by Karen Brooks
— An Answer of a Letter From a Gentleman of Fife, 1705
Compared to St Fillan’s Cave, the room on the first floor of the Tolbooth was luxury. Not only was it filled with light, and the bed of straw more comfortable, but Janet had the blankets Sorcha had given her to keep warm. She also had the guards for company. Changing at least three times a day, she knew them all; had done since they were bairns suckling on their mothers’ breasts. Not that it made a difference. With the exception of guileless Camron, the Stuart brothers and that Wood lad would act as if she were one of the incomers — welcome only while she spent coin. If only she could…
At least here, in the Tolbooth, she knew what time of day it was as daylight, rain, snowfall or moonbeams were visible through the window. Fresh air, no matter how frigid, streamed in. She was fed, and didn’t want for water either. They even gave her a pail for washing some days. Best of all, she could look out and see the town, well, parts of it; it was almost like being amongst folk again. Almost. The High Street, a combination of brown sludge and pristine white depending on the time of day, was there to behold and, if she stuck her head out far enough, ignoring how the cold bit her paper-thin skin or the sleet behaved like the pricker’s needles, she could see all the way to the Mercat Cross one way and even catch a glimpse of the sea if she looked the other.
Not a day went by that she didn’t spend some time gazing out the window, inhaling the scent of the ocean, listening to its melancholy lullaby, relishing the feel of the wind, rain and whatever else the sky chose to unload. Since Hogmanay, she’d taken to trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue, just as she used to when she was a bairn running over the braes with her friends, plunging into snowdrifts, making angels with her arms and legs or scooping up chunks and casting them down upon the unsuspecting fishwives and men working in the shelter of the rocks at the base of the cliffs. She and her friends would erupt with merriment and scoot away into the wind-blasted heather followed by curses and shouts. Her favourite thing to do now she had the opportunity was watching people, people she’d known her whole life — and a few she’d never seen before — strolling up and down the street, or racing between shops and residences, clecking away, going about their business and trying to escape the weather. Unaware of her scrutiny, they’d argue betwixt themselves, or carry on lost in thought, despondent, enraged, day-dreaming, their lips moving even when there was no one to listen. From her vantage point, she could see who was at odds with whom, who was in favour, including one buxom young lass and a recently married fisherman who would appear upon the High Street around the same time. Chuckling, Janet recognised the looks they exchanged, the way their fingers would brush casually against each other, their shoulders bump.
Janet would try and imagine what the folk she spent hours viewing were thinking, saying, feeling. So many stories circled around in her head. Dogs would scamper past, some chasing rats or chickens. She even saw two piglets run squealing down the frosty cobbles, slipping and sliding, a young girl panting after them as if she were running the cutter. No doubt she’d get a beating for having let them escape. Seagulls would swoop upon unguarded creels, flapping towards the sky, their booty tight in their claws, cawing their triumph. Cats would slink into the shadows, chickens dance across the snow and corbies sit upon rooftops, their glossy black feathers stark against the white-blanketed tiles. Birds that saw her gazing out the window would eye her suspiciously, squawking a warning.
Aye, I’d be warning others too, thought Janet, if the likes of me was watching. If she was feeling generous, she’d break off bits of bannock and throw it to them. They never thanked her.
Rarely did a day pass that Sorcha, bless her, and Nettie along with Beatrix, and even Nicolas and Isobel would stand beneath the tavern shingle and wave to her. She’d heard about Thom White passing and thought Nettie looked rather peely-wally, not that you’d know it from the way she shouted.
Passers-by would swing wide of the women, their extreme efforts not to associate with them making her laugh. Sometimes she could hear her friends talking to Camron or the Stuart lads below. Janet knew that meant they’d delivered something for her to enjoy — fresh bannocks, a flask of whisky and even, one time, a fish pie. That had been a good day. But it wasn’t only her friends who took it upon themselves to ensure she was fed. Other packages would arrive — slices of mutton, smoked fish, coddled eggs. The guards wouldn’t say who delivered them, but Janet had a suspicion. It was the women folk — well, some of them. Others would spit as soon as look at her, as they did to Sorcha and Nettie. But there were those who, by disobeying their men, quietly, anonymously, demonstrated a support she’d thought had all but gone. It gave her a warm feeling right between her breasts.
Why, she thought, gazing around at the remnants of her last meal, if she kept eating like this, they’d have to widen the door to let her out. Holding the fabric of her waistband away from her, she grimaced. She hoped she wasn’t going to be imprisoned that long. God, but she was like a speet. It wasn’t only the way her skirts swam on her that made her pull a face, but the stains — blood, sweat, tears, gravy and grease. Her ma, one of the fussiest people she knew, would be rolling over in her grave if she saw her lass. Two of her could fit into the filthy skirt and there’d still be room for half of her again. She examined her hands. Scarred from the pricking, they were sprinkled with spots and marred by ropey veins — veins that looked bigger now her hands had begun to resemble birds’ claws, even curling into her palm the way a jackdaw’s might. At least all the loose flesh upon her arms and thighs remained to keep her warm. All in all, considering where she was and why, things weren’t so bad.
Anyhow, she’d no one to blame but herself, not really. If only she hadn’t given in to the bloody reverend and that fucking pricker the first time. If only she hadn’t recanted her confessions. But then, if she hadn’t told Mr Cooke and Mr Kippilaw what the reverend really did to her and the others, the threats that burbled out of that sliver of a mouth like water gushing into the burn, how he’d promised her that if she admitted to the things he said she did with the devil (och, she only elaborated to please him), he’d not only baptise her again, but she’d be set free, then she’d likely still be in the cave. As it was, she was akin to illicit goods brought back by a smuggler: too dangerous to touch.
She picked a flea out of her hair and broke it in half, smearing the blood between her fingers. Aye, she smiled, that was her, dangerous.
If only Reverend Cowper were a flea. He was as irritating as one.
Reflecting back on her time in the cave, for all it had been a miserable, cold way to pass the days and weeks as they all bent one into the other in the dark until they were a crushing weight, at least she hadn’t been tortured any more. Dear God, but that was something she hoped never to go through again. The way that bastard Bollard took such pleasure from inserting his instruments into her auld flesh, her sagging lugs and even her cunt for Christ sakes… She shuddered. There was something not quite right about someone who could inflict that level of pain on another human being, divest a woman of her robes without blinking a cold eye nor show any emotion as he pawed her flesh, pulled and searched… Searched, my arse. It was as if his soul had been dislodged or evaporated altogether. And they called her a witch.
It was thoughts of how she would enact revenge on all the bastards who’d locked her away that kept Janet’s spirit strong. If that cocksucking reverend wanted to call it malfeasance, so be it. She was filled with it, devil take his balls. When she was free, och, how she’d celebrate with the lasses who, just as they did when she was shut deep in the cave, would call out her name, tell her stories and cackle to lift her spirits.
A noise outside the door distracted her thoughts. Who had come this time? It had been too cold to remain by the window and it was too early for a change of the guards. Why, the clock had scarce struck one.
There was the rattle of keys.
The door screamed open and in stepped Reverend Cowper and a large man sh
e’d seen once before. A grubby-looking lad who, Camron told her, had been a soldier. With fists like hammers and a way of wielding the stick he carried so it left bruises but rarely broke bones, he had a smile frostier than the ice-floes of the north. Janet’s heart fell into her feet but she forced a grin nonetheless. They would not see her trepidation. Not if she could help it.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Cornfoot,’ said the reverend.
Scrambling to her feet, Janet bobbed a curtsey. Wouldn’t do to let manners slide. ‘Afternoon, sirs.’
The reverend dragged a stool over and invited Janet to sit. The last thing she wanted to do was comply, but she did. She’d learned it made the punishment less brutal if she did what she was told.
Taking her seat as if she was a lady entertaining in a grand salon, folding her soiled skirts under her skinny rump, she raised her head. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’
The hefty soldier shut the door, but not before she’d seen Camron’s pale, wide-eyed face. That unnerved her far more than having the reverend there. The soldier — what was his name? — tramped towards her, swinging his stick. Janet gulped, and gathered her hands in her lap to hide their quivering.
‘Thing is, Janet,’ said the reverend, squatting down beside her, as if she was a naughty bairn about to be delivered a lesson. ‘You’ve gone out of your way to make a right slabber of me. Here I was with your confession written out, signed, sent off to Edinburgh, ready to baptise you again and admit you back into God’s graces and our Christian family here in the Weem, and what do you do? You tell the city gents it’s all a confeck. That it’s all lies.’
Janet sighed. So, it wasn’t over yet. Never mind that this whole business started because a lad supposedly fell victim to a sea-charm. Didn’t matter that the woman accused of it — and all her accomplices — had been acquitted. He had to punish someone.
He had to make someone pay for being made to look a fool and that someone was going to be her.
Janet opened her hands and regarded them again. They were auld hands. Well used. They’d worked hard her entire life; held bairns, and not just her own. They’d touched the flesh of men, stroked cocks, dried tears, made bannocks and bread, scaled and gutted more fish and baited more lines than she cared to remember. If she screwed up her eyes, she could still make out the tiny cuts and deep grooves from her first clumsy attempts to learn the fishwives’ craft. God, what was she then? Five? Six? And now? Seventy-two? Maybe. Maybe younger. Maybe older. It didn’t matter. She’d lived a good full life, known the love of a few good men and, even better, the loving friendship of many a good woman. Good women who were also being asked to pay for this man’s wounded pride and whatever else drove him. Pay for his devotion to a cruel and stupid God. Not her God. Not the one she knew and to whom she prayed.
Enough.
Enough.
She’d done all the reverend said and still he punished her. Repeated the words he drilled into her head until she could recite them in her sleep, and still he didn’t let her go, didn’t stop tormenting her or the others.
What did she really have to do for the reverend to say she was accepted back into God’s good graces? She knew. In her heart, she knew. It wasn’t what this man said, despite his religious garb, training and the smooth words he claimed were God’s that tumbled out of his mouth. It didn’t matter what she said.
No more. She would find her own way and, as far as she was concerned, the way to the Lord was by walking the path of truth.
Drawing on what remained of her courage, sending a silent prayer to the God she knew could see into her heart, she met his eyes.
‘They weren’t no lies,’ said Janet. ‘As you well ken. I merely said what I did the first time to please you, minister, and the bailies.’
‘And this is what you told those lairds.’
‘Aye. And if I had my time over, I would tell them the same again and any other gent who might listen. So do your worst.’
The reverend stood, his knees creaking. Staring at Janet and rubbing his neck, he sighed. ‘If that’s your final word.’
‘Nae. But I’m hoping that you’ve said your last.’ Janet raised her chin. ‘I’m mighty sick of your blethering, let me tell you.’
The reverend stepped back and, with a flick of his hand, indicated that the soldier was to take his place.
‘Private Smith. The witch is now yours.’
Och, Smith. That’s right. That was his name.
With a toothless grin, Smith raised his stick. Janet shut her eyes and waited for the blow to fall.
FORTY-TWO
The keeper put her into a prison in which was a low window, out of which it was obvious that any body could make an escape…
— A Letter From a Gentleman in Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705
‘You heard me, Camron,’ said Reverend Cowper, moving away from the window and giving the rest of the cell a cursory glance. ‘Move her down here immediately.’ He pushed his scented kerchief against his nose. Dear God, but the place smelled wretched. Even weeks after the women had been released and Brown had died, he could smell them — their distress, their leavings. He could see the rust-coloured stains upon the floor where they’d bled. Instead of rousing him to pity, it made him angry. If only the foolish women had confessed earlier; if only they’d admitted their ungodly, devilish practices, then they would have been freed — one way or another — long ago.
Denied the burning he’d been secretly hoping for, a cleansing the township needed now more than ever — arguments over whether or not the women were witches and concerns over the treasury erupted with alarming frequency — Janet Cornfoot had ruined everything. She and the other women whose very presence was an affront to any good Christian soul.
It wasn’t enough that they were refused service in the town’s shops, shunned wherever they went. There were still those who dared to buy the fish they tried to sell, secretly offered them succour and support. Just like the accused, these people sought to make dupes of him and all who believed the women were what he knew they were in his heart: witches, with malfeasance running through their veins. They were a blight on his authority.
Even so, God had found ways to punish them. Firstly, Sorcha’s lover had been sent to Bavaria. (Even though he had had something to do with that, he still attributed it to God. Had not the Almighty planted the idea in his head? Allowed those he contacted to see the right of his suggestion?) Then Janet Horseburgh’s husband had died. Two women, whores and witches by any other names, were answering to God for the sins of their souls. Forsaken by the men who supported them, who, bewitched as they must have been, bedded them, they were adrift without a male to anchor them, to hold their heads above the waters that even now were rising to sweep them away. Smiling, he thought of Nicolas Lawson. Aye, she still bore the scars of her internment and it was said her husband couldn’t bear to touch her any more. No doubt he saw what Bollard and he too had seen — the marks upon her body where the devil had suckled; where, of her own admission, she’d taken him as a beast does its mate. Shuddering, though not with displeasure, Patrick forced an image of Nicolas’s lithe body from his mind and thought instead of auld Beatrix Laing, that shrivelled prune and, finally, the wizened woman in the cell above — Janet Cornfoot.
‘Leave the window, Camron,’ barked the reverend as the keeper tried to close it. ‘The woman likes fresh air, let her have some.’
‘But, reverend, it’s not s’posed to be ajar.’
The reverend smiled sympathetically at the young nyaff. ‘Janet Cornfoot is an auld, auld woman and weak. Weak now we’ve wrangled the devil from her soul. An open window is the least of our worries or hers.’
If Camron thought differently, he didn’t argue. ‘I’ll see she brings her belongings with her then, the blankets and such, shall I?’
Not wishing to stay any longer, unable to escape the memories that seemed to leach out of the stone, an irrational fear that the walls were crowding him, the reverend made to leave. ‘
Nae, Camron. She’s to be brought here alone, without bedding or blankets, do you hear me?’
Camron appeared about to object. He was becoming too bold. The reverend frowned. ‘You’re not to give her any nourishment either, you hear?’
‘Do you want me to leave her water so she can wash away the blood?’
The reverend pretended to give this suggestion some thought. ‘Nae, Camron, I don’t want you to do that either. What I do want is for you to escort her down here, lock the door and then leave her alone. It will do her good to reflect on what she’s done; to whom she owes loyalty. God or the devil.’
Camron scuffed his boots along the floor.
The reverend paused at the door. ‘Take the night off, Camron. Don’t object. I’m ordering you. The guards have been given permission to go and enjoy themselves. You’ve been extraordinary in your duty, lad, a mighty fine keeper. It’s only fair that you have a night free as well. Go to the tavern, see your friends. Or go home to your ma. Just take yourself away from here.’ He looked around and gave a dramatic shudder.
Camron blinked and his thick-lipped mouth dropped open. The reverend almost laughed as a beaming smile lifted the lad’s entire face before it fell back into its usual blank expression. ‘But, reverend, if I do that who will watch the Tolbooth? Who will watch Mrs Cornfoot?’
‘The Lord, Camron. That’s who. God will watch over the witch.’
‘Why do you think he moved her?’ asked Nettie.
Sorcha looked up from where she was bent over the pot, stirring the soup and shrugged. The steam made her cheeks pink and her curls cling to her forehead. Ever since they’d left Beatrix’s early that evening, having learned from Mr Brown, who heard it from Camron, who’d called into the tavern for an ale on his way home, that Janet had been shifted into the lower room of the Tolbooth, they’d been debating what it meant.