Now was spring once again, and Margaret and Andrew were strolling around the gardens at Brodie. The lads had gone off on their horses for some adventure. At their feet, flowers were starting to bloom again, yellow and white and orange, the colors of sunshine. Andrew took Margaret’s hand. She felt him, skin to skin, his strength and attentiveness. This, too, was a natural part of their new life, and it warmed her from within.
“A kiss?” he asked, standing close and looking into her eyes, their warmth heating into a fire that drew her closer. Margaret’s body leaned into his without a thought. They shared a gentle kiss. His lips were soft, and both of them lingered in the embrace. She wanted to stay enfolded in his arms, feeling his strong body against hers and this new warmth that flared from within.
Bessie had laughed when Margaret told her she wouldn’t marry. “You’ll see,” she’d said, “when you want more than anything to be with him.” Was this what Bessie had meant?
She’d thought she could enjoy her time with Andrew without the part that led to the marriage bed, but now she was confused. How could she live without him? She would want to feel him close beside her every night, his warmth and love and strength.
Andrew smiled as if to confirm what Bessie had said.
Even the death of another boy baby did not dull Margaret’s happiness for too long. This time, the baby lived for a week—a tiny thing Margaret had fallen in love with immediately. When he died, she was overcome with sorrow. His name was Thomas. In truth, Margaret had steeled herself against hope that he would live at all, and so she was able to continue with her own life very quickly. She was becoming callous, she thought . . . or perhaps just accepting, like Mistress Collace, that death was a part of life.
Then wee John died. A double blow. No one had expected him to live, it was true; but he was a brother she had known and cared for, and her happy mood was dampened.
This winter was a time of mourning for the Hay family. Her mother’s cough became worse, and Margaret again administered the charm with the wine and hyssop, but it didn’t appear to help as it had the first time.
As the days grew warmer and longer, Andrew became a more regular presence, and at the same time Margaret went out more on Miranda.
She began to stop at Isobel’s hut to ask her more about magic. Margaret avoided talk of the devil, as she hadn’t yet sorted out for herself what that meant, but she still wanted to see the fairies.
Isobel said that the fairies would come when they wanted to, not when people searched them out. Instead, she taught Margaret about valerian and carmile for sleep, averans, wormwood, and many other healing herbs. Margaret was learning more charms, too: a charm for bruises, a charm to ward off the evil eye, a charm for a toothache. Many of them involved transferring the sickness to a stone or an animal, like a cat, and she was not sure about those. Was it right to infect an innocent animal? But then she remembered Jesus exorcising the demons into the herd of pigs.
One night after dinner, Andrew approached her father and formally asked for Margaret’s hand in marriage. When Father accepted, she was surprised that she felt so pleased. She no longer worried about the dreary lot of women in marriage. This marriage, her marriage, would be different.
On another bright evening in early spring, Margaret and Andrew walked from the courtyard to the stables and mounted their horses. He tried to help her onto Miranda, but she waved his arm away and leapt up onto the saddle. She raced ahead at a gallop and reached the estuary first.
Andrew didn’t seem offended. “You ride like the wind,” he laughed in admiration. “And your father permits it?”
“It is one thing my father does permit; indeed, he encourages it. He says we Scots women need to be strong.”
“Ah, yes, the wild women of Scotland. The young ladies in London trot about town in their carriages or ride sidesaddle looking decorous.”
“I would love to go to London, but I would hate that kind of riding. If I couldn’t gallop on Miranda, I would waste and wither.”
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’” Andrew quoted.
“What is that from?”
“Antony and Cleopatra. Shakespeare. It’s a famous love story.”
“One that I have not read. Does it have a happy ending?”
“Not at all. It’s a tragedy, and Cleopatra is a woman of sorrow and secrets.”
Secrets. Margaret turned and guided Miranda at a walk across the sandbar. Here, the sand stretched out for miles before one reached the sea, wide and flat like a great desert.
No one knew about Margaret’s visits with Isobel. She had hoped to confide in Henrietta, but on second thought, decided against it. Henrietta was languishing at Kilrock, her name and reputation tarnished. Margaret visited often, bringing gifts and herbs. Henrietta would cheer up some, but then lapse back into her dreary sadness. It seemed futile and fruitless to tell her about Isobel, of whom Henrietta had disapproved to begin with. She would have been scandalized by Margaret’s relationship with her.
What would Andrew think? Margaret slowed Miranda down and stared out at the horizon. Should she tell him? They were so close now, and their betrothal would be announced soon. Husbands and wives should not have secrets from each other. She’d read that, she thought, in the Bible.
Andrew learned over and searched her face. “My lady, is this a sudden turn to melancholy?” His mouth, rimmed by brown mustache and beard, was smiling, and his clear eyes watched her with compassion.
She took a deep breath. “What do you think of the cunning women, Andrew?”
“Magic and fairies and all that?”
“And second sight. You remember the cunning woman who saw where Henrietta was?”
He rubbed his beard. “I believe she got that information by other means.”
“Other means? How could Isobel have known the MacDonalds were on Ben Rinnes?”
“This woman is quite well known in Morayshire, as are the MacDonalds, and we believe she simply asked her compatriots.”
“You do not believe in the extraordinary power of cunning women?”
“I believe that she has the power of influence and that of cunning.”
“But not magic?”
“Why believe in magic when we know the extraordinary power of our Lord?”
Margaret dropped her head. Andrew was beginning to sound like Mistress Collace. He didn’t believe magic was real. She could not confide in him about Isobel or about her own second sight.
She walked Miranda to the water. Andrew followed, and they led both horses into the gentle waves. The horses pranced and splashed, lifting their legs high, trotting along the water’s edge. Just offshore, two humps emerged, soft gray skins gleaming, leaping, and twisting in the sun.
“Oberon! Titania!” Margaret raised her arms. The dolphins lifted their heads and looked right at her. They seemed to be smiling and came closer. Margaret began to sing as Andrew watched in astonishment. In her clear, airy tone, she sang:
His voice doth rule the waters all,
Even as himself doth please:
He doth prepare the thundercaps,
And governs all the seas.
The voice of God is of great force,
And wondrous excellent:
It is most mighty in effect,
And much magnificent.
The dolphins jumped, dived, and came closer. They squeaked and trilled as Margaret sang louder, like a pure, high bell. The dolphins danced.
Chapter 41
I scattered crumbs for the chickens and watched the bairns.
Maria, bright of eye and browned by the sun and weather, her dress half on and half off, a torn and ragged thing, sat on the ground. She threw sticks into a circle she had inscribed in the sand. She was seven. The two little ones, five and three, sat watching me with
full attention, as Robert, who was also seven and lived across the farmtown yard, stood behind the circle chewing seaweed.
The day was windy and raw, and the children shivered in the gusts of cold air; but they were used to the cold, so none of them thought to run into their homes. Robert chewed and watched as Maria led the game.
“This stick is the king,” she said, “and this is the laird. And the princess has to go ’round the backside of the king and the laird and run all the way ’round before they can catch her. Robert, you can be the king, and little Charles, you the laird.” She took a deep breath and looked at her playmates with a sigh. “I am the princess.”
“Me, too!” said Martha, the wee one. “I wan’ be a princess, too.”
“There is only one princess, and it be me.”
I knelt down beside them. “Can I play, too, Maria?”
“Aw, you a big person,” Maria huffed. She was losing control of her game, and the princess was not pleased.
I took another stick and tapped the princess three times. “And that is for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. And will mean that you will play with love and care for your little sister.” And then I made the stick hop, hop, hop and dance around the circle. “Now catch me if you can,” I said in a low spooky voice.
Martha giggled and made her fingers run to the stick. I grabbed them and shook three times.
Maria took her stick and chased mine, and soon, William was chasing, too. We were all laughing. When Hugh Gilbert came across the open yard, he stopped and glared.
Maria saw his face, jumped up, and ran away toward the sea, her blonde hair wisping every which way in the wind. She was so fast; we hardly saw her before she reached the top of the dune and scooted over it.
Hugh shouted at me. “What have ye thought, lass, to waste yer time playing? What of the teazing and carding, what of the cow with the lame foot? What of the washing that sits in the house?” His face became a fiery frown as he walked up to me. The other children scattered, Robert running after Maria and the two little ones to chase the chickens by the hut.
I stood up and faced him squarely, hands on hips. “I’ll play when I like, and I’ll go with the fairies when you don’t like.”
He scowled and raised his fist. “And ye’ll do your work or feel the fist.”
I stepped back to avoid the blow. To divert his attention, I asked, “Ye’ll go to market now for the beef?”
“Aye.” He hesitated, fist in the air, then lowered it and walked toward the cattle yard behind the house.
I bent low and entered the house, heading straight across the room to my kist, where I stored the herbs and potions. I opened it, rummaging through until I found what I was looking for.
When Hugh came back, leading the cow, I was ready. He stopped and let me approach. I took the feather, sheer gray tinged with blue—a swallow’s feather, it had to be—and attached it to the head of the beast with a piece of yarn. The delicate feather was barely visible against the brown of the cow’s coat. And now I recited in a singsong voice:
I put out this beef in the devil’s name,
that mickle silver and good price come hame.
And again:
I put out this beef in the devil’s name,
that mickle silver and good price come hame.
And then again, as it had to be thrice for the charm to work.
Some charms called on the Holy Trinity, some on the saints, and others the fairies. This one needed the help of the devil.
And though my husband disapproved—he was always lecturing me, thinking he be like Mister Harry, no doubt—he allowed it, because he knew the magic worked.
He strode off with the cow, confident that now he would get a good sale.
I went into the house, banked the fire, and gathered the clothes for washing. I stepped out and started to walk to the river, but now I heard the sound of hoofbeats. I stopped and looked. Over the dyke came three horsemen.
Who could this be? There was a stirring in my heart, and I heard a faint voice. It must have been my mother, whispering or calling in the wind, but the words I did not know. Something cold and fearsome came into me, and I was sore affrighted.
The three horsemen came. Three solemn faces: one red and puffy, yellow hair fuzzed around pale cold eyes; one black-haired with unsure expression; and lastly, the sheriff, tall, mickle red-haired Sir Hugh Campbell. All were fierce dressed in plaids with scabbards. They stopped and dismounted, never taking their eyes off of me.
“Mistress Gowdie, you must come with us,” said Sir Hugh.
“And why must I?” I tried for my voice of power, but only a feeble sound came out. I knew the answer.
“I arrest you in the name of the king. You are charged with the crime of witchcraft.”
I looked around and around. Was there anywhere to run, to hide? My Maria with big eyes was peeking from around the corner. Nowhere—but I dropped my bundle and bolted. I ran toward the sea. Up and to the top of the dune, with hoofbeats close behind . . . and then a rope around me. The yellow-haired one jumped down, grabbed me in a rough manner, and tied my hands together. He remounted, holding the end of the rope. I was forced to walk behind, half-dragged down the side of the dune and across the yard. We left the farmtown and continued in procession toward Auldearn, where Isobel Gowdie would be on display, led to the tollbooth.
KATHARINE
Chapter 42
Katharine sat quietly in a side pew. She was not in favor of this display. Mister Harry, though she still admired his preaching, was now almost repulsive to her. She had heard reports of his tryst with a servant woman and didn’t doubt its truth. Of course, no one would dare to bring him up before the session, much less sentence him to the stocks.
The kirk was dark, though a few beams of light streamed in through the tiny windows in the stone walls. Candles and lamps illuminated the dignitaries in the front pews. Mister Harry was at the pulpit, with Jonet Fraser, a wide, blowsy-looking woman in several extra layers of clothing, standing between them. Onlookers from the congregation were scattered throughout the other pews, though in the gloomy half-light, they were discernible only by the sounds of shuffling, coughing, and heavy breathing.
“Mistress Jonet Fraser, what charge do you bring?”
Wasn’t this the woman who had been in the stocks for adultery and drunkenness? She must be trying to win back Mister Harry’s good graces.
A man’s voice roared out of the darkness. “How could ye believe that drunken whore?”
“We’ll thank you for silence, Jacob Taylor,” Mister Harry admonished, “or you’ll be outside forthwith.”
Grunts of protest came from the invisible congregation, and something slammed on a pew. A woman’s voice was heard, in quiet but distinct tones. “She’s a liar.”
“Mistress Fraser, go on,” Mister Harry said.
Jonet Fraser straightened up, took a wide-legged stance, and placed her hands on her hips. Though her apron was stained, her hair was tucked into her cap, a sign that she had made some effort to look proper. “Like I told you, Mister Harry, I heard Mistress Isobel Gowdie saying charms in her home. And I went to peek in the window.”
“And what did you see?”
“I seen her kneading the clay and making shapes of the laird’s bairns.” She looked defiantly at the elders, in particular John Hay. Everyone knew he was the laird to whom she referred. She glanced behind herself, toward the dark congregation.
“Making graven images of the laird’s children?” Mister Harry countered.
“Aye, and she were saying curses and roasting the little bairns in the fire.”
The room broke out in more shouting and commotion.
Katharine shuddered. If Isobel Gowdie had been making clay figures, roasting them, and cursing the laird’s children, this was, indeed, a seri
ous offense. These rituals were just superstitions and mutterings, but if people believed them—and Katharine knew that John Hay did—then the curses might have some effect.
The elders and dignitaries sat stiff and quiet in the front pews: John Hay, Alexander Brodie, Hugh Rose, the minister at Nairn, and five other men from the Moray region. Alexander’s head was bowed.
Katharine had talked with Alexander before this meeting. He’d shaken his head over and over and sighed. “That woman has put herself in this position,” he said, “and I do not see what can save her now.”
“But we must help these women,” she said, “not punish them more.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “The poor wretches. But it’s too late for this one, I fear.”
“Jonet Fraser, thou flea-bitten toad!” shouted a woman’s voice. “Speak on yerself, ye fat strumpet!”
Jonet raised her fist at the unseen woman. “I’ll tell on thee, too, Lilias Dunlop!”
At this, a barrage of shoes flew across the room, hitting Hugh Rose and John Hay as well as Jonet, who picked it up and threw it back.
Alexander, Laird of Brodie, stood and faced the congregation. “This is the house of the Lord,” he pronounced in a deep voice. “And we will listen in silence to these proceedings. It is a heavy matter, indeed, that comes before the magistrates. Judgment will come from this commission, not the congregation. The law of the kirk is the law of the land.” He sat down, and the room quieted.
Isobel Gowdie was led to the front of the kirk to stand facing Jonet Fraser. “After I tried to help thee, Jonet,” she said, “when thou wert in the stocks?”
“But ye didn’t help me, did ye? Just a trick like yer other tricks, Isobel Gowdie.”
“Enough!” Harry shouted. “Now, Mistress Gowdie, you have been accused of witchcraft. How do you answer this charge?”
Bitter Magic Page 21
