“I won’t leave off, and I won’t give up my powers!” I shouted, struggling to free myself from his grip.
“Your power is in the Lord,” he said, “and we are a Christian family. Ye’ll triple yer prayers now, and ye’ll recite the catechism in full.”
I finally pulled away from him and ran. He was stronger, but I was faster, so he didn’t even try to catch me. He would catch me later. He always did.
And I would catch Mister Harry.
HARRY
Chapter 19
Harry reined in his horse at the entrance to Brodie Castle. The afternoon sun was warming the rose-colored stone of the castle block, a rectangle rising high and stark in the midst of its wings and turrets.
It was a beautiful building or would have been if the west wing had not been smashed to pieces. The whole section lay in ruins, with broken stones and shards strewn around like children’s blocks. A decapitated staircase climbed six steps to nowhere.
After the Battle of Auldearn in 1645, the English had knocked down walls, smashed stones, and destroyed as much as they could. When Harry came to the Auldearn kirk, the battle was ten years past, but the sight of these ruins still raised his ire. The effects of the battle were everywhere: not only here at the castle, but in the wounded and maimed survivors who populated all of Nairnshire. Not a family in his parish was without loss. Harry clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes at this testament to English brutality.
Behind him, a carriage raced into view and stopped abruptly beside him. “It doesn’t help us love the English, eh, Mister Harry?” called out John Hay, the Laird of Park, doffing a tall beaver hat and wiping hair away from his face.
“Sore hard to forgive.” Harry agreed.
Harry had been chosen as minister of Auldearn by Alexander, the Laird of Brodie himself, and the two enjoyed a mutual interest in theology. They read the works of John Knox and Andrew Melville as well as the latest tracts that came out of Edinburgh, and almost every week, they met here to discuss these texts and support one other in their efforts to live a godly life. Harry thought with pleasure of the mutual zeal for the Covenanting cause that had forged a bond between them.
It was here at Brodie Castle that Harry received his news of the world. The laird traveled and conversed with the most powerful men in Scotland and served as advisor to the king. This gave Harry, he felt, an insider’s association with royalty.
Today John Hay, laird of Park and Brodie’s nephew by marriage, was meeting with them. Short and squat with an air of belligerence, Park was another of Harry’s strongest Covenanter allies. Park stepped out of the carriage as a groom came up and took the carriage and horses.
Brodie’s lad, dressed in gray livery, emerged from a doorway and ushered them into the entry hall, a dark and cavernous room with walls that reached to invisible heights. Swords, scabbards, pistols, and shields, mounted in geometric patterns, gleamed and threatened from the gloom.
They followed the lad through another hallway and stepped into a light-filled drawing room, with heavy gold drapes framing massive windows that looked out on a garden of exotic trees and shrubs. Ivory-inlaid tables and elegant chairs in velvet and brocade stood ready for a crowd of thirty. From the carved ceiling hung crystal chandeliers, and at either end of the room, fires burned in enormous fireplaces.
A sudden breeze blew through the windows, and the gold drapes swayed and fluttered. Gold for the laird’s house, Harry thought, and cold for mine. With a stingy wife who sulks on a good day and harangues on the others.
Alexander Brodie, in a red brocade jerkin and soft gray pantaloons, rose from his chair. “Nephew; Mister Harry.” His dark hair was long and curled in the current fashion, and he seemed to tower over the other two men as they entered the room.
Harry paused beside a large, gleaming globe: the Mercator Globe. Gerardus Mercator was the most famous map and globe maker in the world, and this orb on its stand with a compass at its base was surely the finest example of his work.
Harry touched the varnished surface, running his fingers over the browns and sepias, reds and golds and greens, the lands of India and China, the new continent of America where dissidents and apostates were sent, the poles to the north and the south, and the places of ice and myth where strange beasts roamed. And then his own country, Scotland. Such a tiny part of the world, but, like the land of Israel, a land that had been chosen by God. Next to the green of Ireland and the pink of England, Scotland’s orange stood small but proud.
Here, God’s kingdom would shine. This was where both Knox and Melville, visionaries and prophets, had come from. They envisioned a time when the wealth and corruption of the Catholic Church, those centers of corruption and greed, the places where priests robbed the poor with false promises of heaven and exacted payment for release from purgatory, would be extinguished.
And that time had come. Scotland was no longer Catholic. But there was still so much to fight for. Harry had been called here to Auldearn to play his part in that fight. To help manifest that vision by quenching the forces of darkness.
He brushed off his worn black jerkin, shiny from too much wear, straightened his ruff, and took a seat opposite Brodie.
Brodie sank back and gazed into the fire, his long legs graceful in pristine white stockings and silver-buckled shoes. Harry tucked his own scuffed boots under his chair.
Park, who had been examining an engraved gold plate on the mantel, sat down abruptly. “What news of the king, Uncle?”
Brodie smiled. “He has signed the Covenant, and a date is set for the coronation.”
“Ah.” Harry smiled.
“Will it be at Scone?” asked Park.
“Nay, he was crowned at Scone, as you know, in 1651. This time he will be crowned for all of England, Ireland, and Scotland—at Westminster.”
Park widened his eyes, pale and blue in a ruddy face. “A magnificent celebration,” he said, with a touch of irony that was not lost on Harry.
Brodie gazed into the fire. “I am not one for pomp and ceremony, as you know, nephew. Daughter Grissel, though, is brimming with excitement. She has engaged several seamstresses to concoct her apparel.”
Harry himself would have liked the pomp and ceremony, but he wouldn’t mention it in this company. Brodie’s daughter Grissel loved fashion, and Brodie indulged her. Since his wife had died some ten years ago, Grissel had been doubly cherished and favored.
Brodie let his head fall. “I pray that she will not accede to vanity, and I have told her so,” he said, glancing up at Harry, as if reading his thoughts. “She counters me by quoting from the Song of Solomon, in which Miriam and all the women danced.”
“There is festivity in the Bible,” Harry said. “The Book of Exodus, though, in which Miriam danced for the coronation of King David, does not elaborate on her clothing.”
Brodie frowned and shifted in his seat. “But this commission for the witches . . .” he began, abruptly changing the subject.
The room became silent.
“The commission at Nairn,” Brodie continued. “For Jane Dunlop and Bessie Morehead. I believe you were there, Harry?”
“I was.”
Brodie frowned. “I was not able to go, as I served the king. I felt in great darkness about the matter, not knowing whether these were legitimate charges.”
“Ah,” Harry said. Legitimate. Was Brodie not in favor of the trials?
A servant girl came forward with tea, and she served the three men. Through the open windows came fitful breezes, and between the gusts, an unnatural silence, as if the birds had retreated to their nests, though it was the middle of the day.
When the lass left the room, Brodie turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow. “What were the findings, Mister Harry?”
“They confessed at first, but then became obstinate and denied all that they had formerly c
onfessed.”
“And were the confessions forced?”
“These women,” Park remonstrated loudly, “are wily and clever. Like snakes, they slither about and twist the words, and defend their actions, their herbs and potions, as if these were normal and laudatory.”
Harry nodded vigorously. “They hide the truth. And only pricking with pins will reveal the devil that is in them.”
“These two were pricked?” asked Brodie.
“They were, and when they fell asleep, pricked again, until the truth came out.”
“How long did the pricking go on then?”
“Just three days.”
“Three days and nights?”
Harry inclined his head yes.
Brodie shook his head. “I am desirous that sin might be discovered and punished,” he said, “but don’t you see how they will say whatever is wanted to stop this torture?”
Harry straightened and sat tall in his chair. His face, with its pliable features, changed from moment to moment, the full lips pursing and widening, eyebrows raising and shifting as he looked from Park to Brodie. “Our duty,” he said in his ringing preacher’s voice, “is to raise our people up from the mud of these ancient beliefs.”
The servant girl came in again, bringing cakes iced with a pink sugary glaze. Harry, who had no sugar at home, eyed them hungrily and took three. He also eyed the top of the girl’s breasts above her bodice and smiled with pleasure as he ate.
“Yes, we are living in a crucial time in history,” Brodie continued. “These folk tales and superstitions have caused much harm in this country, with the cunning women using nonsense rhymes and putting pieces of yarn on doorsteps, telling the people these will cure their fevers and keep away bad fortune.” He paused, pulling on his beard. “But we must not err on the side of undue excess.”
Harry bowed his head. “It is precisely for their eternal souls that we must persevere.”
“We must think of our own souls, as well,” Brodie replied.
Was that a reprimand? Harry gulped down the last of his cakes. He needed to regain the higher ground. “Confession of our sin,” he said, “and sincere repentance is the only way to a godly life. God knows, I need forgiveness as much as any.” He sighed and looked up from lowered eyes to detect any suspicion. But these men, he was assured, didn’t suspect him of misdeed. And they admired a repentant soul. Confession and repentance were the foundation of spiritual practice for the Covenanters.
“I, too,” Brodie said. “Why, just the other day, I experienced great pleasure in a beautiful day. But immediately, I repented hard of this temptation away from the Lord.”
Park raised an eyebrow. “Was that not rather severe, Uncle? Surely, we are blessed to enjoy God’s kingdom, the lilies of the field, the tiny sparrow, and so on?”
“The devil disguises himself as pleasure,” said Harry, “and in all things, we need be scrupulous that he not prevail.”
“Wisely spoken, Mister Harry.” Brodie nodded.
“And these witches have caused harm to me,” Harry went on, returning to his theme.
Brodie sat up and fixed his regard on Harry. “What harm to you, Mister Harry?”
“They have plagued me with objects left at my door, and crows to come in my window.”
Brodie sighed, as if he was questioning whether Harry Forbes, whom he’d chosen as minister and praised for his piety, was a bit too credulous.
Harry bristled. “With all due respect, Alexander, I perceive that there are times when even you do not see the threat from these women.”
“And as you know,” Park asserted in a loud voice, “they caused the deaths of both my father and brother.”
Brodie sighed again. “And Agnes Grant was duly executed. She, too, denied all charges at first and then confessed, whether out of clear conscience or because of torture, I didn’t know. And I did not investigate, to my own shame and regret.”
The men were silent, remembering the burning of Agnes Grant.
Brodie turned to Harry. “And the outcome of this trial at Forres?”
“They will burn.”
Brodie shook his head. “A sorry time, indeed.” He spoke again. “Mister Harry, perhaps we can avoid this bloodshed, and instead, you can instruct these women in the true faith?”
“I will, and I have. Just the other day, I spoke with one of these cunning women, Mistress Isobel Gowdie. An obstinate wench who cannot be controlled by her husband, and she holds power among the people. This woman may also be a witch.”
Park bowed his head. “We need more evidence, Harry.”
Harry nodded. “It will be forthcoming before too long.” He would get the evidence against Isobel Gowdie and rid the land of that witch—one more step out of darkness. Harry pursed his lips with a painful grimace and turned to Park. “But there is another matter to which I must speak, John.”
Park started and looked up warily. “Yes?”
Harry rubbed his mangy beard and paused. “It’s about what I heard from our servant girl. About Beltane.”
“Ah yes, the primitive bonfire fest. What did you hear?”
“That your daughter, Lady Margaret, attended.”
“What? Margaret, at Beltane?” Park jumped up. “I’ll have her hide, the wench!”
ISOBEL
Chapter 20
What I could see: the Earth, the sand, the sea, my hands carrying a basket, my feet walking. I walked and walked along the dune, searching for the spiky averans, the aromatic valerian, the mallows and maidenhair for cough, the feathery wormwood, so bitter for the stomach, the bugloss for shivers.
The sea birds flew and swooped over the water. The water was rough and wild today, a dark bluish gray with foam in the waves. I stood at the top of the dune, where the grasses prickled at my feet and the wind made coughing, rushing, clattering sounds. A crow, with its strong wings, flew against it, landing in the dune grass. “The fairy queen,” it seemed to say, though its voice was silent. “She beckons.”
And now, around me in the rustling grasses: tiny flitting creatures, tips of wings that fluttered and disappeared in the air, a face peering from behind a blade of grass, a hopping toad of an elf who stared at me, then jumped into nothingness. The world alive with the visible and invisible, creatures of the wind, dancers in the grass, its rainbow colors shifting and evanescing, molting and mutating, flickering like the fairies laughing all around me. And now, the Queen of Fairy herself, a still point within the crowded, shimmering air, her hair as white as snow, a young and beautiful face, her gown the lemon of sun and the white of lightning.
“Mistress Gowdie,” said the queen, holding out her hand.
The dark waves rolled in the sea, the gray clouds scudded, gulls raced and called, and I studied the queen. Should I go with her? The feast awaited, fairies attending, though I knew they were fickle, and not always to be trusted. They might try to keep me there. I might lose the time, like Thomas the Rhymer, who stayed with the queen for seven years, thinking twas but a moment. The fairies were not devils, as Mister Harry thought. They lived in another realm, and I knew the way there and back.
The fairy queen stood tall in her iridescence and glory, proud and strong as a tree or boulder. “I am seven hundred years old,” she said, though her words were simply a whooshing of air. “And if you covenant with me, you will have meat and cakes and wine and everything to eat you can imagine. You’ll have fine gowns, and your every desire will be satisfied.” The Queen of Fairy didn’t smile. She was power. “And you will have more power, too.” Beside her, my steed appeared.
To feast again and in the house of the queen! I gathered my herbs and my basket, mounted my steed, and soared. Up and up, with a “horse and hattock ho!”
The queen would want to keep me, but I would not be caught, like Thomas. I would not stay fo
r seven years or more, because I knew to take a nail. Fairies did not like iron, and a piece of iron would prevent them from keeping me. As I followed the queen into the Downie Hill, I fastened the nail to the door. Then, after eating my fill, I flew away, swift as a swallow. Because I was for William, and it was with him I had to go.
Now I stood on the village road with my sack and water jug. As I passed the smithy billowing smoke and heat, one-eyed Jack leapt out, as if he were watching for me, and grabbed my skirt. “My sore, mistress!” His one eye glared at me from his scarred face, and his ale breath came like a squall. I pulled back, but he pulled harder, and turning his head to reveal a wide scar running from his temple down the side of his neck. At its base, an open wound smeared with dirt was oozing blood and pus.
I had forgotten about Jack’s sore and my promise, but now I had in my sack the herbs I needed.
“Where is your mistress, Jack?”
Jack smiled a crooked smile on the unscarred side of his face as he realized I would help him, and he turned his head back toward the smithy. “Alison Moore!” he shouted.
From around the corner appeared Alison Moore, a tall woman with striking black hair and eyes and a small child at her side. “What’s this, then?” Alison frowned, pushing a lock of black hair beneath her white cap.
“The cunning woman is here.”
“Ah, Mistress Gowdie.” She smiled. “Come.” She led us around the smithy to the hut in the rear. We sat on the ground around a small fire pit, the little lad quiet and wide-eyed beside his mother.
I took out of my sack the meadowsweet and burdock that I had dried and boiled and mixed together with lard. I scooped a blob of it into my hand and reached out to Jack as he sat patiently. I touched the sore, and he flinched. “Hold still,” I said, and rubbed in the mixture, reciting the charm:
He put the blood to the blood, till all up stood;
The lith to the lith till all took nith;
Bitter Magic Page 12
