That’s anither day an’anither dinner.
(We’ll leave that for another time.)
It was a fresh spring day carrying with it a hint of the warmth of the summer to come. The waters were relatively calm and the sun shone upon the Forth, turning the usually grey expanse into a glittering pool of silver. Birds hovered over the boats that dotted the sea, marking their location the way a group of clouds indicates rain. Gulls and terns heckled those who worked upon the shoreline, ever-watchful lest a fishwife drop a mussel or an oyster.
Sorcha would have enjoyed the break from the cold and rain had it not been for what preoccupied them all: the condition of Peter Morton. It had been three weeks since he fell ill and, according to gossip in the streets and Reverend Cowper himself most Sundays, he wasn’t improving. Another doctor had been sent for from Anster and, when nothing he did worked, physicians from Edinburgh came calling. Baffled by what beset the lad, nothing they suggested improved his condition, not their purges, potions or ghastly medicines. Not even the prayers of the kirk or the reverend, who attended him daily. On the contrary, his fits had grown worse and the pain increased. It was said that red marks scored his body as if unseen hands and mouths tormented him.
While the physicians were at first sceptical of the reverend’s suggestion of bewitchment, they were soon to be heard uttering the word, albeit reluctantly.
It was all the town could talk about. Where there was witchcraft, there were witches. It had happened before. Folk began to look askance at each other, to whisper behind their hands and look suspiciously upon the actions of their neighbours. It was difficult to ignore the growing disquiet. Beatrix ridiculed their fears, the wild imaginings of the townsfolk, but Nettie, Janet and Nicolas grew introspective and cautious. They remembered what had happened in Paisley only seven years ago, when six servants from the Bargarran estate were strangled and burned as witches. The accuser had been an eleven-year-old girl, Christian Shaw. A child who held the power of life and death over those who’d served her family faithfully.
Then there were those in the west of the country who had been accused only two years later. They too had been sent to their deaths. As Thomas Brown reminded them, in the last one hundred and fifty years or so in Pittenweem alone, at least two dozen had been called witch and put to the flame.
Huddled together, baiting lines, mending nets, working in threes, the fishwives sat close to each other, drawing comfort from proximity and their shared concerns. So caught up were they in exchanging news and pondering what might happen next, they only noticed Katherine Marshal, a seamstress and one of Beatrix’s friends, when she was almost upon them.
‘Nicolas! Nettie, Sorcha!’ cried the woman, holding up a hand to attract their attention as she staggered down the sands, her chest heaving. ‘They’ve taken Beatrix!’
The women stopped what they were doing. The net Sorcha was mending rolled off her thighs and pooled onto the sand as she slowly stood.
‘Who?’ asked Nettie. Her voice was thick. ‘Who has taken Beatrix?’
The other women put their work aside and waited impatiently while Katherine caught her breath. The old men who sat outside the cottages lining the harbour walked across the road and jumped down onto the sand so they too could hear what she had to say. Thomas Brown tilted his head towards Sorcha in an unasked question; she pressed her lips together and shook her head.
Bent over, her hands still upon her knees, Katherine raised her freckled face. Her cheeks were red, the broken veins around her nose and along her chin prominent. ‘The constables,’ she gasped. Hands flew to mouths. Wide-eyed looks of shock were exchanged. ‘They came to Beatrix’s house and marched her to the Mortons. They said the bailies want to question her.’
‘At the Mortons?’ asked Nicolas, confused. ‘Why there?’
‘What about?’ asked Thomas.
‘What do you think?’ asked Nettie sharply. She glanced at Sorcha, untied her apron and slipped it over her head. ‘Come on. I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here waiting to hear what’s going on. I’m to the Mortons.’
‘Me too,’ said Sorcha, taking off her apron and throwing it on a creel. She raised a quizzical brow at Nicolas.
Nicolas refused to meet their eyes. ‘I’ll wait. Someone should be here when the boats return.’ Sorcha knew what she wasn’t saying: Best not be seen together.
‘Aye, no need for us all to go,’ said the oldest of the fishwives, the kindly Therese Larnarch, bending back to her work. The others swiftly agreed.
‘I’ll wait with the lasses,’ said Thomas, picking up a needle and joining Therese.
Nettie frowned at them in disapproval. Fearing her friend might say something she’d later regret, Sorcha grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her away. ‘Let’s go. Sooner we find out what’s happening, sooner we’ll be back.’
By the time they reached Routine Row, they were simply part of a throng heading for the Morton house. Linking arms, Sorcha, Nettie and Katherine pushed through those gathered outside, until they were in their midst.
Sorcha’s heart sank as she heard the way people in the crowd were talking about Beatrix.
‘She cursed me, I tell you,’ said a woman behind them. Much to Sorcha’s dismay, it was Mrs Robertson, the cooper’s second wife, someone who’d known Beatrix her entire life. ‘The words that came out of her mouth were like none I ever heard before.’
‘Then you can’t have been listenin’ too hard to the others,’ mumbled someone nearby. ‘Since when has Beatrix Laing had a good word to say about anyone?’ There were chuckles. Sorcha began to relax a little.
‘All the bailies are inside,’ said the brewer, Graham Donaldson.
‘They’ve called the pricker and all,’ said the man beside him, the tavern-owner, Michael Bruce.
‘They’ll get a confession out of the auld bitch,’ said Widow Agnes.
‘You mean witch, don’t you, Agnes?’ said Michael. ‘Time to call her what she is.’
‘Och, prickers would get a confession out of anyone. They’d get one outta me,’ said Graham, thumping his considerable chest. ‘And I be no witch.’
‘You sure, man? Perhaps we need to ask your wife.’
Those nearby guffawed.
After that, Sorcha wasn’t sure who spoke, but the gist was the same. Everyone believed Beatrix was being questioned on suspicion of witchcraft. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Then again, the authorities had attempted to prosecute Beatrix before. But back then young James Todd hadn’t succumbed to fits, nor had there been any evidence of a charm; it had all come to nothing.
What was clear was that once again Reverend Cowper had been the one to lay the charge. Only this time he had demanded Beatrix be brought here, to the Morton house. Sorcha wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. They would soon learn.
Around them conversation rose and fell. The sun, which had been shining, became occluded by clouds, and pockets of cold shadow passed over them. The smell of burning peat and smoked fish floated in the air; the endless plash of the waves breaking on the shore could just be discerned.
They didn’t have to wait too long before the door opened and, in the company of two constables, Mark Smith and Simon Wood, Beatrix was escorted from the house. She looked old and frail. Dwarfed by the constables, she could have been anyone’s harmless grandmother. Raising her head, her sharp eyes took in the crowd, the leers, the curious, hungry stares.
‘Piss off, the lot of yers,’ she screeched. ‘There’ll be no burning today — or any day, if I’ve my way.’
There were jeers, some laughter but mostly dark mutterings. Honestly, thought Sorcha, Beatrix could be her own worst enemy.
Throwing off the men’s hold, Beatrix used her elbows to force her way through the mob. Hurling abuse if people stood in her way, they began to jump aside lest she touch them or, worse, lashed them with her tongue. It wasn’t until she saw Sorcha, Nettie and Katherine that she changed direction. Rather than acknowledge them while everyone was watching, she indicated the seashore with a jerk of her head. Stomping off down the Row, she darted into South Loan before anyone could stop her. Sorcha wondered where she was going. Would she dare head home or did she have another destination in mind?
The constables began to hurry the crowd along, but not before Sorcha saw who else spilled from the house. Sure enough, there were most of the bailies, Cook, Whyte, Bell and Vernour, along with men Sorcha knew were close to the reverend. Of the minister, she saw no sign.
But at least they’d released Beatrix. The talk of her being tried and a pricker being summoned appeared to have been exaggerated. Why then did Sorcha feel a terrible tension, like a rope about to snap?
It didn’t take the women long to get back to the harbour. There was no sign of Beatrix, and since the boats had returned, there wasn’t the chance to ask if anyone had seen her or even to exchange much news. Not that it stopped the fishwives — or Thomas, or the arriving fishermen — wanting to know what had occurred. What could they say? They barely knew anything, except that Beatrix had been taken to the Morton house and brought into the presence of the bailies and let go.
‘They wouldn’t have released her if she was guilty, right?’ said Nicolas hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, lass,’ said Therese, trying to reassure them.
Sorcha didn’t know how to respond. It’s what she hoped, too, but Janet’s stories of the Bargarran trials echoed in her mind. Those men and women had been freed only to die — one by his own hand and the rest later by the flame.
It wasn’t until Lillie Wallace, who’d been working the lines as long as Sorcha could remember, wandered over from the boats and whispered, ‘Meet in Katherine’s house when you’re ready,’ that Sorcha understood whatever Beatrix and her temper had started was by no means finished.
The weather had turned by the time those Lillie had approached gathered in Katherine’s cottage, a small, draughty place that overlooked the sands. Her husband was away on a long voyage, so the women had it to themselves. Katherine made some tea and found a dram to share, and they all sat in front of the fire; some on stools, the rest on cushions on the wooden floor. Wrapped in her shawl, head bowed, Beatrix sat in the centre.
For all she was trying to keep up a brave front, Beatrix was badly shaken. The men had come upon her in the High Street and before she could object, marched her to the Mortons.
‘They waited until William was away in the city, didn’t they? Not one word of explanation was I given. Just carted away like a common criminal,’ she grumbled. ‘They took my basket and all.’ She clasped it tightly to her chest lest someone snatch it away again.
‘What happened once you were at the Mortons?’ asked Nettie, prising the basket away from her and placing a mug of tea in her hands.
Beatrix stared at her drink for so long, the steam wavering before her face, Sorcha thought she must have forgotten the question. ‘I was taken into the main room,’ she said finally. ‘It was full of folk I knew, like it was my wake or something. There were the older of the Cowper children — the lads only, you ken. There were the bailies, and other important folk — MacDougall was there, MacDonald and Frost, the nosy bastard. There were so many I knew… Or thought I did.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The reverend was there as well.’ Her eyes narrowed and she folded her top lip over her bottom one. Thinking. ‘He didn’t say anything at first.’ She chewed her lips for a full minute. No one dared interrupt. ‘Then, in front of all these men, the bailies began to question me.’
‘What about?’ asked Sorcha softly, though she knew.
‘The bucket with the coal in it. They wanted to know if I set it at the smithy door.’
The women waited.
‘What did you tell them?’ asked Sorcha eventually.
‘That I did.’
Sorcha’s heart lurched.
‘And?’ prompted Nettie. ‘What did they say to that?’
‘Say? They wanted to know why I put it there.’
‘What did you answer?’
‘Naught. I said naught. Well, that’s not exactly true. What I said was, I’d no reason for doing it except a fancy to be putting my bucket there and placing a coal in it.’ She raised her chin and grinned at them before taking a slurp of her tea.
Unable to find any humour in the situation, Sorcha sat very still. Nicolas clicked her tongue and folded her arms, shaking her head. Katherine looked grim.
‘What?’ said Beatrix. ‘What did you expect me to say? I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to own that I put it there to charm the lad.’
‘Didn’t you?’ asked Katherine crossly.
‘Aye, but not so he sickened. The charm isn’t supposed to work like that. I had no part in that. That was something else altogether.’
Before anyone could respond, there was a pounding on the door.
They froze.
Katherine slowly rose to her feet and cast an anxious look at the others; she put her finger to her lips, warning them not to speak. ‘Who’s a-knocking?’ she called.
‘It be myself,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Thom White. I’m told my wife is there and I need to see her.’
Nettie jumped up, put down her mug, drained her dram and brushed her skirts. ‘I’m coming, Mr White,’ she replied. Placing one hand on Beatrix’s shoulder and the other on Sorcha’s, she bent over. ‘You are walking a dangerous path, Beatrix,’ she said quietly. ‘And I am afeared where it will lead you. But stick to your story. They can’t prove intent, no matter what they claim. Intent is in the intender and they can’t wrest that from you unless you give it to them. You hear me?’ Swooping, she kissed the top of Beatrix’s head, then Sorcha’s.
Katherine held the door ajar.
Nettie turned to regard them one by one. ‘It be nothing but a storm in a bucket.’ She tried to smile at her joke, but it was weak. ‘And, like a storm, no matter how wild, it will blow over. We just have to stay strong. You, Beatrix,’ she jabbed her finger in the woman’s direction. ‘You need to stay strong.’
‘Och, don’t you worry about me, lass. I be sturdier than a Dutchman’s ship.’ Beatrix raised her mug to her.
As soon as Nettie left, Katherine poured another dram for each of them. The room felt bigger without Nettie in it, so large was her presence. Sorcha dragged her stool closer to Nicolas, who remained with her arms folded, her expression fixed. The sea was loud in the cottage, not so much the gentle breath she was accustomed to, as a roar. It was unsettling to say the least. The wind had also picked up and brought with it a right blash — sheets of rain slapped the windows, roof and sides of the cottage hard. They were being menaced from all directions.
Katherine took her seat and stared at Beatrix over the rim of her cup. Beatrix gazed at the fire, lost in thought.
‘I can’t believe you were fool enough to cast a charm, Beatrix, not after what happened to you the last time,’ said Katherine.
‘Nothing happened,’ grumbled Beatrix, daring anyone to contradict her.
‘Nothing except you were called a witch,’ corrected Nicolas. ‘A name that’s haunted you and all those you associate with ever since, for all you pretend it hasn’t.’
Lillie Wallace nodded in grim agreement.
Beatrix went to say something, then closed her mouth tightly.
They sat in silence, the wind and rain serenading their dark thoughts.
‘Did you see the Morton lad at all when you were in the house?’ asked Nicolas finally. She was pale but fierce, her dark eyes glimmering with unshed tears.
Caught mid-swallow, Beatrix shook her head, coughing and thumping her chest a few times. ‘Nae, but I could hear him and they told me what ails him. A bloated stomach, rigid limbs, splewing and choking. He’s stopped eating, too.’
Nicolas buried her head in her arms.
‘’Twasn’t me, I tell you,’ protested Beatrix. ‘But I ken what did it all the same.’
Katherine sat forward on her stool and looked from Sorcha to Nicolas and then at Beatrix. ‘What? What do you ken?’
‘Why, his own ill-tongue is what brought an evil spirit to torment him. An auld evil spirit who, like me, thinks the young should pay their elders more respect.’ She burst into cackles of laughter.
Katherine looked at her in sheer dismay. ‘That’s not funny, Beatrix. None of this is funny. You shouldn’t be saying such things.’
‘Katherine’s right,’ said Nicolas, unfolding her arms and lifting her shawl over her hair. ‘You’re a right fool to have done such a thing. Did you not realise what harm you were doing, intended or not? Did you not think about the trouble you’d make for yourself and for those you call friends?’ She stood and glared.
The barely repressed fury in her voice rendered Beatrix momentarily speechless.
‘I would never harm my friends. You ken me better than that.’
‘Do I?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Do any of us?’
Before Beatrix could respond, Nicolas swept past her, wrenched open the door and stood watching the downpour, trying to breathe against the howl of the wind. The fire fought the cold air, guttering and bursting back into life. With one last look over her shoulder, Nicolas ran into the street, slamming the door behind her.
Sorcha began to shiver. Katherine and Lillie stared at Beatrix. Beatrix stared at the floor.
‘Time for me to be getting home, before it gets dark,’ said Sorcha finally, breaking the silence.
‘But the weather —’ began Katherine, then pressed her lips together. As Sorcha suspected, she wanted her gone. She wanted them all gone.
‘Och, I don’t mind a drookin’.’ Drenched she’d be, walking through town in this weather. She glanced at Beatrix. She should offer to walk her home.
‘What about you, Beatrix?’ asked Katherine, catching Sorcha’s look, clearly keen for the woman to leave. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting home?’
‘I haven’t far to go, lass, don’t you worry. I’ll wait for Sorcha and Lillie here to leave, then you’ll be rid of me.’ She reached over and patted Katherine’s knee. There was no resentment, no attack, only a deep understanding and, if Sorcha read her right, apology. Beatrix never meant for this to touch any of them.
Sorcha also understood Beatrix didn’t want to be seen with her. If she was so determined she’d done nothing wrong, and today had been the authorities flexing their might, then why was she protecting them? What was Beatrix not telling them?
Farewelling Katherine, Lillie and Beatrix, Sorcha headed up the High Street lost in thought, only dimly aware of Captain Ross hailing her and responding with a half-hearted reply.
What were the bailies and Reverend Cowper really up to? And, if they were convinced Beatrix, on her own admission, cast a charm, why on God’s good earth did they let her go?