The congregation watched her, mesmerized, so similar to the circle that had surrounded her at Beltane, when her stories had filled the people around the fire with awe. Could it be that she had slipped back into her position as storyteller, as performer, and was inventing this story as she told it? Could she now be lifting herself out of this place by saying these words? Would saying the words make them true?
“He marked me on the shoulder and sucked out my blood and spit it in his hand. He sprinkled it on my head and baptized me as Janet, in his own name. After that, he had carnal copulation with me in the New Wards of Inshoch; and many times thereafter, at our pleasure.”
Mister Harry stood. “What pleasure could you have in copulation with the devil?”
“He would lie with us in the presence of all the multitude, and we would never refuse him. He would come in the shape of a deer, or any other shape. The youngest and swiftest women would have very great pleasure in carnal copulation with him, yea, much more than with their own husbands; and they would have exceedingly great delight of it with him, as much as he could have to them, and never think shame in it. He is abler that way than any man can be. Alas! That I could compare him to any man!”
Margaret held her head in her hands as the congregation sat in silence, the commissioners shifting uncomfortably in their seats. This was an expansion on Isobel’s previous description of her relations with the devil. But why was Mister Harry smiling?
After a period of silence, Uncle Alexander rose. “What are the names of the others in your coven?”
“The names of the coven are these: Bessie Wilson in Auldearn, Elspeth Nychie, there, Jane Martin the maiden, Margaret Hay in Auldearn—”
“Margaret Hay!” someone shouted. “Aah!” The crowd erupted in outcries, and Mother let out a wail. Father stood up from his seat in the front pew, his face so red he looked about to explode. “How dare you!” he roared and raised his fist, as if about to attack Isobel. George Phinney restrained him while Brodie led him back to his seat.
Margaret was speechless and sat frozen to the pew. Everyone in the kirk turned to look at her, and now the side aisles were packed with people gawking. Mistress Collace took her hand.
Uncle Alexander Brodie turned to face the congregation, Mister Gordon the beadle beside him holding the mace. “We will hear the rest of the confession,” he announced, and the crowd gradually quieted down. Margaret choked and gasped for breath while Mistress put her arm around her. The people thought she was a witch!
Isobel, who had stood motionless throughout the uproar, spoke again, and again seemed eager to talk and tell her story in spite of the consequences that might follow. She didn’t even look at Margaret. It was as if she had no idea how what she had just said might affect her.
In rapid order, she named Maggie Burnet, Agnes Pearson, and many others, and again, the nicknames the devil had bestowed upon them; but this time, instead of “spirits,” she called the helpers “devils that waited upon us.” She described how she had seen the elves making the elf arrows, and how the devil had taught the coven to shoot people with them. Each member of the coven had shot and killed fauns, hares, or people, and she herself had shot at Harry Forbes and John Hay, though she said she had missed. Margaret heard all of this as if from a distance, somewhere outside the frozen place her head was in.
Alex Dunbar held up his hand. “Mistress Gowdie,” he interrupted. “In your last confession, you called the helpers ‘spirits,’ but now you call them ‘devils.’ What is the meaning of this change?”
Isobel looked at Mister Harry, who was still smiling, and lowered her head. “Twas Mister Harry made me see,” she murmured, “that the spirits are truly devils.”
Margaret barely heard this last bit of confession, so shaken was she with sobs. Mistress Collace reached over her and tapped her mother on the arm. “I will take her out,” she whispered. Mother nodded, and Margaret rose with Mistress, who led her out of the kirk, past hostile stares and muffled exclamations of “Devil’s whore!” and “Witch!” At the doorway, someone spat upon her.
KATHARINE
Chapter 52
Katharine paced back and forth in the drawing room while Lucy sat on the horsehair sofa and watched. Margaret had flung off her cap, shaken her hair loose, and run up the stairs, wailing. They heard her door slam shut.
Lady Elizabeth came into the room. “She will not answer my knock.”
“Yes, Lady Elizabeth,” Katharine replied. “I have tried several times, but to no avail.”
“Will they put her on trial, too?” Lucy asked. Lucy had been at the spinning wheel, and had rushed to the drawing room when Katharine came in.
“Oh, no!” Lady Elizabeth dropped into the nearest chair and held her head in her hands. “This could not be true. Our Margaret, accused of witchcraft? How could this happen? Mistress Collace, do you know how this could be?”
“I knew that Margaret met this Isobel Gowdie, and that she believed this woman helped the Lady Henrietta.” Katharine sat down and brought her hands together in her lap. “She was interested in magic, and we had several discussions that I thought were instructive. I explained about the ignorance of believing in magic charms, and the evil in it.”
Lucy clenched her hands together. “I heard Margaret reciting a charm,” she burst out.
Both women looked up sharply. “A charm?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, reciting the names of the saints: Saint Brigid, Saint Michael, Saint Brendan, and—”
“And she spoke a charm for me when I was ill,” said her mother. “Harmless enough, I thought at the time, but now . . .”
Katharine noticed that mother and daughter were now staring at the doorway.
Margaret was standing there, her tear-stained face glowering. “You would have me to the stake, as well?” she sobbed. “My own family! Thinking me a witch!”
“Nay, nay, dear Lassie,” Katharine murmured, approaching Margaret and reaching to cradle her in her arms. “How could anyone believe that?”
MARGARET
Chapter 53
From the tower stairs came the sound of Bessie’s voice, and then she was in the room, beaming at Margaret. “Lieutenant Massie to see the Lady Margaret.” Bessie stepped aside as Andrew entered.
Andrew’s face was pale, and his body tense. He looked intently at the group of silent women, then bowed to Margaret’s mother. “May I speak with Lady Margaret, my lady?”
“Yes, of course, Andrew,” she answered, waving the two of them away with her hand.
Margaret looked up from the chair where she had dropped, wiped her eyes, and smiled wanly. Andrew would be a comfort and provide some steadiness in this world gone awry.
The pair stepped out of the castle and into a soft rain. Everything was a blur of mist and fog. Margaret pulled up the hood of her cloak, and Andrew walked with his head down, a wide-brimmed hat hiding his face.
Margaret clutched at the neck of her cloak and bent over to see Andrew’s face, but his countenance was grim and forbidding. She stumbled. What did that mean?
He quickened his pace, and she had to run to keep up. “Where are you going?”
“To the barn.”
“But why?”
He didn’t answer.
When they got to the barn, Andrew marched inside. Ceiling timbers arced high above them to the apex of the roof. A groom at the far end watched them come in, then turned back to his work. In the stalls, horses snorted and moved about, and the damp air intensified the smells of the animals and seasoned wood. Miranda whinnied when she saw Margaret. All of these were smells and sounds that Margaret loved, that usually made her feel warm and comforted. Today, they barely registered.
Andrew turned around. “Why did you not tell me about this coven?”
“Coven?” Margaret shrank back toward Miranda. “But ho
w—do you think—?” She gasped. “Do you think I am a witch?”
“I certainly do not know, do I? Isobel Gowdie thinks you are, and she has named you as a member of her coven. Are you?”
“Andrew! How could you think that of me?”
“What should I think? You have talked about magic, and a witch claims you as one of them. I must know the whole truth. I won’t be married to a witch.”
Margaret thrust out her chin. “I am not a witch, Andrew, and if you do not trust me or believe me, then I agree! We should not be married. Marriage has to be based on trust. For you even to suspect me of this evil wounds me deeply.”
“Margaret, can you not see how this looks?” Andrew paced back and forth, holding the side of his head. In the stall behind Margaret, Miranda gave an agitated whinny and stomped her hooves.
Margaret glared at him. “The other day, you said witchcraft was all superstition, and that in England, people are too educated to believe in it. And now you fear that I am a witch?”
“Just tell me, please—what was your involvement with this woman?”
“I visited her a few times. But—” Margaret turned into Miranda’s stall, patted her horse, and scratched under her ear. She laid her face down on the warm neck. “If only you could imagine what this confession has done to me, Andrew. They may bring me up for a trial. They may actually think, as you do, that I am a witch.” She kept her face down.
“I do not really think you are a witch,” Andrew admitted quietly.
“I don’t know why she named me as being her coven. Perhaps because I wanted to learn about the fairies? And she taught me some charms. Good charms, with healing herbs and prayers. One I used to heal Mother of her cough.”
“Charms. That is what they call their magical incantations. And you recited these charms. But you think they are like prayers?”
“Yes. And like poetry. They are what the cunning women use for healing a wound or a sickness.” Margaret let go of Miranda but felt weighed down, heavy with the import of this talk. “And I thought Isobel was a cunning woman. She is a cunning woman. I didn’t know about all the other.” She looked up at him. “And the charms . . . Mistress Collace says they come from a Catholic tradition, prayers mixed in with magical beliefs, and so it is all evil.”
“It is evil when used to hurt or kill.”
“Yes.” Margaret lowered her head. “I see that now, though I still believe that the healing part is good.”
“No matter whether or not anyone believes that these evil charms work, or whether she actually flew on straws and trafficked with the fairies,” he said, his voice softening, “they will condemn her for her language and these rituals.”
“I am so confused now, Andrew. Mister Harry and my father do believe that the charms can sicken and kill, though Mistress says that though they are evil, that, too, is superstition.”
He shifted from foot to foot. “Some of what she said is so horrific as to chill the blood. This digging up of an unchristened baby and chopping it up; the curses against your father and brothers, the charms against Mister Harry.”
“Enough to terrify me before even hearing my own name.”
“Why did you not tell me of this association earlier?”
“Because I knew you sneered at magic, and I thought you would scorn me for it.”
“I do disdain it, and I do believe it is all superstition, even the so-called ‘good’ magic. My esteem of your judgment has suffered.”
Margaret buried her face in Miranda’s mane.
After Andrew left, she clung to Miranda, crying deep, heaving sobs into her neck. Miranda stood patiently, giving a few little snorts of sympathy. Margaret hadn’t been sure of wanting to marry Andrew at first, but now that she’d come around, he’d suddenly changed, gone cold and rejecting. He’d lost esteem for her. What did that mean? Did it mean he didn’t love her anymore? That he was withdrawing his offer of marriage? How could she bear it? A life without Andrew, and now perhaps even prison? Or perhaps worse?
Margaret did the only thing that made any sense to her right now. She saddled Miranda and rode slowly out of the barn. Lying down on the horse’s back as they ambled away from the castle, wandering this way and that, she felt the desolation of a world with no sunshine, no birds, no hope. She had lost everything.
When she sat up, Margaret saw that Miranda had been heading east toward Nairn. They had reached the estuary. Of course. Miranda knew where to take her.
At the manse, a servant girl holding a small child answered the door. As the baby babbled, Henrietta came up behind her, and the servant girl went back into the house.
The two friends stood in silence; Henrietta’s countenance solemn as she gazed at Margaret. “You were named in the coven.”
At that, Margaret crumpled. “Oh. Oh, Henrietta!” she cried.
“Come in,” said Henrietta, putting her arm around Margaret and leading her into the drawing room. The interior was dark now at the end of the day, and as Margaret sank down onto a chair, Henrietta went about lighting the candles in the wall sconces, then sat to face her.
Margaret tore off her cap and grasped her hair. “You don’t believe it, do you, dear friend?”
Henrietta hesitated, perhaps a moment too long, before saying, “No, of course not.”
“But so many do, Henrietta. I was spat upon! And now I will be tried, as well.”
“But if you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
“Oh, my dear, you of all people should know the wrongness of that.”
Henrietta softened then and sighed. “Yes, I know that innocence is often not a factor.”
“George has not come back?”
“George will never come back. His father has forbidden the courtship and has put it about that I am already married to that MacDonald villain.”
“Did they ever come to Kilrock to claim you?”
“No, and the English did help with that. Your young lieutenant was able to threaten them with something worse unless they stayed in their mountain lair. Mother and I have been here in Nairn for these past months.”
Margaret hung her head. “I am sorry, Henrietta, that I have been so caught up in my own affairs that I have not visited you before this.”
“The young lieutenant?” Henrietta smiled. “Courtship, I understand?”
“Ah!” Margaret yanked at her long curls. “All is lost, Henrietta! He, too, has abandoned me. He believes that I am a witch.”
Miranda found their way home in the dark, and when Margaret stepped in the door, the castle was quiet. What did it matter now if she stayed out after dark? Soon, she would be with Isobel at the stake.
HARRY
Chapter 54
“Shall we call up these other people, the women and men named in the coven?” asked Mister Hugh. Harry remained silent as the commissioners looked at John Hay, Laird of Park.
“Spite and libel!” Park exclaimed. “This woman is filled with bitterness toward me and my family, and this is why she seeks to implicate my daughter.”
It had been a month since the last trial. Harry had just expounded upon the guilt of the prisoner. He had given a speech—more like a sermon, though somewhat shorter than the full hour that was the custom for homilies. He’d defended his belief that fairies and devils were real and present, threats to all people and perhaps more so to the pious. Isobel Gowdie, he said, had aligned herself with the devil to kill both him and the Laird of Park, as she herself had confessed.
And Mister Hugh had brought up the question of the other coven members.
“We must complete this trial first,” John Innes said, “and then attend to the matter of the others accused.”
“She even spoke of robbing the grave of an unchristened child, and using the body in her charms and potions,” Harry expostulated. “Out
rageous!”
“Yes, that is, indeed, a crime,” Brodie said, “though not a sacrilege, as the child was not christened. But still, an unnatural and brutal act.”
“Unimaginable!” Harry exclaimed. “And trying in various ways to cause my death, the death of one anointed of the Lord. She mixed her potions and spells and sent her minions to administer them to me. She flew with the devil and shot to kill me.”
“Surely,” interjected George Phinney, “you do not believe this woman flew through the air, able to kill with little stones?”
“Tis absolute madness,” cried Dunbar. “Do we execute a person for madness?”
Alexander Brodie sat silent as the debate continued. Dunbar and Phinney held to their rational disbelief of Isobel’s tales, but both Harry and John Hay were equally convinced that they were true. It was true that Isobel’s mother, Agnes Grant, had confessed to cursing and bewitching John’s father and brother, though Harry knew Brodie remained uneasy with the methods of that interrogation. It was also true that both of the Hay male babies had died.
“I cannot deny the effectiveness of some of the curses,” Brodie said. “People curse their neighbors for revenge—to stop a cow’s milk, or to ruin a harvest. These things happen, but then the neighbor will utter his own curse and terrorize back. And on and on. There is so much venom and vengeance in this country. So much wickedness.” Brodie bowed his body and shook his head. “Will it ever be possible to change those ways, to create the new and equitable society that Calvin envisioned? Will the way of Christ, of forgiveness and compassion, ever take hold? Or is it simply human nature to attack and defend, attack and defend, ad infinitum?”
It was a time of sadness for them all, Harry thought, as they all knew the truth and wisdom of Brodie’s words.
Bitter Magic Page 26