The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ‘No matter, I will catch up with them later,’ she says under her breath.

  At the water fountain she drinks her fill, wincing at an incessant snapping sound. All the while she wonders what is causing the noise, a carter’s whip or something more sinister.

  Near the market square, the snapping noise grows louder. A small crowd congregates near the Grassmarket. Maggie pushes her way through them until she comes to a break in the crowd, suddenly she freezes. The whip has nine lengths of plaited cord, attached to a leather baton and lashes the back of a half-naked woman. A length of hempen rope dangles from her neck as the bailie reads out her crime. And all the while, as her crime is being proclaimed to the crowd, they drag her around the market square before hacking off her hair.

  ‘Name the father, and we will be merciful!’ The bailie shouts.

  The woman shakes her head and retches, her vomit spewing onto the floor. The bailie nods to the hangman to continue the flogging, Maggie turns her head away in disgust, wishing she was far away.

  A couple of linkboys scurry past her to the market square. Homeless and desperate for food, they beg all day till they have enough money to buy a torch to light a fine gentleman’s way, come nightfall, for the price of a few coins. Maggie’s face softens at the sight of one of them. He’s fair haired and barely four summers old.

  The whipping noise halts. They untie the girl from the market cross. She lies face down on the cold dirt floor. The blood speckled face of the hangman gleams with sweat as he delivers his final lash. Be it fascination or horror, Maggie’s compelled to stare, her eyes drawn to his coarse hands running along the length of the whip, squeezing and wringing out the blood to form a large scarlet puddle on the dusty floor. The flogged woman is motionless in the dirt. All around her are long ribbons of skin, and her torso resembles a hunk of meat on a fleshers chopping board. The bailie kneels beside her to turn her over; places one ear to her breast and shakes his head. With a pale face, Maggie turns to leave and then stops in her stride, her chest feeling as though it’s about to cave inwards. It’s the lockman, calling out to her in his loud voice.

  ‘You, fishwife. Come here.’

  ‘Me?’ Maggie points a finger to her chest.

  He nods. ‘Aye, you, fisherwoman. Don’t be shy.’

  Maggie walks towards him, with each step the smell of sweat and blood gets stronger. Almost immediately she has to resist the urge to retch. As she pauses to adjust the creel on her back, Maggie’s swollen stomach protrudes in front of her.

  ‘Come on, fishwife, I haven’t all day. You know the rules, wench. I’m entitled to one fish from every creel on market day.’ He stretches out one bloody hand and takes a fish from her creel.

  Maggie recoils as he scrutinises her. For a short while his eyes move along the length of her body before finally settling on her face.

  ‘Till we meet again, fisher lassie,’ he utters in a menacing tone.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ she cries and races down the West Bow, running until there’s no breath left in her. But the swelling in her stomach makes it hard for her to run and so she has to stop and lean against a door, bending over her knees and gulping like a fish.

  After a while she feels well enough to go on, and in no time at all Maggie’s at the fish market selling her fish, but alas the other fisher lassies have already gone. With her creel near empty she hurries home, stopping at Joppa to sell the last of her fish. But she can’t get the image of the hangman and the woman out of her mind. At the coastal path, the sea soothes her nerves, but as Watts Close comes to sight she breaks into a trot.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, lassie? You are awful pale,’ Jean says with a look of concern.

  ‘A poor woman flogged to death at the Market Cross.’

  ‘How awful. No wonder you look queasy, sit yourself by the fire. I’ll get you a drop of the strong stuff. Where do you keep it?’

  ‘It’s all right, Jean. I’ll be fine. How’s Anna?’

  ‘She’s no trouble. And her teeth are much better I see. Now I best be off, you never know when a new baby’s coming, Mrs McCoist is due any day.

  Maggie thanks her and follows her to the door. ‘Oh, before you go. The last time you came to visit me you mentioned Sarah Clerk and the changeling.’

  Jean grimaces. ‘It’s not good news. The baby died, lass. So it was definitely a changeling. The fairies have her real bairn now.’

  Maggie bites her lip. ‘Oh, that’s a shame; but I expect she can have another.’

  ‘Aye, but you know how it is. Folk have started pointing the finger. They’re saying it’s her fault the baby’s a changeling and that she’s being punished for her sins.’

  ‘What sins? She’s a good woman. And does her husband blame her too?’

  ‘Aye, he does. He’s beaten her, gave her a black eye and a thick ear,’ Jean shakes her head, unable to contain her anger.

  Maggie looks at Jean and puffs out her cheeks. ‘For goodness sake, as if the poor woman hasn’t been through enough!’

  ***

  When Patrick returns, he thinks he’s entered the wrong cottage. Everything is neat and tidy, and not a thing out of place. Maggie’s even took care not to tamper with his fishing gear and covered it with an old sack. And for once, his young wife appears to be in a merry mood.

  ‘Come sit with me, wife.’ He pats a stool beside him.

  Maggie removes her kertch and joins him near the fire.

  ‘What the devil have you done? Where is your hair?’

  ‘I had no money, so I made do.’

  ‘You sold your hair?’

  ‘Aye, to the wigmaker on the mile.’

  ‘But, Maggie, your beautiful hair. I can’t believe it. It was down to your waist, and now it barely reaches your shoulders.’

  ‘It’ll grow back,’ she stares into the fire.

  A feeling of dread fills Patrick’s bones and he shivers as he stares at his wife’s pale face. There’s a sorrow in those eyes he’s not noticed before.

  ‘Will you be here for this one?’ she asks, patting her swollen belly.

  ‘Oh, lass.’ He pulls her into his arms and kisses the top of her head. ‘I will. I swear I will.’

  ***

  At the harbour, Maggie has a burst of energy, and the fisherwomen tell her that it’s a sure sign that the child is about to be born. She labours all day until her back aches and her hands are red raw from sorting fish on the rocks.

  Maggie’s pains begin the following morning and last till the wee hours of the night. Jean Ramsay arrives in the afternoon, along with a barrage of women folk. And soon the house is clacking with gossips, for as the old saying goes, ‘for gossips to meet at a lying-in, and not talk, you may as well dam up the arches of the roman bridge, as stop their mouths at such a time.’

  Nevertheless, Patrick keeps his word and does not miss the birth. And so, on a cold February morning he holds his second born, a son, and listens to the child’s lusty cries. Young Anna has a brother,

  a strong wee baby boy, and they name him Patrick after his father. For a month after the birth, every day the gossips return, much to Patrick’s distain. Intimate relations between man and wife are forbidden, since it’s believed a woman is defiled by childbirth. Thus, the women’s job is to ward him off until churching and purification is obtained.

  ***

  ‘What’s the matter with you? It’s time you sat up, Maggie. The sooner the dry nurse goes the sooner the churching, and then you’ll be back to your old self.’ Widow Arrock crosses her arms over pendulous breasts. She knows what’s wrong with Maggie. She’s seen it before. It happens sometimes after a woman has a bairn. And in short, it’s worse for some than others. Maggie, thank goodness has a mild form, the type that makes women irrational, weepy and unable to sleep.

  After the churching, Maggie wakes up each day in a daze to carry out her day to day chores. And as she does so, there’s a brooding look upon her pale face as her mouth droops down, looking like for all eterni
ty that it will never lift up again.

  ***

  During the summer of 1717, just as Maggie’s melancholia disappears, a strange thing happens. Patrick’s old fancy, Agnes Lecke, begins to call at Watts Close to help Maggie with the children. It’s an unlikely alliance, but nevertheless Maggie welcomes the company and the extra pair of hands. Today, with Agnes’s help, Maggie will venture outside with both children for the first time. Up till now Maggie’s relied on the widow or Jean to look after the children, so she could collect water from the river, peat from the bogs, or to hawk her fish.

  Patrick’s old fancy is a pretty girl, but she can only be described in one word – peculiar. Agnes’s eyes are empty and cold, so unlike Maggie’s large eyes, like wild unearthly fires. They are an odd pair as they walk side by side towards the harbour. The air is fresh and breezy outdoors, and in no time at all they are at the boat shore. Near the rocks, sunlight reflects on the sea, like a thousand sparkling wavelets. A catch of fish is brought ashore, and so Agnes looks after the bairns while Maggie helps sort the fish. After a while, when there’s no sign of her husband, Maggie buys some of the fish and decides to go home. Later she will dry the fish on hooks outside her door. A quantity of fishing nets, creels and baskets litter the entrance to Watts Close. Maggie shakes her head and groans out loud: ‘Mind your feet, Agnes. Patrick’s left his fishing gear all over the place again. Don’t want you to trip and fall.’

  They settle the children down and sit near the open door, enjoying the cool summer breeze and waving to passers-by.

  ‘Was Patrick not at shore?’ Agnes enquires in a soft voice.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I just haven’t seen him in a while, that’s all.’

  As Agnes crosses her legs, Maggie notices that her stockings are odd and her stays aren’t laced as they should be. And even more alarming, there are scars and strange scratches up the length of her arms.

  ‘I’ve a feeling that he visits the links. It’s either that or he’s playing with the lads kicking a ball. Comes in he does with mucky legs and gets into bed dirtying the blankets. And that’s not all…’

  Agnes yawns.

  ‘I’m sorry. How rude of me. Would you like a bite to eat? I’ve some bannocks on the cooling tray near the hearth.’

  Baby Patrick begins to wail, Maggie huffs and wonders if the lad’s stomach is a bottomless pit. ‘Agnes, did you hear me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked you if you want a bite to eat.’

  Agnes nods and picks up little Patrick.

  ***

  With thoughts of her old love, Agnes Lecke feels a shiver of anticipation as she crosses the room. A table and two stools stand by the far wall, everything’s neat and ordered and not at all as she imagined it be. A clay pipe protrudes from a horn beaker on a wooden chest; a pair of sea boots that need mending lay upturned on the floor. And then her eyes become drawn to an old wooden chair, the seat of which was made up from thick rushes. She scrutinises the chair for the longest time, a quantity of its binding is frayed, but that’s not what holds her attention. It’s the coarse linen shirt that hangs on the chair’s back.

  With nervous eyes Agnes glances across the room. Maggie’s busy warming bannocks so, in haste, Agnes places the child in its crib and sneaks off to the chair. Her hands shake as she lifts the material to her nose, inhaling Patrick’s musky scent; a shiver of pleasure shoots up her spine. Agnes is greedy for his scent, how she longs to possess it, devour it, and suck it up into her own being, so that they mingle as one. And so, for what feels like eternity, she holds the shirt to her body and weeps like a child.

  A voice calls out to her. Agnes drops the shirt and focuses hard, after a while a blurred image sharpens into the shape of Maggie holding out a plate of food.

  ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a phantom.’

  ‘I’ve a pain in my heid.’

  ‘Oh dear. There’s a plant that cures headaches, looks like a daisy, it does. Do you know of it? It’s called feverfew. My mother taught me how to recognise it when I was a wee girl.’

  Agnes stares at Maggie, her bottom lip quivering all the while; she can see two Maggie’s now and demons, familiars, and strange beasts with forked tongues. ‘Feverfew you say. Where will I find it? And if I take enough will it send me to sleep? My head hurts. I need to sleep, Maggie.’

  ‘Feverfew works miracles. You can find it on barren land or growing at the bottom of stone walls. I have some. Do you want me to make a tisane?’

  ‘Please, will you? Will it make me sleep?’ Agnes repeats. The voices are returning now and her visions are becoming distorted. Everything’s a blur, colours and shapes all merging into one. She can just make out Maggie’s voice.

  ‘No, camomile and hops will help you sleep, but be careful though. You need to know how strong to make it.’

  When Maggie isn’t looking, Agnes staggers out the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION

  Excited cries fill the harbour as a huge catch of fish is brought ashore. The fishwives work fast on the rocky foreshore, each taking their share and spreading them across craggy rocks. They move fast, fingers busy, sorting the fish as hungry gulls circle above. Once the catch is gutted, the women wash and scrub their fish with a brush of heather stems bound together. Maggie and Isobel work shoulder to shoulder. All morning they wash, scrub and remove all traces of blood from flesh and bones. Next comes the splitting and salting, this can take up to six hours. Finally, they can be placed in a circle, head out, tail in centre, and laid on racks or hooks to dry in the sun.

  ***

  At the crack of dawn, Patrick creeps from his bed, taking care not to wake Maggie or the children. He tiptoes softly across the room, eyes darting left and right in search of his sea boots and fishing gear. But he can’t find them anywhere. He steps on a sharp stone and curses, one of the bairns stirs in their sleep. Patrick screws his eyes together and holds his breath, and to his utmost relief the child settles down. He tiptoes back to his bed.

  ‘Maggie. Where is my fishing gear?’ he whispers.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Outside?’ he raises his voice. ‘And my boots?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve had quite enough of you leaving them near the door for me to trip up on – so I threw them out the door.’

  Patrick’s mouth gapes open. ‘You’re jesting. What if it’s rained? Or what if someone’s taken my stuff? How could you be so foolish?’

  Maggie ignores him.

  ‘I’m going then,’ he says through gritted teeth and strides across the room to open the door. He’s just about to leave when he remembers that he needs some bait.

  ‘Maggie.’ He taps her shoulder.

  ‘What now?

  ‘I need a line baiting for when I get back.’

  Maggie groans and turns over in her bed.

  ‘Maggie.’

  She pulls the covers over her face. With an almighty push Patrick slams the door behind him, no longer caring if he wakes up the children. It’s a clear morning and fortunately it’s not rained. He gathers his fishing gear and picks up his sea boots. They’re covered in fine dew; he wipes them with a clout, places them on his feet and is on his way. At the harbour he fills his lungs with sea air, thinking there’s nothing better than a spot of line fishing to clear the head.

  His lugger boat is close by. Into the deep blue sea he drops his baited lines. The sky is clear ahead, he stretches out his long body in the hull and waits for the fish to bite, not a care in the world. It might be a good six hours before he needs to haul it up.

  ***

  Maggie’s exhausted. Before Patrick left this morning he asked her to bait one of his unused lines. But for the life of her, she can’t remember what he uses – lugworms, paps, anemones or mussels? She seems to recall it depends on what time of year it is. A cockerel crows in the distance as she rubs her drowsy eyes. The baby kept her stirring all night and she feels dreadful. Underneath
a mountain of ropes and nets she finds a sturdy creel. She has a good mind to make him collect his own bait, the lazy swine! As if she hasn’t got enough to do.

  By the light of the fire, she dresses quickly, fastening her stays with nimble fingers. Her clothes reek of fish and brine, but Maggie’s oblivious to the stench. A stale oatcake lies on the table; she eats it quickly before banking up the fire. After that, she covers her long hair with a clean striped kertch, pulls on her scruffy boots and feeds the bairns.

  Young Patrick fits snug inside the creel. It’s a warm day so she swaddles him in fine linen spun for her bottom drawer. Before she leaves Maggie looks around the cottage and wonders if she’s forgotten something.

  ‘The baby,’ she says out loud. And then realises the creel and baby are perched upon her back. She takes Anna and a basket in her arms and walks out the door.

  ‘Hold the willow basket for your mother, Anna?’

  ‘Anna hold basquit,’ shouts Anna.

  Maggie smiles as the child struggles to hold the object in her chubby arms. It isn’t long before she has to take it herself. Anna drops everything eventually; she’s all fingers and thumbs.

  At the Esk, Maggie lowers her creel and basket to the soft ground. And so, with Anna on her hip and the baby safe in the creel she begins to look for mussels. Several women are scattered around the river bed. It is wash day and the gossips are out, ears wagging, listening for mindless tittle-tattle. To Maggie’s consternation, baby Patrick begins to cry before she’s found one mussel. With a thump she drops to the floor and traps Anna between her legs as she feeds the child. Before long a shadow looms over her.