by Karen Brooks
The captain didn’t respond.
‘Why is it that bailies Bell and Cleiland didn’t inform me of this when they returned?’ On the contrary, they too had allowed him to think that they’d won.
‘The decision hadn’t been made then. The men you mention were…’ Captain Ross paused, ‘keen to get back, I believe, so didn’t wait around to hear the outcome of your request.’
Patrick slumped into his chair, folding his arms and frowning. His mind was working swiftly, trying to find ways this decision could work in Pittenweem’s favour. Goddamn the captain. Goddamn Bell and Cleiland. This was not only going to cost the town money they could ill afford — though the incomers’ coin would offset that to a degree — worse, it could cost his reputation. A reputation he’d worked so hard to shore up. Just as he was winning more and more of the townsfolk to his side.
He picked up the letter and read it again, flicking through the pages, aware of the captain watching him with those dark Spanish eyes. Eyes that drank in the light. He wished the captain would go away so he could think. Nae. Truth be told, he wished he could have him thrown in the Tolbooth. Wouldn’t be hard. He consorted with witches, didn’t he? At the least, he defended them. Imagine what the Queen would say if Patrick did that? Imagine what kind of ransom would be paid to have an officer of Her Majesty’s army released…
That was it. Patrick sat up. That was the solution — well, one — to his problem. A way of ensuring that the captain understood he meant what he said. He put the letter down, smoothing out the creases he’d inadvertently made when he crumpled it in his fist, and fashioned a smile.
‘I did warn you what would happen should you stick your nose in where it’s not wanted. But I’m not an unreasonable man. While I’m mighty disappointed the women can’t be tried here in the Weem, among their own, I also don’t think it’s right to hold them in the Tolbooth until Edinburgh sees fit to dispense justice, do you? Reading between the lines here,’ he waved a hand over the letter, ‘it could be months before a trial is held. I think the witches have withstood enough.’
Aye, that was the line he’d take. It would deflect any criticism he’d been inappropriate in his dealings with the women. It would also help people forget what happened to Thomas Brown. If he showed some clemency, it would silence his detractors. After all, how could they say he was playing God or being unreasonable if he was the one insisting the women be freed until their trial?
Captain Ross straightened. He edged forward in his seat. Ah, Patrick thought, he’d taken the bait, now to reel him in.
‘What do you propose to do with them?’ asked the captain, daring to place an elbow on the desk.
Patrick could smell anticipation on the man. He resisted the urge to reach across and shove his arm off the wood.
‘What I propose,’ said the reverend, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper, ‘is to release them.’
‘Release them?’ The captain blinked. He was so eager, so ready to believe. ‘You mean, let the women out of the Tolbooth?’
‘Seems the right, godly thing to do, don’t you think?’
‘When would you be looking to do this, reverend?’
Patrick could almost hear the calculations being made in the man’s head.
‘Och, well, it’s not up to me entirely.’ They both smiled at the absurdity of the statement. Aye, even the captain, an incomer, knew who had power in the Weem. It was all Patrick could do not to preen. ‘But I think I can get the council to agree to this.’ He paused, watched the captain’s face. ‘Only, there’d be a proviso.’
The captain slid his forearm off the desk and sat back in his chair, putting distance between them. ‘What might that be, reverend?’ The question was cold.
‘It’s only fair that the women pay a bond. After all, we can’t afford to have them flee, can we? A bond is their guarantee they’ll remain in the district until they’re brought to trial.’
This time it was the captain’s turn to dissemble. Patrick sensed rather than saw it. ‘I see, and how much mo— How much do you think might be asked of these poor women?’
Patrick knew the captain had been about to say ‘more’ but stopped himself in time. ‘Taking into consideration the severity of their crimes, the fact they’ve confessed —’ He didn’t mention their retractions. ‘How fearful everyone will be if they’re released, I think five hundred marks not be out of the question.’
‘Five hundred?’ The captain did a quick calculation. ‘Why, that’s not unfeasible…’
‘Each,’ finished the reverend.
There was silence. A bee buzzed outside the window. A tic in the captain’s jaw pulsed in time with the clock. Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s face.
‘You know that will be impossible for them to pay,’ said Captain Ross finally. ‘They’ve been locked away for months, unable to draw a wage. They’ve used up all their savings. They’re not healthy. They need time…’
The reverend stood up and stretched. ‘That’s not my business, is it? If they can’t find the bond, then they’ll have to remain where they are.’ He made a show of folding the letter and pressing down what remained of the wax seal again. A thought struck him. ‘Or, perhaps,’ he said, coming around to the other side of the desk and clasping the captain’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, ‘they could conjure the money.’ Laughing at his own joke, he moved to the door and opened it, waiting, aware the captain was using every ounce of will not to lash out.
The man stood. Dear God, but he was maucht. Tall, sinewy and broad, like a highlander. If he came at Patrick now wielding a claymore and shouting unintelligible words, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Just terrified.
Scooping up his hat, without a word of farewell the captain marched from the room.
Patrick watched the captain’s retreating back, his sword swinging against his hips. He heard the maid usher him out.
Patrick may have won that battle, so why did he feel like he was on the losing side?
TWENTY-EIGHT
If a’ tale is true that’s no a lee.
(Indicates scepticism.)
12 August 1704
The last thing Sorcha expected upon being released from the Tolbooth was the crowd waiting to greet them. As she stepped into the muggy, mizzling summer’s day, holding the door frame with one hand, the other shielding her eyes from the brightness, aware of the guards close behind her, there was a cheer.
Blinking back tears, Sorcha gave a watery smile, trying to find words to thank those who’d come to welcome her for their faith, their efforts and, most of all for the money few could afford to part with but so many had given regardless.
When they learned from a note penned by Captain Ross, and passed to them by Camron, that the reverend and council had put a price of five hundred marks each on their liberty, she thought she’d never see the outside of the Tolbooth again. But she hadn’t considered the Weem’s generosity, Nettie’s wealthy friends, or the families who were dependent on the Mistral for their income. It may have taken a few weeks, but they’d raised the required sum.
Not even a spittering kept them away. Sorcha raised her face to the sky, relishing the droplets on her cheeks, the feeling of space, light and fresh air. Inhaling deeply, she sent a swift prayer to the God she’d briefly rejected, the God she’d started to believe only looked out for the likes of Patrick Cowper, and thanked Him.
Aware she looked and smelled terrible, even though the women had tried to wash and tidy their appearance when they learned they were to be released, it didn’t stop folk crowding around her. Some touched her gently on the back, others, mainly the fishwives like Jean Durkie, Therese Larnarch and Jen Hazell, pushed themselves forward and, dragging her off the doorstep, threw their arms around her, uncaring of her odour or the holes in her skirts, and wept into her neck.
Questions were thrown; offers of food, shelter and so much more. It was hard to take in. All the noise, the flesh, the smells, the warmth of the day after
the relative quiet and cool dampness of the Tolbooth, let alone the fall of rain upon her skin. She turned one way, then the other, not really seeing anyone, unable still to find words. She hoped they understood.
There was a movement behind her and then another cheer went up as Nettie appeared. Like a queen before her subjects, she lifted her chin, gave a wave and grin, her teeth stained, her lips dry, though her cheeks were wet. Linking her arm through Sorcha’s, she drew her away from the Tolbooth entrance as if she was afraid they’d be sucked back inside its dark doorway. A commotion immediately in front of them revealed Nettie’s husband shouldering people aside. He was chalk-pale and appeared as if he too had been in the Tolbooth, he was so thin. Letting go of Sorcha, Nettie hobbled across the cobbles and fell into his embrace.
The sight of them together, locked in a hold, crying openly, made Sorcha’s eyes fill again.
Watching Nettie reunited with Mr White, seeing the husbands or brothers of Nicolas, Beatrix and Lillie Wallace among the crowd, not forgetting Margaret’s sister and even poor Thomas Brown’s daughter, who offered the saddest of acknowledgements, it struck her that she had no one. No one to really care what happened to her, no one to be grateful she was free and welcome her back properly. She was alone.
Sorrow welled. In all the months she’d been locked away, it had never occurred to her what it would be like to be free, how much she longed for someone to ache for her, to want her, to fight — not just for justice, there were so many doing that, God bless them all — but just for her. Not even Dagny had been able to put aside her anger and offer support, let alone a welcome. Dagny’s absence hurt her more than was right.
Casting aside self-pity and determining to put on the brave face that was needed, that they all deserved, she found a smile.
Then she saw him.
Standing apart from the others, over by the Mercat Cross, Liath beside him, was Captain Ross. Their eyes fastened on each other. She saw a look pass over his face — aversion? Anger? She wasn’t certain, she only knew it wasn’t directed towards her — before he gestured to his mount and invited her to join him.
With a deep, deep sigh that came from the soles of her boots, carrying within it a great promise that she dared not examine, she weaved her way through the mob. As each woman emerged from the prison, there was a burst of noise behind her, making her twitch. Fixing her eyes on the captain, afraid if she looked away he’d vanish, she became aware her gait was uneven, her clothes were rags hanging from her scrawny frame; her shorn hair, which had regrown to at least cover her head in a bronze cap, needed a wash. Nonetheless, she didn’t stop. Not until she reached his side.
Uncertain what to do, what to say, she stood and stared at him, taking in his worn coat, the damp hat, but more importantly, those black, black eyes and the way they drank her in.
He took her hand in his large warm one and, much to her utter astonishment, raised it to his lips.
‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs McIntyre.’ Though the press of his warm mouth against her cold skin was gentle, the heat of rage and something else burning in those coal-black eyes was not. Something within Sorcha broke. She staggered and, before she could fall, he swept her into his arms and, pressing her to his body tightly first, lifted her onto his horse.
She cried out in pain as he gripped her beneath the arms and again as her legs, unprepared, struck the saddle.
‘Dear God, what have they done to you?’ His voice was hoarse, his eyes as they left hers to gaze at some point over her shoulder, were murderous.
Unable to explain, not really wanting to lest she relive the experience all over again, she shook her head and stayed mute. He placed his large hand over where hers rested on the pommel and didn’t move it. She didn’t want him to.
Shivering now, she clung to the saddle for dear life, enjoying the feel of his flesh against hers, the security it offered. When he said no more, she followed the direction of his gaze.
There were others besides those gathered directly outside the Tolbooth. Clustered in groups of two and three, they stood further down the wynd and at the crest of the High Street. Some looked upon the reunions with healthy curiosity. Others pointed towards her, then Nettie, and leaned in to whisper among themselves and nod sagely, as if measuring fish for sale. Each time a woman came out of the Tolbooth, their mutters grew. There were faces she didn’t recognise, some in fine clothes, others draped in unfamiliar plaids.
Her extra height atop Liath allowed her to see another group just beyond the Tolbooth in Cove Wynd, close to the kirk entrance. This disturbed her the most. They were people she knew and who, even as she acknowledged them, turned aside. There were the Crawfords, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms folded tightly and, beside them, the Mortons — all except Peter. Bailies Vernour, Crawford and Cleiland were there. Of Bailie Bell, she could see no sign. But the rest, aware she’d noticed them, shook their heads in disapproval that left her with a cold, hollow feeling.
In the centre of the group, the small space around him making him easier to see even in his black robes, was Reverend Cowper. Despite the distance between them, she could still feel the power of his stare, the loathing he brought with him, as if it were alive, a virulent sea-creature with long tentacles, reaching out to draw her closer.
It took a monumental effort to redirect her attention.
‘How… how long have they been waiting for us?’ she asked, finally finding some words.
‘As soon as news of your release spread, people came. Your supporters,’ the captain jerked his head towards the Tolbooth, ‘and detractors.’ He didn’t need to indicate who they were. ‘They keep a length from each other.’ He nodded towards another group Sorcha had failed to notice until that moment. It was Sergeant Thatcher and at least a dozen soldiers spread out around the edges of the crowd. In full uniform, they carried weapons. ‘I could at least see to that. I didn’t want you having to deal with any scuffles.’
‘There’s been fights?’
‘Aye, a few. Mainly since Thomas Brown died, and then again after your bail was posted. It galvanised folk, his dying, the unfairness and cruelty of it. But today is not a day for quarrelling. Sergeant Thatcher and my men will make sure of that.’
Unable to find words as her throat became suddenly thick and her vision swam, she simply nodded. She knew who it was motivating folk, who encouraged them to speak up about the injustices; and who was partly responsible for the brawls. She would thank him later.
The rain became heavier; thick, powerful drops that presaged a dowsing. Pulling a blanket from one of the panniers draped across his horse, Captain Ross wrapped it around her. She wasn’t even aware she was trembling. It wasn’t cold, not really, not the weather. Rather, it was the realisation that what had happened while she’d been locked in the Tolbooth, all the suffering and accusations she and the others had been forced to endure, had divided the village.
For that was what she was witnessing now. Those who stood with the accused, welcoming them back, taking them in their arms and leading them away, and those who stood with Cowper, watching, as if to memorise the names and faces of those offering succour to use against them later. Surrounding them were armed men ready to prevent any violence.
At that moment, Isobel Adam appeared in the Tolbooth doorway. Dear God, she was so thin. How had she not noticed before? Bruises circled her wrists, her cheeks were underpinned by dark hollows, as were her eyes. She stared about uncertainly, seeking a friendly face, not understanding that those in front of her were that and more. A cry went up at her appearance, and she recoiled as if struck, the noise quickly dying before it reached full volume. It was only when her father came forward and enswathed a shawl across the lass’s shaking shoulders that Isobel fell to her knees and began to sob.
There were grim mutters from the folk around Cowper, looks of disdain cast in the direction of the young lass, as if Isobel had given a performance. Did they not understand this was no ploy to garner sympathy? That the poor woman could scarce
stand?
It was more than Nicolas could do. Carried out in the Tolbooth keeper’s arms, she was deposited directly into those of her husband. Having been away south helping with the harvest, he’d come home to news of his wife’s imprisonment. Along with Nettie’s man and the captain, he’d fought for her release — to no avail — until now. There were gasps of horror as Nicolas’s skirt rode up and exposed the injuries to her legs. A mass of deep scars and bloodied swollen holes oozing pus and blood, they were shocking to see.
Mr Lawson quickly pulled her skirt down, as Nicolas, weeping softly, buried her face in his chest.
It was then the mood began to turn. Some of the folk began to shout. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, reverend.’ It was Therese Larnarch.
‘Aye,’ came cries of agreement. Someone spat.
‘And you too, bailies,’ yelled one of the men. It sounded like Mr Lawson. ‘You are as much to blame for this as anyone — you and your damn pricker.’
‘This is what you call justice?’
Sergeant Thatcher raised his musket and looked towards Captain Ross who subtly shook his head.
Further down the High Street, outside the tavern, men’s heads shot up as the racket grew and the mood changed. They rose from their stools and trundled towards the Tolbooth, rolling up their sleeves, exchanging ominous looks. Sensing a fight was brewing, women pulled their children close, grasped their baskets tightly, and followed at a distance.
The circle around the reverend grew tighter. The faces stubborn.
Still, Captain Ross bade his men wait.
Lillie Wallace, pale, shrunken and dirty like them all, finally surfaced from the Tolbooth to weak cheers as more accusations were hurled at the reverend. Rather than joining the throng, Lillie waited atop the step, one skinny arm raised to attract attention. Noticing her stance, there were nudges, calls for quiet. One by one the voices stilled. When there was complete silence, she spoke.
‘Today, with the exception of dear Thomas Brown, may God rest his soul, those falsely accused of witchcraft walk free.’ There was a roar of approval as well as some dissent. ‘All but one.’