I never let dab.
(I told no one.)
Patrick Cowper ignored his eldest daughter’s entreaties to join the family for supper and retired to his study, a bottle of whisky in one hand, a plate of bannocks and hare in the other. Until he heard how Peter Morton fared in Edinburgh, he wouldn’t be able to sit still, let alone tolerate mindless blather.
When the knock came shortly after six of the clock, it took all Patrick’s willpower to remain patiently behind his desk and pretend an indifference he didn’t feel.
As he watched Peter cross the floor, he noted the redness of his cheeks, the sweat that beaded his brow. Had he run from Edinburgh? The lad was alive with a simmering intensity, keen to speak, but why could he not meet his eyes?
‘Sit, lad, sit,’ said Patrick, rising to his feet, coming around the desk and clapping Peter on the back as he took a seat. He noticed his boots were wet, his stockings as well. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and seaweed. By which route had he come?
‘You’ll have a dram with me?’ asked Patrick and, without waiting for an answer, collected another glass, poured and passed it over.
The lad gulped the drink, coughing and wheezing, rubbing his chest.
Patrick waited for him to regain his composure. ‘Well,’ he began, easing himself into his chair, fingers spread on the desk as he fixed his eyes upon Peter. ‘Tell me what happened, tell me everything.’
Peter did.
Patrick resisted the urge to swear when Peter related how the earl, the advocate and the other gentlemen had treated him. He forced himself to remain calm. So what if those puddocks didn’t believe the lad? They weren’t from here. Hadn’t seen what those women had done. What they were… But they would. God help him, they would.
When he finished, Peter sat quietly. Patrick’s mind raced. Now he had to deliver another blow. News had come that Isobel Adam, the first of the women to be sent to Edinburgh for questioning by the Privy Council back in October, had been set free. No longer was she on a bond awaiting trial. Despite her confession, Edinburgh had ordered that every charge against her be dropped. She would not face trial. It had been all Patrick could do not to tear the missive bearing the news into shreds and shove it down the messenger’s throat.
It was clear what had happened. Those ridiculous men had paid no account to what he and the councillors reported, or the gents from St Andrew’s who believed the women guilty despite their recanting; nor to the confessions signed by the witches or eyewitness accounts of Peter’s afflictions, or indeed the word of the lad himself. Instead they took the word of a pretty young lass. A pretty young lass and an interfering captain…
What had Councillor Cleiland told him? Turned out, the captain’s commanding officer, a Colonel Leslie Johns, was a cousin of the Earl of Rothes. How bloody convenient. Seemed the captain had bested him after all. The reverend had no doubt that now Isobel’s charges had been dropped, those against the remaining women would be as well.
Patrick poured himself another dram, ignoring Peter’s plaintive look into his own empty glass.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the spitting of the fire and the voices of passers-by. From elsewhere in the house came the irritating sound of a child crying. Drumming his fingers against the desktop, Patrick chewed his lip.
This would not do. Those women could not go unpunished. It wasn’t right or righteous. Didn’t the Bible say, ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live’? Yet here were Edinburgh and the Queen’s representatives ignoring God’s commandment. Ignoring him, Reverend Patrick Cowper.
Yet what was he to do? He’d tried to keep the good folk of the Weem safe and what happened? Many had turned against him. Turned against him even as he was trying to save their souls from perdition.
It was that fucking captain who ruined everything. Him and his endless letters and entreaties to those in power. Him and his connections.
Was there nothing to be done about him?
Unaware he’d spoken aloud, the reverend jumped when Peter replied, ‘But I think there is, sir. That’s what else I have to tell you.’
‘Och, and what’s that, Peter?’ said the reverend, only half-listening as he tried to formulate plans of his own. Peter was a good lad, but simple. He’d obeyed him in every regard and it still wasn’t enough.
Peter quickly told him what he’d witnessed at the skerries. How it was evident Sorcha and the captain were lovers.
The reverend watched the lad carefully, noting how jealousy thickened his words and clogged his throat. How his cheeks flooded with deeper colour; the way the lad moved a finger around his neck, loosening his scarf. How he shifted in the chair a few times. He buried a smile in a cough. The lad was so transparent. But maybe, just maybe, Peter’s clear affection for Sorcha McIntyre could work to his advantage. It had been hard to get the lad to incriminate her… but he had. Unwillingly. Maybe now she was so clearly involved with someone else, an incomer responsible for their current tribulations no less, it would be different.
If only he were able to remove the captain for a time, or better still, for good. That would make things a great deal easier. The reverend stared at his whisky, swirling it in the glass, watching the way the light turned the fluid into a whirlpool of umbers and gold. Aidan Ross wasn’t the only one with connections. He had them too — in St Andrew’s, no less. Why, that was almost as good as Edinburgh.
He began to think about the latest news of the war. The Duke of Marlborough had enjoyed a mighty victory earlier in the year at the battle of Blenheim on the Danube. There were reports he was rallying troops to march into France and needed extra men. Surely a captain of Aidan Ross’s standing would be of more use over there rather than babysitting soldiers here.
Patrick sat up. He may not have networks in the military, but he knew someone who did. Not insubstantial ones either. A word here, a hint there, a mention of the fine work Captain Ross was doing in Pittenweem and how he was wasted in a small coastal town when a war was being waged on the continent. One never knew what might happen as a consequence.
He smiled at Peter who, astonished, returned it as the reverend half-rose over his desk and gave the lad’s glass a generous splash of whisky.
‘You did well in the city. It’s not an easy thing to face men like those as you did today. You should be proud. If nothing else, it will prepare you for what you have to do next.’
A flash of concern crossed Peter’s face. ‘What’s that, sir?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Just be ready to help me trap some witches, lad. Together, we’ll save the village.’
‘Does it still need saving?’
‘Aye,’ grinned the reverend. ‘It just doesn’t know it yet.’
The boy nodded and sipped his whisky. Patrick appreciated that. Gave him time to think. More than ever, he knew how important it was he didn’t let folk forget about the threat that witchcraft and its practitioners posed to their very souls.
He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkhorn and began to scratch some notes for his next sermon.
As he wrote, his mind drifted. After the lad left, he’d write to his friend in St Andrew’s, someone who was also a proud Covenanter. A colleague and like-minded gentleman who also happened to be the brother of General Overkirk, the man responsible for mustering troops in Holland. Surely the general could use the services of a fine officer? And if not the general, then perhaps the duke himself?
The reverend didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d make sure to praise the captain highly, point out all the attributes that he’d previously resented but now saw would work to his advantage.
Chuckling inwardly, the reverend abandoned his sermon and instead wrote ‘brave’, ‘maintains order’, ‘inspires loyalty’, the list of Captain Ross’s qualities growing with each sip of his drink. Let the captain believe his witch was safe; that this battle was over. The sappie-headed jock didn’t understand who or what he was dealing with.
It wasn’t just a small-town cleric the captain was fighting, but the devil himself, the devil in the guise of a woman. A woman who’d bewitched him, just as she did all who came within her ken.
He regarded the lad on the other side of the desk morosely. Just as she had bewitched Peter Morton.
Only now, through God’s good grace and Patrick Cowper, the lad’s eyes were about to be opened.