by Karen Brooks
Thank the good Lord that Aidan understood her need to remain. It had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, telling him she couldn’t go to Skye. She owed him that — her honesty, her heart as it really was, not as he wished it might be. It was what she had never had the courage to give to Andy and she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Likewise, he’d told her true as well — everything, from what had happened in Bavaria, how he’d found Robbie, to his need to return to Skye.
It hadn’t been easy to track down Robbie in France. Taken prisoner during the first year of fighting, he’d been moved about the countryside. French records were poorly kept and trading prisoners was virtually unheard of. So many died in the squalid conditions of the gaols. Robbie believed if he remained, he would meet the same fate, either dying from dysentery or some other disease, or being killed to quell potential riots among the prisoners and stoke fear and obedience. So he and three other prisoners had escaped.
They fled into the countryside. Two of the soldiers were killed, the third recaptured. Only Robbie found freedom. He sought shelter in a monastery and remained there for over three years, virtually becoming one of the monks.
‘I knew I couldn’t worship God their way, but I discovered, much to my surprise, I did want to devote my life to Him. He saved me and so many others, and I felt I owed it to Him to dedicate myself to His service. I’d had enough of killing, I wanted to think about living instead. Living a good and worthy life, helping others to do the same.’
While Sorcha didn’t feel the devotion to God her brother did, she understood the sentiment. How different he was to his predecessor.
‘I left the monastery and rejoined the duke’s forces in Moselle as their minister. It was there I met Aidan.’
Aidan had taken the story up after that. Falling ill after the capture of Landau, Aidan, along with the other sick and wounded, were moved to a field hospital in Trier. Asked to administer last rites, Robbie had found a group of men who, far from dying, were healing well. He discovered not only that Aidan was Scottish but that his last posting had been Pittenweem.
‘Imagine that,’ said Robbie smiling at Aidan. If there was another joy Sorcha had derived from Robbie’s return, it was the close friendship that had developed between her brother and the man she loved. ‘Not only did he know Pittenweem, but my little sister as well.’
Sorcha had the grace to blush. Robbie might not have meant ‘know’ in the biblical sense, but the smirk on Aidan’s face didn’t help.
He’d intended to be home a great deal sooner, but after another victory the Duke of Marlborough and his men — including Aidan — had at Trarbach in late December, the Queen commanded that the captured colours of the enemy cavalry and infantry be paraded through Westminster, so all of London could celebrate the duke’s achievement. Newly promoted Major Aidan Ross was elected for the task and asked if Sergeant Thatcher, who’d recently joined them, and Robbie could accompany him.
‘By that stage, I’d already written and told you I’d found Robbie.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘I did write again as soon as I found out we were coming home as well, albeit via a stay in London, but the ship carrying the mail was lost and —’ His words petered out.
Sorcha had risen from her chair and kissed him on the mouth. ‘I don’t care. I’m so happy you’re here to deliver the news in person. Both of you.’ She reached for Robbie’s hand. ‘That’s better than a letter any day.’
Thinking back on the day they’d appeared so unexpectedly, as if conjured by some blessed magic, and how they’d spoken well into the night, she smiled forlornly. God, she missed Robbie’s presence in the house — but even more, she missed Aidan. Letters were all she had now he’d gone. A veritable pile of them, delivered regularly once a week from Skye.
Aidan was a fine writer and from his missives she learned the farm was doing well, his family too. His ma and da had been so pleased to see him home safe and his brothers were happy to have him and the newly retired Stephen Thatcher helping with the ploughing, planting and shearing; his sisters did little but pester him about Sorcha. He wrote about the fish in the two lochs, the mists that tumbled down the mountains and covered the farm, the harsh winds that blew in from the sea, scattering them. He described the veils of rain that would fall most days, parting to reveal resplendent rainbows that always made him think of the day he came back to Pittenweem. Afeared he’d find her interned or worse as a witch, he’d arrived to see her hailed a hero, the reverend dead and the town he’d grown so fond of, despite its tendency to superstition, on the mend.
Rereading his letters, Sorcha oft wondered if she’d made the right decision. Skye sounded so beautiful. Och, she’d see it one day, she’d no doubt. But she knew deep in her heart, much as she might fall in love with it, as she had its son, she could never call it home. That title belonged to Pittenweem, the defiant little town that beat the odds, that was filled with people who were curious, hard-working, hard-fighting and inclined to doubt and gossip. But it also had folk who were passionate and, as she knew well, mostly kind and loyal.
At least here she knew who to call friend and who foe. Nae, that wasn’t right. There were no enemies here, not any more. The people were, at least, neighbours and at best, a makeshift family filled to the brim with all the muddling love and conflict that entailed. That suited her fine.
It was an odd consequence of those awful months that the death of the reverend bonded the townsfolk in ways the witch hunt and the deaths of Thomas and Janet never had. If that was to be the reverend’s legacy, so be it. It was more than he deserved.
Beatrix returned permanently to the Weem the day after Patrick Cowper died. No one objected. Mr Brown’s business was recovering and Beatrix was slowly learning to guard her tongue. Isobel’s services had become even more popular since Cowper’s death, and when Alexander McGregor died two months after the reverend, she could scarce keep up with orders.
McGregor had wandered over to St Monan’s one night to drink in the tavern there, and had foolishly decided to walk back along the braes, only to take a tumble down the cliffs. His body was found the next day by one of the fishing boats and brought back to the Weem. Without him to cast aspersions on Isobel and with her father ready to challenge anyone who dared, Isobel was mending clothes faster than they could be made and was even stepping out with a fine lad from a nearby farm.
Therese Larnarch, Jean Durkie and the others continued to work beside Sorcha, Nettie and Nicolas each day and, as the weeks went by and the weather grew warmer, the events of the last year seemed like a dream. Only they weren’t, as the acute absences reminded them.
Before the matter of the Weem witches could be laid to rest, Nettie set about suing bailies William Bell and Robert Vernour for wrongful imprisonment. She asked Sorcha and the others to join her in the suit. Sorcha was the only one to agree and they awaited the decision of Edinburgh. In the meantime, the bailies and, indeed, the entire council had gone out of their way to accommodate them in every regard. It would have been amusing had their co-operation not been born of such pain.
When Nettie declared she was moving into the manse with Robbie, tongues wagged, especially with Nettie being a widow. But there was no romance or wrongdoing in what she intended. She was like a big sister to Robbie. Sorcha was glad. Nettie would manage the household, ensure he remembered to eat, and bring the best of the drave from the harbour for his table. ‘Put some fish on those scrawny bones,’ as she promised. Knowing it was really her role and feeling a little guilty she wasn’t taking up Robbie’s offer to shift in with him, Sorcha knew her brother understood the decision and forgave her.
After all, how could she leave her cottage now?
Finishing the last of the mopping, the hearth gleaming in its newly blacked state, the pots and pans shining and the curtains smelling sweet, Sorcha put her hands upon her hips and looked around one last time. Bright flowers stood in a quaich of water. She’d baked some fine bannocks and fresh fish were
ready to cook. Mr Durkie had managed to acquire some Rhenish wine from associates, and there was even some delicious cheese to accompany it. She’d purchased eggs and butter at the market and some jam. The sheets on the bed were clean, the bedroom furniture polished to a high sheen. All that was left to do was tend to her own toilet.
This was what one should be doing in spring, not autumn. Not that anyone would object. It was a ritual that wiped away the old, shed any dark, unpleasant memories and made way for the new, regardless of the time of year. While there were memories she’d never forsake, and did not want to, there were some that were becoming easier to bear as each day passed and fresh experiences overlayed the more painful ones, softening them, dampening them down, burying them beneath layers of sweeter recollections.
Washing quickly, enjoying the rose petals and other herbs she’d infused in the water, Sorcha studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had grown quickly once she had a decent diet again, it fell well past her shoulders now. Her cheeks had filled out and so had her breasts and body. The Weem was still poor, with most crops failing again this year and meat scarce, but at least the fish were biting again. More coal had been discovered nearby, promising work for those prepared to mine it, and there was talk of doing something with the saltpans. Maybe, just maybe, things were looking up. That’s what Robbie reminded folk each week — to count their blessings, not tally their losses.
Heeding her brother’s advice, that was what she was doing.
Sorcha put on her best shift, and then tied her finest skirt over it. Tucking in the embroidered shirt her mor had made, she was about to tie a neepyin about her head, then changed her mind. Instead, she brushed out her hair, leaving it loose. She pinched her cheeks to infuse colour in them, and wished she had something to put on her mouth to redden it like other women sometimes did. The thought made her blush, and she ceased to pluck at her cheeks, laughing with embarrassment and something more.
It was then she heard them. The clop of hooves, the whinny of welcome that Liath always gave when she came near the cottage. How the horse knew, Sorcha could not divine. The voices grew louder as they came closer.
Her heart beat furiously. She wanted to run to the door, but forced herself to walk sedately, a laugh purling in her throat. Wrenching the door open, she watched her friends approach.
There was Nettie, resplendent in green, leading Liath. Next to her was Isobel, her fair hair woven with flowers, a wide smile upon her lovely face. Beatrix walked the other side of Liath, looking fine in a gold skirt and bronze shirt, her limp lending her dignity. Around them were the other fishwives, their usual skirts, neepyins, boots and cloots discarded for this very special day. Twelve in total, they looked grand, womanly and proud, bestowing smiles on the neighbours who’d all gathered to watch and fall behind as Sorcha was escorted to the kirk.
Embraced by all her friends, her sisters of the sea, it was Nettie who helped her onto Liath’s back, the horse turning her noble head to whicker. Patting her withers, Sorcha leaned over and kissed the velvet space between her ears. ‘Take me to your master,’ she whispered.
As they rode along Marygate, the sun shone brightly and the Forth sparkled and sighed below it, a blanket of shimmering diamonds. Across its surface were a fleet of boats and some tall ships, their flags and sails billowing gently in the breeze. The scent of the women’s flowers blended with that of brine into a heady brew. Sorcha inhaled, looking around, smiling as if she’d only just learned how and relishing the way it made her feel, as if the sunshine itself had taken up residence in her soul.
And so she was delivered atop a beautiful silver mare onto the steps of the kirk where her brother waited. Taking her hand to the smiles and quiet approval of nearly all the townsfolk, Robbie passed it to the man to whom she’d plighted her troth, the man who, though he could not persuade his bride to reside with him on Skye, had been prevailed upon to join her in Pittenweem.
Together, they would manage the Mistral, help breathe life back into the Weem, a good life; one not governed by suspicion, fear of God and what others might say or do, but guided by hard work, honesty, kindness and, as they looked into each other’s eyes, love.
As Aidan Ross took Sorcha McIntyre’s hand, assisting her as she mounted the steps, she thought of all the other support he’d given her. The letters he’d written to Edinburgh before he really knew her, demanding justice, informing the authorities about the travesties being committed by the minister and a group of councillors in a small town in Fife. Knowing that, as an officer in the Queen’s army, he was forbidden to involve himself in such matters, he’d simply signed his letters as ‘A Gentleman of Fife’, a moniker Sorcha had borrowed to good effect. In doing so, between them, they’d not only kept an account of what had really happened, but ensured that, in the end, a kind of justice was served.
It may not have been the outcome she’d sought — after all, Thomas and Janet had died — but it was what she’d been given and, by God, she’d take it.
Just as she’d take this brave, loving man as her husband.
When Robbie joined them before the fishwives and their families, former soldier Stephen Thatcher and the townsfolk of the Weem, according to the laws of God and man, she sent a silent prayer to her da, her mor, her brother Erik and her baby son. To Andy who, though he’d not been the husband she’d wanted, had been a good man. He’d be happy for her, she thought.
He’d also be pleased about the new life growing within her, the one that belonged to her and this man beside her, her husband, who had given her the fresh start she once desired, blessed hope and a child to share with him.
Cheers rose for the newly-wedded couple and they exchanged a long and not-so-chaste kiss. Sorcha closed her eyes and melted into Aidan’s embrace, tasting his warm lips, feeling the beat of his heart as he held her against him.
It was then she also heard the sea.
Breathing in and out, pulsing like Aidan’s heart, giving the town life, it was singing softly. Just for her. Listening intently as she stood in Aidan’s arms, she heard in its dulcet notes its promise to her, and to this man, both of whom had chosen to stay in this wee town wrapped along wild and wonderful shores.
It promised her that from this day forward she and Aidan, and their burgeoning family, could put all that led to this moment, the death, doubt and dread, in the past and look to the future.
A future in which a fishwife, sometime witch and her sea-sisters could love and, above all, live.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Fishing villages, in general, seem also to have contributed more than their fair share of witches.
— Lizanne Henderson, Witchcraft and Folk Belief in the Age of Enlightenment: Scotland, 1670–1740
This is the part where I get to reveal to you, dear reader, what led to this novel’s creation and how and where history and fiction meet and where they go their separate ways. As it says on the cover of this book, The Darkest Shore is based on a true story. But like many true stories, the truth is not only stranger than fiction, but much crueller as well. When I first read about the Pittenweem witches, I thought I had to tell their tale as it happened. But then, in a stroke of good fortune, I read something the wonderful historical novelist Susanna Kearlsey wrote regarding her book A Desperate Fortune. She noted:
Writers can’t truly change history, but we can decide… where a story should end. Not being fond of the beginning of Mary’s tale [the heroine of A Desperate Fortune], I wrote a different one. A better one.
I not only wrote a new beginning for the Pittenweem witches by introducing the fictional character of Sorcha McIntyre and her family, but also gave many of the real women the role of fishwives and placed them at the heart of the story in every way. I also altered the real ending. In doing that, I gave these women and, indeed, Pittenweem of that era, the conclusion I felt they and it deserved.
But to really honour all the actual people involved in this story, in particular the accused women and T
homas Brown, I feel I have to tell you how their story actually concluded according to documented history.
But before I do that, let me explain how and why I wrote about fishwives.
The idea was first touted by my very good friend Mark Nicholson. When Mark discovered I was travelling to Scotland for the wedding of two beloved friends (as he was as well), he told me about the Herring Lasses who used to roam the coasts of Scotland during the height of the fishing season, sorting, gutting and selling the catch, repairing nets and lines and so much more. As Mark spoke, my skin goosed and my mind was transported. At one point, I could no longer hear what he was saying, I was already lost in a story. When Mark’s great mate (and mine too) Bill Lark also started telling me I had to look into these lasses, I was hooked (forgive the pun). But when Mark whispered, ‘You know some of the fishwives were associated with witchcraft as well?’ that was it.
I began to do some research from Hobart, but in no way was I equipped for what I would discover when I finally reached, not just Scotland, but more specifically, East Neuk and the Fife coast.
Travelling with my husband, Stephen, and our best mates, Kerry Doyle and Peter Goddard, we stayed in the port town of Anstruther (called Anster by locals), in The Boathouse right on the harbour. Looked after by our lovely host, Blane, we stayed for four days and explored the coast, travelled to the Isle of May (where we experienced one of the remarkable and rapid changes of extreme weather upon the Firth of Forth), the beautiful St Andrew’s, and walked the coastal paths between Anster, Pittenweem, Cellardyke (called by its original name of Silverdyke in the novel), Crail, St Monan’s etc. and generally did intense on the ground research. But it wasn’t until we went to the Fisheries Museum in Anster and I spoke to someone in authority there that I began to learn not only about the Herring Lasses (who were predominant in the 1800s and early 1900s), but about how the stain and shame of witchcraft and what had happened in Pittenweem (and other areas around Fife) back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries still affects people today. When I asked about witches and witchcraft, this person I interviewed immediately went into a vehement denial, becoming incredibly defensive and telling me it was all rubbish! There were no witches. Ever. I said to him, ‘Well, if that’s the case, how come you’re selling this book?’ and held up Leonard Low’s marvellous The Weem Witch. I was so taken aback by the (until then very nice) gentleman’s hostility, I don’t really recall the specifics of his answer, but that he mumbled something about it being written by a local so he had no choice.