Bitter Magic

by Nancy Kilgore

  Isobel was silent.

  “Speak up, wench!” called one of the elders.

  Silence.

  Alexander Brodie stood again and faced Isobel. “Did you create the corp creadh and pronounce curses on the family of Hay?”

  Isobel nodded and lowered her head.

  A collective gasp arose from the congregation.

  “And did you also roast them in the fire for the purpose of causing sickness and death to the male members of the Hay family?”

  She glanced up through lowered lids at John Hay, who wore a stunned expression.

  Katharine’s jaw dropped. She covered her mouth with her hand. Perhaps this woman was a witch. Or had she simply been capitalizing on dire conditions that already existed to assert her power? Everyone knew that the young Hay lad had been sickly and frail and unlikely to live, but everyone also believed in these charms and curses.

  Jonet Fraser, arms crossed in front of herself, stared triumphantly at Isobel. “And she were not alone, m’lairds.”

  Hugh Rose, a large man with a compassionate expression, stood up and addressed Isobel. “And who else participated in this maleficium?”

  “And that I know, as well,” shouted Jonet. “Elspeth Nychie and Jane Martin, both were there. And they spoke the words, too.”

  A howl arose from the congregation.

  “A coven.” Mister Hugh looked around the room. “And who else is in your coven?”

  Isobel remained silent, her head bowed, her eyes observing the congregation.

  Alexander looked at Isobel with an expression of pity. He shook his head and waited until the crowd quieted down. “Mistress Gowdie must stay in the tollbooth,” he pronounced in a quiet voice. “Mister Harry will seek to counsel this misguided soul to confession and repentance.”

  MARGARET

  Chapter 43

  “What?” Margaret gasped, spoon midway between her bowl and her mouth. They were at dinner, and Bessie had just served the soup, a creamy mixture of fish and onions.

  “They caught another witch,” Lucy repeated. “Isobel Gowdie.”

  “Isobel? But she is not a witch. She is a cunning woman.” Margaret put down her spoon.

  “Isobel Gowdie is a witch, and she has been plotting to harm our family,” her father pronounced.

  “Harm? You must be mistaken, Father. I know this woman, and she does good.” She braced her shoulders, forcing herself to deny her doubts.

  Father put his hands on the table and glared at her. “How do you know this woman?”

  “I visited her at her home.” Margaret looked up warily. “With her second sight, she found Henrietta at the MacDonalds’ camp. And when Andrew brought her back, Isobel cured her wounds and despair.”

  “And you have had discourse with this wretched creature?”

  “Yes, Father, and she is not a wretched creature. She has the gift of second sight, and her healing charms have helped many throughout Morayshire.”

  Father pounded his fist on the table. “You were forbidden to go to the farmtown, Margaret. Forbidden! And you have disobeyed me again. Those people are mulish and ignorant, and this woman is evil. She consorts with the devil.”

  Well, Margaret thought, Isobel did invoke the devil for one of her charms. But she wouldn’t tell that to her father.

  Mother bowed her head over her bowl. Before Father could go on, she spoke. “She has put a curse on your father and brothers.”

  “A curse?”

  Father remained silent, staring down at his soup.

  “That could not be true, Father?”

  Head down, he hissed, “She will burn at the stake, and may she burn in hell.”

  For once, Mother did not protest this type of condemnation. “But the trial has just begun,” she said, “and the testimony came from someone else. They will question her more until she confesses. Perhaps she will repent.”

  Margaret’s soup sat in front of her, untouched. “Why did I not know of this trial?”

  “You have been off in the clouds with your lover,” Lucy said, waving her spoon in the air.

  The family at table sat illuminated in the soft twilight from the two windows. The sounds of clanking pots emanated from the kitchen. Lucy was the only one eating her soup. Bessie hovered in the corner of the room.

  “Isobel Gowdie is the daughter of Agnes Grant,” Father spat. “That evil witch who killed my father, your grandfather, and my brother William. Agnes Grant was tried, confessed, and found guilty.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She burned. The only way to destroy that wickedness is to burn it away.”

  Mother stiffened and looked at her husband. “Your father and brother died, but it was at the time of the plague.”

  “I have told you repeatedly, Elizabeth,” Father shouted. “It was not the plague. It was that witch who killed my family. And now, her daughter intends to kill the rest of us. They will destroy us, wipe out the line of Hay, unless she is destroyed.”

  Margaret ran from the room, across the great hall, and up the tower steps to her chamber. They must be wrong, she thought. Isobel, cursing her father and brothers? How could she? Isobel, whom she trusted, and who had shown Margaret her own gift of second sight? Grandmother had come to her on the road, giving her the promise in her heart.

  But Isobel! Margaret’s tears wet her gown as well as the bedcovers. She is my friend! She is my teacher. A teacher of magic who has “learned” me so many of the magical rhymes and chants. The charms heal . . . like the one for Henrietta. The hyssop and wine, and the charm, cured Mother’s consumption, at least the first time. Magic is for good. Magic is not for evil.

  Everyone, Lucy said, now knew of Isobel’s curse against the Hay family. Isobel had not confessed, but another woman had seen Isobel making the clay images and heard the curses she uttered. Curses against Margaret’s father and brothers! To make them die! And the brothers had died . . . both wee John and baby Alexander. Had Isobel caused that?

  What was Margaret to do now? She knew now that there was more to God’s kingdom than what the Covenanters believed. Music and dancing were good, and the Earth and its plants and animals held many secrets, power to be discovered and used. Power for the good, for healing, and for spreading love, even the love of Jesus. Saints and angels and fairies, the dead . . . there was such a vast universe of life within and around, worlds within worlds, if only people could learn to see.

  All this she had learned from Isobel.

  Isobel had talked of cursing, she recalled. Isobel would have cursed the Campbells to avenge Henrietta. Margaret had dismissed that idea and put it out of her mind, but perhaps she should have paid more attention.

  And now Isobel had tried to destroy Margaret’s family. To murder, yes, murder, her own father and brothers. How could she have done that? And why?

  Margaret knelt beside the bed. She must ponder and pray.

  The prayers wouldn’t come. She got up and walked, back and forth, as the thoughts raced through her head.

  She could no longer accept the Covenanter way, no matter how much she loved Mistress Collace. There were too many other truths, and the world was much bigger than that . . . but she could no longer trust Isobel, either. That woman had turned on her family like Cromwell turned on the Covenanters. She would have them bloodied and slain, like Cromwell had done. Perhaps she was a witch.

  Margaret’s stomach clenched into nausea. She would be ill. She was ill, so heartsick she knew not what to do. She could not confide in anyone—not even Andrew. He had never believed in Isobel at all.

  Margaret dropped down on her bed. She would stay in her chamber. She would languish, like Henrietta.

  KATHARINE

  Chapter 44

  “I am grateful for your understanding, Alexander, and for you
r wise influence in this land.” Katharine was strolling in the garden with the laird. The green of the grass shone brightly, and the fruit trees were beginning to flower on this April day.

  Brodie hung his head. “A land of sorrow and trouble.”

  “Yes, a sorry place. The fighting is endless, and not just between nations, but within our own country: Scots fighting Scots, brother against brother. And death, it seems, is our constant companion.”

  “As you, dear lady, know so well, having suffered the loss of your children.”

  “Ah, yes.” She spread an arm toward the flowering trees. “This beauty, this spring light, seems to mock our attempts to find God’s truth. His light remains hidden in the depths of these dark times.”

  They entered the parterre garden, a geometric design of pathways lined with yew hedges and flowerbeds. Sparrows hopped and twittered in a bed of pale-yellow tulips.

  “And yet when I seek the Lord, even within this sorrowful place,” Katharine continued, “my losses become my strength.” She stopped at a bench flanked by yew shrubs, and they both sat down. Katharine picked a needle from the yew and rubbed it in her fingers, releasing the pungent scent. She looked up at the laird’s face, a kind and thoughtful countenance. “You have returned from Kiltearn, Alexander. And have you spoken with Mister Thomas Hogg?”

  “Ah, a grave matter.” He cleared his throat. “Mister Thomas understands the difficulty of your unfortunate marriage, and extends his sympathy as concerns your desire to go south again. However, he bids me ask you consider that you are needed here in Auldearn.”

  She nodded. “I did feel that God was calling me to go south, but now I see it was my melancholy speaking. The Lord is showing me that there is more work for me here.”

  “Lady Elizabeth is still ailing and has great need of you—for herself and also her daughters.”

  “She is a good woman. And she has promised to build me a house on the estate, so I need not dwell in that place of darkness.”

  Alexander’s face softened into a look of pity.

  Katharine looked up into a blue sky filled with white, puffy clouds. “I feel called, as well, to seek His light in another way. I am sorely troubled by the matter of the witch trial.”

  “Let us pray that the Lord will send us gifts of wisdom and zeal for finding out the crafty workings of the devil. Mister Harry has been appointed to question her further.”

  “And what advice would you give Mister Harry?”

  “I would neither press her to tell nor hinder her but exhort her to do nothing in ignorance or to any sinister end.”

  “Yet she is accused of just that ignorance, and just those sinister ends—making images and incantations to harm the Laird of Park and his children. I know that these practices come from mere superstition, but so many believe in these powers.”

  He sighed. “Yes, even the Laird of Park, my nephew. He believes she has the power to kill him, and he would have her to the stake already.”

  Katharine raised her voice. “But I was there, at the arraignment! And ’tis clear to me that this poor woman has no such power. As I have said to Mister Harry, the way to alleviate these ignorant beliefs is to teach these women to read. If they do not know or understand the Bible, how can they see what the Lord requires?”

  Alexander smiled at her. “Your passion is admirable, Katharine. And you are right that ignorance is at the heart of these superstitions. But peasants, reading? That is hard to imagine.”

  “I find Mister Harry not so sensible of this as he could be.”

  “No, Harry is certain that she is an agent of Satan. And he may be correct. But let God manifest Himself in bringing wickedness to light.”

  In the carriage on the way to Inshoch, Katharine considered the conversation. Alexander, so earnest and thoughtful, had depth of character, and he seemed convinced that this woman was guilty. He was right, she supposed. Isobel Gowdie did practice maleficium, or black magic. But had anyone actually been harmed by these charms and incantations? Perhaps the answer would be revealed in the continuing trial. Or perhaps this was not a question they would ask.

  The puffy clouds were moving fast. The sky cleared, and Katharine felt a clearing in her mind.

  She could see it now. Harry Forbes had, in some way, strayed from the path. She’d felt such discomfort at his improper advances that day . . . and then his wife’s fury. It suggested that he had acted on that impulse with others. Mistress Forbes had been mistaken in blaming her, but there must have been a reason for her suspicion. Harry was a man of passion, and passion could so easily go astray. Now, it seemed, he was directing all of it into convicting the witch.

  Inshoch Castle lay quiet in the bright sun. The only sounds were doves cooing in the courtyard and the muffled voices of Bessie and the cook in the kitchen. Lady Elizabeth, still ailing from her failed pregnancy and consumption, stayed in her chamber.

  In the drawing room, Lucy was working on her needlepoint. When Katharine entered, she looked up. “Margaret is keeping to her chamber,” she said with a pout.

  Katharine frowned and sat down. “It has been over a week.”

  “She won’t come down and won’t talk to anyone. She won’t even see Andrew.”

  Katharine rose from her seat and stood behind Lucy, examining the needlepoint. “I see that you are doing well, Lucy. Simply redo this knot,” she said, pointing to a spot in the design, “and it will be perfect.”

  Katharine walked away, though the great hall to the tower staircase. At Margaret’s chamber, she knocked.

  No answer.

  “Margaret,” she called. “Tis I, Mistress Collace.”

  After a few minutes, she heard something on the other side of the door. Slowly, with loud creaking, the door opened, and Margaret stood in front of it, her dark curls and faded blue gown in disarray, her expression blank.

  Katharine reached out, and Margaret allowed herself to be held. She sighed and lay her head on Katharine’s shoulder.

  “All is lost,” Margaret whispered.

  Katharine’s cheek was wet. If her first child had lived, she would be almost Margaret’s age now. Lady Elizabeth was so ill, perhaps she didn’t even know of Margaret’s distress. Perhaps Katharine could give a mother’s comfort to the lass. “What is it, my dear?”

  They went into the chamber. Margaret sat on the bed, and Katharine on the chair beside her. “They tell me you have not come out of your chamber for a week, Margaret. What causes you this despair?”

  Margaret looked at Katharine, her eyes wary and defiant. “I do believe in magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “I know that Isobel saw the fairies and talked to them, and that they helped her. And she healed Henrietta and did other marvelous things. But—” Her lips twisted as she tried to hold back the tears. Margaret threw herself face down on the bed and wept.

  “You have had more intercourse with this woman?”

  “Yes! I have seen her and talked to her and seen her magic! But it was good! I thought it was good magic!” Margaret’s shoulders shook as she sobbed into the coverlet.

  Katharine sighed. “And now this.”

  “My father! My little brother!” she wailed. “And the baby who died. Perhaps it was she who caused it!”

  Katharine laid her hand on Margaret’s heaving back. “No, no, dear lassie. Tis not magic that causes sickness and death.”

  ISOBEL

  Chapter 45

  The tollbooth was a mickle cold place. They led me up the tower stairs with none but a slit of a window to see the sky, and then to this room with no light at all.

  I sat on the floor, stone like the walls and cold as the devil’s wand. No chair, no fire for heat. No windows. No peat, no pots or mats, no kist for my stores, nothing to spin or weave or card or knead. Nothing to do with these hands that have n
ever been idle.

  I was allowed one delivery of food a day, and either Elspeth or Agnes brought it. They were not allowed to see me, and they probably brought more than what came to me—just a hunk of bread. Dry, mealy bread. There was a bucket to pee and shite in, but no one emptied it. When I asked, they laughed at me and told me to “turn it into a cat.”

  The first night, I shivered on the stone floor, with nothing to cover me except my thin, ragged plaid. In spite of this, I started drifting off to sleep. William, my fairy man, was just beginning to appear when I heard a clanging, kicking, and cursing. The door opened, and a beefy man with curly brown hair and beard and a dirty jerkin appeared—a new guard. He didn’t look at me as he brought a stool, placed it beside me, and sat down. This man was not from Auldearn, or I would have known him.

  “I was almost asleep,” I protested, and started to rise.

  He pushed me down with vicious strength. “Stay,” he commanded, and took from his sack a large pin the size of a knitting needle. “What evil magic hast thou done against the Laird of Hay and his bairns?”

  I stared at the floor.

  “Did ye pronounce a curse and make a clay image?”

  I remained silent.

  He grabbed my arm so I couldn’t get away, though of course there was nowhere to get to anyway. He pulled up my skirt and pricked me in the thigh, jabbing in the pin three times.

  “Leave me alone, ye son of a whore!” I screamed.

  He jabbed again and again until I stopped struggling and collapsed in pain and silence.

  He stood up, took the stool, and left the room, locking the barred door with a loud jangling of keys.

  I moaned. My leg was bleeding from the puncture wounds. I stanched it with my skirt, but the pain was now so much worse than the cold. I could only sit and hold my bunched-up skirt over my thigh.

  This was what they did to my mother.