“Yes.”
“And how would you know this?”
“A cunning woman saw it with her second sight—the MacDonalds’ encampment.”
He stood in silence and gazed at her. Did he think she was mad to believe a cunning woman? “We employ military science that works in logical and rational ways,” he scoffed. “The king’s army does not depend upon magic.”
“Hah!” Margaret stomped her foot. Perhaps her father was right about these arrogant English. But this was for Henrietta, she thought, and softened her tone. “We are all so distressed, as dear Henrietta has been gone for more than a week now. Wouldn’t you want to try any possibility?” And now, truly, Margaret was on the verge of tears, which she knew could move a man to rescuing thoughts. But she would not allow the tears to come.
He frowned. “I will consult my superior officer,” he said, and turned away.
Now the tears came. He wouldn’t help, after all.
HARRY
Chapter 17
Harry Forbes loosened his ruff and stroked the front of his cassock. The people had left the kirk, and he was alone—a rare moment. Well, except for Jonet Fraser, who would stay in the stocks for the rest of the day.
If he could only get through to these people. If they could only see that he cared deeply about their eternal souls. God had called him here to this part of the world not to punish and condemn, but to lift and save. Jonet was suffering now, yes, but this would help her learn that adultery had consequences. And that faith was also about faithfulness. He would work harder to manifest the vision of Calvin, of a peaceful community, both religious and civil, living in harmony. If only he could root out these ignorant superstitions people were so attached to here in Auldearn.
Harry considered the stone walls, the low ceiling, and the humble windows of his kirk, where he had served for several years now. Had he served the Lord gladly today? Or was there within him some resentment of the Laird of Brodie? With his silk shirt and velvet jacket and shoes, Brodie had never known the struggle of survival, while Harry Forbes had had to make do with the same old black coat he’d worn for years and borrow money to augment his inadequate minister’s stipend.
He bowed his head. “Ah!” he moaned. These were covetous thoughts. He tore off his ruff and struck himself in the chest with it. “Oh, Lord, let me not continue in this sin!” He clasped his head in his hands. For these covetous thoughts, he would lament and chastise himself further in his journal tonight, offering sorrow and repentance.
Harry had come to Auldearn from Aberdeenshire, where, after taking his theological degree, he had served as schoolmaster for ten years. He was intelligent and curious about the mysteries of God, and in the Laird of Brodie, he had found a like-minded soul. They agreed that man could never rid himself of sin, and that the most important practice in religious life was continual repentance for one’s transgressions.
Now came a noise from outside the door. It opened, and there stood the young maid, Agnes Pierson. With her fresh face and smiling eyes, Agnes flounced her skirt, flapped her apron, and skipped up the aisle to Harry. “Mistress Forbes bids me tell thee she’s gone with milk to poor Anna Reid.” She laughed and held out her hand.
He touched his heart. Oh Lord, lead me not into temptation. He turned away. But then Agnes laughed again, a lusty, musical laugh, and Harry forgot his misgivings. He gave her his hand. So ripe was Agnes, so delightful and sweet, with her rosy cheeks and lips and her plump breasts peeking above her bodice. It was so freeing to be with the lass. Here, he didn’t have to keep up the authority of the minister; he could act with abandonment and be the opposite of a solemn Man of God. He had worked so hard at that guise, and had mostly succeeded, but the effort was Herculean. Trying to be virtuous and only virtuous was an impossible task.
Harry smiled again, a smile of pleasure, and led her into the vestry, just a tiny nook behind the pulpit, a private space. He plucked some plaids from a chair and cast them down on the floor to make a soft bed. She stood and waited while he approached. He unlaced her stays, slowly allowing the fullness of her soft body to emerge. Then he lifted her chemise and unhooked her petticoats. She stood unmoving, as was their custom, allowing Harry to view her naked body before plunging his red and panting face between those breasts. As he stood back and gazed at her again, words from the Song of Solomon came to mind. “Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,” he proclaimed. “Thy two breasts like young roes that feed among the lilies.” He stroked her breasts, and, in turn, her belly and thighs. “How fair and pleasant art thou, delectable maiden.”
Agnes, naked, blushed and giggled, reaching down into his trousers. She grabbed his member and shouted, “I’ll sain’ the prior’s wand!” and laughed raucously.
His wand. He felt himself shining with ecstasy, and straightened up, so proud of his strong, straight wand. He shuddered; but, controlling himself, whispered, “I will climb the palm tree and lay hold of its branches.”
Harry threw off his clothing, and they tumbled onto the plaids. As he entered her, he sang out the words of Solomon, “Come, my beloved, let us go forth!” And with a whoop, he collapsed.
All was quiet. Harry had fallen asleep, and as he half-woke, he sensed Agnes rising and putting on her clothes. In the cold stone chamber, bereft of ornamentation as was proper in a true kirk, she walked softly sunwise around the drowsy man, swinging her arms and making a sprinkling motion as she chanted, “The seed has been sown, the seed has been moistened, to bring the seed home, nay, leave him alone.”
At this, Harry opened his eyes and frowned. “What is this heathen talk, lass?”
“Only a little rhyme, a charm for the seed,” she responded. She slipped out the vestry door, running through the kirk and out the front door.
A charm for the seed? Harry clutched at his throat. Was she wanting to get pregnant? But if she did, no one would suspect him, would they? He dressed quickly and stepped outside.
“Aiee!” Jonet Fraser screeched from her seat on the ground. “Have mercy, Mister! Let me out!”
He backed away from the stench. “Jonet Fraser, you well know your punishment for adultery is to stay there all day until the sun sets. You must use this occasion to reflect upon your sin and repent.”
He walked away, down the hill, and a wince came unbidden to his face. Surely, I am not like this adulterous whore. I am a man of God.
Along the village road, he greeted the people with his usual cheer and empathy. Jack the Smith at the forge, Lilias Dunlop at her loom, and Elspeth Nychie, who covered her eyes with her kertsch so she wouldn’t have to return his greeting. Elspeth sidled past him, clinging to the shadows beneath the overhanging thatch. Did they know about Agnes? Was that a leer on Elspeth’s face, or was that close-lipped smirk her usual smile?
But how could I have done it again? Oh, Lord, I have sinned against thee, and I deserve naught but the fiery flames of hell. His stomach contracted in pain. He, Harry, was a man of God, not a wanton letch. He was not an adulterer—not he, Harry Forbes. It had just been a momentary lapse.
But what if he was not one of the elect? What if he was already condemned to the fiery flames of eternal damnation? The knot in his stomach tightened, the knot of fear that was always with him. He had worked so hard to become a minister, suffering poverty, long days of study, and humiliation from those in power, and had passed grueling tests. Surely, that was enough to please the Lord.
Still, one didn’t know. Like everyone, Harry was predestined, but was he already saved, or already damned? If it was the former, God would forgive his sin. Surely, he was of the elect, and all that was needed was repentance. I repent of this deed, Lord, he shouted within his soul. Forgive me! Rather were I a beggar on the streets of Edinburgh than offend thee in this way! He clenched his fists and punched himself, then doubled over in anguish.
James the Miller, who was leading his o
x around the corner, stopped and stared. Well, the practice of self-castigation and repentance was common. Harry would provide an example for the people.
He felt better. Confession and repentance surely brought forgiveness. Wash me thoroughly, and I shall be clean, he thought, paraphrasing the words of Psalm 71: Cleanse me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
At the end of the village, the oak tree was starting to leaf out. It spread above him, waving in a gentle breeze. Harry wiped the perspiration off his face. The important people, after all, did not know of his sin—and if they did, certainly they would take pity. His wife, Julia, it was well known, was a burden and a trial for him, and who would not want to escape her bitter tongue? And if he occasionally had discourse with a servant girl, especially this lass Agnes, who was so willing and ready to fall, like a ripe plum from the tree, would not his friends forgive him? A man who, in so many ways, brought truth and righteousness to light, who preached with a purity of spirit few could match? He lifted his head and smiled. He straightened his ruff and walked on. In so many ways, he was upholding the Word here in this Godforsaken place.
ISOBEL
Chapter 18
“But I don’t want to speak to the minister,” I said as Hugh and I walked across the machair.
“You have been summoned, and you will go.” He had dragged me out of the hut and forced me to come with him, and now he wouldn’t let go of my arm. “You need to behave like a seemly wife, and not make me the laughingstock of the kirk.”
“The kirk is ruled by that ugly man.”
“You will not speak of a man of God in such manner.”
I stood tall as I walked, even though my arm was being tugged out of its socket. Hugh could avail himself of my magic when he needed something, but he didn’t want the kirk to find out. And he didn’t know my real power. No one did.
My shoulder was throbbing in pain. “Leave go my arm!” I shouted, and surprisingly, after peering at me to make sure I wouldn’t run, he did let go. Hugh had donned his best clothes for this occasion: breeches that were not torn, and a shirt he’d made me wash at the river. He’d even combed his long black beard, of which he was very proud. Hugh had two sets of clothes, while I had only one dress. He had shoes while I went barefoot—the common lot of us women. I was wearing my headscarf—the kertsh—today, at his command. When I could get away with it, I dispensed with this cumbersome thing, though my freed hair earned me the scorn of my neighbors.
We trudged up the hill, where the door of the kirk stood open. We hesitated, and I straightened up as Mister Harry came out. A tall, thin man with a little pouch of a stomach, he was no match for Hugh Gilbert in vigor, but he had words that could twist and defeat, so I knew to be cautious. I looked him right in the eye.
“Please come in, Mister Gilbert, Mistress Gowdie,” he said, all pleasant and courteous-like. We followed him into the kirk, a long, empty room, stone and bleak, with no decoration of any kind. I recalled the stories my grandmother had told: of cathedrals with statues of Our Lady, painted frescoes and gold leaf, cherubs and birds, so different from this bare and lifeless room. But those beautiful kirks lived now only in the stories and prayers of the grandmothers.
In the last century, the Catholic kirks had been destroyed by spiteful Protestants, who smashed and ruined the marvelous statues and paintings. Twas well known that in his youth, the Laird of Brodie had been one of those marauders. With his lads, he’d stormed the Cathedral of Elgin, torn and demolished the holy paintings of Christ on the cross, and hacked up the fine carvings on the walls. Graven images, they called them, as if those beautiful things were sinful.
We sat in the front pew, Mister Harry in a high-backed chair in front of us. He leaned toward me and smiled, baring his teeth between plump lips. “What is the Word of God?” he barked out suddenly in a grating voice.
I answered just as quick. “The Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testament are the Word of God.”
He raised his eyebrows. This probably surprised him, but I had learned the catechism like everyone else, as we all were required to do. “And?”
I was silent. Why should I go along with this bully?
“—the only rule of faith and obedience,” added Hugh.
“I wish Mistress Gowdie to answer, thank you, Hugh.”
“And I know the words, as everyone does,” I said.
“But you did not complete the answer, Mistress.”
I remained silent.
He sighed. “I have fears for your soul, Mistress. I hear that you practice the sin of witchcraft.”
I flared but contained myself. “I give rhymes and charms when the people petition, and I cure sprains and wounds and shivers and such. If that be a sin, then what do you call the doctor who bleeds a person to death?”
Hugh squirmed in his seat and prodded me with his knuckles.
“And how do your cures work? Do you cure in the name of the Lord our Christ?”
“Aye, in the name of the Trinity three, the saints and the fairy queen.”
“The fairies?”
“Aye, the fairies can give us aid.”
I expected a lecture and a scolding now, but Mister Harry’s words took a different turn. “Mistress Gowdie, I am interested in the fairy world. Can you tell me about it?”
I opened my eyes wide and froze.
He smiled and seemed to soften. Did he really want to know?
And then I softened, too, for this was a thing I loved to tell. “The sith be of a middle nature between man and angel, and they have bodies light and changeable, like cloud.”
Mister Harry, whose skinny body was twisted around in his chair, sat forward with his elbow on one knee, resting his chin on his hand. “And how do you see them?”
“At twilight is best, though most often, only seers like myself can do so.”
“So, you are a seer? And what does that mean?”
“I can see many things in the other realm.”
“What else do you see?”
Beside me, Hugh shifted in his seat and gave me a frown.
I sat up straight, for this was the place of my power. Why not say it with pride? Yes, I was proud of my power. I looked down my nose at Hugh. “I see the King and Queen of the Fairy, and they favor me with many good things: meat and drink and all fine cloths.” I scrutinized Mister Harry. “Thou must have respect for their ways, for otherwise, they can do thee much harm.”
“Ah, then they are agents of the devil.”
I stared, seeing now how Mister Harry was truly intrigued about the other world; but he had twisted the meaning just as he twisted his body.
“It is Satan within you who leads you astray,” he said, looking at Hugh. “We sorrow over the evil that has come into our parish here in Auldearn, and we must pray for Mistress. Be ever vigilant, Mister Gilbert.”
Hugh bowed his head in assent. “She is a good wife, though, Mister Harry.”
I looked at Hugh in surprise. He was defending me—not what I had expected.
I had lived in Auldearn all my life. As a child, I tended a little plot with my mother. Our hut was on the road just outside the village, and when Hugh Gilbert came into town to sell his oats and corn, he passed by the house. He would pause and look at me. I looked back, but Hugh didn’t speak. He came again and looked, and then I, thinking he had come for a cure or charm from my mother, the cunning woman, called out, “Speak! Speak, Hugh Gilbert; say wot you will.” He smiled, but still didn’t speak, and every time he came into town after that, he stopped and stared, and so I would talk to him until he smiled and said a few words. I’d tell him about the chickens, or admire his cow, or complain about the lack of milk in old Pickle-foot, my mother’s thin creature. Hugh was a big man, quiet and steady-seeming, and since my father, a shoemaker, had disappeared when I was ten, this man’s attention was welco
me. When the marriage was arranged, I didn’t mind, because Hugh was a cottar, which meant he worked the land of the laird in exchange for labor and a portion of the harvest. He was poor, but I was even poorer, with a tiny plot of land and the cunning woman’s payments to subsist on.
My father had been a talker, a storyteller, with a tale for every occasion. He was charming, with a sparkle and a magic about him, imaginings and inventions for every situation. So often, he stayed out somewhere—no one knew where—and my mother would have to scrimp and save and hide the money so at least he couldn’t take that when he disappeared again.
Hugh Gilbert had no charm, but he was reliable.
Mister Harry went on. “As Paul says in the letter to the Romans, ‘Pray constantly, that your heart may be always turned toward God.’ It is only for your eternal salvation, Mistress, that we pray. We Covenanters are privileged to have wisdom from the learned Mister Knox, and to understand the way to salvation: eternal vigilance and continual repentance. Each small thing, whether an act of pride, or jealousy, whether wanting what our neighbor has . . .”
“Our neighbor the laird has milk and meat and wine aplenty, while our children starve,” I burst out.
“We have enough!” Hugh Gilbert roared and hit me on the mouth.
Mister Harry, who was frowning at me, now smiled at Hugh. “You are correct, Mister Gilbert. That was an example of covetousness. And to discipline a wandering wife is no small feat.”
I stared fiercely at Mister Harry. I would wander where I would, I would fly with William, I would eat with the fairy queen, and I would guard my own power, no matter what this oily oaf said or did.
Mister Harry stood, tall and gangly in his ragged black suit. “You must double your efforts in prayer, both of you,” he said in dismissal.
Hugh grabbed my arm, yanked me out of my seat, and tugged me along the aisle and out the door. “You leave off this charming and rhyming and witching,” he growled. “Or ye’ll end at the tollbooth or worse.”
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