Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  ‘Would you support an attempt to change the monarch by force?’

  MacKenzie waited, but a reply was not forthcoming. He changed tack. ‘Could you tell us about the condition of Cockburn’s wife, Mr Purse?’

  Purse looked relieved. ‘I believe she suffers from a malady of the mind and fears to leave her chamber. She spends all her time in doors, oppressed by melancholy. It has been very trying for the laird.’

  ‘It has been very trying for the laird?’ MacKenzie repeated.

  ‘It has been difficult for such an ambitious man. He was parliamentary representative for the shire, considered by many as one who might do great things for King and country. But his wife’s decline sapped the spirit from him. He retired to his estate and took no further part in public affairs. He has become increasingly morose. He is barely civil to me now; even grunting a good day is hard for him.’

  There was a knock at the door. The clerk’s head appeared. ‘Mr Kincaid is here to see you, sir.’

  ‘I have a client, gentlemen. You will have to excuse me.’

  CHAPTER 29 - Redemption of a Debt

  MUSCHET ROSE FROM the front pew at the sound of Cockburn’s boots on the stone floor.

  ‘The twenty-eighth of October in the Kirk of Lammersheugh, Mr Muschet. I am here to repay what I can,’ Cockburn said in a serious tone.

  ‘What you can,’ echoed Muschet, an unpleasant smile spreading across his face. ‘I had expected payment in full, Mr Cockburn. I believe the harvest was a good one for you.’

  ‘The harvest was reasonable. But my other ventures have returned little. My share in the Hope has provided nothing. She is not yet returned from the Indies. I would be obliged to you, sir, if you might extend credit to me of half the amount for another year…’

  ‘A year you say, Mr Cockburn… let me see…’ The merchant was enjoying himself. Moneylending was his element. ‘I assume you have half the principal and annual rent in ready cash with you?’

  Cockburn withdrew a small money bag. ‘It is all here, in silver.’

  Muschet took it, weighing it in his hands. He poured the contents onto the table by the lectern and began to examine the coins for soundness. He had a keen eye and years of experience. There was 1,100 merks, half the principal and the annual rent on the full amount. ‘I will lend you another 1,000 merks at a rate of twelve years’ purchase for my trouble.’ He put some coins to the side and returned the rest to the bag.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Cockburn replied, without betraying any hint of emotion. The bag was thrown back to him.

  ‘I will have Purse draw up a bond. We will sign in his office.’

  ‘What news of Euphame, Mr Muschet?’ Cockburn asked.

  The question punctured the merchant’s calm. He was forced to bring back to mind the pricking of the previous night. At first, he had been intoxicated. But her nakedness reminded him of a lanky boy, all bones as opposed to the voluptuousness her mother had possessed. It had become a grim affair. What was particularly disturbing was Rankine, the way the session clerk had observed the process as if being taught a new skill. Cant had not been able to watch at all and had stood by the door in prayer.

  Muschet gathered himself. ‘The Devil’s Mark was found by the pricker, Mr Cockburn. She is a witch. There is no doubt. She must stand trial in Edinburgh for her crimes.’

  The laird closed his eyes. He was sweating. It was claustrophobic inside the kirk. The thought of Euphame being pricked made him feel sick.

  ‘She is an innocent young girl, Mr Muschet.’

  ‘Do you question the evidence provided by the pricker, sir?’

  ‘I do question it. She is tortured because of the testimony of a deluded woman.’

  ‘I heard the confession of Margaret Rammage. She spoke with such earnestness. There is a terrible evil unleashed in our parish. Euphame was misled by her mother. She seemed a fine woman, but was in covenant with Satan.’

  The laird took a deep breath. To have to tolerate this man was excessively irksome. ‘Her mother was an honest woman. She was greatly wronged.’

  ‘And how is your wife, sir?’ asked Muschet, ignoring the comment.

  ‘No better.’

  ‘I am sorry. I am deeply saddened by the state of our landed men who must borrow from poor merchants like me. The houses of Lammersheugh and Woodlawheid both face difficulties. I hope they will find better days with God’s grace.’

  Cockburn wanted to throw the sanctimonious upstart to the ground and run him through with his sword. How the world was changed, turned upside down, indeed! Vile little men of trade risen high were now pulling the strings. The old families were reduced to begging from them. The more Muschet lent, the greater the hold he had over the lairds.

  But there were more important matters to attend to than bothering about this insect. Cockburn reflected that at least he had got what he wanted.

  ‘I bid you well, Mr Muschet,’ he snapped. Without waiting for a reply, he made his way down the aisle.

  CHAPTER 30 - A Wax Painting

  SHE LOOKED DOWN on the little figure she was carving. It was almost finished. She brought the spatula round for a final time. The wax doll was complete. God help her, she hoped that it wid wirk this time. They had risked sae much the previous week. But it had wirked years afore when they were young. She had feared that she might lose him then, also.

  Memories of that time came to her. She had woken him at midnicht. She remembered helping him frae his sickbed. He had coughed aw the way tae the burn. He stood in the sooth-runnin water in only his semmet an turned thrice widdershins. Then she had dooket him in the freezing water an they had dropped the figure in the stream. It floated awa in the moonlicht. She said her chairm, the ane taught her by her mither lang ago.

  She had felt powerful, something strang within her, a force acting thro her. She looked up at the moon an a pulse o joy shot thro her. She had touched him on the foreheed. They baith stood in the water fir a minute longer. She felt his shiverin body beside her. She was young an she wanted him inside her there an then, she wis so aroused by his nakedness. But he wis ill an had nae appetite fir sic things.

  She helped him frae the water an dried him wi the cloth beside the burn. They plodded back thegither tae the cottage in the moonlicht, hoping that they widnae be seen. His teeth were chatterin as she pit him tae bed. That nicht she feared that he wid dee. A fever raged thro him. He cawed oot tae her in his dreams. She begged the Lord tae save him. She feared that the magic widnae wirk. But it did, as her mither had telt her it wid.

  Sure enough, as dawn broke on that cauld winter day, he was brocht back tae her, the fever disappearing as the sun rose, his cough easing. He wis able tae sit up in bed, his muckle haunds roond the wee bowl o soup. Within a week he wis fully restored tae health an back at wirk.

  He had rarely been ill since, certainly naething as serious, not till last week when the hacking cough came on. Her mither wis lang deid. But she kenned whit she must dae. An the wirds were etched in her mind. She dare nae speak them oot till they were at the burn again.

  She feared that they had been seen returning tae the village the first time. But it wis a risk they had tae take.

  Times were haird. The ministers had witches on their minds. But she wis nae witch. She wis just using the skills she had been taught as a girl. She believed in Jesus Christ an the Bible. She went tae the kirk every Sabbath. She prayed wi the congregation an looked up at the young handsome minister. She wis a guid woman. She wirked haird aw her life. But she didnae want tae be alane now. She loved him tae much, the auld fool.

  They had been thegither sae lang. An now there wis the death o her mistress.

  At least they wid be comfortable enough. Lady Lammersheugh had provided fir them. But the ithers were putting pressure on him, wanting him tae help. He wisnae fool enough to dae that, fool enough tae be hung as a traitor.

  She thought o puir Janet, taken as weel, her auld friend. She had complained o pains in her chest an she had tane a remedy
to her the day afore she wis found deid by the tall lawyer.

  She didnae trust him, wi his dark threatenin een. She had tauld him tae say naething tae them.

  CHAPTER 31 - A Glass in the Bell

  MACKENZIE AND SCOUGALL sat in a corner of the inn, the remains of their meal in front of them on the table. MacKenzie had spoken little since the interview with Purse.

  ‘I do not care for Lady Girnington, sir,’ said Scougall, breaking the silence.

  ‘There are not many who do, Davie. She is arrogant and bitter. She hated Lady Lammersheugh’s beauty and despised the hold she had over her brother. It is difficult to disguise such feelings. But why would she risk killing Grissell or having her killed? We must lay our personal feelings about her to one side. Now please excuse me while I go to pass water.’

  Scougall sat back, reflecting on Lady Girnington’s character. He hated the landed gentry when they were puffed up with self-importance. That woman had all the qualities which he did not seek in a wife. His mind drifted to Elizabeth MacKenzie. He was lost in thought for a few minutes, sipping wine from his glass. When he raised his head, he noticed the man at the next table, a dishevelled looking fellow in late middle age dressed in ill-fitting clothes. Scougall turned away as the man caught his eye. When he looked back his gaze was still on him. He lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip.

  ‘Did I hear you talking about Lady Lammersheugh?’ the stranger asked. And before Scougall could reply he went on: ‘I have heard she was delated as a witch.’

  ‘I think that is true,’ replied Scougall hesitantly.

  ‘Some scoff that there are no witches.’ The man became agitated: ‘You must beware the misguided utterances of Atheists and Sadducists!’

  ‘I did not know Lady Lammersheugh – did you?’

  ‘No, I did not. But these are dark days.’ The voice became an intense whisper. ‘Our King is a servant of Antichrist. A Papist King in reformed Scotland! Heresy spreads throughout the realm, Godliness is banished from our shores. Men talk of no God. They mock the world of spirits!’

  ‘Are you a minister?’ asked Scougall.

  ‘I am not, although my brother is a man of God, an exile in Holland. He could not prostrate himself under such an Erastian church. I was once a professor at the College of Glasgow. I was expelled for my beliefs. I follow the suffering remnant of the true Presbyterian church with all my heart and soul. Now I live by my wits. My name, sir, is George Sinclair.’

  Scougall was stunned. ‘The author of Satan’s Invisible World?’

  ‘I am, sir. You have read my work?’

  ‘I have a copy here.’ Scougall rummaged in his bag and removed the book. ‘I found it most enlightening, a very…’ He could not think of the right word, ‘… enjoyable read.’

  ‘And you are, sir?’

  ‘David Scougall, a writer in Edinburgh.’

  ‘And your companion?’

  ‘John MacKenzie, Clerk of the Session.’

  ‘I have heard of him. He is an Episcopalian.’ Sinclair shook his head. ‘What do you think of my book, Davie Scougall? Did my arguments convince you?’

  ‘You did… at least I think they did…’

  ‘As I pointed out, atheism is the reason folk disbelieve in witches and spirits. Why is there so much atheism in the world?’ Sinclair threw his head back in full-throated declamation. ‘There are many reasons, but two main ones. Firstly, there is a monstrous rabble of men who follow the Hobbesian and Spinozian principles, slighting religion and undervaluing the Scripture. They think that all that is contained in the universe comes under the notion of things material and consequently there is no God, no Devil, no spirit, no witch. The Englishman Hobbes is well known for his atheistical writings…’

  Scougall lost the thread of the argument as it moved at pace through the works of a number of thinkers. A feeling of unease rose within him. ‘There is a second reason,’ continued Sinclair, ‘namely the absurd principles of Cartesian philosophy. They do not assert there is no God, but rather seem to prove as much. It is self-evident that their principles are absurd and dangerous. I shall mention a few of them which are maintained publicly abroad, especially in Holland…’

  Sinclair babbled on, gesticulating vehemently and not allowing Scougall the opportunity to say a word. Looking around for MacKenzie, he spotted him on the other side of the room, in conversation with the innkeeper.

  ‘Stretch your hands to help, strengthen, encourage and comfort a poor wasted, wronged, wounded, reproached, despised and bleeding remnant, setting ourselves against all the injuries and affronts done to our blessed Lord Jesus Christ, against the man of sin, the kingdom of Antichrist, James, Duke of York, though a professed Papist and excommunicated person, now King of Scotland, England and Ireland.’

  The words poured in a torrent from Sinclair’s toothless mouth.

  ‘But God will save us, sir. God will save the poor bleeding remnant that is the true Presbyterian Church of Scotland!’ At that, he appeared to relax. ‘Now you must excuse me, Mr Scougall. It has been a pleasure to meet a reader who has gained so much from my books. It encourages me in my work. Our day will come again, Mr Scougall. The brethren will return. Scotland will embrace the true Church. The Covenant will be restored. The malignants will be driven from this land, the rule of bishops cast asunder! Good night to you, sir.’

  Scougall watched him limp towards the door. There had been something in his eyes which made him feel very differently about the book which he had hitherto held in such high regard. When reading it, he had skipped the philosophical arguments in the opening pages, seeking the tales of witches and ghosts. The author in the flesh reminded him of some of his contemporaries in Musselburgh who burned with a similar fervour for Presbytery.

  When MacKenzie returned to the table, Scougall could not contain himself. ‘I have just met George Sinclair!’

  ‘Who, Davie?’

  ‘The author of Satan’s Invisible World.’ He held up the book.

  ‘That is an interesting coincidence,’ was all that MacKenzie said.

  ‘He talked of his works, of the danger of atheism.’

  MacKenzie appeared to ignore what Scougall had just said. ‘Let us take some night air so we can discuss what we have learned today.’

  As they rose to leave, the door crashed open and a group of men entered in boisterous spirits. MacKenzie bowed his head to the Laird of Clachdean. ‘Colonel Dewar, we meet again.’

  Clachdean was dressed in an old velvet suit. A dirty periwig descended beneath his hat and a box sword swung at his side. He towered over Scougall.

  The colonel addressed his cronies: ‘Lawyers from Edinburgh, gentlemen,’ before turning to MacKenzie: ‘What business do you have in these parts?’

  ‘I act for the family of Lammersheugh.’

  ‘The family of Lammersheugh,’ one of the colonel’s companions mockingly repeated.

  ‘The family of Lammersheugh have much need of your services, sir,’ replied Clachdean.

  ‘A coven of witches! I hear they rut with the Devil…!’ another shouted.

  MacKenzie kept his eyes on Clachdean. ‘I believe you are a beneficiary of Lady Lammersheugh’s death?’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘I have heard you are to marry Rosina Hay.’

  ‘You are mistaken, sir. I would not touch the progeny of witches… Your meddling is not welcome, MacKenzie. I suggest you complete your business and return to Edinburgh.’

  ‘We will be gone as soon as I have brought the legal affairs of the family to order and secured Euphame’s release.’

  ‘I fear the latter may be beyond your skills,’ sneered the colonel.

  MacKenzie appeared unperturbed. ‘What happened to Janet Cornfoot?’

  ‘She died of natural causes. She was long in years and in bad health. There was no indication of violence upon her.’

  ‘But you have not spoken to me. I was with her the night she died. Someone attached the carcass of a badger
to the lintel. A few days before that, a cat was garrotted and tied to the same place. Someone was seeking to scare her. ’

  ‘As sheriff-deputy, I decide to whom I speak.’

  ‘What of the death of Lady Lammersheugh?’

  ‘Lady Lammersheugh fell into the Lammer Burn. She could not swim.’

  ‘Have you considered suicide? She was under suspicion of witchcraft.’

  ‘Do not interfere in our affairs, gentlemen. The witch-hunt will burn itself out, as it always does.’

  Clachdean turned his back on them and rejoined his party.

  CHAPTER 32 - A Last Drink

  THE WOMAN STAGGERED as she left the tavern. She kenned she had drunk tae much. But she had wanted a wee celebration. They had aw been through sae much recently. She deserved a drink as much as onybody, she had siller in her pocket. She had enough tae see her thro the winter. Her bairns wid hae food on the table. She pulled the ragged shawl round her shoulders against the cold. It wid be a lang walk hame.

  She left the High Street and plodded along the Lammersheugh road with her lantern.

  She wisnae feart. She kenned the way like the back o her haund. She had walked it a hundred times at nicht.

  After half a mile she squatted down on the verge to urinate. As she was crouching in the long grass, she heard the sound of a horse approaching from the town.

  It wis perhaps a late drinker returning frae a nicht o revelry. She might hae a few wirds, perhaps share a dram, or something mair. They could lie thegither in the field ayont the dyke. She felt that she wanted a man. She carried a small bottle of rum in her basket. It wis fir her mither. A few nips wid dae nae hairm.

  She pulled up her garments.

  The sound of the hooves echoed closer. She sauntered on, then stopped and turned. A horseman emerged from the darkness about a hundred yards away, the silhouette of his hat visible against the sky.

  If it wis a gentleman she might make some mair siller. She wisnae a bad lookin lass. She had these. Men always wanted them.