And why could she not bring that illumination here? Not only to the girls, but in dialogue with the minister, Harry Forbes? Was this why the Lord had called her to this bleak land?
On the hill to her right stood the Auldearn Kirk, a rough stone building with a few small windows along the side. The village, just ahead, was a tiny cluster of stone and wattle houses with steep thatched roofs overhanging the road. At the near edge of town a few people were gathered under the spreading branches of a giant oak.
Across from the little gathering, the alewife, Maggie Burnet, stood in her doorway. When she saw Katharine coming, she shouted at one of the women. “Jonet Fraser, ye drunken whore, quit yer bellowin’!” Katharine hadn’t heard any bellowing; in fact, the people had been standing in a huddle and conferring in whispers.
Jonet Fraser. Wasn’t she the one who had been in the stocks for adultery? Four sets of eyes glared as she walked by.
A thin stream of black smoke rose from the blacksmith’s chimney, and as Katharine passed, she could see two men inside at the fiery forge. Next came the pottery, the dye house, and the seamstress’s shop. Katharine liked to visit the seamstress, Lilias Dunlop, who also did spinning and weaving. Sometimes, she could find yarn or linen thread here for her needlework, but the wool and lace, she felt, were not of the quality she herself could make. Immediately upon that prideful thought, she begged the Lord’s forgiveness. Pride was the devil in disguise, and she had to watch for his stealthy appearance.
After the seamstress’s house came the manse—the only building in the village with a second story and two brick chimneys. Katharine approached the oaken door. Unpainted, it was scuffed and gouged, as if someone had taken a knife to it.
She walked up to the scarred door and knocked. Harry’s wife, a short, broad woman, opened the door. Mistress Forbes, from beneath veiled lids, eyed Katharine up and down with an expression Katharine could only think of as spite. Why would this woman hold a grudge against her? Mistress Forbes scowled and shoved Katharine into the parlor, almost knocking her over.
Taken aback, Katharine righted herself. “I believe,” she said, “we were supposed to meet in his study?”
“Ha!” The woman snorted. She pointed toward the hallway, then left the room.
As she recovered her bearings, Katharine observed her surroundings. Beneath the window, a table with one leg missing was propped against the wall, and beside it squatted a sofa, its horsehair worn away to the bare seat. On another table, a thick candle nub in a pool of melted wax looked as if it had been there for years. Dust lay deep on the furniture and windowsills, and a musty smell pervaded the room. That woman, with her impudent manners and foul housekeeping, was a shocking travesty of a minister’s wife. One must pity the minister, Katharine thought, to have made such a match.
She stepped into the hall and proceeded along the dark corridor. A child appeared out of the gloom, with a dirty face, bare feet, and nothing on but a thin shift that hardly covered its bottom. “Hello,” Katharine said, but the child retreated back into a corner, silent and staring.
A sudden flurry arose, and a young serving woman of perhaps sixteen rushed past. Her hair was loose, and her cheeks flushed. She glanced at Katharine but didn’t speak. Who was she? Katharine felt a tensing in her body, an uneasiness—not just about Mistress Forbes, but about this house.
At the end of the hall, a door opened, and Mister Harry, tall and gaunt, smiled broadly. “Mistress Collace. Please come in.” He pushed back his sparse ginger hair, uncombed as usual, and ushered her into the room.
This was the first time Katharine had been to the manse, and the second time she had met with Mister Harry. After the kirk service, he’d invited her here to continue their “exalted discourse.”
Katharine took a seat beside the fireplace, and Mister Harry sat opposite her. He beamed as he arranged his long limbs in the chair and sat at an angle. His clothing—the baggy, too-short trousers, stained white shirt under a jerkin, and crooked ruff—was in disarray, more so than usual.
Though extremely thin, Harry Forbes had a sensual face that seemed to shift and react with every passing breeze. Full lips over protruding teeth twitched and contracted as he spoke, and his smile emerged randomly, either to accentuate his speech or compensate for some inner pain.
Mister Harry’s smile was lingering on her right now, and she clutched at the neckline of her gown, feeling somehow exposed. He was a man of the cloth and her spiritual advisor, she reminded herself. This was the place where she could open her heart.
“We were discussing,” she said, taking her Bible out of her bag, “the doctrine of total depravity and these cunning women. And I have been pondering the meaning of Genesis I.”
Mister Harry adjusted his ruff and opened the Bible on the table beside him.
Katharine took a breath. “God, it says, made man in his image. Male and female both, in the image of God. And if this is true, are not these poor women also made in God’s image?”
Mister Harry dropped his Bible on the table with a bang and stared at her. He was speechless, something she’d never seen. He rubbed his hair and re-crossed his legs.
She waited.
Finally, he spoke. “Yes, you are correct. We are all made in God’s image. But we are also all born in sin, and our task is to work toward goodness, something these wretches do not.”
“I know we are born in sin,” she said, “but how hard to believe, when I think of my children, so innocent.” She bowed her head and shook it. “And after this latest death of my dear daughter. She who saw the angels.”
That sweet child had been four years old—older than the others who had died. Katharine had loved her dearly, perhaps more than all the rest. Once, as Emilia had lain in her bed gazing up to heaven, Katharine asked if she would she take any meat. Emilia answered that she would come to Christ, and that his flesh was meat enough. “In Heaven, the Lord is there,” she had said, “and the father of the Lord and all the holy angels and all the bonny things are there. And he will give me a new song to sing, Hallelujah.” Katharine’s tears came at the words, as if the child was already in Heaven. But then Emilia was gone. And again came the need to bury a child: a child of her body and soul. When they laid her in the ground, Katharine’s arms reached out as if to hold, but found nothing . . . only emptiness. Now she was almost thirty and childless again.
“Ah,” Mister Harry said. “We must endure such pain and suffering in this life, and these tests are given precisely to strengthen our faith.”
They bowed and prayed, and Harry’s words came clear and true. She felt a lifting of the weight as she sighed. “You have helped me remember,” she said, “that in the loss of one thing the Lord gives something more, if only we can discern it. I find solace, and even ecstasy, in knowing that I, too, am the bride of Christ. He comes to me; I see and feel and hear him with all my senses, and he soothes my brow. He gives me such pleasure in his presence.”
“Ah, yes.” Mister Harry was sitting up now, more alert. “And what are the pleasures you find there, my dear?” Was that a leer? It couldn’t be. To her own surprise, Katharine herse
lf was now speechless. Had there been something unseemly in his question?
He looked away, his sharp nose affording him a rather dignified profile, then changed tack. “Sometimes, an earthly marriage is given to us as a trial, a continual chastisement, to remind us that our true loyalty and faithfulness, our true pleasure, should be in the Lord.”
“Yes.” Katharine sighed. “In my experience, rarely is marriage made in heaven. It is an earthly chore, sometimes entered into too hastily, but then we must pay the price for that haste.” She knew too well the price. She’d been young, eighteen, and had not followed the advice of others in marrying John Ross.
Harry’s smile widened. “And when one heart finds another, and minds are understood, as yours to mine, should we not rejoice, as well? And find solace therein?” He reached over and lay his hand on her knee.
Katharine started and stood up, wrapping her cape round her shoulders. She was confused. Mister Harry is highly reputed for piety, she thought. But he took a liberty. And she could never go in with that. She must examine her heart. Had she encouraged this liberty? Had she been backsliding? “Mister Forbes, I must go.”
Mister Harry’s smile faded, his eyebrows shot up, and his pale eyes looked almost tearful. “Ah, my dear, I, too, have a heaviness on my heart, and I had hoped I could confide in you, as well.” He seemed unaware of her discomfort.
Perhaps she had misinterpreted his action. She sat back down.
“Such evil times we live in,” he lamented. “With this belief in fairies and devils, and such a preponderance of witches.”
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide the gaping. He’d steered the conversation back to his grievance.
“The simple people,” she said. “Perhaps if they could read, lessons in scripture would advance their understanding.”
He shook his head. “They need not read, but only listen to the Word, something they resist. They would rather believe in magic and endanger their eternal souls than attend to the Word of God. These witches, they rhyme and chant, and already, they have caused much harm—much evil in Auldearn.”
“And you do speak against this evil in the pulpit,” she replied. In fact, Mister Harry spoke against witches too often, in her opinion. She wished he would stick to the deeper questions of theology. Mister Harry could be eloquent when he wasn’t focused on the witch controversy.
His shoulders sank, and he bowed his head. “The Lord has convicted me thrice over to find these maleficent women, to discern their deeds, and to root them out.” He raised his head, his eyes shining. “This is why I warn and adjure the people to bring their names to me.”
Bring their names to him. “Wasn’t there a case in recent months?” Mister Harry, she knew, had been instrumental in bringing a case to trial.
“Ah, yes, Jane Dunlop. At first, she denied, but then gave a full confession.”
It was common knowledge that Jane Dunlop had been pricked with pins and kept awake until she confessed. Katharine shuddered. “And she was burned at the stake.”
Mister Harry bowed his head. “I know some objected, but I thank our Heavenly Father for showing us this evil incarnate. This was the only way to abolish it.” He sighed. “But sadly, the power of Satan lives on in our parish.”
“More witches?”
“Ah, too, too many.” Mister Harry’s eyebrows and lips went through several contortions, and his voice became whiny. “They have even come here, to my home, and caused me great harm: stomach pain and other sickness.”
Katharine was silent.
“Exodus 22:18,” he said. “Do not suffer a witch to live.” He paused. “And there is one here who yields much power and influence.”
“A witch?”
“Aye. She is the leader of this group, I believe. Her name is Isobel Gowdie.”
Katharine stared. This was the woman Margaret had met on the strand. The one Margaret had wanted to ask for a charm.
ISOBEL
Chapter 9
As the sun went down, I snuffed out the candle and bedded the bairns on the floor, their plaids wrapped round and round. Little Maria was demanding more milk, but the cow had not yet recovered from the winter, and there was no more, so I gave her a cup of ale I’d hidden behind the chest and a dram to the other two, as well. Immediately, the three bairns fell fast asleep. I banked the peat on the fire, peeled off some hay from the bale, threw it over the byre for the animals, and spread the extra plaids on the mat in the corner. And then Hugh Gilbert, who had been watching me in silence, grabbed me and pulled me down.
I submitted, as always. And as always, Hugh was fast and rough. This time, I felt some pleasure as I thought of Thomas the Rhymer, the man in green, and my body delighted as the warmth of Thomas came into me.
Hugh began to snore. I closed my eyes, and my body went still. Would I see him? Thomas, as full of sunshine and light as Hugh Gilbert was consumed in sullen darkness.
Would tonight be the night? Slowly, slowly, the familiar feeling came. My body became stiff, and now I was above it, with body beneath me. It was not my body now, but a stiff wooden thing: a broom, a besom, a twig tied with branches and straw. The besom would lie in the bed. And if Hugh awakened before I returned, he would think this piece of wood and straw to be his wife.
Now I was outside the hut, and here was Thomas, his clothing all white this time, his long yellow beard and hair wild and fiery. “Are you ready, my lady?” His eyes sparkled like sunlight on water. Beside him hovered a slight and vigorous spirit in red, a tiny figure with long red hair. The Red Reiver: my own sprite. I knew him in my heart and mind and soul. He was, in fact, a part of me, in me and beside me, a spirit to protect me in my sojourns into this other world.
“I am ready, Thomas.”
Thomas lifted his chest and looked down at me. “But lady, my name be William.”
I stepped back. “William?” I stepped further back to the door, or what passed for a door, that hole in the mud wall.
“Aye,” he roared, standing taller and taller. “Thomas be the king of the Fairies, but I am greater and grander.”
I had thought to meet with Thomas the Rhymer, he who lives with the fairies and courts the fairy queen with his silver harp. I lowered my head and peered at him through my lashes. “And why should I go with you?” I demanded. Was there something here to bargain for?
“I can give you power.”
I felt the Red Reiver spritely and close. He nodded vigorously and hopped up and down.
“Power?” I said. “I have the power. I know the power of the sea, and the crow and the hare, the plants to heal, the charms and the cures.”
“Ah.” He looked down from his great height with the merriest of smiles, his face aglow with light and honey. “But with me, you will fly. You will eat and drink your fill; you will learn to spite your enemies. You’ll be invisible; you will be able to strike and kill who you will.” His smile was a fiery glint. “All this and more.”
I had hoped for Thomas, but perhaps this William was greater. I could journey with him and have all manner of power. I could spite my enemies.
“Come,” beckoned William, fast astride his black stallion.
And now I saw that my own white steed awaited. I sprang upon the horse calling, “Horse and hattock, ho! Ho and away!” And now I was aloft, and my body alive, every part, with the flight and the thrill and the speed. I was no longer hungry, and pain was unheard of, unknown, unimagined. My body was light—light as air. And now I was large, so great that I was part of everything, and everything a part of me. “Horse and hattock, ho!” I called again, and we flew through the night, over farmtown and field, over dunes and machair and mountains.
I could swoop without effort, and even through clouds, see all below. We soared, almost to the Cairngorms, over Ben Rinnes, its mountaintop painted white with snow. Now fading
and misting, now clearing, but yes: a dingle, a fire, a camp. Men and horses, stomping and shouting and bucking.
“No time to stop,” William called, and on we went, above the mountains and west, all the way to Darnaway Castle. In through the chimney and into the Great Hall, the seat of the Earl of Moray, the grandest hall in all of Morayshire and perhaps all of Scotland.
Here were noblemen and ladies in the finest of dress, gowns in silks and velvets, diamonds in their hair and on their fingers. They stood in the dusky hall in torchlight and candlelight, their satin and jewels glittering in the shadows. With glances and whispers, they stared at me. “Who is she?”
No longer the ragged peasant, one who was ignored and dismissed, now I was seen—and not only seen, but honored. The noble people looked at me in awe. I was their queen. I wore a shimmering gown of diaphanous silver, the most dazzling one of all. The people bowed to me, and I felt my power. Here was Elspeth Nychie, whom William called “Bessie Bold;” and now Lilias Dunlop, “Able and Stout.” Here were Bessie Wilson and so many others from the farmtown, all dressed as fine ladies, though none as fine as Isobel the Cunning Woman.
The room flickered and thrilled with the presence of William: lusty William, so full of secret delight that when he passed and touched me with the softest graze, I warmed and quivered to my very root. This was a feeling Hugh Gilbert could never cause, let alone imagine.
William had transformed again. He was now clad all in black. A long black doublet, black breeches and boots, his hair and beard and eyes . . . all black. We were in the kitchen now, and he opened his arms and waved his hands over everything. “Eat! Drink!” I didn’t stop to wonder why he had transformed again, this time from light to dark. I was hungry, and I ate.
Meats and breads, cheeses, cakes, and fruits on delicate plates, and wine in crystal glasses. We feasted until we were full and could eat no more. We laughed and danced to the pipes and sang until dawn had nearly come, right there in the castle kitchen.
Bitter Magic Page 6
