by Karen Brooks
Sorcha tightened her grip on the pommel, felt the captain’s fingers close over her own.
‘All except Janet Cornfoot.’ Lillie screwed up her eyes, searching for someone. ‘Under orders from our council, from the Reverend Cowper, they’re not releasing her.’ Her voice cracked. Someone handed her a small flask, which she raised with a shaking arm. Much of the liquid bubbled over her lips as she drank. Coughing and spluttering, she wiped her mouth and handed the flask back. ‘We’ve been told Janet’s to remain imprisoned but not why.’
There was an upswell of anger, of confusion.
This time, the sergeant moved his men into position. Townsfolk parted to let them through, most grateful they were there.
Lillie waited for the reaction to her news to die down, and leaned heavily on the building. Spying the reverend, she raised a finger. ‘This be your doing.’ Her voice was quiet at first, but as she continued it grew louder and more confident, filled with a repressed rage at what she’d endured, at the treatment of her closest friend. ‘Call yourself a man of God? I ken who’s your master.’ Before she could say any more and incriminate herself, Sergeant Thatcher strode forward and gently coaxed her from the steps. She was passed to one of the soldiers and swiftly led away.
Sorcha almost tipped from the saddle. She didn’t know Janet was to remain; Janet, Lillie, Margaret and Thomas had been confined in the room below, and communication between them had been sporadic and down to the goodwill of Camron and the other guards. This decision must be sudden. No wonder Lillie was in shock. Poor Janet.
Their freedom came at an additional cost after all. Not just the outrageous bond, but an old woman’s liberty.
The crowd’s mood became uglier.
‘Where’s Janet?’ The question could have come from anyone, but was clearly directed at the reverend.
‘Why isn’t she being let go? Her bond’s been paid,’ cried Jen Hazell.
There were catcalls and clamour. Someone began to bang a drum.
Jostled by his supporters, who sought to shield him, the reverend moved towards the soldiers. He said something to Sergeant Thatcher who cleared a path and led him to the Tolbooth door. The crowd shifted to allow them passage.
Sorcha couldn’t help but admire the reverend’s bravery. She doubted she’d walk so calmly through such a furious gauntlet, even with the sergeant and his men to protect her.
The reverend’s face was hard to read as he waited for quiet. Ignoring the rain that drummed against his head, his dark robes a contrast against the pale grey and brown stones of the Tolbooth, he was more like a statue than a human, a gargoyle akin to those Sorcha had seen carved on the churches in Edinburgh.
‘’Tis true,’ he began. ‘Mrs Cornfoot’s bond’s been paid and will be held in trust for her until such time as she is freed.’ There were jeers. The reverend raised his hands for silence. Accustomed to obeying him, the crowd eventually hushed.
‘The Edinburgh magistrates have shown great clemency in releasing any of these w… women.’
There were hisses.
‘As I said,’ he repeated. ‘Great clemency has been shown. These women have been charged with a capital offence. The magistrates have taken a great risk in freeing them. What you don’t seem to understand, my friends, is that you have as well.’
There were some scornful noises. ‘What risk are they to us? Have you not seen the state of them?’
‘Believe what you like,’ thundered the reverend, his patience gone. The rain was heavy now. His hair was flattened to his scalp. Seeking shelter, the incomers started reluctantly to disperse. They weren’t the only ones. With Nicolas in his arms, Mr Lawson turned his back on the reverend and pushed his way past the soldiers to the High Street. Isobel, head bowed, followed with her father.
Undaunted, the reverend continued. ‘What was done to these women was done to protect you. It was done to protect them —’ he pointed after Nicolas and Isobel, ‘so they might recant their allegiance to Satan and be returned to our Christian community.’
There was muttering and much shaking of heads. More people began to move away. They either didn’t want to listen anymore or wanted to avoid being soaked.
‘These women are not innocent. They are charged — out of their own mouths, by their very own confessions.’ Realising he was losing his audience, he began to bluster. ‘They are still a threat — to us, to you — and it’s only out of the goodness of our Christian hearts and the imprudence of the magistrates in Edinburgh they’re being allowed back into the community — lest we forget, there’s still a trial pending.’
Bellows of agreement rang out. The reverend’s supporters had shifted into spaces left by those who’d taken the prisoners away.
The reverend raised his arms again. ‘Listen to me,’ he shouted above the rain. ‘The women might be at liberty, but they’re not free. You must all treat them with caution — including those of you who refuse to see what they are. Watch your backs lest what happened to Peter Morton also happens to you.’
The Mortons and the Crawfords raised a cheer. It was all but drowned by the heckling of the women’s supporters and the increasing rain.
Cowper dropped his arms. A path opened for him and he strode through the crowd, his followers falling in behind him.
There was more muttering, a few yells of defiance, but not as many as before. Most simply watched him depart.
‘Come,’ said Captain Ross, sending a signal to his sergeant. ‘I’ve heard enough. This helps no one.’
Lacking the energy to resist, Sorcha allowed the captain to lead her away. There wasn’t far to go, but it felt like the longest of journeys. Her mind fizzed and burned. She was shocked by what their incarceration had done to the village; it was something she hadn’t foreseen. Pittenweem had always had its rifts — families falling out with one another, neighbours arguing, deaths, marriages. But this was different. The town was rent. She wondered if it could ever be whole again.
What the reverend and council had succeeded in doing when they arrested eight innocent souls was to cause a schism so wide only a miracle could heal it.
That, or something catastrophic.
PART TWO
August to November 1704
Your eyes bewitched my wit, your wit bewitched my will,
Thus with your eyes and wit you do bewitch me still
And yet you are no witch, whose spirit is not evil,
And yet you are a witch, and yet you are no devil.
Oh witching eyes, and wit, where wit and eyes may read,
A witch and not a witch, and yet a witch indeed.
— Nicholas Breton, ‘My Witch’, circa 1545–1626
Our Presbyterian ministers are showing great zeal in discovering witches and they think they have fallen luckily on a cluster of them in Pittenweem.
— A True and Full Relation of the Witches at Pittenweem, to which is added by way of prefix, an essay for proving the existence of good and evil spirits, relating to the witches of Pittenweem, now in custody, with argument against the sadducism of the present age, 1704.
TWENTY-NINE
She be a brazen besom.
(She’s a shameless woman.)
Captain Ross stood aside as he opened the door of the cottage, allowing Sorcha to enter first. As soon as she was inside, she leaned against the wall, her legs aching, her head reeling. She was home.
A fire crackled in the hearth and Sorcha could detect the unmistakable odour of mutton cooking. Nausea rose in her throat and she put the back of her hand against her mouth in an attempt to quash the sensation. She took a couple of calming breaths, waiting for the wave of sickness to pass, and stared around in disbelief, noting the tidy shelves, the polished table, how dishes had been placed where they didn’t belong. There was a book she didn’t recognise on one of the side tables near the armchairs. Clearly someone (and it didn’t take much to guess who) had been living here in her absence. Not knowing whether to feel umbrage or gratitude, she continued her survey befo
re turning to regard the captain quizzically.
Sorcha knew curious passers-by wouldn’t fail to gossip about the fact that both she and the captain were inside. Instead of launching into questions, she waited for him to close the door and explain.
Unbothered by her regard, he removed his hat and placed it on a chair, picked up the poker and prodded the fire, then squatted to check the bubbling pot set to one side of the burning peat, lifting the lid and inhaling the smell, a satisfied look on his face. ‘Hope you like mutton. Widow Browning sold me some yesterday and I made this.’ He replaced the lid and stood, dusting his hands. ‘You need to eat. You are all skin and bone.’
Sorcha resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her middle. She feared it would only confirm the captain’s assessment.
‘I gather you’re responsible for this as well?’ She gestured to the room, noting anew how clean it was — unlike her. She’d expected months of neglect and dust and instead — this.
‘Aye.’ He undid his coat and shrugged it off, folding it neatly and laying it over the arm of the chair where his hat rested. Sorcha watched in bemusement; it was as if she were the guest and he the host.
He then dragged a large pot, one she usually reserved for boiling sheets, onto the fire. Water splashed over the edges. ‘We’ll get this heating too, hey?’ he said.
Folding her arms, she waited.
Understanding she wanted a fuller answer, he began to busy himself in the kitchen area. ‘I thought that since you and Mrs Horseburgh were in the Tolbooth for an indefinite period, leaving your cottage empty, it would be best I stayed here awhile. Protect things. I wasn’t sure what might happen to your belongings given the uncertain mood in the village.’ He looked around. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Mind?’ Sorcha felt a laugh flicker to life. She recalled the conversation they’d had, how long ago was that? Felt like years. About how the reverend and council would do anything to resolve the town’s debts and fill the coffers. At the time, she hadn’t seriously thought her property or Nettie’s was under threat. But that was before an accusation of witchcraft was levelled against them. Now she wondered if she or her possessions would ever be safe again.
Her heart swelled at his consideration and a lump formed in her throat. ‘On the contrary,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I’m very grateful.’ Through the open door to the bedroom, she could see a shirt draped over the end of the bed, a blanket she didn’t recognise covering the mattress. ‘You’ve made yourself at home.’
‘Aye and nae. I merely watched over things with a view to surrendering all as soon as you were set at liberty.’ He moved to the dresser and took down a couple of plates, laying them on the table along with spoons and knives.
Sorcha thought how comfortable he appeared. Much more comfortable than Andy had ever been…
‘Sit, lass, sit,’ said the captain, waving towards a stool as he produced a loaf and began to carve it.
A loaf of bread! How long had it been since Sorcha had tasted that? How long since she’d had a decent hot meal and the comfort of a chair, the warmth of a fire? Not to mention being in her own home? As for a man tending to her needs rather than cruelly denying them…
Tears filled her eyes and she quickly wiped them away. She didn’t want the captain thinking she was weak, even though it took all her strength to remain standing.
Aware she hadn’t moved, the captain glanced in her direction before resuming his task. ‘I’m not going to ask if you be all right, because I ken the answer. But, please, Mrs McIntyre, take a seat and allow me to at least ensure you have a decent meal before I leave you in peace.’
Peace. What a funny word. She hadn’t felt peace for years. Would she ever know it again?
When she still didn’t move, he abandoned the bread and, taking her by the arm, led her to her da’s old chair.
‘Wait,’ said Sorcha, wrenching her arm free and standing her ground. ‘I can’t.’
‘What is it you can’t, lass?’ asked the captain so very gently, his great black eyes reflecting the flames, radiating kindness and such empathy it made her want to weep all over again. ‘If you can’t bear to have a man near you, I’ll understand and make myself scarce. I see now I shouldn’t have touched you and for that I’m very sorry.’ He held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘I’m worried about leaving you in the state you’re in. All of your friends have someone to care for them, the townsfolk made sure of that. And I said I’d look to you. So, please, let me, then I’ll be gone.’
Sorcha’s shoulders slumped and damn if she didn’t begin to sob. ‘Nae… nae… That’s not it.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Nae. I don’t,’ agreed the captain.
‘I can’t sit,’ Sorcha cried.
‘Is it something else those bastards did, lass? I know some of it, but not all.’ He drew himself up to his full height.
If Sorcha hadn’t been so upset, she would have smiled. Would she ever be able to talk about what was done to them? The terrible humiliations and pain? She doubted it. All she wanted was to forget those things ever happened.
‘It’s quite simple, really. I don’t want to sit or eat while I’m so filthy. While I smell like the Tolbooth. I feel like I don’t belong here — at least, not like this.’ She glanced down at her grubby skirts in dismay.
The captain smacked his palm against his forehead. ‘What was I thinking? I’m readying some water for you to bathe in, lass, but I thought feeding you was more important.’
Sorcha’s eyes glimmered. ‘I need to be clean.’ To be cleansed.
Misunderstanding the source of her trembling, he ushered her closer to the fire then left her standing there. Crying freely now, wondering if the others felt like her, so dirty that a bath was their priority, Sorcha was vaguely aware of a tub being rolled into the middle of the room, the captain moving backwards and forwards across the floor, out the back, the gurgle of water being poured, before the smell of lavender and roses wafted towards her.
By the time she’d dried her eyes, hiccoughing gently now the tempest had subsided, it was to find a steaming bath awaiting her. It was enough to make her cry afresh.
‘Och, lass,’ said the captain. ‘Please don’t weep. I’ll leave you to wash and come back later to make sure you’re fed.’ When she didn’t move or answer, he gestured to her mor’s chair. ‘The drying sheets are there along with fresh clothes… I wasn’t sure what to get you, but there’s a clean skirt and shirt and underclothes. If you leave what you’re wearing by the hearth, I’ll take them to the laundress who does my clothes on the morrow.’
‘Burn them,’ said Sorcha, staring at the tub with longing. How she’d dreamed of immersing herself in hot water. Of soaping her body, her hair. If it was within her capacity to do so, she would have peeled her skin away, turned it inside out and washed it as well.
‘Are you sure, lass?’
‘I never want to see these ever again.’ With a desperation she didn’t know she possessed, she began to undo her shirt, pulling so hard, the ties snapped. Ripping at the sleeves, she tugged her arms free.
‘Whoa there, Mrs McIntyre,’ said Captain Ross, turning his head away and holding up his palms. ‘You must wait till I go.’
‘Go?’ Sorcha froze. The thought of being alone filled her with dread. ‘Why would you go? Who will wash my back? Help me wash my hair?’ She ran her hands over her head. ‘What remains of it.’
‘Madam,’ said the captain, stepping forward and gathering the two pieces of her shirt together and pulling them over her breasts, ‘just as I protected your cottage, I would protect what remains of your reputation. Your modesty.’
Sorcha threw back her head and laughed. It was a low, dark sound, filled with bitterness. ‘Och, captain, you of all people know I’ve no reputation left to protect and, as for my modesty, it has been trammelled these last months by men who have no honour. You think I care if you see me naked? It is the very least of my concerns. Worse men have, why not you who
seeks to help me, to see to my well-being? I’ve no maidenly blushes, sir, no shame that has not been felt.’ She took a deep breath. God damn it. She had no pride… or perhaps it was pride that gave her the strength to ask. ‘I would you stay.’
She waited until his eyes met hers.
‘I don’t want to be alone. I’ve been pricked, poked, and beaten bloody. I’ve been watched while I shit and piss, while I vomited, bled, writhed in pain and succumbed to nightmares. Having you remain while I bathe is nothing to what I’ve been forced to tolerate; what I’d no choice but to endure. So, I ask you to stay. Please. Not just while I bathe. I would also you stay… longer. This is my wish if you could but grant it to me.’
His hands dropped and he stepped away.
She became aware of how drab she was, how she must stink. The water they’d been given to wash in wasn’t clean, nor the cloths, certainly not after all four women had used them. God, she could smell herself, smell the reverend, the pricker and his searching grubby hands and filthy implements. Smell the blood, the pain, the infections, the humiliation.
Maybe the captain couldn’t bear to be near her. She’d misread his kindness as tolerance of her state. Maybe he had to leave because for all his chivalry, she disgusted him. Heat rose up her neck. Her cheeks began to burn. Turns out, she still had pride after all.
‘Forgive me. You don’t have to stay, captain… I… I’m being selfish. God, I can barely stand to be in my own presence.’ Her arms swept her body and encompassed the room. ‘You’ve already done so much for me, for the others as well. Go. Go do your duties, with my blessing and thanks. I will manage.’
The captain moved towards her and gently spun her around. He began to tug at the ties that bound her skirt at the waist. ‘Aye, I ken you’d manage. You always will, won’t you, Mrs McIntyre? But this time, you don’t have to manage on your own.’ Her skirt fell in a puddle at her feet and she stepped out of it. Uncertain what to do with her arms, her hands, whether to shield her womanly parts, explain the marks that covered her body or not — more for his sake than her own — she let them hang by her side.