by Douglas Watt
‘In my distracted state I cast the weapon into the woods, then wandered the hills for hours, intending to drown myself in a loch. But as the tumult of emotion began to subside, I knew that I could not abandon my son and wife. I returned home.’ Cockburn’s eyes remained focused on the hills. There were tears on his cheeks.
‘You have my confession, John. The pain lives on. I miss her as she missed Alexander.’
MacKenzie nodded grimly. ‘I am glad I know the truth, Adam. You should tell Geordie what happened. He is convinced that he saw the Devil. It is not healthy for a boy to carry such a memory.’
‘I will try to explain, when the time is right.’
The two men walked back towards the house.
‘I hope you will honour me with some business one day!’ MacKenzie said, changing the subject. ‘You have a fine son. Look after him well. Rid yourself of guilt about your wife. Some things are beyond our ken. We must simply do our best. We are all driven by desires which we cannot control. But I lapse into philosophy. It must wait for another day. Come to Edinburgh. Dine with good Scots lawyers. Let us share a few pints of wine and discuss metaphysics!’
‘I will, John. I bid you farewell.’ A brief smile returned to Cockburn’s face as he walked off in the direction of the Blinkbonny Woods. MacKenzie turned to look at the house. Scougall was waiting for him at the front door. The young man had been through much. He was governed by his upbringing and clung to superstitions. But he had conquered his fear. He would proceed carefully with him over the next couple of days. He had proved himself to be a worthy companion.
POSTSCRIPT - A Visit from Euphame Hay
12 February 1688
‘THERE IS SOMEONE to see you, sir.’ MacKenzie was at his desk in his chambers working on an account of Montrose’s arrival at Inverness.
‘Show them in please, Meg.’
When he looked up again, Euphame Hay stood before him. She was a transformed figure; she had put on weight and a healthy colour was restored to her face. She was a young woman again.
‘Euphame, my dear. You look so well.’ MacKenzie was surprised to see her. Taking her hand, they embraced. ‘I did not expect to see you in Edinburgh so soon.’
‘Thank you, John. It brings me cheer to see you again.’
‘Please be seated.’
She sat by the fire, MacKenzie taking the chair opposite her.
‘I have made good progress. The horror begins to fade, somewhat.’
MacKenzie nodded his head, smiling at the young woman. ‘Would you care for some refreshments?’
‘No, thank you. I will not keep you long.’
‘Do you call on a legal matter?’
‘I do, in a way.’ She looked down at her hands then burst out, ‘My sister and I have decided to leave Scotland. A coach waits for us on the High Street. We cannot remain at Lammersheugh. We are haunted by memories. We have decided to travel to London, Paris, Italy, wherever the wind takes us.’
‘I think that is a fine idea,’ said MacKenzie. ‘My days of travel were among the happiest of my life.’
‘I would like you to look after the affairs of the estate in our absence,’ she said sadly. ‘I cannot thole Purse having anything more to do with us. Someone must see to the collection of rents and send us money.’
‘I will be only too happy to act for you, Euphame. I might assign the task to Davie Scougall, if you are content with that arrangement. I would oversee his work, of course. It would be useful experience for him, a change from the dull instruments he writes, a new challenge.’
MacKenzie smiled as he foresaw Scougall’s initial reluctance. But he knew he would perform the task with diligence.
‘I believe Mr Scougall will be a most exact accountant,’ said Euphame.
‘Do you have any further requests, my dear?’
‘Only…’ Euphame looked troubled as if searching for the right words to begin what she wanted to say.
At last she spoke without meeting his eyes. ‘I must leave this country – it is full of evil men – the kirk – the ministers – the pricker. It is a nightmare from which I cannot escape.’ She pulled her hands across her chest as she recalled her imprisonment. ‘He comes back to me each night, you know – Kincaid,’ she continued. ‘If I ever have children, how am I to explain to them what happened to their mother and grandmother? The young man whom I hoped to marry is betrothed to another. He does not speak a word to me. My childhood was a time of love. My father was doting. I had dear Janet, the gardens, the house and our dogs. My mother adored us. How am I to account for all that beside so much evil?’
‘I share your concerns,’ replied MacKenzie. ‘Scotland is a blighted land. A fever takes hold of the hearts of the people fed by the zealotry of self-righteous ministers. But I believe it will burn itself out as all distempers do. Unforeseen forces were unleashed by our change of religion in 1560. The reformers desired to mould our lives towards a greater good. But they ushered in much evil. In the Highlands the ministers still have little sway. Our chiefs maintain power rather than the church, although they too begin to fade.’ MacKenzie took a deep breath and exhaled as he shook his head. ‘At times I fear for our country. I wonder if I should take my daughter to London or America. But there are grounds for hope. New currents in philosophy take hold. The spirit of commerce grows. Making money may interest the young more than witch-hunting or debates about church government. We may soon base our society on sound rational principles.’
Euphame’s earlier buoyancy was gone. Her face darkened. ‘Such evil – such hatred in the name of God. I do not know if we will return to Scotland, John. We have lived through too much pain.’
‘I hear that Lady Girnington is condemned to hang. There was insufficient evidence to bring the others to trial,’ said MacKenzie. But he regretted moving the conversation in this direction.
‘It gives me little cheer to learn of more death,’ Euphame said.
The conversation ceased as they both watched the fire. MacKenzie’s eyes moved to the portrait of his dead wife. He felt her eyes accusing him.
‘There is something I must tell you.’ Euphame continued to stare at the flames. ‘I must tell you one last thing before I leave. I tell this to you and to no other – not even my sister. I do not know why I need to speak of it, but someone must know the truth so the chapter may be closed. I need to confess, but I have no confessor.’
‘You may confess to me, Euphame.’ MacKenzie’s eyes moved from the portrait of his wife to the picture of Lady Lammersheugh which now hung in his chamber.
‘I have held back some of what happened.’ She stared deep into the fire. MacKenzie noticed that she was shaking. The Tron Kirk bell began to chime. She waited until it struck twelve times before continuing. ‘In early September I became very worried about my mother. She seemed to be wilting before our eyes. On one occasion she spent two days in her chamber without speaking to anyone. We were unable to rouse her from her melancholy. Thereafter I kept a close watch on her. I could tell she was suffering under great strain. Then one night I was looking down on the gardens as I often did before I retired to bed, remembering the days when my father was alive, when I saw a figure in the moonlight. It was her. I watched her disappear into the woods, so I quickly pulled a cloak over my nightgown. I know the path like the lines on my hand. I soon caught up with her. I watched her enter Janet’s cottage. I waited for a few minutes. It was usual to treat the cottage as my own, so I entered without knocking.
‘The sight within struck me like a slap on the face. Janet held a cat in her arms and with a long knife was slitting its throat. Blood was dripping into a bowl in front of her on the floor. The last cries of the creature are seared on my memory as deeply as the pricker’s footsteps.
‘On the spit over the fire was another cat, recently slaughtered and skinned. The cottage was full of the sweet smell of roasting flesh. I stood transfixed at what I was witnessing. My mother came to me. She told me to sit on the chair. I became hysterical, screami
ng that what they were doing was wrong. She took me in her arms, trying to calm me. She explained that a recipe made by Janet using the blood would allow her to look into the future. I told them that it was witchcraft. Janet said it was not. She had been shown by her mother. The rite was passed down through the generations, from mother to daughter, long before the men of God decided what was right and what was wrong.
‘My mother then shared her troubles with me. She told me about the way in which she had been abused by Lady Girnington. She confessed that she had been deboched by the colonel in our home. She told me of the threats that had been made by our aunt. She revealed that she had been interviewed by the session following the delation of Margaret Rammage and how she feared for us all. She believed that if she did not do something, Rosina and I might also be accused. She had to act or see her daughters destroyed.
‘I wept when I heard what had happened. I cursed Lady Girnington and the Laird of Clachdean. I still pleaded with her to stop the ritual before it was too late. But they would not.’
‘Fresh blood and roasted flesh were mixed with other ingredients Janet had gathered in the woods. I know not what they were. She heated the mixture in a cauldron over the fire. As she stirred, she said a rhyme, a spell, a charm. I cannot remember the words. They were incomprehensible, in a language I could not understand. My mother drank the concoction from a cup. She looked as if she was about to vomit, but Janet comforted her, ensuring that she took the whole draught. She sank into slumber. I could tell she was dreaming as her eyes rolled beneath the lids. When she awoke, perhaps half an hour later, she was sick in the bowl Janet had waiting for her. As she came out of the trance there was a look of triumph on her face. She described to us what she had seen – a vision of Lady Girnington hung for her crimes; the Laird of Clachdean dead, his body food for the crows.’
MacKenzie felt unease move through him like a black bird against a blue sky.
Euphame continued: ‘She knew what she had to do. She embraced me. Janet asked her what else she saw. But she did not answer. I pleaded with her never to carry out such a rite again as we might all burn as witches if we were caught. She replied that she knew what she was doing. The path was clear at last.
‘We left the cottage in the middle of the night. As we walked back through the woods, she bade me speak no more of what I had seen, especially to Rosina. All would be well. But I did not think it would. Sure enough, two days late she was found drowned.’
Euphame paused to look into MacKenzie’s eyes. ‘Two days later she was dead,’ she repeated. ‘I know what she saw in her dream. She saw herself drowned in the Devil’s Pool. She thought that she must sacrifice herself. She believed that by taking her life she would save her daughters and kill her enemies.’ She hesitated before adding: ‘She has been proved right.’
MacKenzie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. He reflected that Lady Girnington was now dead. The feeling of unease continued to swell within him. There was a hint of nausea.
‘Some might say that she was a witch,’ she said.
MacKenzie turned his head and realised that he was looking at the portrait of Grissell. For an instant he was sure that he saw a slight smile on her lips. But when he looked again she stared seriously at him. ‘Then they would be wrong,’ he said. ‘She was no witch, just a woman driven by despair to save her children. She planned everything: her own death, the letter she sent to me, the latterwill and testament. This was not witchcraft but an elaborate trap set by a clever, but desperate woman. And she nearly failed. You might have died in the Tolbooth or on the stake. She did not foresee how the hysteria would spread. She should have sought help before attempting such a plan. She could have asked me to intervene. Do not think harshly of her, Euphame. She had nowhere else to turn. I assure you there are no witches.’
Euphame stood up: ‘I believe you, John. I do. But in the night I see the faces of my accusers Cant, Rankine and Muschet. I hear the sound of Kincaid’s footsteps in the steeple, his order to strip me and hold me down, the indignity of having each inch of my body pierced by such a man. I wish I was able to cast them into Hell as they deserve!’
‘I think you do right in leaving Scotland, Euphame. Seek the light, my dear. You will find better days.’
She gave him her hand. ‘I must leave…’
He showed her out onto the stairs then went to the window. He looked down on the High Street of Edinburgh. Crowds were going about their business. It was market day in the Lawnmarket.
He saw Euphame ascend into the coach. The affair had not ended well. Lives had been destroyed. The vile ideas of that book – Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live – he heard the words spoken by Andrew Cant – well named, he thought drily. Man would do better when all priests, Protestant and Catholic, were despatched into the flames of Hell! And there he saw it reappearing before his mind’s eye; at first just a black speck in the distance. It swelled until a dark chasm opened up before him. He looked into the void and felt himself fall.
HISTORICAL NOTE - The Scottish Witch-hunt
LITTLE IS HEARD of witch-hunting in Scotland before the Reformation of 1560. Soon after, however, a Witchcraft Act (1563) was passed by the Scottish Parliament. The Scottish witch-hunt had begun. By the late seventeenth century the frenzy of persecution was spent; the major hunt of 1661–62 marking the peak. There were intermittent cases after this, but with diminished intensity. The 1563 statute was repealed in 1736.
In Scotland, the witch-hunt was closely associated with the Protestant Reformation which gave rise to a revolutionary Church committed to controlling the lives of Scots more vigorously than ever before. The reformers sought to create a godly state, cleansed of the stain of witchcraft. Many of the witch-hunters were ministers of the kirk or smaller lairds who were radical Protestants.
The backdrop to the witch-hunt was a time of crisis in Scottish history: political, social and spiritual. During the early-modern period from C.1550 to 1700, society was in a state of flux. Change caused anxiety and fear, unleashing frenzies of witch-hunting which could be based in a locality, such as Easter Ross in 1577 or North Berwick in 1590–91, or on a national scale as in the hunts of 1597, 1628–30, 1649 or 1661–62. It has been estimated that the Scottish witch-hunt was ten times more deadly than the English one in terms of executions per head of population. Probably more than a thousand men and women were executed for witchcraft in Scotland during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
Although a substantial number of those accused were men, the vast majority of the executed were women. The witch-hunt partly reflected the deep unease of a puritanical church towards women, especially female sexuality.
The witch-hunt could not have occurred without a widespread belief in magic, charming and divination, and the acceptance of Satan as a real presence in the life of the people.
Witch-hunting declined when the revolutionary zeal of the Scottish Reformation ran out of steam in the late seventeenth century. Scotland began to turn its back on persecution and look towards the more tolerant and commercial age of the Enlightenment.
If you want to learn more about the Scottish witch-hunt, the following works are recommended:
J Goodare (ed.) The Scottish Witch-hunt in Context. Manchester, 2002
PG Maxwell-Stuart, The Great Scottish Witch-hunt. Stroud, 2007
G Sinclair, Satan’s Invisible World Discovered. Edinburgh, 1685
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