The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  Instead, she chose a different tack.

  She recounted Janet’s last moments. How brave she was, how defiant. How even when she knew the intentions of those who hunted her, that they would stop at nothing until she was dead, she refused to bow to fear, to the terror and chaos they tried to create.

  ‘You know what her last words were?’

  As she spoke, the women wept. Great tears streaked their cheeks. Beatrix had her arm around Isobel. Nicolas clung to Nettie.

  ‘Keep going, hen,’ said Nettie huskily when Sorcha hesitated. She too was finding it difficult to speak.

  ‘She said, “Live for me”.’

  Nettie sucked in her breath. The weeping stilled. There was silence.

  ‘Then that’s what we must do,’ said Nettie finally, reaching first for Sorcha’s hand, then Beatrix’s, Isobel’s and Nicolas’s, bringing them together in the centre of their tight circle. One by one, the women nodded.

  After that, they never raised the matter again. When they saw each other over the following days, and when Sorcha and Nettie would stumble home exhausted each night after working at the harbour and selling fish upon the streets, they would ask about each other’s families. They’d discuss the catch, the cold, which ships had returned and where the rest were. The condition of the boats and the harbour. Every time, the women would ask after Aidan. Sorcha had told them she’d written to him. She also admitted to writing to his colonel in Edinburgh about Janet’s death, but thus far she’d had no response.

  By tacit agreement, what no one shared was how hard it was becoming for them; how they were terrified that what happened to Janet might yet befall them; that the lunacy that had infected the Weem that night would reignite. More and more shopkeepers were refusing to serve them, more and more townsfolk turned their backs when they arrived on their stoops with fish, or simply strolled past on the streets. Dark mutterings followed them once more, dark mutterings and a sprinkling of abuse.

  With each passing hour, it was getting worse.

  Every night, Sorcha would lie under the covers and stare at the ceiling, uncaring of the shapes above. They no longer had the ability to transport her to other places and times. Instead, she’d wait for dawn to arrive.

  Looking around the kirk now, two weeks since Janet’s passing, Sorcha wondered if the people here slept at night. Or did they, like her, find shutting their eyes meant reliving what had happened? How did the women feel, knowing their husbands, brothers and sons had lynched, beaten and stomped on an old woman? Dragged her through the streets, kicked, punched and brutalised her? She shuddered at the thought of any one of them lying beside her, sharing a pillow, touching her.

  How could they behave as if they were as pious and deserving of the Lord’s grace as a saint? Perhaps that was the only way they could deal with it — by pretending it never happened. That way, the stain of remembrance didn’t have to be cleansed; that way, they could retreat into the solace of sleep.

  Barely able to look at the man delivering the sermon, she wondered how he could stand before them, speaking of justice on the one hand but also warning what happened when malfeasance was allowed to flourish on the other, and how it took the strongest of souls, the most just and brave of men and their women to resist the devil. Sorcha marvelled that he didn’t collapse under the weight of his hypocrisy.

  Strangers were seated among the congregation — incomers from the north and the borderlands; some from the city. They’d come to view the witches, watch events unfold. What did they make of what happened? She glanced at them now, in their different clothes, with their odd manners, some with accents so thick they were hard to understand. Why were they still here? Was it because they hoped for more entertainment? She knew the reverend and bailies prayed they’d stay, encouraged them to linger and spend their coin. Already, work had recommenced on the pier and even the harbour wall. The town couldn’t afford to have these people leave. But why did they not speak out against what they saw? In her mind, by their silence they were as complicit as the bailies.

  Yet, was she any better? Were any of Janet’s friends or family? They sat there among them, mute. Too scared to challenge the reverend lest they were named witches. That was all it took. The bestowing of a label and all the connotations that came with it. Fishwife, people could accept, albeit begrudgingly. But witch, that was the name for an outsider in every way, an un-woman not worthy of God’s protection or grace. A witch brought ill with her and infected a community. It was a name to be feared. By the bestower and those branded with it. That’s what Janet’s death had taught her — taught them all. To be called a witch was to be reborn. Anything done in the past was obscured by the new identity. Forget the fact the witch was a mother, daughter, sister, neighbour, lover, grandmother, healer, fishwife… A witch was a canker on the body of the community that must be excised.

  The name turned a person from a child of God into a devil-made creature, fair game for hunters like the reverend and those who took pleasure from such sport.

  Sorcha had no desire to play their deadly game.

  ‘Live for me.’ Those were Janet’s last words, her final wish. ‘Live for me.’

  Sorcha made up her mind there and then that she would do whatever that took. Even if it meant singing and praying alongside murderers who used God as a shield to protect their crimes and justify their cruelty.

  As she was thinking that, she caught the eye of first Nettie, then, seated two rows over, Beatrix, Mr Brown, Nicolas, Isobel and Isobel’s father. It was important she remember there were also those who saw through the mask of righteousness, saw the town and the reverend for what and who they were — people caught in a spell that, if she had any influence, would soon be broken. She would cleave to those she trusted and keep working to ensure Janet’s memory — and that of Thomas Brown — lived on.

  Someone had to.

  Live for me. If that meant pretending to be aligned with the reverend and his supporters for now, so be it.

  During the last hymn, Sorcha, Nettie and a few brave others left before the reverend had a chance to step down from the pulpit. They might attend for the sermon, show themselves to be members of the kirk, but be damned if they would shake the murdering bastard’s hand.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  … the Lords do hereby recommend to Sir James Steuart, Her Majestie’s Advocat, to raise a process and lybell at this instance… against the magistrats of Pittenweem, for their not keeping the peace of the place, and suffering such tumults and rables and other such outrages to be committed within their burgh… also recommends to… raise a process… against (Here follows the names of five persons), or any other persons who have had any hand in, and been accessory to, the murder committed upon Janet Cornfoot at Pittenweem…

  — The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1526–1793

  ‘Who told them?’ shouted Patrick Cowper, staring down the bailies as they sat before him in his study. ‘Who among you lily-livered blaggards informed the authorities? Hmm? Which one of you was it?’

  As he spoke, a face appeared in his mind. A lovely face with seacoloured eyes and full lips. Of course… who else would it be?

  The reverend could scarce see the men as rage stole his sight, turned them into a morass of dark lights and shifting shadows. What else did he expect? The lass had to interfere; she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Didn’t ken when to respect the wishes of her betters. She had to stick her nose into lads’ business.

  With startling clarity he recalled the time she caught him with her mother. If he’d had but a few minutes more, there would have been nothing for her to see, no guilt to attribute. But she’d caught him at the worst moment, just as he was about to have his way. Her mother’s gown torn and bunched around her waist, her hands captured by his, her quiet weeping, his damp, hot face; his breeks bunched around his knees. He forced the memory away.

  He took a deep breath and his vision returned to normal, even if his heart
did not. Unwilling to share his suspicions yet about who had alerted Edinburgh — the most literate of the fishwives, the one who brazenly turned her back on his suggestion she remarry, rejecting the fine offer of his son, and yet boldly sinned with that meddlesome Captain Ross — he would wait until he was certain, and once he knew, act.

  Heat suffused his cheeks and his throat grew dry. What a damn nuisance. The last thing he needed was a contingent from Edinburgh descending upon Pittenweem again, not now when everything was under control. Half the town were in his hands and the other half too afraid to challenge him lest they suffer a similar fate to Cornfoot.

  All except one brazen besom.

  What happened to the Cornfoot carline would be nothing to what he’d do to Sorcha McIntyre and her friends. Or, better still, what the townsfolk could…

  The clock ticking on the mantelpiece crawled into his head, bringing him back to the present, the warm room and the disgruntled, anxious men arrayed before him.

  ‘None of us are responsible, reverend,’ said Bailie Bell finally, starting to rise to his feet, then thinking better of it and sitting back down. ‘None of us informed Edinburgh.’

  ‘It would not be in the interests of anyone here,’ added Bailie Cook. William Bell cast a grateful look towards him.

  The reverend kept his anger in check and pretended to be placated. He knew it wasn’t the bailies’ fault. ‘Nevertheless, they’re sending lairds here to pass judgement upon us. Again. Upon events that occurred more than two weeks ago.’ The reverend flicked the letter in his hand. The sound was like an arquebus shot.

  The bailies flinched. All except Bailie Vernour.

  ‘Calm down, man,’ he said, folding his arms and huffing.

  The reverend’s eyes widened; words tangled in his throat.

  Bailie Vernour continued quickly, ‘At least you’re not named, unlike Robert here.’ He gestured with his thumb to Bailie Cook, who nodded and swallowed miserably. He was all but being blamed for Janet’s murder. Why? Because the council happened to be dining at his house the night it occurred.

  ‘They’re accusing me of doing naught,’ said Cook, wringing his hands. ‘But they weren’t here. They didn’t see the mob, feel their rage, their determination. There was nothing we could have done. By God, not even the soldiers could control them. As it was, we’re lucky there was only one body to deal with.’

  Patrick bit his tongue, swallowing the recriminations that crowded his mouth. He knew it was only a matter of time before they were held accountable for failing to send the rabble home and, worse, inviting them to do what they wanted with Janet.

  Before he was.

  Much to his surprise, although a few guarded looks passed between the men, nothing was said.

  ‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s no use fighting among ourselves, not when, according to this, they’ll be upon us tomorrow, asking questions, and we must have answers.’

  ‘What will we tell them?’ asked William Bell.

  Patrick had given the notion much consideration and was waiting for the right time to apportion blame. It hadn’t suited his purpose to identify the culprits too soon, not while so many incomers remained in town, hoping something more was going to be done about the witches who, as he reminded anyone who’d listen, were still at large. The incomers’ coin had been very useful. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to speed them on their way, but not before they served one last useful purpose.

  He took his time regaining his seat, then placed his forearms on his desk, leaned forwards and lowered his voice. The fire crackled in the hearth, the flames reflecting on the walls behind the bailies, making it appear as if they were trapped in a furnace.

  ‘What we’ll tell Laird Anstruther and his Edinburgh cronies is that no one from Pittenweem was responsible. That it was the incomers who were out of control and who sought to put an end to the woman they believed to be a witch.’

  The bailies stared at him, then each other as the idea slowly took hold. He could almost hear their thoughts whirring.

  Patrick continued, ‘We’ve heard from the Stuart brothers about what happened down at the harbour —’ Patrick found his notes, as if he hadn’t seen for himself exactly what had occurred. ‘The lynching. It’s clearly an English custom. We’ll remind them of that. The idea to dunk Mrs Cornfoot didn’t originate from anyone here. We’ll say it was the Englishman who roused the folk.’

  There were nods of approval.

  ‘It wasn’t just him,’ objected Bailie Cook. ‘They’ll never believe one person was responsible. We’ll have to provide other names.’

  ‘We should add a local one as well, so as not to appear biased,’ said Bailie Bell.

  ‘Och, I have just the one,’ said Patrick, snapping his fingers. ‘Rob Dalzell.’

  Robert Vernour frowned. ‘His da’s the skipper on the George, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Patrick. ‘And you ken what that means, don’t you, lads?’

  Slow, sly grins broke out.

  ‘What he’ll pay to have his son kept from trial, let alone gaol,’ added Bailie Cleiland, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘What he’ll pay to us,’ corrected Patrick. ‘Unfortunately, we could probably get a great deal more if we kept his name out of it altogether. But too many people saw him. Saw what he did to the witch.’ A vision of stomping boots, of a fist slamming into Janet’s head arose.

  The men mumbled among themselves.

  ‘Who else?’ asked Robert Vernour.

  Patrick returned to his notes. ‘There’s a Walter Watson from Burntisland been identified, and a watchman from the Orkneys. He’s staying at the Cod and Sole up in Backgate.’

  ‘What about the four who dragged her onto the Sophia?’ asked Cook.

  ‘Aye, I’ve their names here — and the Englishman among them. We’ll have to provide the lairds with their names as well,’ said Patrick, putting the page down. That his own son had been omitted from the list, he did not mention. ‘Eight will suffice. Especially if we emphasise the role of England and the Orkneys in this.’

  Relaxing, the men looked to their drinks, which had remained largely untouched.

  A thought suddenly occurred to Patrick. ‘What we’ll also highlight to the lairds is that it all could have been much worse. If not for mobilising the soldiers when we did and our own guards, more women might have met the same fate.’

  The men exchanged cautious looks that, as the reverend’s words sank in, transformed into wide smiles.

  ‘If anything,’ continued Patrick, warming to his idea, ‘Edinburgh should be congratulating us that the toll wasn’t higher.’

  ‘That might be going too far —’ cautioned Cook, tugging at his waistcoat.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Patrick, taking a healthy slug of whisky. ‘You weren’t among them. You didn’t gauge the mood.’

  ‘Speaking of mood,’ said Bell, ‘it’s still volatile. Do you think we should offer the remaining accused some protection? I mean, we don’t want a repeat of what happened to auld Janet, do we? There’s no doubt, having those four women roaming about is making the townsfolk nervous…’ He looked to his peers for support. One by one, their eyes slid from his. ‘What if they decide to remove the lingering threat?’

  ‘I don’t think protection is necessary, William,’ said Patrick smoothly. ‘If we offer it to them, then we appear weak, as if we made a mistake locking them up in the first place. It’s not like they’re ordinary women.’ With the exception of Bell, the men chuckled and Patrick glanced at the picture of Jesus on the cross, noting the way shadows wavered across the painting, as if dark forces were trying to consume it. ‘Far better we let them fend for themselves. Lest you forget, they are witches, handmaids of the devil, indicted by their own mouths. If they can’t protect themselves, then what can we mere mortals hope to do for them?’

  The spectre of Janet Cornfoot hung between them. No one dared to mention her this time.

  ‘Then we must at least move to arrest
the men on that list immediately,’ said Cook, gesturing towards the page.

  Patrick repressed a smirk. Imprisoning these men would take some heat off Cook. It would also make it appear as if the Weem council was dealing with matters.

  ‘Not only will having them in custody look good when the Edinburgh lairds arrive,’ agreed Patrick, ‘we can claim that by locking up the culprits we are protecting the remaining witches. Even you have to be satisfied with that, William.’

  William Bell grunted while the other bailies beamed.

  ‘Can you see to that?’ asked Patrick of no one in particular.

  ‘You can leave it with us, reverend,’ said Bell after a beat.

  It took some effort for Patrick not to make a sarcastic retort. It would be the first time he could leave anything to the council. An ineffectual, lily-livered bunch they’d turned out to be. Just as well he wasn’t afraid to take matters in hand. But then, unlike these men, he had God on his side.

  It wasn’t until after the councillors left that Patrick took his dram to the window and gazed out into the mist-wreathed night. He was pleased with the decisions they’d reached. At least they had a sound reason for what happened, the names of the villains to give the authorities — it meant they would be regarded favourably.

  He would make sure that his next sermon roused the town to watchfulness but not anger. If the witches were to continue to live among them for the time being, then let it be on terms he set, terms that made the women’s lives as uncomfortable and wretched as any who sold their souls to Satan deserved to be. Just as long as there wasn’t a repeat of what happened to the Cornfoot woman.

  A horse rode up the wynd, startling him, and he wondered for a moment if the captain had returned. As far as he was aware the lad was still in Bavaria. Dead, if his prayers had been answered.

  Thinking of the captain turned his thoughts once more to Sorcha. He knew instinctively she was responsible for this mess they found themselves in, yet again having to justify their actions — or inaction — to Edinburgh. Being held to account made him appear foolish, ineffectual.