A bell rang above her head. She went through in her mind who she had tae offer. Jenny was nae weel; Jessie six months wi child. Perhaps the new lass would dae, she was a bit strange looking, with an uncanny face, but she had spirit. It would be something new for a regular. They aw liked fresh meat now and again.
A series of faces flashed through her mind as she descended the steep spiral staircase – some of the lasses she had kenned over the years, a long list of deed girls by beatings, births and pox. How could God allow it all? She didna ken.
Having looked through a tiny hole in the door, she pulled back two bolts and heaved it open. She was always canny about who she let in, years of experience had taught her maist of the danger signs.
He staggered in slightly drunk, smiling at her. ‘What do you have for a poor man on this summer’s night, my dear? I’m inflamed with passion. My soul’s burning for it.’ She looked down at his stick; the exotic carving on the handle drawing her attention.
A passion in his soul! She shook her head. ‘Come away in, sir.’ She led him up the stairs. ‘Have a seat in the howff. I’ll pour you a glass. Let me hae a wee word with the new girl, a sonsie lass.’
‘I’m honoured,’ he slurred.
‘A refugee frae the persecution in France, sir. You’ll be the first to hae her in the kingdom of Scotland.’
11
Application of the Boot
STUART WAS SLUMPED on a chair at the side of the room, a metal contraption round his left calf and foot. A group of serious looking men sat at a large table watching him.
‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ Rosehaugh spoke calmly from his seat. ‘Who told you to murder Kingsfield?’ He knew that in a few minutes the pathetic creature would reveal everything.
Stuart bowed his head and began to pray hoarsely in Latin. One of the councillors, a small man with sharp effeminate features, rose to his feet abruptly. A large sword hung at his side and two long pistols were suspended in holsters from his belt. ‘Apply it now. Let’s get it over with.’
‘Thank you, my lord Claverhouse. I’m conducting proceedings as Advocate,’ replied Rosehaugh curtly. He found the little soldier disagreeable, although for some reason the King held him in high regard. His majesty was not a good judge of character.
Claverhouse took his seat, muttering under his breath.
Soldiers were always impatient, thought Rosehaugh. He nodded to the hangman who turned a wooden peg at the side of the Boot. A high pitched howl echoed round the chamber. Some of the councillors looked away. A number had not attended, providing a series of feeble excuses: business, illness, toothache. The weak did not have the stomach for statecraft. The Boot was a brutal, ugly business. But it was effective. Torture could only be justified under extreme circumstances. The security of the state was threatened by fanatics like Stuart. He had tortured Presbyterians and now he would torture Papists. He nodded again to the hangman.
The peg was turned another notch, accompanied by horrific screams. Beneath the contraption, blood oozed onto the floor under the mangled leg; bone, muscle and vessels God had created, torn and ripped asunder. Stuart would never walk again. But he would have little need of his legs. He would be carried to his execution. A cry of despair echoed round the chamber. The peg was turned again – another howl, piercing, horrific, hellish.
‘I’ll tell all!’ gasped Stuart. ‘I’ll tell all… please, cease!’
The boy had lasted barely a minute. Rosehaugh turned to Claverhouse. ‘You see, there was no rush.’ The Presbyterians held out much longer. They were harder, tougher men, unlike this spoilt fool who had fled to Rome after a disagreement with his father. ‘Remove the Boot,’ he ordered.
The executioner kneeled on the floor. He unscrewed half the implement, revealing a bloody mush of flesh. A surgeon was summoned to tend the wound.
‘Talk, now, Mr Stuart. Tell us all you know or the cobbler will put the Boot on you again. Give him some water, Scag.’
Stuart raised his head and spoke in a weak voice. ‘I belong to the Congregation of Christ, a Catholic Brotherhood which meets for prayer.’
‘Who belongs to this group?’
‘There are only a few of us in the city.’
‘Who?’
‘Father Innes and Father Pryde.’
‘Two Papist priests. Who else?’
Stuart bowed his head and began to chant in Latin.
‘Who else?’
Rosehaugh nodded to Scag. He began to replace the Boot.
‘I’ve sworn not to reveal anything!’ cried Stuart.
‘You’ll tell us all those associated with the brotherhood.’
Rosehaugh nodded. Awful cries echoed round the room.
‘Leave it on this time in case he changes his mind. Who else?’
‘Seaforth’s brother, Ruairidh MacKenzie was the only other,’ Stuart gasped.
Rosehaugh was not expecting to hear his own surname. But the expression on his face barely changed; his eyebrows rose slightly. ‘You’re sure Seaforth’s brother attended the conventicle?’
‘I am, sir. Please cease.’
‘Has Seaforth attended your soirées?’
‘He hasn’t, sir.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Different places each time.’
‘Who gave you orders to kill Kingsfield?’
‘I swear no man ordered me. I was told by God. It came to me in prayer.’
‘Apply the Boot again, Mr Scag.’
‘I swear. I swear. God alone spoke to me!’
12
A Secret Association
SCOUGALL FOLLOWED MORRISON’S hulking frame through the tenements on the north side of the Lawn Market, a warren of dark passageways where some of the poorest inhabitants of the city lived. It was an area he ususally avoided. But if he was to rise in the world, if he was to make something of himself, he would have to be more vocal in his support of the Presbyterian cause. This was not a time to be half-hearted. If he wanted a chance with Agnes, he must keep on amicable terms with her brother. For these reasons he had agreed to attend. Presbyterians were meeting in secret cells across the city. He felt a twinge of guilt. MacKenzie’s last words before leaving for The Hawthorns were that he should remain at home that night. The city was still in dark spirits after the shooting of Kingsfield.
They entered a tenement, climbed a spiral staircase to the third floor, and proceeded down a series of passageways to a door guarded by two heavily armed men. Morrison whispered something to one which Scougall could not hear. The guard nodded to the other and the door was opened, allowing them into a dingy candlelit room, a windowless chamber hung with faded hangings where a group of men sat round a table, deep in discussion. One of them was hunched over a book, keeping minutes with a long quill. On the table were bottles of claret, glasses and piles of documents.
The conversation stopped when they entered. Scougall sat beside Morrison, feeling very out of sorts. He did not like being the focus of attention.
‘May I introduce, David Scougall, notary public, an old acquaintance from Musselburgh,’ said Morrison.
‘You’re very welcome, Davie Scougall.’ A thin well-dressed man spoke in a friendly manner, then took a deep draw on his pipe.
‘We must delve a little deeper into your history, sir. We must be very careful at this juncture,’ said an older figure with a gaunt lined face.
‘Of course, that’s only natural,’ Scougall murmured. No one ever asked anything about him, unless it was how many words he could write in an hour, or how many shots he took on the golf course. He did not like the thought of folk asking about him.
‘We’re told you are a good Presbyterian; your family hold firmly to the principles of the Covenant, but… ’ the first man hesitated.
Scougall felt like he was on trial. But the stakes were high. It was only natural they would want to find out as much as possible about him.
‘We’ve heard you’re on close terms with the Clerk of Session, MacKenzie.
He’s no friend of Presbytery.’
A wave of anxiety swept through Scougall as he looked round the circle of faces. He was not cut out for such things. He had no appetite for politics. He knew nothing of its ways. But he felt he had to say something. ‘I work for him as writer, sir. He’s an honourable man. Because of his upbringing in the Highlands he tends towards Episcopacy. He cannot help it. I don’t share his views on religion.’ He was being fair, but he did not like talking about MacKenzie behind his back.
A man dressed in a gold-fringed jacket and luxurious wig spoke in a refined voice. ‘We must all have dealings with some who are tainted with the stain of Antichrist.’
The first man emptied his pipe on the floor and began to pack it with fresh tobacco: ‘If you say he’s honourable, we’ll take you at your word. You’re clearly your ain man.’
‘Spies will be killed!’ The other older man interjected, his passion roused. ‘Traitors will be slain.’
‘I’m no spy!’
‘I can vouch for the character of Mr Scougall,’ interjected Morrison.
‘The future of the kingdom and the cause of Presbytery are at stake. The Papist must be defeated!’
‘Thank you, Grimston,’ the first man said firmly to the older one. ‘Before we attend tae business, let me introduce our little gathering,’ he continued urbanely, puffing on his pipe. ‘I must emphasise that everything we speak of tonight must be kept secret.’
Scougall nodded, attempting to make his expression as grave as possible, but feeling angry with himself for agreeing to attend. He hoped it might be worth it in the end – the hand of Agnes and a new life were at stake. Nonetheless, he could not get away from the fact he was being disloyal to MacKenzie.
‘I’m Alexander Baillie of Lammington,’ said the man with the pipe. ‘I’m recently returned frae exile like Mr Morrison. Here’s Francis Leslie of Thirlsmuir.’
Lammington gestured towards the finely dressed man in the gold-trimmed jacket who nodded courteously. Scougall knew he was the younger son of the Earl of Pittendean, one of the most powerful nobles in the realm. Thirlsmuir’s presence in the dark chamber was highly significant, indicating his father’s loyalty to the cause. It was much debated in the coffee houses whether Pittendean was committed to the King or sided with the Presbyterians. The presence of his son among the association suggested he was a supporter of the opposition. It also raised the stakes. Scougall realised he was not among a group of minor plotters.
‘Mr Peter Guillemot, Huguenot merchant, now resident in Edinburgh.’
The small man sitting opposite Scougall wearing an extravagantly large hair-piece and dressed in a green silk suit gave him a polite smile and spoke in a thick French accent: ‘I’ve fled persecution in my own land, sir. I stand shoulder to shoulder with the Protestants of Scotland.’
The French Protestants had been persecuted since the tyrannical King Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes three years before. Scougall wondered what tragedy had brought Guillemot to Edinburgh.
‘James Guthrie, minister,’ continued Lammington.
‘I’ve returned frae Holland also, sir,’ said an old clergyman dressed in black robes with a weather-worn face and long grey whiskers descending to his chin. A small white wig perched on his head. ‘Our time comes,’ he continued emphatically. ‘The kirk will be returned tae the true path; reformation completed; Scotland proclaimed a Covenanted nation again. The Papists vanquished frae our land!’
Scougall knew Guthrie was a devoted Covenanter who had fought at the battle of Bothwell Brig and was out with Argyll in the rebellion of 1685.
‘James Cockburn of Grimston.’ The older man who had already spoken nodded seriously. Scougall guessed that he hailed from the eastern part of the Lothians where the surname was common among devout Presbyterian circles.
‘Welcome, sir. I hope you’ll nae be tempted by the emissaries of Antichrist,’ said Grimston, articulating each syllable in a slow annoying manner.
‘Andrew Quinn, merchant of Dublin, now shopkeeper in Edinburgh.’ Scougall observed a strange looking man with a rough complexion bowing his head. In Ireland the poor Protestants also feared for their lives.
‘Archibald Craig, writer, and Robert Johnston, student.’ Craig was a year or two older than Scougall with an oppressive double chin. His small fat hands were wrapped around a quill which he was tapping on the table. Johnston was little more than a boy. Twelve or thirteen years old, a thin spotty youth, smirking in the company of adults.
‘Finally, Dr Isaac Black.’
‘You do us great service by attending, sir. I’m sure you’ll provide much that’s useful.’ Black’s voice had little hint of a Scottish brogue.
Scougall was baffled, but nodded, wondering what on earth he could offer that was of any use. Silence followed as they waited for him to say something. Morrison at last gave him a gentle nudge. Scougall coughed nervously, looked down at his hands, desperately racking his brains. Finally he spoke hoarsely, ‘I’ll do anything I can to further the cause of Presbytery.’ Thankfully there were murmurs of agreement.
‘Dr Black had just begun tae tell us the latest news,’ said Lammington.
‘I’ve joyous tidings, indeed, gentlemen,’ said Black excitedly. ‘The Prince’s fleet will sail soon. The deliverer will be on English soil in a few days if the wind is a fair one. We must do all we can to make Edinburgh as conducive as possible. The corrupt government here will crumble with a little encouragement. But we need more arms. Please give as much as you can tonight. It’s vitally important the cause is funded generously.’
The thought of handing over money was another shock for Scougall. Saving, rather than spending, was his natural predilection. It gave him pleasure to know he had a little put aside for a dreich day. He was not a miser, just careful with his pennies. He did not like to hand over hard-earned cash to any cause. But everyone was rummaging in their pockets. Morrison put a few pounds down on the table. Craig took it, counting the coins carefully with his little hands before noting the contribution in his book. Generosity was to me a matter of public register, monetary evidence of loyalty. Scougall withdrew what was in his pocket. It was only two pounds but departing with it was painful.
‘Is there anything from Cathcart?’ Thirlsmuir asked.
‘There’s intelligence of a Papist meeting tonight,’ replied Craig.
‘We must flush the vermin oot!’ exclaimed Grimston.
‘We’ll give them a wee surprise, gentlemen,’ said Lammington puffing on his pipe and smiling. ‘Is everything ready, Mr Johnston?’
‘The boys are waiting ootside, sir.’ Johnston spoke with a surprisingly deep voice despite his youthful appearance.
There was a knock on the door and one of the guards entered ponderously. He handed Thirlsmuir a note.
‘I must leave, gentlemen. Something… has arisen,’ he said taking his hat from the table. As he departed Scougall caught sight of a boy in the corridor, an urchin’s disfigured face in the shadows. He noticed Thirlsmuir had crushed the note into a ball and left it on the table beside Craig’s elbow. The fat clerk knocked it onto the floor without noticing. It lay in the dirt beside Guillemot’s foot.
‘The only other business is the date of our next meeting,’ said Lammington.
‘We’ll meet in seven days’ time. William will have landed by then,’ said Black. ‘You’ll be informed of the location in the usual way.’
‘Now the stout youth of Edinburgh will fight the Whore on the street,’ added Lammington.
There were nods of agreement and a few claps. Scougall was glad it was over. Thankfully, no other request was made of him.
Descending a different staircase, they emerged on the other side of the tenement where a small crowd was gathered in a vennel; about fifty young men and boys, an assortment of students, artisans and apprentices, many holding torches. They stood in silence, waiting.
A strange object lay on the ground beside them, one of the most bizarre things Scougall had ever seen.
As his eyes adjusted to the torchlight, he saw that it was a crudely crafted effigy about five feet in height, covered in wax, a grotesque sculpture resembling a witch. However, the shape of the hat or mitre and the long crozier, showed that it was a representation of the Whore of Babylon, the Pope, leader of the Papists in Rome. It rested on a wooden platform attached to poles.
When all the members of the association had appeared, Johnston thrust a torch into the kindling around it. Shouts rose from the crowd, echoing round the narrow lane. A drumbeat within the throng, reverberating in the enclosed space of the vennel, created a deafening sound. As the flames rose, the Whore began to melt. Obscenities were launched at it: ‘Fuck the Pope. Fuck the Papist scum.’
‘Where are they bound?’ Scougall asked Morrison nervously in a whisper.
‘They hunt Papists, Davie!’ There was glee on his face.
Another cheer rose when the platform was hoisted onto the shoulders of four youths who staggered down the vennel towards the Lawn Market; the burning Whore swaying alarmingly above them, molten wax dripping onto their shoulders.
Scougall joined Morrison at the back of the procession as more cries resounded from above. Dozens of heads were sticking out of the windows of the tenements, calling on God to crush the Papists.
Morrison joined in the chants while Scougall remained silent. Most of the crowd were little older than Johnston. As they continued down the lane, Morrison became increasingly vocal in his cries, thrusting his fist up towards the sky in defiance: ‘Fuck the Pope, fuck the Whore, fuck the King!’
A minute later, they spilled out onto the High Street, where they were engulfed by a larger crowd waiting in the Lawn Market, increasing the numbers to a few hundred. Shouts of anger rose into the blackness as other drums joined in.
Scougall noticed most of the association slipping away into the night. They were not to be active on the street. Dr Black remained beside them observing the scene with relish.
‘There’s peculiar appeal in a rabble, even for an educated man.’ He was breathing heavily, but looked elated by the spectacle. ‘We must drive home our advantage, gentlemen. The Papists cannot compete with us on the street. They’ve influence in the noble’s house or secret brotherhood but we stand with the people of Scotland. Soon we’ll be strong enough to take the palace.’
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 5