Brodie stood. “Perhaps this woman is mad, but there is no question that she has some kind of power, and perhaps even a connection with another dimension of life.”
“Aye,” Mister Hugh agreed, “and in that dimension, she has covenanted with the devil to seek the death of Mister Harry and the Laird of Park.”
“She is guilty of the crime of witchcraft,” Harry pronounced to a round of ayes.
Brodie rose from his seat. “All who name Isobel Gowdie guilty of witchcraft, please stand.”
Everyone stood except George Phinney and Alex Dunbar. Phinney looked around the group, then he reluctantly stood, too.
Brodie directed his gaze at Harry. “Prepare the prisoner for her death.”
ISOBEL
Chapter 55
I took a small stone and etched another line on the wall. This was the twenty-fifth day of my imprisonment, I knew, because I had scratched one mark for each day. With the pricker coming at all hours to wake me and keep me awake, I was losing track of time, and only by the light from the window could I tell the difference between night and day. I had not had one night of sleep since I had been in this foul place.
At the window a gray drizzle through which daylight barely showed. Rain and more rain. It was dreary out there, but even more so in here. If only I could be out there, I would walk in that glorious wetness, be drenched and soaked, and feel the mud beneath my feet. So happy would I be that I would dance.
But now I could barely walk, much less dance.
I hefted my body away from the stinking pot with its three days-worth of shit and piss. Since I’d been here, with barely enough food and water to keep me alive, my pitiful droppings had become more potent and now smelled even worse.
Those men, the judges, they thought my confession was too proud, and so it was. I was proud of my powers, my flights and my feasts, and all my times with William. Who else could fly in the night with such a great laird? Who else received the powers of life and death? They were all jealous, not only Jonet Fraser and her like, but Mister Harry and the men.
But where was my William now?
He hadn’t come to lift me up, to fly away and to dance. He hadn’t come since the first time I talked to Mister Harry. I lay with eyes closed and conjured the sight of that brave and yellow-haired man, but never he came. Even the mickle black and cloven-footed one, the devil I pledged my life to, the one who had given me powers beyond thinking. He never came.
I could no longer see my fairy man, my William, the devil, my master. I could not fly on my steed. Nor could I visit the Queen of Fairy, nor the humped-back elves in the Downie Hill.
They would tie me to the stake and burn me, just as they had done my mother. And I would never see my children again.
I lay on the cold stone and wept.
My powers were gone.
But now came other visions. Creatures of fire, twisting and contorting into colors and shapes never imagined. They floated and swooped with bizarre grimaces, with voices like clanking of chains and screams of death, they came, snapping their fangs and clawing at my hair and face.
“Stop!” I cried. “Leave me be, you fiends!” I wailed and tore my hair. I thrashed and shouted, but my shouts lacked strength and the demons snarled and came closer, breathing their foul breath at me. “Go away! Be gone from here!”
I heard a laugh. The jailer, spying through the bars, was laughing at me.
I had opened my heart to the devil. I had killed a man. I had caused this. All of this. Through my own actions, I had raised these monsters and ghosts, and I couldn’t go back. I deserved this torment.
My powers were gone.
Miserable creature that I was, I moaned and wept.
KATHARINE
Chapter 56
Katharine sat across from Alexander Brodie in the great hall of Brodie Castle. Rain battered the windows like horse’s hooves on a road, and the fireplace between them threw a faint warmth into the chill air.
Fingers steepled beneath his chin, Alexander was staring at the floor. “I have been long in prayer and contemplation on this matter, Katharine. And I have asked you here, dear lady, because I am sorely afflicted about this trial, and am under great indisposition of mind.”
“Tis indeed a troubling time, Alexander. This woman’s testimonies and her deeds . . . who can know what she actually did?”
“Yes, and the commission was also torn, some believing in her deeds whilst others believe it all to be fabrication or madness. I felt caught betwixt and have turned to the Lord for an answer. I am led to seek your wisdom in this matter.”
“Is not the matter then decided, Alexander? The execution date is set?”
He hung his head almost to his knees. “Yes, but I am loath to allow it to continue. I would seek your counsel.”
“If there is a way to stop it—?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the rain-beaten window.
“Perhaps there is, if the decision be wrong with God.”
“I mean not to criticize the wisdom of the lairds and ministers,” Katharine said, hesitating, “but to me, this is the wrong decision. Mistress Gowdie does not traffic in reality, nor does she traffic with God. Her head and heart are with the fairies, and her thoughts take her to these imaginary places. She has been convinced that these places are the abode of the devil, and now she is smitten with guilt and despair.”
“Then you do not believe that she has actually been with the devil? That she has committed these terrible deeds?”
“I believe she is a woman of sorrow and misery, with evil intent. In that sense, she has been with the devil. But I do not countenance relying upon force or violence against the enemy. It is not the enemy, but the Lord we must answer to.”
“She has been brought low and expressed sorrow and repentance.”
“And perhaps it is this way the Lord will bring her to him.”
“If you will go to her, Katharine, I will stay the execution for a few days and convene another meeting with the commission.”
“Tisn’t right,” the jailer said. “The witch is not to have visitors.” He gave Katharine a foul look but opened the cell door, ceding to the Laird’s authority. Behind her he grunted and muttered as his bulky body lumbered down the staircase.
Katharine sat on the stool as Isobel looked up warily from her spot on the floor. Such a rank smell filled this filthy room, lit by a single sliver of light from a candle the jailer had given her. She could barely see Isobel. “I am Katharine Collace.”
“I know who you are, and I know that you are a friend to Mister Harry.”
“I am friend to the anointed of the Lord. Yet I do not go in with everything said by Mister Harry.”
“For me, it matters not who is a friend, nor who comes here. For soon, I will be in Hell.” Isobel sighed and lay down on the floor.
“I see that your suffering is immeasurable,” Katharine said.
Isobel looked up with curiosity.
“And it is at times of greatest affliction, even nigh to death, that the Lord is waiting for us.”
Isobel shrugged.
“Perhaps you have never felt near to the Lord, but perhaps He is waiting for you now.”
“My sins are so great; the Lord will have none of me.”
“When we feel so far from God, then it is that God is most near.”
Isobel looked puzzled.
“When I was in my greatest misery after my fifth child died, I was sure the Lord had abandoned me. In despair, I turned to prayer. That was when the Lord showed me his face.”
“Would that I—”
“Ah, but you can, my dear. The Lord is waiting for you.”
Katharine sat on the floor with Isobel and took her hand. “To desire a place of beauty and love is no sin, but you did not find that place with the fai
ries and the devils. You found only more pain and misery. When you find the true Christ, He binds you to him through love, not evil deeds. His beauty is much greater, and your ecstasy complete.”
“But what I have done is so evil. I have killed and caused sickness and death.” Isobel shook her head slowly. “I can never be forgiven.”
“You must give all of that pain in your heart to God. That shame and guilt. This is the Covenanter way. Not to run away, but to see the tempest of misery and trust that it is only by forging through that peace will be found.”
After Mistress Collace left, I felt a great peace. Such relief and tranquility I had not felt since my sojourn with William, before he revealed himself as the devil. Mistress Collace had prayed with me, and as she described the presence of Jesus, I actually saw Him sitting in front of me, the marks of the nails on his hands and feet, his hair flowing and eyes soft in a way I could barely imagine. Mistress kept praying, but I heard none of the words. Christ reached out His hand to me, and I took it.
As I lay down on the cold stone to sleep, I saw angels, too, all around Jesus, as numerous as the fairies in the grass. Angels and saints, for there were the saints: Brigid and Michael, Gabriel and Brendan.
And there, below the angels, in the green grass, sparkling and flitting back and forth, were the fairies. With them was a slender woman heavily clothed in white linen, her colors white and lemon. She was smiling at me. The Queen of Fairy.
MARGARET
Chapter 57
Thumping and clacking, the horses’ hooves hammered in the courtyard. Lady Elizabeth ran down the tower steps to the door, flinging it open.
It was Sunday morning.
John Hay and Alexander Brodie stepped out of the carriage as Lucy and Margaret came from behind their mother. The two men, weak and ashen, shambled towards them.
“All night!” Mother cried. “You were in the kirk all night?”
Uncle looked at her with weary eyes. “We were, niece.”
“But why? What happened?”
“We were hard pressed to find agreement on this matter.”
“Agreement that had already transpired,” Father said in a bitter voice as he sneered at Uncle Alexander and moved a step away.
“There were clouds over us,” Uncle said with a sigh. “Mistress Collace did see them, and I was convicted by the Lord to seek again, to consider again, whether this decision should hold. We spent much time in prayer.”
Mother regarded their faces, one after the other. Uncle Alexander now seemed older than his sixty years, and Father’s sagging jowls drooped to an even greater degree.
Father hung his head and shook it back and forth. Uncle glanced at him. “Not everyone was in accord; we found that impossible.”
“Was there a new decision, then?” asked Margaret.
“We believe the Lord was telling us not to commit one sin in order to expunge another.”
“The witch goes free,” Father sneered again.
Margaret dropped down onto the stoop as a great sigh issued from her whole body. Isobel would live.
“There was the problem of all the others she named.” Uncle Alexander looked at Father, then back to Mother. “We saw that so many dozens of people could not all be guilty. Especially our Margaret.”
“Ah.” Margaret sank farther back.
“And our Bessie,” Mother added.
“And we ceded to the opinion that there was so much fantasy in this confession that it could not be believed.” He directed his gaze to Margaret, his expression unreadable. There was compassion in his look, but at the same time, a distance that hadn’t been there before, as if he could no longer accept her with the love she had always expected from him. In his eyes, she had associated herself with evil, and he wouldn’t soon forget. Nor would the others. When she’d left the church, they spat on her. They called her “witch” and “devil’s whore.” Who knew what else they had muttered and sniffed as she leaned on Mistress Collace, weeping and weeping?.
Margaret hunched over, forehead on her knees, and wept again. She cried out all the fear, horror, and despair, all mixed together. Isobel had been under a dark cloud of evil and hatred, and that cloud had descended on Margaret, as well. Isobel, this woman she had come to admire and yes, even love, this strange and beautiful soul. But now the cloud was lifted, and Isobel was free.
Margaret raised her head. But still. Isobel had named her, Margaret, as a witch. Why? Had Isobel been so tormented, almost beyond endurance, that she had named almost everyone she knew as her coven? Coven. Margaret had never even heard that word before.
She shivered in a sudden drop in temperature but had no inclination to go back into the castle. In her world, her religion, were so many dreary and joyless things. So much cruelty and hypocrisy. The Covenanters preached about love and charity but then turned around and murdered the women who sang and healed and cured. Margaret had sought something more, something of beauty, and she hadn’t wanted to think that Isobel’s world, too, could have another, darker side. Or that Isobel would feel so wronged–for the raid, for the execution of her mother– that she would want to use her magic to kill Margaret’s father and Mister Harry.
A gust of wind whipped at her skirt and she held it down. Margaret could see now that she hadn’t paid enough attention to Isobel’s reality. The cold, the threadbare plaids, the smoke and dark in the hut, the hunger. Even Isobel’s children, who were so ragged and bone thin. Margaret had brought a piece of cheese, a leg of mutton, yes, but she hadn’t attended, really, to Isobel’s suffering.
The wind was picking up and the sky was darkening, with clouds moving across the sun.
There had been clouds blocking her vision. That was it. Even when Isobel said a charm in the devil’s name, Margaret hadn’t seen.
A verse from the bible came to mind: For now, we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. The Apostle, it seemed, was telling her that we can never see clearly, not until we get to heaven. And what we know is only a part.
But now Margaret could see more. The darkness of the glass was clearing, at least in part. She could see now that Isobel had power to do good and power to do evil, and she had done some of both. And her Covenanter people. They strove to do good, to understand God’s laws, but they, too, had failed in enormous ways. People were not all good or all bad; most of them were some combination.
Everyone had departed—Uncle Alexander in his carriage, and Mother, Father, and Lucy into the castle, while Margaret stayed in the courtyard, lying on the stoop and studying the clouds: great masses of gray and white hovering above the bog and the lands to the west and south.
To the south lay England. She could have had a life with Andrew. If only she had been more discreet; if only she hadn’t been so curious. Mister Harry had been right, she thought. About curiosity. Her curiosity had condemned her, but it was also her longing for something magical, something more beautiful than the dreary life of the castle.
What would happen to Isobel now?
Margaret walked around to the north side of the castle and gazed out toward the sea. Would Isobel go back to the farmtown? What kind of reception would she receive there? Would she be shunned by her neighbors, or would she resume her position as a cunning woman?
The wind blew from the west across the machair and the fields, and the sound was a constant roaring, so loud she didn’t hear Andrew approach.
Suddenly, he was in front of her, coat flapping, hair blowing away from his face.
They stood and looked into each other’s eyes.
“Please, come out of the wind,” he said.
She led him to a sheltered spot between the north tower and the back of the great hall, and they sat huddled in the corner.
They sat in silence, looking out and away to the
sea.
At last Andrew spoke. “I have been thinking and reflecting, and I see that my words were harsh and hasty.”
“About your esteem of me?”
“My admiration and esteem of you are very great. I see now that you were searching for something beyond what we know. Your spirit, your curiosity, and imagination—these are the things I love about you. Perhaps you were a bit naïve about this woman . . .”
“Isobel taught me to see,” Margaret replied. “Perhaps not the fairies, but the music in the world. To feel a shoot of hyssop and smell its essence. To see the soul of life in a bird or a hare. To understand the dolphins’ voices. To hear the song of the sea.”
He smiled. “I think you are a poet.”
“A poet? I?”
“Perhaps you will write some of this.”
Margaret had to pause. This was a new thought. Like Elizabeth Melville, she could write poetry. Hers would be about beauty. The beauty of nature, the things Isobel had taught her.
Andrew took her two hands in his. “I am just a soldier . . . but a soldier who loves poetry. And I love you. Will you forgive me?”
Margaret felt a sob welling up. He embraced her and she yielded, softening into his strong arms. Beneath the castle walls, with the wind bellowing around them, she felt something beyond this moment, something deep and eternal.
Chapter 58
When Isobel was let out of the tollbooth, Margaret was waiting, with Andrew beside her. The door opened slowly. Isobel, in her rags now washed clean, stepped into the light. The light was hazy and overcast, but it seemed to dazzle her. She blinked and looked around, then pulled her bonnet down to shade her eyes.
A few people lingered at the side of the road, silent, watching. There were no shouts of welcome, no rush of greetings or hugs. Stillness and suspicion permeated the murky light. Isobel’s husband Hugh Gilbert stood to the side, in the shadow of the tollbooth, but did not approach her.
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