by Karen Brooks
The words never came. Instead, his swollen tongue lolled from his lips and his scorching eyes dimmed. Even though the men backed away in horror at the sight their reverend presented, releasing the rope and sending him back to the water, Sorcha saw the moment life left the reverend. The darkness he swore was within her had taken him instead.
SIXTY-ONE
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
— Macbeth, Act I scene i
By the time the reverend’s body had been recovered and taken to St Fillan’s Cave, Sorcha was sitting in Katherine Marshal’s cottage being tended to by Jean, Therese, Katherine herself, Mr Brown and Isobel’s father. Her cuts and scrapes had been bathed and bandaged, she’d downed more drams than she likely should have, and was just beginning to feel the benefits of the warm fire, clean dry clothes and the reassuring voices of those around her.
Of all those voices, it was Mr Brown’s she’d most heeded in the immediate aftermath of the reverend’s death. He’d pulled his coat back over her and sat her down on a gunwale out of the way as the bailies ordered the soldiers to fetch hooks and a stretcher so they could retrieve the reverend’s body, and get all the onlookers off the pier before more tragedy struck.
Insisting she keep the coat on, despite it being too large and becoming wet and heavy, he’d whispered she should hide the rope burns and wounds on her wrists, legs and other parts of her body. Her skirts were shredded, she’d lost her boots, how would she explain that?
Dazed and filled with crazed wonder at what had happened to her as well as disbelief at the reverend’s final moments, it took Sorcha a beat to understand what Mr Brown was saying. When she did, she nodded grimly, eyeing the bailies, who stood near the shattered railing, examining it closely, turning to regard her with what she could only surmise was suspicion. She no longer cared. She was too weary.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t so weary that she didn’t repeat Mr Brown’s version of events when the bailies finally crossed the deck and spoke with her.
‘I’d come to the harbour to see if anyone was working, then I saw the reverend on the Sophia. Before I could reach him and ask what he was doing, he fell overboard. The rest you ken,’ she said quietly, gesturing to the rope they’d all hauled upon together that had finally hanged the man.
The bailies shuddered with the memory.
If they wondered why she was so bruised and bloodied — and then only the parts of her they could see — they never said. After all, if they accused Sorcha McIntyre of killing the reverend then they were just as culpable. Had they not also heaved upon the rope that had lynched him?
When Sorcha began to cry, dropping her head into her hands and murmuring that she’d only tried to save him, they insisted Mr Brown take her away.
‘The lawyers from Edinburgh will no doubt want to investigate this too,’ Mr Borthwick said, his expression revealing he was already imagining what the officials would make of it and cursing the absence of the regular bailies who were in Edinburgh, elevating him into sudden officialdom.
Sorcha could tell from the glance he cast in Mr Carter’s direction that the last thing either of them wanted was to be indicted for a crime they didn’t commit or to be seen in any way as responsible. If they accused Sorcha McIntyre, then they, old Mr Brown, Mr Adam, and Jon Durkie as well, would have more than a bit of explaining to do.
‘I wouldn’t think there’ll be much to investigate, would you?’ asked Mr Carter. ‘It’s clearly a terrible accident.’
‘A tragedy,’ added Mr Borthwick.
The men nodded gravely.
Mr Brown squeezed Sorcha’s arm to keep her silent. He needn’t have worried. She had no intention of speaking more than she had to.
‘Off you go, Mrs McIntyre. Just be sure to make yourself available when the authorities want to question you.’
As they walked carefully along the slippery pier, it was evident the storm had wreaked even more damage. The sun, which had been trying to make an appearance, was a radiant glow in the grey heavens, squeezing the clouds in an effort to shine. Gulls pirouetted above, crying out in protest that the fishermen weren’t bringing in a catch.
Before she’d reached land, Nicolas and Isobel joined her, marvelling at what had happened, relieved she was, if not entirely unharmed, then at least safe.
‘Let Nettie and Beatrix know what’s happened,’ whispered Sorcha. Isobel, after a quick word to her father, took off down the road to Anster.
Fishwives and fishermen had commenced work along the harbourfront. The men checking the state of their boats, the women baiting lines and preparing nets. The storm likely meant the fish would be biting and, though the seas were far from calm, it was too good an opportunity to miss.
Expecting the townsfolk to avoid her or shout insults and curses, Sorcha was astonished when more than one came up to her and clapped her on the back, or thanked her for what she did.
‘We saw you, Sorcha,’ said Hetty Collins, wee Mary in tow. ‘You were mighty brave to try and save the reverend.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Rachel Mowbray, a long-time friend of the Cowpers inclined to regard Sorcha and the fishwives with loathing. ‘It was a Christian act.’ She said it as if it was the last thing she expected.
Perhaps it was, thought Sorcha. After all, in Rachel’s mind and so many others, she was a witch. Thanks to the reverend.
After that, many others came forward. Mr Donaldson the brewer offered to bring her a gallon of his finest, while Michael Bruce promised her a few drams when next she stopped in at the tavern.
Overwhelmed and wanting to simply get back home and if not sleep, then think on what had happened, Sorcha wasn’t to be let off the hook.
She found herself with Nicolas in Katherine’s cottage, her wounds tended, a meal and some whisky forced upon her while endless visitors dropped by.
From harlot and harridan to hero; from wanton witch to worthy woman — thanks to the reverend. The man would be turning in his grave. That is, thought Sorcha wickedly, once he was put in it.
Sorcha stared at the hearth and released a silent moan as the cold that had leached into her bones slowly and painfully receded. She couldn’t help but be glad the man was dead given all the pain, strife and sorrow his zealotry and obsession with witches had brought to the Weem. Not only would he get the burial he’d denied Janet Cornfoot and Thomas Brown, but likely he would get a funeral service filled with honours and prayers.
Unable to help herself, Sorcha cursed his soul. Remembering what he was prepared to do to her, the blame he was set to lay upon her shoulders for his own acts, the lengths he would go to maintain control, she was glad he was dead.
In thwarting his plans, surviving his calculated torture and his attempt to kill her, she was doing what she promised Janet she would: living.
It was almost evening by the time she was able to head home. All day folk had come in and out of Katherine’s cottage, wanting to hear exactly what had happened from Sorcha, from Mr Brown and any other witnesses. After midday, Nettie and Isobel burst in and Sorcha had to tell her tale all over again. Many brought food, even those who’d denied service to her and the other accused witches and shouted at them in the street, their offerings by way of apology. Part of Sorcha wanted to throw their largesse back at them, but she had to live among these people and she no more wanted the schism Cowper had created to continue than she did to say a prayer for him. So she smiled and thanked them prettily, listened as they contributed gossip they’d heard, putting the past behind her as best she could. Her da had taught her well and would have been pleased.
Nonetheless, she was grateful that not one person who had been involved directly in Janet’s death sought her company. Those she wasn’t ready to forgive or forget.
Early afternoon, the fishwives and some of the fishermen arrived, bringing with them the finest fish from the catch. Others brought fresh news from St Fillan’s Cave, where the coroner from Edinburgh, who happened to be visiting Laird Anstruther’s place in Anster Easter, had b
een summoned to examine the reverend’s body.
‘They say his lungs were full of water,’ reported Mr Adam, arriving as if he’d run the entire way from St Fillan’s. Sorcha supposed he had. ‘But he also had some very deep cuts on his legs and arms.’ He slashed his own limbs with his finger to show where he meant. ‘They reckon some were so deep, he’d lost a great deal of blood.’
Sorcha resisted the urge to touch the bandages beneath her sleeves and skirts. Some of hers were deep as well.
‘But it was the hanging what killed him in the end,’ said Mr Adam. The crowded room fell silent then and Sorcha wondered, if like her, they were thinking of poor Janet Cornfoot. Nettie gripped her hand and she knew where her thoughts lay. Her other hand crept up to touch her own neck and she sent a prayer to God that she’d been spared. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a word with the Lord that day, and it wouldn’t be the last.
As she approached her cottage, Nettie beside her, the gloaming unusually bright as it oft was after a storm, the air still fresh and clean, there was the remnant of a rainbow glimmering above the Isle of May. She saw her street, her town, with new eyes. Returning the friendly waves and coy greetings that issued from each shop, business and home on the High Street, she was astounded to note that, whereas Thomas’s and Janet’s deaths had brought such sorrow and suspicion in their wakes, the reverend’s seemed to have drawn a line, or at the very least, written the last in a sorry story. A story that everyone seemed keen to rewrite. Maybe now they could close the book.
Mr Brown and Mr Adam insisted on accompanying the women home, along with two of the soldiers. As they ambled towards the kirk, passing the Tolbooth, Sorcha tried not to think of the reverend’s cold lifeless body lying in St Fillan’s Cave, the place where he’d once kept Beatrix and Janet. What would Beatrix have to say about that, a reversal of fortune that meant she could now come home for good? Would she want to, considering all the reverend and council had put her through? Would folk allow her and Mr Brown to live in peace? Would they allow Nicolas and the rest of the women?
Glancing at Beatrix’s husband, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. She refused to look at the Tolbooth, but couldn’t help considering how long it would be before she could pass the building and not be reminded of what had happened to her and her friends inside it. Or if any of her friends would be able to, for that matter. Would time heal them or would it take a miracle?
As they entered Marygate, her footsteps slowed. The cuts on the soles of her feet were very tender. She waved to Moira Fraser and Crabby, standing on their stoop. The golden hound barked with joy when he saw her and raced from his mistress’s side to bump his wet nose into her thigh. She winced and laughed and ruffled his coat. ‘Good evening to you, Crabby, Mrs Fraser.’
‘And to you, brave lass,’ cried Moira, whistling to Crabby who, after enjoying a bit more attention, bounded away, tail wagging. Other neighbours waved from their stoops or windows. Sorcha couldn’t remember being so popular.
As they reached her cottage, she was surprised to see smoke rising out of the chimney and light glowing behind the windows.
Just as she reached the door, it swung open. Standing on the threshold was the man who’d occupied her thoughts and dreams from the moment she met him.
The world stilled.
It was Aidan. His hair was longer, his face thinner, older. But his smile was the same. The truth of his presence dawned on her slowly, achingly, like a dream fulfilled. The love that flowed within her bubbled to the surface, making all her actions heavy, as if someone else altogether had taken control of her body. She tried to speak, to utter the words caught in her throat, but before she could, much to her astonishment, instead of gathering her in his arms, he stepped out of the way.
Another man took his place.
Nettie gasped.
A tall, gaunt man with a golden beard and dazzling sea-green eyes filled the doorway, staring at Sorcha, willing her to know him. A deep scar cleft his right cheek, and she noticed he had three fingers missing from one hand. Leaning on a stick, he tilted towards her, his smile at once sad and terrible, kind and wise.
Sorcha released Nettie’s hand. Her heart was beating so loudly, she could scarce hear what Nettie or the others were saying. Dimly aware that the neighbours were whispering, making sounds of delight and disbelief as they poured out of their houses and gathered behind her, she couldn’t really comprehend why. This man, this familiar yet strange man could not be…
Nae. It was impossible, wasn’t it? He wore a clerical collar about his neck…
‘Robbie?’ she whispered, taking a tentative step. ‘Is that you?’
The man propped his stick against the doorway and held out his arms, his smile deepening. ‘Come here, lass, give me a hug and find out for yourself.’
With a great sob, Sorcha forgot all her aches and sorrow and, hesitantly at first and then with an energy that came from her heart before it burst into every other part of her body, ran and threw herself into his arms.
‘Robbie!’ she squealed, laughing and crying all at once.
He spun her around and around as she buried her head in his neck to the sound of cheers and shouts. As she wept the tears she’d denied herself from the day he’d left, he whispered his love for her and his everlasting joy that he was returned and they were a family once again.
A family that, as he turned and opened his arms to Aidan and Nettie, included the others she loved with all her boundless, hurting heart as well.
EPILOGUE
Ye’ve tae spill afore ye spin.
(You can’t be perfect right from the beginning.)
Autumn 1706
It was still hard for Sorcha to get used to seeing her brother standing in the pulpit. The first time it happened, she thought she’d have to leave before he started the sermon as she kept overlaying his frame with that of his predecessor’s. But once Robbie commenced talking and his rich, melodic voice explained the word of God, calling for kindness, understanding and compassion instead of whipping up suspicion and fear, she was spellbound — as was the rest of the congregation.
When that word flew into her mind, she spluttered, covering her mouth before she released a volley of coughs. Beside her, Nettie shot her a concerned look, and touched her gently on the arm. Shaking her head, she reassured her with a smile that was starting to appear more frequently. She would explain later how, here she was sitting in the kirk, along with all her friends, absolved of witchcraft or any wrongdoing in the death of the reverend, and the word that jumped into her head to describe her brother’s preaching was ‘spellbound’. Really, it was almost funny.
It was eighteen months now since the death of Patrick Cowper, and there’d been a few objections when Robbie McIntyre was first put forward as his replacement — mainly from the older Cowper children, bailies Cook and Vernour, Peter Morton’s family and other staunch supporters of the reverend. But they’d quickly been overridden by the rest of the town. Not only had Robbie acquitted himself well in the wars in Bavaria and survived time in a French prison, but he was a Weem lad who understood the ways of the fisherfolk and the sea better than Cowper ever did. You wouldn’t catch him hovering by the harbour when the fishermen were casting out to sea, threatening ill-fortune just by his watchful presence. The last thing they needed was another incomer when they had their own reverend, born and bred.
Peter Morton himself could make no objections. In the immediate aftermath of the reverend’s death, his father awoke one morning to find his son gone. In the following months, rumours circulated that he’d gone to the city, fled north, even boarded a ship bound for the colonies in the New World. None were ever confirmed. Sorcha wondered if, once his mentor and friend the reverend was dead, Peter was unable to live with his part in it all, in the deaths of Thomas and Janet, in the persecution of innocent people. She wanted to believe he wasn’t a bad lad, but she could never reconcile why he manufactured his affliction and maintained it for so long, pretending to be
affected by witchcraft. She could never forgive him for that either. In her soul, she felt God would understand.
In the days after Robbie’s return, it had been strange for Sorcha to wake and find him rummaging about the cottage. Not only was he back in his old bedroom, but he had a way of filling the space that she’d so missed. Leaving his books, robes, paper and inkhorns lying about, empty quaichs, and his boots, she loved the reminders of his presence, even if she knew it was to be short-lived.
The reasons for him leaving the cottage were a cause for celebration, not commiseration. Four months after he returned, he moved into the roomy manse beside the kirk. Reluctant to shift the large Cowper family out before the orphaned children could find relatives who’d care for them, Robbie insisted they wait until summer and the roads were in better condition. Most of the children were off to Dundee and a distant cousin. The older two had decided to try and make their way in Glasgow. For them, Edinburgh was too close. Sorcha understood their need to get away, far from where the names Pittenweem and Cowper carried the connotations, curiosity and dread that they did. And for Seumas Cowper, the guilt.
With the arrival of spring, more incomers had travelled to the town to see for themselves the place where witches had been found and where death had haunted the streets and docks. It had been tempting to try and extract coin from these visitors. But whereas that had once been the goal of the reverend and the council, reminders of witchcraft and what had happened were now an embarrassment. The incomers were given no truck, their questions answered bluntly or not at all. Angered by the lack of information, their anticipated excitement thwarted, they never remained long and soon ceased to come.
Still, the thought of leaving Pittenweem for good had preoccupied Sorcha for weeks. Even Dagny, who came for a brief visit once she heard Robbie was back, bringing her two youngest bairns with her, had suggested Sorcha leave. She hadn’t offered her home, not that Sorcha expected or wanted it. But the temptation to turn her back on Pittenweem once and for all and start afresh had been very real. If Robbie hadn’t returned, she might have accepted Aidan’s invitation to go to Skye with him and begin a new life there. With Robbie home, and the witch craze all but over, and Nettie, Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel and the others all returned to their homes and livelihoods, she could no more leave than throw a fine fish back into the ocean.