by Karen Brooks
Aidan schooled his face and approached. Light filtered in from two windows to his right, framed by dark blue curtains. The road outside could be seen clearly as he crossed the floor, his boots soundless on the rugs. Almost everyone who passed glanced up at the Tolbooth. It had taken on a new significance in the past weeks.
The reverend cleared his throat and, rising to his feet, scraped his chair back across the boards. From the half-empty glasses and thickness of pipe smoke above the desk, the papers, ink and tidy pile of quill shavings upon it, the men had been deliberating a while. Aidan was determined to discover what they had been discussing.
On either side of the minister, looking as if they’d been peering over his shoulders before he interrupted them, stood bailies Cook and Bell, secular bookends for this holy man.
A less holy man, Aidan thought as he traversed the room and bowed, he was unlikely to meet. The skeletal face wore a blank expression and a wry smile curved the thin lips. The skin was sallow, broken veins crawling up hollow cheeks. The outlandish eyes missed nothing, much as they attempted to appear indifferent to having an officer of the Queen in his manse.
Patrick Cowper might appear to be pliant, but he was also ambitious and ruthless. Aidan had learned what he could about the man over the last few weeks. A widower, father of eleven children whom he dominated as he did his congregation, he was both feared and resented. He had the ear of the powerful, including some gentlemen in St Andrew’s, most of whom, according to the fishermen he’d spoken to and the letters he’d received from his commanding officer, were too scared to go against him lest he turn on them. Moving to Pittenweem twelve years earlier, he’d set about changing the church from an Episcopalian to a Presbyterian one, establishing his authority swiftly. A proud Covenanter who supported English rule, he made a point of condemning Jacobites. Not that this changed how most in the Weem felt towards the one true King: the place was a veritable hotbed of Stuart sympathy. Which was also why folk followed Cowper — not because they shared his support of the English Crown, but in order to appear loyal to it. He oft threatened to unmask Jacobites and report them to the authorities, authorities who included his influential friends. In that regard, Aidan could understand and even forgive folk’s compliance.
However, as Aiden discovered, despite the influence he wielded, the minister’s ambition did not extend beyond the streets of Pittenweem, even though he was a moderator pro tempore of St Andrew’s presbytery. His real interests lay mainly where he could see and be seen. Many believed he accepted the position in Edinburgh for the sake of the title, throwing it about to increase his standing in the Weem. Most were unaware it meant he was merely a replacement for the usual moderator if ever he was absent. The position was as hollow as the reverend’s heart.
In this small seaside kingdom, Patrick Cowper, minister, Covenantor, Presbyterian, and temporary moderator of the Kirk, reigned.
‘Sit, sit,’ the reverend said to Aidan as he resumed his own seat. Aidan pulled up the chair indicated and moved his sword to one side so he could perch on the edge of the seat. Bailies Cook and Bell took this as a signal to come out from behind the desk and find chairs. Bell acknowledged Aidan with a dip of his head. Cook ignored him.
‘What is it you wish to see me about, Captain Ross?’ asked the reverend amiably, picking up a glass and swirling the amber fluid. He didn’t offer Aidan a drink.
‘You know the reason, reverend,’ said Aidan, equally affable. ‘It’s the same one we’ve oft had cause to discuss of late.’
A flash of displeasure crossed the reverend’s face.
‘Until the women and Mr Brown are released from the Tolbooth,’ continued Aidan, glad he’d discommoded the man, ‘or a reason accompanied by proof is given for their continued internment, I’ll not have a different one.’
The reverend took his time, sniffing the whisky, as if he hadn’t already drunk a great deal. ‘Aye, well, this time, captain, I’m pleased to report we not only have a reason to keep the women and Mr Brown locked up, we also have this proof you keep demanding.’ He shot a sly look at Aidan. ‘I mean the authorities in Edinburgh. You’re really only their mouthpiece, after all.’
Bailie Cook nodded smugly. The reverend smirked.
It was all Aidan could do not to flatten the man’s thin nose all over his face. Choosing to ignore the insult, he persisted. ‘You have proof? Of witchcraft?’
‘As you ken, Captain Ross, that’s what the prisoners are accused of, aye.’
Aidan clenched his fist, took a deep breath and waited. He learned long ago that people like the reverend didn’t like silence and sought to fill it. He wasn’t wrong.
‘You, see, captain, these people you’re so keen to defend, that you’ve stuck your neck out for, involving your superiors in Edinburgh, are everything we feared they were and more, aren’t they, gentlemen?’ He addressed the last question to the bailies.
‘Aye, that they are,’ said Bailie Cook, and was rewarded with an appreciative smile. There was a beat, then Bailie Bell grunted agreement.
‘What proof can you possibly have?’ It was all Aidan could do to keep the scorn from his voice. Pushing aside memories of Sorcha as he had last seen her leaning out the window of the Tolbooth, her beautiful bronze locks gone, the terrible marks upon her arms, the deep lilac crescents beneath her eyes, the sunken cheeks, he regarded the reverend calmly though a storm raged in his chest. ‘You can hardly concede that anything said under the duress of pricking, let alone the other punishments you’ve ordered,’ he included the bailies in his statement; Bell, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable, ‘counts as proof.’
The reverend raised his bony hand and rested it lovingly on a pile of papers to his right. ‘Ah, but there you’re wrong. These, sir, these papers. These ones right beneath my fingers. These are my proof. You ken what they be?’
Aidan glanced at them but didn’t respond.
‘Confessions, captain. They are confessions, each and every one signed by the witches themselves.’
Aidan did his best not to look shocked. He already knew the pricker claimed to have found witch’s marks upon the women’s bodies, marks the man no doubt carried himself but would describe differently.
The reverend noticed Aidan’s change of demeanour and sniggered. ‘Aye, they’ve each confessed — with the exception of Mr Brown, who still refuses. But give him time.’ He glanced knowingly at the bailies. ‘We’ll give him time.’ Mr Cook seemed to find this very amusing.
‘To what exactly have the women confessed?’ asked Aidan, crossing his legs in an effort to appear more relaxed than he felt. It would also make it harder to draw his sword. He was afraid that if he could, he would run the man through, God help him.
The reverend brushed his hand against the papers before lifting one from the pile.
‘Let’s see then, shall we? Take Janet White, commonly known as Nettie Horseburgh.’ He made a point of reading what was in front of him. ‘After much… questioning, she admitted to joining with Beatrix Laing, Sorcha McIntyre and Nicolas Lawson, among others, with the sole purpose of committing malfeasance against one Peter Morton. Mrs White, Horseburgh, whatever she calls herself, and the others also confessed to renouncing their baptism and being in league with Satan.’
Aidan felt a cold so heavy descend upon him, he couldn’t move. ‘They all said as much?’
‘Every last one. Condemned by their own mouths and signatures.’ Putting the piece of paper down, the reverend’s finger stabbed the place where a name, shaky but discernible, was scrawled.
‘I see,’ said Aidan calmly, though his mind raced. God knows what the poor souls had endured to force them to admit to such rubbish. What Sorcha had suffered. He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘And what are your intentions now you’ve… extracted these from the women?’
‘As it happens, your timing is impeccable, captain.’ The reverend rose and began to pace about the room, pausing before the fire. Above the fireplace was a painting of Jesus si
tting in a field surrounded by children and cavorting lambs. The clouds were pale salmon and lavender, the grass a melange of soft yellows and green, the lambs like thistledown that might scatter to the winds should they be touched. Aidan marvelled that Cowper could stand before such a peaceful, loving image while discussing the torture of the women and Mr Brown. Surely such measures should offend a godly man, a Christian one. Not Cowper. It was then Aidan noticed the subject of another, larger picture on the opposite wall: the crucifixion. At its centre, on a huge, solid cross, was the frail, emaciated body of Christ, His bloody wounds weeping, sorrowful eyes raised heavenwards, pleading for His Father’s forgiveness. Or were they pleading for His tormentors to release Him? Cruelty and suffering leapt from the image. Aye, that would be more to Cowper’s taste.
As he waited for the reverend to continue, Aidan noted the row of books resting above the mantel, their leather spines cracked. There was a Bible and some other religious tomes; nothing to appeal to the imagination, the creative soul. The light fluctuated briefly. Folk passing by the window, their voices rising and falling, unaware a group of men sat inside this room, holding the power of life and death over the helpless.
Still Aidan said nothing.
‘You see,’ said Cowper, returning to his desk. ‘The good bailies and I have just been drafting a request to Edinburgh.’ He touched Aidan on the shoulder. ‘Save you the effort.’ He laughed at his joke. The bailies began to join in then caught Aidan’s expression and stopped.
‘And what does this request entail, sir?’ asked Aidan politely.
‘Here,’ said the reverend and lifted the piece of paper he’d been studying when Aidan entered. ‘Read it for yourself.’
Aidan scanned the contents swiftly, his brows arching. ‘You’re requesting the help of the Commission of the General Assembly and Privy Council in Edinburgh to bring the witches to trial.’
‘Aye,’ said the reverend. ‘We are.’
Aidan hadn’t expected that. He had believed that the reverend would do everything in his power to stop Edinburgh interfering. According to the letter, bailies Vernour and Cleiland were seeking an audience with the Commission. Aidan knew that less than a fortnight ago, on the first of June, bailies Bell and Cook had travelled to the city and had a meeting with Sir Thomas Moncrieff, justiciar to the regulatory of St Andrew’s. Sir Thomas, along with the rest of the presbytery, must have given them permission to seek (or demanded they did) the aid of Edinburgh. Why, this was good news, wasn’t it? With Edinburgh becoming involved, rather than merely being informed of what was happening by the Pittenweem council — or indeed by his own letters — and bringing in lawyers who were familiar with the vagaries of witch trials, suspicious of the motivations of those doing the charging, that would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?
So why did he feel as if a flock of seagulls were trapped in his chest?
‘May I ask when you intend to send this?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said the reverend simply. ‘Why waste time? In fact, since you’ve been making so many trips to Edinburgh yourself of late, perhaps you’d be good enough to deliver the document on our behalf? You or Sergeant Thatcher? Once it’s properly prepared and sealed of course. Consider this request a mark of our good faith in the correct legal procedure.’ The reverend retrieved the document from him.
Aidan’s mind galloped. Why was the reverend following due process now, when he’d been flouting it so recklessly before? Had an order come from the city? Had Aidan’s superiors managed to pull the man into line? Somehow he doubted it. Thus far any appeals Aidan had made to them had been dismissed. Few wanted to interfere with provincial justice. Least of all his commanding officer, when there was a war raging. They’d more important issues to occupy them. Yet, if Aidan took the document to Edinburgh, he could ensure that the men who could make a difference knew exactly what was going on, not simply what his superiors or, for that matter, the council, chose to share. He’d tell them exactly what types of punishment Cowper had endorsed, what the pricker had done to extract these so-called confessions. But why was the reverend asking him? Surely he knew Aidan would take this opportunity to present an alternate view of the Weem council’s ‘facts’? He tried to study the reverend surreptitiously. What exactly was the man up to?
‘Aye,’ he said, careful not to show too much enthusiasm. ‘I’ll deliver it.’
‘Excellent,’ said the reverend, clapping his hands together. ‘Then there’s no need for you to tarry any longer. If you’re to make haste to the city on the morrow, then you’d best get some rest. I’ll make sure the finished letter is delivered to your lodgings as soon as possible.’
The reverend strode to the door and held it open. Rising, Aidan bowed to the bailies. When he reached the door, he made a show of putting on his hat.
The reverend waited for Aidan to acknowledge him. One of the reverend’s eyes was almost opaque, as if it had a veil drawn across it. A faint scar ran from the corner of the eye to the top of his cheekbone.
‘Let me tell you now, captain,’ the reverend spoke so softly, Aidan was hard-pressed to hear, ‘if you’re thinking about telling the authorities in Edinburgh how we extracted the confessions, then it won’t be me, the bailies or Mr Bollard who’ll be held to account.’
Trying not to show annoyance that the reverend so accurately guessed his intentions, Aidan casually cocked a brow, crossed the threshold and paused in the hallway, spinning slowly on his heel. ‘Nae? And who might be then?’
The reverend wrapped long fingers around his arm, forcing him to bend over so he could speak in his ear.
‘Who else but the witches, lad? Who else but the witches?’ His breath was hot, fumes of whisky wafted on it. He released Aidan. ‘You say anything, the witches will be held to account. By me.’ His face transformed from one of victory to one etched in contrition. ‘And, God knows, haven’t the poor wretched souls been through enough?’
Before Aidan could think of a response, the reverend shut the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
One Thomas Brown, the only man accused by [Peter] Morton, imprisoned by the minister and bailies, after a great deal of hunger and hardship, died in prison…
— An Answer of a Letter From a Gentleman of Fife, 1705
God damn. God damn them all. Thomas Brown was dead. Found in his cell this June morning, lifeless, cold, bloodied and bruised and fucking well dead.
If only he hadn’t ordered the guards to ignore the pleas for sustenance and medick the women imprisoned with the old man had made. If only he hadn’t made that sappie-headed fool Camron MacGille Tolbooth keeper after Alick’s dismissal. If only the guards hadn’t been so precise in fulfilling their duties…
This wasn’t his fault.
Patrick Cowper paced back and forth in his drawing room, trying to think through the ramifications of this news, delivered by a breathless constable whom the reverend then demanded accompany him back to the Tolbooth so he could see Brown’s body for himself. Ordering Angus Stuart and the Tolbooth guards to remove the hysterical women first, he’d waited until he was quite alone before examining the corpse. Staring at the pale underweight body covered in cuts, bruises and scars, it was evident he was as dead as a fishwife’s herring. He certainly smelled like one.
Squatting beside the cadaver, Patrick shut his eyes. If anyone blundered in, it would look as though he was praying. His mind worked swiftly. How could he turn this disaster to his and thus the town’s advantage? Thomas Brown had lasted over two months in the Tolbooth only to drop dead now. Instructing Angus and Cameron to take the body upstairs to the council room, he’d waited until the doctor examined the cadaver and had given his verdict, then returned home.
Patrick thumped his fist against the mantlepiece in rage.
Pain shot through his hand and up his arm. Inhaling sharply, he cradled his fist in his other hand, feeling the heat rush into it. He breathed heavily to calm himself. Think, he remonstrated. Think! What to do? How to explain this catastrophe. He rubbe
d his injured hand absent-mindedly. The fucking witch wasn’t meant to keel over. He was meant to be put to the flame before the town so folk could see that justice was served; that demons had been excised. That he, Patrick Cowper, had kept them safe.
What was he to do now?
Brown was the only man identified by Peter Morton. Worried the lad had misstepped, it wasn’t until the Laing woman also named Brown as one of those who had made a pact with the devil that the decision to imprison him was validated. If she hadn’t, then they’d be in more trouble than a Jacobite at Whitehall.
Running his hands over his face, Cowper took a few more deep breaths and began to feel better. It would be all right. They’d done nothing wrong. He’d done nothing wrong.
He sank into a seat and thought about Thomas Brown. Moderately well-off, it didn’t hurt that he owned shares in a boat that were now, with his death, free to be bought by someone more inclined to divide them among the councillors. Could Brown’s daughter be persuaded to sell the half she was entitled to? Maybe. Not immediately. She would be too angry, too caught up in grief. But perhaps later… They might even be able to seize all his property. After all, he died locked up as a witch. Admittedly, he didn’t confess, but he was named an accomplice…
God. The authorities in Edinburgh wouldn’t like this. Not at all and he didn’t need that bloody soldier, Captain Ross, to tell him that.
Even so, news of Brown’s demise shouldn’t have surprised him. The man had fallen ill within days of being imprisoned. The pricking, beatings and enforced sleeplessness weakened him further. But it was that idiot guard — what was his name? Rab Burne — who not only over-used the witch goad, the paddle the men used to beat the prisoners to prevent them sleeping, but denied the man the sustenance they were by law required to provide. Brown wasn’t only tortured (he winced as the word loomed in his mind), but was, according to the doctor, starved to death. Water, as Dr McLeod, a man prone to supporting Patrick’s decisions in the past, had pointedly said, will only maintain life for so long.