The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting it towards him, licking the back of her hand as a wave of liquid splashed over the rim.

  Aidan took it.

  ‘Now, sit, sit. Drink. Tell me why your connel —’ she giggled, ‘colo-nel wanted to see you.’

  Putting down the cup carefully without touching the contents, Aidan took Sorcha’s hands. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve come to do.’

  There was something in his tone, in the gentle way he held her hands, that made Sorcha’s heart beat faster. The sensible part of her began to work against the treacle in her mind. Why was Aidan in dress uniform? Why was it dry when his coat was so wet? Where was Liath?

  She glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing of his horse in the darkness outside.

  Propelled to a chair, Sorcha waited while Aidan brushed the crumbs from it before she sat. He knelt beside her. Pushing her hair from her forehead, he gave a sad smile. ‘I’m afraid, Sorcha, I’ve some news.’

  ‘You’re not here to tell me Edinburgh want to lock me up now, are you?’ She folded her arms and pouted.

  ‘Nae.’ He smiled softly and found her hands again, unfolding her arms. ‘Nothing like that. I’m here to tell you I’ve been posted.’

  ‘Posted? Like a parcel?’ Sorcha heard the word and refused it. The sister of a soldier, she knew damn well what ‘posted’ meant.

  Aidan didn’t answer, but tilted his head and ran his thumb over her lips. She shivered.

  Sober now, the clouds of whisky and thick memory swiftly thinning, she kissed his thumb then covered the hand that cupped one side of her face with her own. ‘Where?’ Her heart was so loud in her ears, she felt sure he must be able to hear it.

  ‘I’m to join the Duke of Marlborough’s forces in Bavaria.’

  ‘Bavaria?’ Sorcha felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. It was hard to breathe. ‘When?’ she whispered.

  Aidan tried to take her in his arms, but she resisted. ‘When? Tell me.’

  ‘At dawn. We sail with the tide.’

  Her vision swam. Instead of Aidan, it was Robbie, proudly announcing to her and their mor that he was off to fight for the duke in Flanders. Darling Robbie, the last of her brothers. Her brother whom she never saw again…

  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she buried her face in them, wrapping her arms around her legs to prevent him coming near. She was a fortress.

  Instead of moving away, Aidan’s arms encircled all of her. ‘Sergeant Thatcher and I rode from Edinburgh as soon as my orders were signed. I wasn’t meant to leave the barracks, but I had to see you, explain in person.’

  She could feel his breath against her, the pulse in his neck where it rested against her forearm.

  ‘Why now? I thought you were needed here, in Pittenweem.’ I need you.

  ‘Apparently there’s a treaty being negotiated and they require officers accustomed to dealing with the French, the Spanish too.’

  ‘Why you? There must be others.’

  Aidan gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Och, there are, lass. And I believe my name cropping up was no accident, nor was the approval for this new posting. I think someone arranged for this to happen. The order was from on high. Not even my superiors knew from whence it came, but I have my suspicions.’

  Sorcha raised her head and met his eyes. The answer was writ large. ‘Cowper.’

  Aidan grimaced. ‘I’ve no evidence, not yet, but that’s what I think. I don’t ken who he knows or how he did it, but I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Not that learning how he did it will change anything, will it?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  Sorcha frowned. A sour taste rose in her mouth that had very little to do with all the whisky she’d consumed. A sour taste tinged with needles of anxiety. ‘The bastard. He’s paying you back for what you did for us, for me. For alerting Edinburgh, for writing all those letters and ensuring justice was served.’

  ‘Aye. Or —’ Aidan hesitated.

  ‘Or what?’

  Half-standing, Aidan lifted her into his arms just as he slid onto the seat, depositing her onto his lap. Waiting until she rested her head against his chest, and he was able to stroke her hair, he continued. ‘Or… and, Sorcha, this is what I fear most, the reverend is planning something and wants me out of the way.’

  Sorcha raised her head and gazed at him. ‘What could he possibly be planning?’ She didn’t tell him he was merely saying what she suspected. She didn’t want to alarm him. Not now, when he was about to leave and could do naught. Her heart ached. For him, for her. Oh, how she would miss him. Please, God, if You be there, keep him safe.

  Aidan shook his head. ‘I don’t ken, lass. But I want you to promise me you’ll be careful. You, Nettie and the rest. He is a wicked man, Cowper, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try something else. He’s angry about those pardons. He’s angry and his pride has been bruised. He’ll take it worse than a personal slight. He’ll see those acquittals as being against God and something it is his religious duty to correct.’

  A sea of sorrow churned in Sorcha’s breast. ‘I hope you’re wrong, Aidan.’

  ‘Aye, me and all, lass. But in case I’m not, promise me you’ll be cautious.’

  Sorcha twisted in his arms and put one hand on his chest so she could study him properly. ‘I promise, Aidan. But there’s something I would ask you to promise me.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Promise you’ll come home.’ Her vision swam. Her throat became thick. ‘That you’ll come home to me.’

  There was a beat as Aidan swallowed. Sorcha felt her ribs tighten.

  ‘Och, lass, I promise that and more.’

  Sorcha couldn’t speak, so curled herself back in his arms. She couldn’t look at him. She was afraid she’d see in his face what they both knew to be true: that he’d lied.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  … how hard it is to root out bad principles once espoused by the rabble, and how dangerous a thing it is to be at their mercy…

  — A Letter From a Gentleman of Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705

  Sorcha didn’t sleep — neither did Aidan. They chose instead to lie in each other’s arms and talk softly as the night deepened and grew colder, the house creaking as the relentless wind pushed and prodded and the sea crashed and moiled in the distance. Oft times they clung without speaking, their hearts murmuring what their mouths could not.

  When Aidan donned his uniform before the embers of the fire that frigid, windswept dawn, Sorcha watched him from the bed, admiring his perfect, lean form. The broad shoulders, the dark hair so fine and neat across his chest, as if a barber had cut it to order, or a farmer had scythed it. She loved nothing better than to run her fingers along it, revelling in its softness against the hard body beneath. As she studied him, her heart tender, tears threatening to spill as she thought of the farewell they would all too soon be making, she tried to imprint him on her memory. Curling her arm around his pillow, she brought it close, inhaling the scent of him, wondering if, like her mor, her da and brothers, that would be all she’d have left — fragmented memories of intimate moments, the fragrance that was peculiarly his, until that too faded.

  Not wanting his last memory of her to be of red, swollen eyes and a miserable mouth, she pushed her sorrow away, climbed out of bed and warmed some milk for him, adding the last of the whisky to his cup.

  When the time came to say goodbye, they stood in the middle of the room and said nothing. They simply cleaved to each other — Sorcha, as if she were drowning and he her only chance of salvation.

  His kiss, when it came, was chaste and warm, soft, yet in it were a thousand promises, and she knew in her soul he intended to keep them all. Kissing him back, she made sure he knew she felt the same. Her body was pliant against his, but her mind was unyielding as she railed against God and the fates that once more someone was being taken from her, that her love was being cruelly tested. She wanted to shake a fist at the heavens, rain curses upon Hi
m and any who professed Him good, but was afraid that if she did, Aidan would be punished.

  While she might deserve the wrath of the Lord, he did not.

  Just as he had the first night she met him, almost a year ago, he disappeared into the gloom. If he looked back, she didn’t know, but stayed by the door all the same. It wasn’t until she finally went inside and stood by the fire that she felt cold.

  Cold and alone.

  As she dressed for kirk the last Sunday in November, two weeks after Aidan departed, Sorcha wondered, as she did every moment of every day, what he was doing. Had he reached Marlborough’s forces yet? Not knowing exactly where he was to join the general, she had no idea of the distance he had to cover or how long it would take. In her mind, he was with the great man, drinking whisky, enjoying a coffee, safe and warm in a tent, Liath and a corporal with him. The one blessing in all this was that Sergeant Thatcher had remained and been placed in charge of the troops until a replacement arrived; she knew Aidan had asked him to watch over her.

  She wished Nettie was here to help lace her best dress — an emerald green and turquoise creation her mother had made for her. Her mor always said it reflected her eyes. Smoothing the skirts, she ran a comb through her curls, winding her locks into orderliness at the nape of her neck. Pinning a scarf over her head, she studied herself in the looking glass.

  Her skin was smooth again, the marks that she’d borne out of the Tolbooth were gone. Though the drave was still meagre and farmers were charging hefty prices for their produce, her diet was much improved. Her body had slowly healed and she’d lost the stick-thin, waif-like look they’d all worn when they emerged from captivity. Nettie looked as though nothing had happened to her. It was only if you caught her face in repose and saw the darkness behind her eyes that you realised this was a woman with bleak secrets. A raging anger, too. It was the same with Beatrix, and it didn’t take much to make either of them snap and utter words that could be misconstrued. So afeared were Lillie Wallace and Margaret Jack of being found guilty again by association that after Sorcha’s celebration they’d left the Weem to look for work in another port town — the further afield, the better. Who could blame them? Not now Cowper’s sermons had become more pointed than ever. It was as if Aidan’s departure had shaken something loose in the man, something beyond reason.

  And today she had to listen to another of them. God, if only she could plead a megrim or, better still, claim Dagny needed her in St Andrew’s. But she was neither sick nor needed, least of all by her sister. If anyone needed her it was Nettie, Beatrix, Isobel, Nicolas, Janet and the other fishwives, and the women and men who refused to be bullied by a furious beast wearing a clerical collar and his threats of God’s wrath.

  Glancing at the clock, Sorcha sighed. The service would start soon. She must be there lest Cowper fine her or worse, use her absence against her. With one last look around the room, ensuring the fire was a warm glow, she grabbed her shawl and headed outside.

  Reverend Cowper’s sermon was worse than Sorcha anticipated. Seated at the back of the kirk, she’d come late and was squeezed between Callum Gregson, a former councilman and mercer, his widowed daughter Caitlin, and the village doctor — a title generously bestowed rather than earned. Everyone understood that anything of use Duncan McLeod knew he’d learned from his mother and not the university he’d attended for less than a year in Edinburgh.

  Grateful for the cold air coming in from the rear of the kirk, which meant the doctor’s terrible body odour and the reek of wine from Mr Gregson were at least bearable, Sorcha looked for Nettie among the parishioners. Against the Anster doctor’s advice, Thom had gone away on business, so Nettie was coming to stay again. It was a moment before she spotted her, halfway down, Isobel on one side and Beatrix on the other. So much for keeping their distance in public…

  Contemplating the women’s refusal to be pushed around by the reverend or to bow under the weight of the parishioners’ judgement, Sorcha was torn between admiring their courage and being afraid lest it come back to torment them. Thus preoccupied she didn’t immediately focus on what the reverend was all but shouting from his pulpit. Accustomed to his booming tone, she was well able to cancel it out. Rather, it was the way first Mr Gregson and then Dr McLeod stiffened beside her then tried to move away, whereas earlier they were practically on her lap, that drew her attention.

  ‘Let not the wrath of God fall upon you, for He sends these monsters to earth to test us. He waits to see who will fall into temptation and become possessed, allowing demons to take their bodies, and who will resist, who will fight.’ The reverend slammed his fist on the lectern. The first few rows jumped. It would have been funny had his words not been laden with deadly portent.

  Sorcha’s heart drummed in her ears. Her hands became knots in her lap.

  Lowering his voice, Reverend Cowper gripped the sides of the pulpit and leaned forward. ‘Who can forget the agonies inflicted on one of God’s own by the devil’s very servants? Who can forget the suffering of Peter Morton?’

  There was a wave of murmurs. A few turned to regard Peter where he sat, eyes downcast, in the middle of the kirk.

  ‘Think on this,’ continued Cowper. ‘The very same people who share this kirk with us, who walk the streets beside us, with whom we break bread and so much more, are responsible for what happened to the lad. It doesn’t matter what those far away in Edinburgh declare. The women are guilty from their own mouths, by their own signed admissions. I cannot forget that. Can you?’

  There was a wave of loud chatter, some shaking of heads.

  Sorcha’s heart sank. Nettie’s glance swept the room.

  ‘Nae. We can’t forget. Nor must we. The good Lord tells us, we must remain vigilant. We must look to each other, be wary of those who would do us harm even as they work to hide their nefarious intentions.’ Again, his eyes searched the crowd, only this time they lingered on Nicolas, on Beatrix. Sorcha began to slide down in her seat.

  ‘You see, not only does Satan create witches, but he creates doubters. He fashions those who refuse to believe in witchcraft, something we all ken to be true. They are like the Sadducees of auld and would tear us from our faith, from God. Why? So they too can recruit us into Satan’s army.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Have we not seen this for ourselves? Together, the witches and their associates, the doubters, sow seeds of malice in little towns like ours. They turn loved ones against each other, friends become foes. In the meantime, witchcraft and its foul practitioners thrive unpunished. Is this right? I ask you. Is this what the good Lord intends?’

  There was a murmur of ‘Nae,’ which quickly rose to a crescendo. Some shifted in their pews, looking askance at their neighbours. The gap between Sorcha and the men was growing. Dr McLeod looked as if he would stand in the aisle.

  Reverend Cowper paused, his chest heaving. ‘It isn’t right. And if we needed more proof of Satan’s work, look at the poor drave. Where are the fish? Where is the sea’s bounty? Why is His briny larder, which has sustained us for centuries, being closed to us in the Weem now? What is God telling us?’

  Sorcha wanted to protest, point out that the drave had been bad for seasons and it wasn’t only Pittenweem feeling the pressure.

  ‘And what of our crops? The poor crofters and farmers who are forced to plough ruined fields, sow what they’ll never reap? They too are starving. Those we once relied upon to feed us when the sea was barren can barely feed themselves.’

  The murmur grew to a roar.

  ‘And what about the weather?’ called one parishioner. Sorcha couldn’t see who.

  ‘I don’t remember it being like this in November before,’ added another.

  ‘If it weren’t for your wife forever hailing you, you couldn’t remember your name, Hamish Fletcher,’ countered someone. Sorcha could have sworn it was Therese. There were a few chuckles.

  Rather than silencing his flock, the reverend relished the commotion.

  When there was a lull, he continued. �
�And then there be the deaths from war.’ Sorcha’s heart leapt. ‘We have always paid dearly for our service to the English Crown, no more so than now, as many of you here are all too aware. May God bless your sacrifice.’

  Sorcha’s head spun. Not only was the reverend treading close to treason with these words, pretending a Jacobite sympathy he’d never possessed, but what did he know? He couldn’t have heard anything yet, not from Bavaria. He must be talking about France, about the losses they’d sustained in other wars, before even Robbie went. Nettie turned in her seat and caught her eye. She shook her head. Sorcha understood. It was enough to calm her. The reverend was merely blaming any ill-fortune, even deaths that were years old, on witchcraft — on the women. Couldn’t the parishioners see what he was about?

  ‘The officials in Edinburgh said the lasses weren’t responsible for what befell Peter Morton,’ cried out someone else. It was Moira Fraser, God bless her. Not all were being gulled.

  The congregation quietened. The talk softened. There were some nods, timid smiles.

  ‘That be true, reverend. They were found not guilty of malfeasance.’ Much to Sorcha’s surprise, it was Nicolas’s husband who spoke. There were grunts of agreement. Someone leaned forward and squeezed Nettie’s shoulder. Dr McLeod took his foot out of the aisle, sliding back towards Sorcha. Mr Gregson relaxed.

  ‘Aye, that’s so,’ said the reverend amiably. ‘The women we locked in the Tolbooth, from whom we extracted confessions, were found not guilty of malfeasance towards Peter Morton and released.’ He gave a scoffing laugh. Some joined him. As quickly as his laugh began, it ended. ‘But I ask you all to dwell on this.’ He drew himself up. ‘While the officials said there was no firm proof they harmed the lad, at no point did they say the women were innocent. They never said they weren’t witches.’

  He allowed that thought to take root.

  ‘And if we let but one witch go unpunished, then we are no better than the Sadducees. Like them, we condemn our Christian souls to hell. Beyond this,’ he continued without drawing breath, ‘remember, it is against the law and a capital offence to help — even unknowingly — or consult a witch. What constitutes help? Well, it comes in many forms, from providing comfort in times of woe to giving sustenance, even the kind that is purchased. Help can be a friendly smile, assistance carrying a heavy load, or even offering a sympathetic word. Think on that, think on that.’