Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  The years passed, but she did not fall pregnant. The desires of the flesh faded, but not her appetite for food. Her life became more serene and she spent time improving her house and estates. In politics she placed herself with those who opposed the King and his Catholic brother, looking back to the days of the Commonwealth with affection, although in private she viewed that time as a mistake. She supported the exclusion of the Duke of York and gave succour, secretly, to Presbyterians who came out in the rebellions of 1666 and 1679.

  She would make sure that her nieces did not make the same mistakes she had. They would inherit Girnington when she died. If only her beloved brother had not passed away so prematurely. The estates of Girnington and Lammersheugh joined together would make a powerful patrimony. But she must proceed with caution.

  There was a knock on the door. She turned from the view out of the window of the Lammermuir Hills. A servant entered. She had never made an advance on Leitch during his twenty-five years’ service. She smiled to herself. Even as a young man he was repulsively ugly. But he was loyal. He stood in front of her with his usual imperturbable look.

  ‘They have found a body at the Devil’s Pool, my lady.’

  ‘What do you mean, Leitch?’ The news was interesting.

  ‘A woman’s body is found at the Devil’s Pool. She is drowned.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Lady Lammersheugh. The body is taken back to the house.’

  She turned to the hills, a smile on her fat face. ‘Thank you Leitch. Keep me informed. I will have dinner in my chambers tonight.’

  CHAPTER 7 - Coffee in Edinburgh

  24 October 1687

  THE ROYAL COFFEE HOUSE was full by the time Scougall arrived, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of coffee – a drink which he had no liking for, but which was much praised by MacKenzie. He spotted him at the back of the room, reading a book.

  ‘Here, sit down, you look tired, Davie.’ MacKenzie smiled at his young assistant. ‘Some coffee will revive you.’ He signalled to the boy that he wanted two more cups.

  ‘I did not sleep well last night, sir. The execution left me in a state of… agitation. After dinner I read a book which I had bought from Mr Shields, a most engrossing, but disturbing work – Satan’s Invisible World Discovered.’

  ‘I have a copy, Davie. It was published by Reid in 1685.’

  Scougall ignored MacKenzie’s comment. ‘Once I began reading, I could not put it down. By the time I sought sleep, it would not come. My mind kept returning to certain passages, especially relating to the troubles Sir George Maxwell of Pollock met from the Devil and his hags.’

  ‘I would have advised you not to attend such a spectacle, nor to read such a book after witnessing it. You have watched the death of an innocent woman,’ said MacKenzie sternly.

  ‘Witches are infecting the kingdom, sir!’ exclaimed Scougall, suddenly invigorated. ‘There is news this morning of delations in Ayr, Dumfries and Fife. A witch-hunt is started!’

  The waiter arrived with two steaming cups of coffee. MacKenzie took a sip from his. Scougall let a small amount into his mouth, swallowing reluctantly. It was, perhaps, an acquired taste.

  ‘Our countrymen lose their wits,’ MacKenzie observed. ‘The kingdom is supposedly threatened by the charms of old women. Most are accused by their neighbours out of spite.’

  ‘Then you do not believe we are in danger?’

  ‘A fever takes hold of us, a frenzy of our senses. We seek to explain our ills by blaming others. It is a malady which has only afflicted us for a hundred years or so, Davie. Our histories have little to say of witchcraft before the great change of religion in 1560. Witches are the spawn of our reformation! The witch-hunt is a cancer which robs all of reason, whipped up by men of God!’

  ‘Are you saying there are not any witches? Sinclair warns of Sadducism.’ Scougall was troubled.

  MacKenzie recognised that Scougall would have difficulty accepting his sceptical views on the subject. A debate could wait for another occasion. ‘I simply ask you to lay aside your prejudices. Apply reason to these cases. Do not accept what you read in the pamphlets of fanatics or what you are told by ministers. Think for yourself, Davie. Rosehaugh calls into question the legal basis by which many of these poor wretches are convicted.’ He took another sip of his coffee before continuing. ‘I accept that the parishes of Scotland are full of men and women who believe in witches, or who believe they are witches. But it is a delusion. It is superstition. The kingdom is in as much danger from the smoke from his pipe.’ MacKenzie nodded towards a man at the next table.

  Scougall reflected on what MacKenzie had said. But his acceptance of witches was as firm as his belief in the existence of his own mother and father. The name of Rosehaugh did not sway him in any way. The man was a cruel persecutor of conventiclers, brave men and women who risked everything to worship God in the way they chose. MacKenzie was wrong. The kingdom was in danger. Satan was present in Scotland. An image from his childhood came to him. The face of a woman accused of witchcraft in Musselburgh. She was known to his father as she had worked as the servant of a burgess. His parents’ conversations were full of nothing else for weeks. And he had met the woman! She had even been civil to him, greeting him warmly in the street, seeming little different from the other women in the burgh. He had never seen her again. She was tried in Edinburgh, found guilty and executed. Her children and grandchildren were shunned, left to fend for themselves. Most of them died in poverty. Satan could destroy lives, innocent lives. He summoned up the courage to pursue the point.

  ‘I can only praise the ministers who root out such Devilry.’

  ‘May I suggest you leave aside the study of witchcraft. There are enough zealots in Scotland. It is a crime which masks others, revealing the very worst of humanity.’ Anger flashed in MacKenzie’s eyes.

  Scougall yawned. He could not deny that the subject was interrupting his sleep. He knew the word of God on the subject. Witches should be put to death. The Bible said so.

  MacKenzie sensed that it would take more than a conversation in a coffee house to overturn a lifetime’s belief. And the Presbyterians accused the Papists of superstition!

  ‘Let us change the subject, Davie, and turn to the reason I have asked you to meet me this morning.’ MacKenzie withdrew the letter from his leather case and passed it to Scougall. ‘Yesterday I received this from Lady Lammersheugh. She lives, or I should say, lived near Haddington. I have represented the family for years.’

  After reading it, Scougall raised a perplexed face.

  ‘This morning I have word that Grissell Hay is dead, drowned in the Lammer Burn. She is to be buried two days hence. What do you make of that?’

  ‘She has foretold her own death, sir. Or at least she had suspicions that her life was in danger.’

  ‘I must follow her instructions. Her husband, Alexander Hay, died a couple of years ago. He was a client and friend. I travel to Lammersheugh tomorrow for the funeral. I will have little work for you over the next few days. You may rest your quill and practise your golf swing.’

  ‘Then I will leave town also, sir. I had intended to visit my parents. Now I have the time to do so,’ Scougall said enthusiastically before taking another sip of coffee. ‘We could ride together to Musselburgh. Take a meal with my family before you travel on to Haddington.’

  ‘That is a fine idea, Davie. It would give me great pleasure to meet them. Let us leave tomorrow at dawn.’

  CHAPTER 8 - An Evening by the Fireside

  SHE SAT BY the fire, sharing the warmth with her dog. The cottage was a single room lit by a candle on a table beside the solitary chair. Humming a gentle melody, she gazed into the flames, tapping her foot on the dog’s side. She remembered her granny singin the same air in a bustlin cottage fu o bairns, nae alane as she wis now. Aw gane – her brithers an sisters, mither an faither; her man tane ten year ago, her son lost. The thought brought a tear to her eye. Naethin heard o him fir twenty year sinc
e he left in a ship fir Jamaica. Aw her ither bairns stillborn or short-lived.

  And now Grissell tane as weel, bonnie Grissell, who wis like a dochter tae her. She had nursed her as a girl, loved her as her ain. She saw her as a bairn playing in the gairdens at Aikwood in the year the Scottish army was routed at Dunbar by Cromwell. The daft ministers had cawed fir a spiritual army. Her memory wis still shairp fir lang ago. It wisnae sae guid fir the present, like whaur she had put her scissors.

  She thought again o Grissell, her body lyin in the hoose, tae be buried the morrow, set beneath the cauld earth wi Alexander. Her twa bairns left withoot a faither or mither. She had thought that they had done enough. Grissell seemed content, at last. Anger replaced grief in her heart. They were aw aifter the lands of Lammersheugh. But nane wid hae the saft body o Grissell now! At least there wis that – the only guid tae come o it. But how were the girls tae survive? They were young women, vulnerable tae a corrupt wirld which devoured aw that wis guid.

  She wid look aifter them as she had looked aifter thir mither. She kenned not how lang she had afore being cawed by the Lord, but she wid devote aw tae them. Though it wis nae really her place, she wid counsel them. She had power. She had wirds o power. Her chairms wid protect them. She must speak tae the girls the morrow. Tears were on her cheeks. She felt a need to take Grissell in her arms.

  The dog was suddenly awake, ears cocked, the hair on his back erect. He growled at the door. The growl became a snarling bark. No like him, she thought.

  ‘There lad, hush, hush.’

  There was a tapping sound on the window shutter. Taking a shawl from the back of the chair, Janet placed it over her shoulders, rising painfully with her candle.

  She walked slowly to the door, opened it and stared into the blackness. The dog stopped barking. ‘There, ye see, laddie. Only the wind.’

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed a hanging shape. There was a sound: a drip, drip, dripping on the stone floor. The dog ran forward and began to lick at the dark pool. She raised her candle and screamed. The body of a black cat loomed in front of her. It had been garrotted with a thin cord and nailed to the lintel.

  CHAPTER 9 - Spiritual Exercises

  ‘COME IN MR CANT. Please be seated.’ The young woman spoke in a commanding tone. Turning to her servant, an old stooping man, she snapped, ‘We are not to be disturbed, Murdoch.’

  Cant took a seat by the window, placing the Bible on the table. He removed his hat to reveal a prematurely bald head. He was not wearing a periwig today, the only indication that he did not consider this to be a formal occasion.

  She followed the servant to the door. Watching him make his way down the corridor, she closed it carefully before speaking to the minister. ‘Now, Mr Cant. Where were we?’ She was dressed in a fine blue velvet gown. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, a single pearl necklace gracing her neck.

  ‘I must again pass on my condolences for the loss of your mother, Rosina.’

  She felt tears welling up within her. But she would conquer her emotions.

  The minister hesitated for a moment, peering closely at her. ‘Are you well, Rosina?’ As she did not reply at once, he began to leaf through the Bible, searching for the chapter they had discussed at their last meeting.

  ‘I am as well as can be expected, Mr Cant.’ The minister raised his head to observe her. She did not look like a girl who had just lost her mother. She seemed almost cheerful. ‘You must realise that we had no choice. We had to act on the accusations made against her. Our souls are in danger, Rosina.’

  ‘I do not want to talk about her, Mr Cant,’ she said emphatically, before sitting down.

  He had watched her change from a child into a woman. Although initially reluctant, believing that the instruction of the female sex was beneath him, he had come to enjoy their weekly meetings, which were so different from his preaching or the labours of the kirk session. The spiritual wellbeing of a soul was such a responsibility. As directed by Lady Girnington, his aim was to guide Rosina towards the Presbyterian form of worship, counteracting the Episcopalian tendencies of her mother. But he had to admit that after three years of instruction he had no idea whether she tended towards bishop or presbytery. All he could say was that she had a sharp mind, often posing questions that he found difficult to answer, sending him back to his theology books in the manse. Sometimes he had suspicions that she was playing a game, acting out a role. There were parts of her which she would not open up to him. But he hoped that in time she would come to see the importance of the Presbyterian form of worship.

  There was another reason the sessions were becoming challenging. He found himself increasingly deflected from his purpose of instilling godliness into her. He had begun to notice her eyes, the texture of her hair, her smile, the shape of her shoulders, the comeliness of her figure. At first he was annoyed with himself for being unable to control the feelings of lust which were kindled within him. The flame grew with each visit and as the weeks passed he became more and more intoxicated. He told himself that lust within marriage was not a sin. It was something to be exalted. But she was a laird’s daughter. Marriage was out of the question. However, he might be considered if no one else would take her. The accusations against her mother might put off other suitors. His desire to touch her was overpowering. He imagined reaching out his hand. He could not. He found the passage he was looking for.

  ‘Here we are, Rosina – Chapter 6 of the Book of Esther.’

  She knew she had power over him. She knew by the way that he looked at her. His instruction was irksome in the beginning, but as she noticed how he was with her – his devouring eyes and pious comments – she sensed an inner turmoil and gained enjoyment from observing it. She felt sure that he could be manipulated. She moved her hand forward, resting it for a moment on the back of his.

  CHAPTER 10 - A Meal in Musselburgh

  25 October 1687

  ‘DAVIE!’ A SMALL woman shrieked from the far side of the room. She dropped her kitchen knife on the cutting board and rushed to the door, flinging her arms round Scougall’s neck. ‘Come awa. Come awa in.’

  ‘Mother, this is Mr MacKenzie,’ said Scougall, embarrassed by the welcome.

  The older lawyer ducked as he entered, for the door was only about five feet above the floor. The dark feelings of the last months were gone. The pit was vanquished. Life was rushing back to him full of interest. Here he was in a new affair of some kind, and where better to begin than in the house of a Musselburgh merchant!

  ‘Come awa in Mr MacKenzie, come awa in.’ Taking his hand, she shook it warmly, beaming up at him as if towards a giant. She was a dumpy woman in late middle age in the dark attire of a burgess’s wife. Her sleeves were rolled up to reveal flabby but powerful arms. MacKenzie reflected on the length of Scougall’s drives on the golf course. This was perhaps where his prowess with a club came from.

  ‘It is a pleasure, Mr MacKenzie, a rare pleasure for aw the family. We’ve heard muckle aboot ye in Davie’s letters. An here ye are in the flesh in oor ain hame. It is a great honour, sir. Ye dae us a great honour, tho,’ turning to Scougall who was wishing the floor would eat him up, ‘he disnae write much, Mr MacKenzie, nor did he tell us ye were sic a distinguished gentleman. And sae tall. He never telt us that!’ She burst into laughter.

  ‘Why was I to tell you Mr MacKenzie’s height, mither?’

  Ignoring her son, she continued: ‘It has brocht us baith, masel and ma husband, much content, much content, tae see Davie sae weel settled in yer service, sir, and doing sae weel in the law and sae muckle esteemed by ye.’

  ‘Mother!’ Scougall switched back into English to emphasise his annoyance. He had forgotten how she could humiliate him.

  ‘Your mother is quite right, Davie. You do great service to me and to the profession of writer. He has the most accurate pen in Edinburgh, Mrs Scougall. His work is praised by all the lawyers I know. He is also, I must add, a very agreeable companion and a master on the Links!
’

  Mrs Scougall was delighted to hear her son so highly praised. ‘He was aye swinging a club, ivver since he was a bairn.’ But her joviality suddenly disappeared. ‘As lang as he doesnae spend too much time on the course and still seeks tae serve God.’

  As soon as she said this, however, she broke again into bright laughter. MacKenzie found himself laughing too, although he was not sure why. Scougall did not see the joke.

  ‘Please sit by the fire. There’s a cauld wind the day. Tak Mr MacKenzie’s cloak, Davie. Fetch him a cup o ale. Ye will hae tae excuse me, sir. Davie’s note only arrived yestreen. I must prepare oor meal.’

  ‘Please do not go to any trouble, Mrs Scougall.’

  She looked as if she had just been insulted. ‘Nae advocate will cross ma threshold and no savour the delights o ma kitchen. Certainly nane as tall as you, Mr MacKenzie.’ Again her earnest expression gave way to a broad beam. She shuffled off to the other side of the room and took up her knife.

  Scougall filled two wooden cups from a keg and returned to the fireside. As was often the case, he could not think of anything in particular to say. He thought about raising the subject of the burning on the Castle Hill, but decided against it. He did not want to spoil the convivial atmosphere. Anyway, MacKenzie seemed happy enough sipping his ale and watching the fire. He sat back and closed his eyes, remembering the reason for his visit, wondering how he might broach the subject with his parents. Should he have a word with his father or his mother first? The image of a faceless wife filled his thoughts as he pictured himself returning home from work to a bonnie companion – sharing the rest of the evening together, and then the mysterious joys of the marriage bed.