Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

  ‘You misunderstand me. I came to speak about your mother. I’m a man of law.’

  ‘Aye, lass, tis true, he is a man of law, and you maun speak with him,’ urged an agitated voice. Hew saw the figure of Tom Begbie, shifting in the room behind her, peering through the crack.

  The girl appeared to hesitate. ‘I know this man,’ persisted Tom. ‘He’s privy to the courts, and you must give him heed. Ye must.’

  He shot Hew a look of appeal, as though only terror had halted his flight, and Hew had a sense of how little he or Tibbie could begin to comprehend the horrors that enfolded them. Masking pity in a frown, he played the part. ‘Aye, that’s right. And I must look into the case, and talk in private with you, Tibbie . . . Isabel.’

  Without a word in answer, Tibbie led the way into the house. Hew held the door just long enough for Tom to flee this present threat before he followed her. She settled on a stool, arms in her lap, like a penitent in kirk, cowed into submissiveness. She had kept the chamber tidy since her mother left, the work folded neat in its basket, the pots scrubbed and clean. And Hew, who had come here intent upon helping Meg, felt with a prick the true depth of Tibbie’s tragedy, closed in the dark of her quiet neat house. Softly, he said, ‘Are you left here alone? With Tom Begbie?’

  The kirk had soiled her conscience, for she rallied in alarm.

  ‘Tom lies in the shop. He does not sleep here . . . and besides . . .’ she spoke the words reluctantly, as if they were foreign objects in her mouth, rolled about her tongue like pebblestones, ‘he stays upon the trial, for he is wanted there.’

  Hew inclined his head and answered gently, ‘For sure, I meant no impropriety. I only thought to ask, you have no friend? To see you through this time?’

  Tibbie shook her head. ‘When my father was alive we were something in the town. Now all doors are closed to us. I hoped that Lucy Linn . . .’

  ‘Understand, it’s hard for Lucy, with her husband gone from home,’ Hew excused his cousin. ‘Yet she sends me in her place. I can help you. What was it that you wanted from her?’

  ‘Her husband Robin Flett does business with my uncle overseas. If I could send the tidings … but I know not where to – how to – send the news to him.’

  ‘Ah, is that all?’ he interrupted earnestly. ‘Then it is the simplest thing. I will write the letters and send them to the Scots house in Campvere. You will reach him there, you may be sure of it. Your uncle then will vouch for her, and Agnes may go free.’

  ‘You don’t understand. It is too late for that. My mother has been taken for a witch and imprisoned in the kirk. They will not let me see her there. Her friends – the people who were once her friends – will not intercede for her. And Tom . . .’ her voice was thick with tears, ‘Tom says they torment her, and that, witch or not, she will confess. I came into the kirk and heard her cries. I could not bear to stay. And yet the elders say that if I shun the kirk I am a witch as well, so I dare not shun the kirk, or stop my ears to block the sound. It is a torment, sir,’ she told him simply.

  He shook his head, moved at this horror. He told her truthfully, ‘Aye, I understand you. Still, there may be hope. Tell me what has happened here. I’ll help you if I can.’

  ‘I know only that my father died.’ And she told her tale. Hew allowed her to spill out the whole, resisting the urge to question her, until the tears began to prick, and his suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘She did not say,’ he echoed softly, ‘where she had obtained the poisons?’ It was the question he had come to ask, yet he felt ashamed for asking it.

  ‘Only that a witch had sold them to her, and she was deceived.’

  ‘Aye, she was deceived,’ he answered bitterly. ‘And may be damned for saying it. Forgive me, but there was no witch. Your mother took the medicines from my sister’s pocket, while my sister lay insensible. My sister is Meg Cullan. You have met, I think?’

  She nodded doubtfully.

  ‘You said yourself, she claimed to be with child.’

  ‘Aye, she did … you say there was no witch?’ she faltered.

  ‘That is her defence, and with it we may face her trial. Only understand, if she does confess to witchcraft, there will be no trial, and I may not defend her. I will put it to the kirk there is no case for witchcraft, and your mother must be free to face the Crown.’

  Tibbie shook her head. The tears were flowing now. ‘It’s hopeless, then. For she is warded in the kirk. No man may see her until she has confessed. Tom Begbie says no creature could resist the torments they contrive for her. It were better to forget her, and to sell the looms and go from here, he says. But, sir, I cannot; though she killed my father I cannot forget her.’

  ‘Nor should you,’ he retorted fiercely. ‘She’s your mother still. They cannot keep you from her. How can they torment her when she is with child? She must be freed. If you were not a fatherless lass, and had someone else to speak for you, she would be freed.’

  ‘The minister himself would not appeal for her. He says the law must take its course. There’s nothing he can do against the kirk.’

  Hew snorted. ‘I will write the letters. With your uncle’s word behind us we will make our case before the justice clerk. Meanwhile, Agnes must be freed. The kirk shall clear its conscience of this crime.’

  Confessing

  Hew found the Reverend Geoffrey Traill, incumbent of the Kirk of Holy Trinity, surrounded by that group of bairns he called his grammar school. He led his little pupils with the same cajoling vigour he delivered from the pulpit, redirecting his attentions to delinquent Latin verbs. Behind him came a straggle of reluctant infant voices piping ineffectually beneath his baritones. Hew was intrigued to find a small girl among them, her hair severely scraped beneath her cap. The master kept the tune, booming broad his welcome in a brave show of delight.

  ‘Children, hush your chanting, look, see who has come to us! Here’s a grand treat and an honour! Master Cullan, scholar, from the uni-vers-it-ie! Welcome, Master Cullan, to our little school! Shall you now decline for us, to show these imps and striplings how it’s done?’

  Hew bowed. ‘Another day, I should be glad to. My business here is pressing. I beg leave to speak with you.’

  ‘Do you hear him, children? He’s declining to decline.’

  Hew smiled politely but did not respond, and the master looked perplexed.

  ‘Ah, so grave. It’s urgent, then? If you would come this evening, we might talk awhile and sup. I should appreciate your company,’ he ventured hopefully.

  ‘I am obliged to you, sir, but I’m afraid this cannot wait. Tis urgent, aye, and private.’

  The master sighed. ‘Aye, very well. I see that you are troubled. Well then, wait within. There is a closet where I have my books. I’ll join you there directly. Allow me a moment to settle the boys. Elizabeth,’ he beckoned to the girl, ‘run and help your mammie in the house.’

  A moment or two later he bustled into the chamber where Hew stood waiting, and explained a touch defensively, ‘Elizabeth’s my daughter. I am teaching her the Latin, for she has a scholar’s wit.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ Hew assured him. ‘It was grand to see her there.’

  ‘Well, well.’ The minister seemed pleased at this endorsement. ‘That is the proper view. And yet I fear the lads are apt to tease her when my back is turned. She will not complain of it, wherefore I might amend it, understand, but oftentimes, I find her brought to tears. In consequence I do not like to leave her in their company.’

  ‘It is a sad sin that the lass should be tormented so,’ Hew answered thoughtfully. ‘A case, indeed, not far removed from that which brings me here.’

  ‘You speak very soberly, sir. Has something happened to the bursar, Thomas Burns? I must confess, I felt uneasy there.’

  ‘I doubt you may have cause. However, it’s not Thomas that concerns me. And the last I heard, the boy was well. I speak of Agnes Ford, who presently lies warded in the kirk.’

  ‘Agnes?’ The mini
ster stared at him. ‘This is unexpected, man. Why would you concern yourself with that unhappy soul? You have no connection, I think?’

  ‘I concede, no natural one. Though I would count it unnatural indeed not to feel disquiet at the ills that have befallen her. Agnes is locked in your steeple, apart from her family and friends. For three days and nights she is kept subject to torments. Her crying is heard in the kirk.’

  ‘Whisht, there are no torments. Agnes Ford is watched and warded while she waits her trial. She is a little vexed.’ The minister himself looked vexed, and anxious to be done with an unhappy conversation. He turned towards the door. ‘I doubt I hear the boys. If that was all . . .’

  ‘She is denied the comfort of her friends, who may not bring her hope,’ persisted Hew. ‘Day and night she cries. We may surmise she does not sleep. Guards torment her, wake and watch.’

  ‘Aye, that is to say,’ Traill rallied brightly, ‘they are wakeful and watchful, diligent as they watch over her.’

  ‘We both of us know what it means. Tell me, sir, have you spoken with her there? Have you been to see her in her gaol?’

  The minister shifted uneasily. ‘Agnes comes before our court on Tuesday. I will hear her then.’

  ‘You are content to let her lie until her wits are left her? If Agnes were your daughter, left among the boys, you would not turn your back so willingly. Yet you have left Agnes at the mercy of your elders. Her shrieks carry to the pulpit. You cannot be deaf to them.’

  There was a long silence, after which the minister replied, in measured tones, ‘If you compared my daughter to a witch, I’d wonder at your manners, sir. I know you for an honest man, else I should scorn to answer you. There is nothing I can do for Mistress Ford. She is indicted for witchcraft, which is the business of the kirk and none of yours. Presently she will compear before the session and confess; thereafter to the magistrate, or to the privy council, for the slaughter of her husband using charms. The wretched woman will be strangled at the stake. You are a young man. I applaud your compassion. But with a little more experience, you might have understood your pity is misplaced. You should know I am lately come from Archie Strachan’s grave, and have delivered him cold to the ground. An apothecar within this town, whose word I trust, told me Archie named her as he died. But, stay, I will not answer this. Her consequence is no concern of yours.’

  ‘It does concern me,’ argued Hew, ‘for I am her man of law.’

  ‘Her man of law?’ The minister softened, shaking his head. ‘Ah no, my young friend, you make a mistake. Do not, I pray, allow your name to sound with witchcraft or it will resonate against you. Understand, that cause is lost!’

  ‘In conscience,’ Hew returned quietly, ‘I wonder you can say so. You spoke of compassion. I took you for another man.’

  ‘You don’t know what you deal with here. For pity, let it rest.’

  ‘For pity, I cannot.’

  ‘What cause have you to meddle thus? What’s Agnes Ford to you?’

  ‘The daughter has engaged me as her mother’s counsel. Therefore, I must speak with her.’

  ‘The daughter! Good God! That poor child! How has she engaged you? You are not, as I recall, an advocate?’ he countered shrewdly.

  ‘As good as, and I know the law. She has no other friend.’

  ‘No, no,’ the clergyman protested. ‘When all is done, and Agnes gone, the kirk will be a friend to her. Be assured we will not leave her destitute. For Agnes, though, you plead a hopeless case. Or do you defend witchcraft, sir?’ he rounded nastily.

  ‘Witchcraft, no. Do I defend the charge that Agnes is a witch, I do, and I deny it. Something else has happened here. Or tell me truthfully, sir, do you believe the woman is a witch?’

  The minister fell silent.

  ‘Do you, sir?’

  ‘Agnes as a witch must answer to the kirk and Crown,’ the other answered wearily. Twere madness to defend her, when the kirk concludes her guilt.’

  ‘What say you, her guilt is concluded? Has she confessed?’

  ‘I understand, not yet.’

  ‘And what if she does not confess?’

  ‘Well then,’ he struggled helplessly, ‘if she does not confess, and the court can find no proofs of witchcraft, she is free to face the magistrate, for slaughter of her man. It’s one and the same, don’t you think?’

  ‘They are not the same. For as to the slaughter, we may make a defence. But will you not allow that Agnes, even though she is no witch, is likely to confess it from compulsion, from the tortures she has suffered in your care?’

  The minister protested, ‘I do not allow that. And if it is true that most in her position do confess, then I think it likely most are witches, and our discipline does comfort them in setting free their fault. They make confession freely and most willing, when they understand the nature of their sin. It is the duty of the kirk to teach that understanding where they have been blind to it.’

  ‘Aye, and I have read such, in the transcripts of the trials,’ Hew replied sardonically, ‘and their tortures underwritten there as the “most safe and gentle.”’

  ‘I will not have this. What torments have been brought to Agnes Ford, I do protest are safe and gentle, such as leave no long impressions on her flesh. Whatever has been done to her, it cannot match the torment of her soul, the devil’s twisting of her heart, which only her confession can relieve.’

  ‘You do concede that she is tortured?’ Hew replied coldly.

  ‘You have had my answer. I will say no more.’

  ‘I see I may not move you. Tell me, therefore, what will become of the child?’

  ‘We will not see Tibbie starve. I have been patient, Master Cullan, in my regard for you. Now you must understand, you have no business here. If you spread these rumours you will cause offence; at worst you may invite the charge of heresy.’

  ‘I understand. But I did not mean Tibbie. Were you not aware that Agnes is with child?’

  The minister looked startled. ‘Is she? Do you know this for sure?’

  ‘It is not proved, but Agnes has protested it, and don’t you think the matter should be tried before you instigate your safe and gentle tortures? Are they harmless to the bairn? Or do you think the devil draws so deep into the womb, her bairn itself must undergo your purge? Does it square your conscience, sir, to sacrifice her child? I believe that you have not looked at all into the detail of this case, but have allowed your elders to proceed with it, for the matter is distasteful, and you would not soil your hands with Agnes’ blood. It will appease the bishop and the magistrate, if Agnes comes compliant and confesses.’

  The man was visibly distressed. He shook his head. ‘The kirk is resolute in its reproach of witchcraft. Tis a rampant evil we must lift out by the root. I cannot seem to let it flourish undeterred. I knew nothing of a child. I do not know it now.’

  ‘But you do, sir, in your conscience. I ask only this: the matter should be tried. Allow a midwife to examine Agnes Ford, and if the midwife says there is no danger to her child, then you may keep her in your tower until the trial. But as her man of law, I must satisfy myself she does not suffer torments that endanger her.’

  ‘Very well,’ the minister agreed reluctantly. ‘But I will have to put it to the elders, for there must be funds. The midwife must be known and trusted. I know a wife who will do it, who has done for us before, when wanton women giving birth will not declare the father. She is most assiduous in questioning. She’d serve us well. ’Twill not come cheap, a witch and all . . .’

  ‘Let her name her price, and I will pay it,’ Hew concluded in disgust. ‘Come, we’ll fetch her now. Take her to the tower and we shall try her, and if Agnes proves with child, have her released.’

  ‘Well, it may be possible. Now, you say? There are the boys . . .’

  ‘Come, declare a holiday. I’ll send them home myself. If you resolve this matter, you may look your little daughter in the face with lighter heart and conscience when your school convenes again. O
r what would you tell her? You murdered a child?’

  Agnes had begun to know the men by scent: the beadle, rank with candlefat; the baxter scuffed with flour, the odour of the hangman, like a nosegay in a sickroom, faintly sweet and foul. She could not know their voices, for they did not speak to her. And somehow in that way they took away her name. She did not understand what had become of it. She sensed them moving round the room like vapours. Clutching at their clothes, she found them flesh and blood, yet still they would not answer her; gradually their scents were fused as one. Like ghosts they flitted through and disappeared. The darkness enhanced her sense of the physical. She could feel but not see the jougs around her neck, the manacles confining her. She tasted flakes of rust upon her fingertips, scraps of blood and metal mingling with her bread. She ran her hands along the chain to stroke the coolness of the wall, or slipped a finger’s width beneath the iron to shift the shafting collar from her throat. The chain did not allow her fully to the ground, but she might lean her back on the wall, shaking out her limbs to ease the strain.

  These things brought her reassurance, made an anchor in the shadows where she knew the space she filled. But as the hours passed, Agnes felt less certain where her space began and ended, where the outside was. She was puzzled by the rapping in her womb, the deep drum and thud of her heartbeat, improbably loud. She lost her sense of balance to the dizzy peal of bells. Sounds were discordant, no longer distinct. She heard the cries she made as something they contrived within that place to frighten her, her own voice stolen from her and transformed. She could no longer eat or drink. The crumbs began to choke her, for she could not swallow them. She spewed into the darkness, turning inside out. Gradually, she forgot herself. Hunger, thirst and fear, her belly and her limbs, became externals, voiding in the dark air that hung outside her. All were displaced by the yearning for sleep. When she could stand no more, they propped her on the stool, which cruel support exhausted her, and forced her throat to close in terror, constricted by the iron. And all her voice and soul did cry for sleep; she yearned for it, and would give all she had for it; she wanted nothing else. Only death did seem so sweet, and yet it was withheld from her, while she wept and begged for it. By their tricks they waked her and would not allow it in.