Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

  ‘Gillesbuig! No!’ MacKenzie yelled. Glenbeg, distracted by hearing his Gaelic name, which was rarely used by any of his acquaintances, hesitated, perhaps reminded of some incident from the distant past before his mother had been taken from him. He looked up towards the grain hatch and with a dexterity that would not have been expected in such a tall man, jumped away from Scougall and began to climb the grain sacks below the opening. Within seconds he had escaped through the hatch.

  ‘Come, Davie! Quick!’ shouted MacKenzie. ‘He’s in the courtyard.’

  Leaving Stirling to nurse his injured arm, the two lawyers raced through the door of the kitchen, down a short passage and out into the bright light of the courtyard, just in time to see Glenbeg making for the castle gates. But the appearance of one of the handful of guards who had not attended the burial of the chief diverted him to another door at the corner of the quadrangle. He disappeared within, pursued by MacKenzie and Scougall. Glenbeg’s footsteps could be heard racing up the stairs as they started to climb after him. The winding staircase seemed to go on forever – up and up, for six floors. At last they reached a door and were suddenly out into the cold morning air, on a battlement of the castle. The light was blinding as it was now almost midday. Glenbeg stood about ten paces away. His pursuers stopped, panting vigorously.

  When he had caught his breath MacKenzie spoke softly, his anger dissipated.

  ‘Glenbeg, it is over – give yourself up. There has been too much killing already – lay down your weapon.’

  The old Highlander did not speak. Instead he raised his broadsword above his head and looked up at it, a hint of madness in his eyes. Then he threw it with all his might above the castle battlements. As it rose against the crystal blue and started its fall back to earth, he spoke to MacKenzie in Gaelic, in tones both fierce and pitiful: ‘Fanaidh duine sona ri sìth, is bheir duine dona duibh-leum.’ There was a silence, then he added, ‘Fanaidh Moisean ri latha.’

  With that, Glenbeg hurled himself over the battlements.

  The two lawyers looked down on the crumpled body lying far below in the courtyard of Glenshieldaig Castle, his sword gleaming close by.

  ‘God have mercy on his soul,’ Scougall murmured.

  Glenbeg’s green plaid enveloped him, but dark blood was visible around his head; his skull had been smashed into pieces.

  In the distance, a piper was leading the mourners back to the castle from Sir Lachlan’s graveside.

  MacKenzie’s voice was as subdued as the lament which carried to their ears on the bitter wind.

  ‘Davie, I think the Devil has had his day.’

  Historical Note

  THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY was a tumultuous period in Scottish History: famine, pestilence, revolution, war; bitter divisions between Protestant and Catholic, Episcopalian and Presbyterian, Highlander and Lowlander; alchemy, blasphemy trials and witch hunting. But it was also the century in which the modern world was born: scientific enquiry, stock market investment, political rights.

  In this age of turbulence there were winners and losers. The rise of the legal profession was as relentless as their escalating fees. Many Edinburgh lawyers, especially advocates, became hugely rich.

  Others fared less well. Highland chiefs were under pressure from a government which wanted to bring them into line, persuade them to resolve their disputes in court and not by feud. Having borrowed vast sums to spend on new castles, foreign luxuries and trips to Court in London, they had major financial problems. When the debt binge ended on the outbreak of civil war, many faced ruin. The years of the late seventeenth century were a grim struggle for survival.

  Some chiefs saw the way the wind was blowing and sent their younger sons to be trained as lawyers in Edinburgh. These ‘clan lawyers’ provided cheap legal advice and represented them in the central courts. John MacKenzie was such a lawyer.

  If you want to learn more about Highland chiefs in seventeenth century Scotland, the following works of history are recommended:

  A.I. Macinnes. Clanship, Commerce and the House of Stuart, 1603–1788. East Linton: 1996.

  R.A. Dodgshon. From Chiefs to Landlords: Social and Economic Change in the Western Highlands and Islands, c.1493–1820. Edinburgh: 1998.

  P. Hopkins. Glencoe and the End of the Highland War. Edinburgh: 1986.

  John MacKenzie returns in

  Testament of a Witch

  Here is a sample of the first two chapters:

  PRELUDE - A Sermon on Witchcraft

  October 1687

  ‘THIS PARISH IS enthralled to the Devil,’ the minister began his sermon, carefully articulating each word. He was a young man in his thirties dressed in black gowns, standing in a large wooden pulpit elevated above the congregation. On the canopy above his head, a board was carved with the text: ‘Fear the Lord and honour his house.’ His eyes darted round the packed church, moving from face to face.

  ‘This parish is enthralled to the Devil,’ he repeated, before turning over an hourglass at the side of the lectern. ‘Satan walks amongst us.’ He waited through an intense silence.

  ‘We begin,’ he continued, ‘with Exodus Chapter 22, Verse 18.’ The people knew what was coming. They had heard the verse on countless Sabbaths. He raised the volume of his voice: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Then shouting: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

  His eyes came to rest on two penitents, a man and woman wearing sackcloth, sitting on stools at the front. Cards tied to their shoulders allowed those behind to read the words scrolled in capitals on their backs:

  ‘FORNICATOR, FILTHY WHORE’.

  ‘We have in this verse a precept of the Law of God, a precept of law given to the judges of the people of Israel, a precept given to those to whom the power of the sword is committed. They shall not suffer a witch to live.’ Again silence.

  ‘But what is a witch?’ He glared across the worshippers before looking down at his notes. Some gazed longingly back at him. Others were so terrified they could not raise their eyes lest he see into their black hearts.

  ‘By a witch is understood to be a person that hath immediate converse with the Devil. So Leviticus Chapter 20, Verse 27 tells us: “A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.” The spirit of God doth expressly mention either man or woman.’

  His eyes shone with the ecstasy of power. ‘And Deuteronomy Chapter 18, Verses 10 to 13, says: “There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord.”’

  He snatched a look at the hourglass. There was still plenty of time. He repeated with more vigour: ‘An abomination unto the Lord!’

  Raising his eyes, he continued: ‘There are some sins so gross in nature that every single act of them deserves death by the law of God.’ He slowed his delivery to emphasise what followed: ‘Such sins are bestiality, incest and sodomy. And so I take an act of witchcraft to be such a gross sin. Every act deserves death by the law of God.’ The expression on his face was suffused with such earnestness, no one could have doubted that he believed what he said.

  ‘What constitutes a person to be a witch? I speak now of both men and women, as from scripture. It requires a real compact between Satan and that person. They receive the Devil’s Mark upon their flesh. Or the parent offers their child unto Satan.’

  He addressed a line of older children in the second pew on the left side of the congregation: ‘The parent offers their child to him. They receive his mark just as the children of professing parents receiving baptism will be in covenant with God. A witch shall worship Satan as their God. They shall follow him as their guide. They are constituted to be worshippers of Satan. They sell themselves in body and so
ul to do wickedness. They follow the Devil who is the prince of the power of the air.’ He lowered his head, briefly pausing.

  ‘Why do God’s creatures turn from him? It flows from the blindness and perverseness that have fallen upon us by the fall of Man. It flows from people who undervalue, slight and condemn the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It flows from the prevalence of lust and corruption among the people in the visible church. It flows from covetousness, pride and malice.’ He raised his head: ‘Turn you away from Satan.’ Then, after another longer pause, lifting his voice: ‘Turn you away from Satan!’, then shouting: ‘Turn you away from Satan!’

  He stared again at the penitents. The woman looked down at her bare feet in humiliation. The man gazed at the whitewashed wall behind the minister.

  ‘Men and women are led by Satan to carry out deeds of depravity and evil whether by ordinary means, such as using a cord or napkin to strangle with, or by putting pins in a picture or clay figure, roasting it on a fire and flaming it with vinegar and brandy. This is done to put an innocent person to torment. Witches are called to meetings by Satan where all manner of debauchery and perversity is manifest, such as dancing, drinking strong liquor and singing. All kinds of sin are indulged in, including,’ he paused to emphasise what was coming, ‘the gravest sin of all, the grossest sin imaginable – carnal dealings with Satan. It is so opposite to that natural moral honesty which dignifies the marriage of man and woman. It flows from that blindness and perverseness that have fallen upon us by the fall of Man.

  ‘Witches are the greatest hypocrites under the sun. Witchcraft is one of those evil deeds that the spirit of God enjoins death upon. There are today witches in our midst who pollute the parish of Lammersheugh, bringing discord and immorality. We desire that God will bring their works of darkness to light so that His enemies may be punished. Satan blinds the mind of those that despise the Gospel. Show us, oh God – show us who they are.’

  The silence was unbearable. It was broken by a finely dressed middle-aged woman rising from her pew. With head bowed, she walked to a side door and left the kirk. She was followed by an old woman, shuffling behind.

  The movement distracted the minister, breaking the dramatic momentum of his sermon. Although he was angered by the interruption, he quickly gathered his thoughts.

  ‘Satan blinds the mind of those who despise the Gospel. Let this humble us all. Let us bewail it as a great evil that such a place as Scotland, where the gospel of Christ has been purely preached, should have so many under suspicion of the crime of witchcraft. You that are free, bless God that hath kept you from the wicked one, and pray out of zeal to God and his Glory that he shall bring these works of darkness to light that mar our solemnities and are fearful spots in our feasts. I beseech you, be vigilant. Watch your neighbours. Watch your children. Watch your mother and your father. Watch your master and your servant. None are free from the stain that darkens the nation. Satan walks and smiles in our parish. He spreads evil amongst us. Let us pray…’

  Placing a hand on the Bible in the lectern, he closed his eyes, raising the other above his head, palm outwards. At last he appeared to relax. A smile was on his face. It was the smile of a man communing with God, the smile of a man who knew God, a man who knew he was right in what he did, a man who knew that he was saved, chosen from the beginning of time to be one of God’s Elect. The congregation lowered their heads and followed the prayer.

  ‘Let all the congregation say Amen. Let all the saints in heaven and earth praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen. Let sun and moon praise him. Let fire, hailstorms, winds and vapours praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen. Let men and women praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen.’

  CHAPTER 1 - Lammer Law

  THE WOMAN WAS a streak of black against the browns and greens of the broad rounded hilltop. She stood under a heavy sky beside a small copse of birch. Staring northwards, she listened to the wind in the leaves. It was their last song before autumn cast them into the universe.

  When she removed her bonnet, dark auburn hair flecked with grey fell down onto her shoulders. She let the breeze enliven her pallid face as she watched a small boat miles away on the Firth, far beneath her to the north. It was bound for Leith, having crossed the German Sea with a cargo from Amsterdam, she supposed. In her mind she saw a sailor on board thinking of his sweetheart in the Indies, a world away. She felt his loneliness as he stared on the grey sky and brown hills of Scotland. Her own daughters had always loved her stories. Their two faces came to her as they were when young girls. They had lived inside her body once, also. She had been able to protect them, then.

  She looked over to the Bass Rock, a dark tooth protruding from the sea. It was where the conventiclers were imprisoned; rigid, self-righteous men. Her eyes moved to the cone-shaped Berwick Law where they burned witches long ago. In the far distance to the west was the sleeping lion of Arthur’s Seat and the town of Edinburgh. She had not been there for years, not since before Alexander’s death. Her eyes focused on a castle in the foreground, perhaps two miles to the north-east of where she stood, but a thousand feet beneath her. It was a fine structure, perhaps more of a great house than a fortified dwelling, for it had been substantially altered by the Earl during her lifetime. Tweeddale was the head of her husband’s family, the Hays. But she did not think that he would be able to help her.

  A few miles from the castle were the lineaments of her own world. How still and peaceful it appeared from here – the spire of a kirk, a few dwelling houses between the trees, the gables of Lammersheugh House where she had lived since her marriage, all those years before. The House was surrounded by gardens which they had planted together. It seemed like another world, or someone else’s life. She saw him as she always did when she thought of him, or when someone spoke of him, walking in the garden in summer. The image of his body sent a wave of excitement through her. The girls are playing at his feet. He takes one of them by the arms, Euphame, and lifts her off the ground. There are screams of delight. Then the image fades. His arm is round her waist in the lengthening shadows. The memory of the feel of him returns, the memory of happiness – real love, not just desire. They had known each other since they were children, although he was two years older. There had always been something between them. She had watched him standing beside his tall sister in the kirk. But she had not expected that he would choose her. She was the daughter of a decaying house. When he had gone to college in Edinburgh the heart was ripped from her life. The two long years he was in Europe were empty ones when she imagined he had found a rich foreign heiress. But he came back to her, as he had said he would.

  She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the bliss of bygone years. It was as if they had lived in a storybook which was not real, a dream maybe. This was real life. She opened her eyes. Pain engulfed her like the tide on a lonely shore.

  The vision of the garden was gone. She saw him lying in his winding sheet; pale, cold, but still beautiful. Now he would never return from across the water. And would she ever see him again? In her heart she believed that the minister and elders were wrong. There was still a chance that they might be reunited. She must believe that.

  ‘Grissell.’

  For a moment she thought that he was calling her name, that he had come back to her. But in an instant despair returned. The voice was familiar. But it was not his. She did not turn in the direction it came from. The realisation of the present cut deep. She did not hate the voice, only the thought that it was not his. She imagined the small red heart beating inside her.

  CHAPTER 2 - A Round on Leith Links

  SCOUGALL WAS SUFFERING from a cold. As he lowered his head to address the ball, his nose dripped onto the ground between his feet. He sniffed loudly before swinging the club. The ball shot off at a terrific speed, but was sliced. Following it in the air, he watched it bounce on the fairway about two hundred yards away, move violently to the right and come to rest in the rough.

  ‘Confound this cold!’ He had
almost cursed. He chided himself. It was only a game, after all, the pursuit of leisure. It should not be taken too seriously, unlike work. He asked God for forgiveness. But he did love golf so much, the feeling he got from striking a good shot. Despite his diminutive stature, he could drive further than most men. He loved the sense of satisfaction it gave him, similar to completing a long instrument in the office. But, although he found it hard to admit, it was even more enjoyable to win.

  Scougall was dressed in black breeches and jacket. The short white periwig on his head was a fashion accessory he had only recently added to his wardrobe and to which he was not yet accustomed. His pale face looked disconcerted as he stood back to let his partner play.

  MacKenzie was a foot taller and a generation older than Scougall. Bending over to tee up his ball on the best spot, he smiled. ‘I may have a chance today, Davie. Only a slight one, but a chance.’ As he straightened his back, he groaned. An image of himself lying flat, unable to walk for a week, flashed through his mind. Like most tall men he suffered from bouts of back pain. He must try not to hit the ball too hard.

  As he concentrated, his expression became deeply serious. Touching his periwig with his right hand, a golfing mannerism, he placed it beside his left on the handle. At the apex, the club stopped for just too long to give the swing fluency; it presented a staccato appearance which lacked the natural elegance of his young companion’s. MacKenzie was not a natural golfer like Scougall. Despite having played the game for fifty years he had never managed to improve a swing moulded as a child. Indeed he often joked that he had played his best golf as a twelve-year-old student in Aberdeen in 1643, the year the Scots signed the National League and Covenant, a foolish document if there ever was one. Interfering in the affairs of another nation was always a bad idea, leading to nothing but trouble.