Isabel Adam… in pursuance of a quarrel which Beatrix Laing, formerly mentioned, had with one Alexander McGrigor, a fisher in town, made an attempt to murder the said McGrigor in bed; which was prevented by his awakening and wrestling against them.
— A Just Reproof to the False Reports and Unjust Calumnies in the Foregoing Letter, 1705
Sorcha was by the harbour, watching as her father and brother prepared the boat to leave the Forth and sail into deeper northern waters, following the whitefish. Wind whipped hair into her eyes, the ocean spray stung her face. Gulls swooped overhead, the men were checking lines, folding nets and hammering nails into some loose decking…
Dull thuds interrupted the image, making it quiver before it slowly dissolved.
Stirring, Sorcha lay still upon the bed, trying to bring it back. The pounding began again; this time, she heard her name. ’Twas no dream. She pushed back the covers and scrambled for her shawl in the dark. She collided with Nettie in the main room as, half asleep, they fumbled their way to the front door.
Sorcha reached it first and wrenched it open. In the dim light of the embers in the fireplace she could just make out Mr Adam, Isobel’s father, and Nettie’s daughter from Anster.
‘Rebecca!’ exclaimed Nettie, any sign of sleep vanishing as she reached for her daughter’s hand and dragged her across the threshold. ‘What are you doing here? Come away in.’
‘Mr Adam,’ said Sorcha, moving to allow Rebecca past. ‘Come away in too, please.’ It was raining steadily and both visitors were sodden. Peering out the door, Sorcha couldn’t see anything; just the rain, and the bleak stone wall of the graveyard opposite. The ocean rumbled and rolled. By the time she’d closed the door, a protesting Rebecca was peeling her coat off and Nettie had stoked the fire.
Sorcha quickly lit some candles. Mr Adam was pale and deeply agitated.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me help you with your coat. You’re drookit.’
‘Nae, lass,’ said Mr Adam, raising a gnarled hand to prevent her. ‘I not be staying. I came to warn you both.’
‘Warn us?’ asked Nettie, flashing a look at Sorcha as she draped her daughter’s coat over a stool. Rebecca gave up trying to retrieve it. ‘About what?’
Mr Adam pinched the bridge of his nose, as if focussing his thoughts. He took a deep breath. ‘Earlier this morning, the guards and Bailie Cook came for Isobel, before the cock even crowed. Marched her off to that damn Tolbooth. Again.’
Sorcha gasped. Nettie’s hand flew to her mouth. Rebecca appeared stunned.
‘Why?’ asked Sorcha. ‘She was pardoned. We all were. What are they accusing her of now?’
‘What else but witchcraft,’ said Mr Adam then, much to her dismay, buried his face in his large, nobbled hands and began to weep. Sorcha put an arm about him and led him to a chair.
‘Is this why you’re here?’ Nettie turned towards Rebecca.
‘Nae,’ said Rebecca, clearly shocked at the news. ‘It’s pa. He’s back from the city ports, ma, and I fear he’s very poorly.’
Nettie gave an exclamation of despair. Thom had been ill for a long time, eating little, coughing ferociously, claiming whenever asked it was naught and dismissing Nettie’s concern. Sorcha knew living and working in Pittenweem was a way of keeping Nettie’s mind from his troubles as well as helping to earn enough to cover the cost of his treatment. Seeing the way colour fled her face and tears welled, this was a bitter blow. For all her independence, she loved her husband dearly.
‘I said I’d come and fetch you. I ken naught of what Mr Adam is saying. It’s just a coincidence we arrived together. But, ma, he needs you.’ Rebecca snatched up her coat and began to put it back on again, leaving a trail of water across the floor.
‘Give me a moment, lass, and we’ll be on our way.’ Nettie shot an apologetic look at Sorcha.
‘Go. Go,’ said Sorcha. ‘I will send word once I learn exactly what this is about.’ She squeezed Mr Adam’s forearm reassuringly.
Nettie dressed swiftly, throwing some extra garments in her burlap and dropping a kiss on Sorcha’s head. ‘I’ll return when I can.’ She opened the door. ‘If Isobel has been arrested, I’ve nae doubt who’s behind this,’ she said grimly.
After kirk yesterday, they’d had a long discussion about the reverend’s latest sermon.
‘Ma, we have to leave,’ pressed Rebecca, trying to push her mother out the door.
‘I pray Thom will be all right,’ said Sorcha, hugging her friend tightly.
With a grunt, hoisting her bag, draping her coat over it and ensuring her scarf was tied tightly, Nettie signalled to Rebecca she was ready and, with one last wave, left.
‘It’s just you and me now, Mr Adam,’ said Sorcha gently, waiting until the women’s voices had faded. Finding a bottle of whisky, Sorcha poured a dram and pushed it into Mr Adam’s hands. After he’d taken a couple of sips, she sat beside him, her knees almost touching his.
Raising bleary eyes to Sorcha’s, Mr Adam surprised her by grabbing a hold of her hand. ‘Just when I thought this malice nonsense had been put to bed, it starts all over again. This time, they’re saying my lass cast a spell on that drunk Alexander McGregor and sought to murder him in his bed.’
‘Alexander McGregor?’ Sorcha’s head reeled. If there was one thing their arrest had taught them all, it was to only keep company with folk they could trust, who wouldn’t turn on them because of an ill word or misunderstood action. As far as Sorcha knew, Isobel had been nowhere near the likes of Alexander McGregor. Not since the night Sorcha came home and Isobel had burst into the cottage claiming the man had scared her witless.
Oh dear God…
Sorcha leapt to her feet and began to pace. ‘When was she supposed to have done this?’
‘Last Hogmanay.’
Sorcha stopped and made a scoffing noise. ‘But ’twas Isobel who fled from McGregor. As a matter of fact, she came here, to me and Nettie.’
‘I ken what happened. Isobel told me. But McGregor now swears she was casting a spell and if he hadn’t woken and interrupted her, she would have killed him with witchcraft.’
‘It’s a complete nonsense.’ Sorcha began to wear a path between the fireplace and door.
‘The reverend didn’t think so when McGregor told him this last night.’
Sorcha’s heart skipped a beat. ‘He told the reverend?’
‘Aye. ’Twas the reverend who ordered her taken to the Tolbooth so she might be formally questioned — and we ken what that means.’
Sorcha began to worry her nails. Mr Adam sipped his whisky, his frantic arrival settling into something less now he’d shared his burden.
Pressing her hands against her cheeks, Sorcha tried to think. ‘Isobel ran away from McGregor — others saw her. There are witnesses.’
‘Isobel said as much.’
‘The reverend didn’t listen?’
‘Nae, lass. Not him nor the bailies. That’s why I’m here. I have to warn you. The others as well.’
Sorcha stared at Mr Adam. A needle-like pain began to prod and prick. Starting at the base of her neck, it travelled the length of her spine, running in bands around her ribs before lodging in her breast.
‘What about?’ she asked breathlessly.
Mr Adam rose and put down his drink. ‘Isobel wasn’t the only one McGregor named as present in his house that night.’
Even though Sorcha knew what he was going to say next, she had to ask. She had no choice. ‘Who else did he name?’
‘Among others, you, Sorcha McIntyre. He named you.’ Sorcha’s stomach lurched and she lost focus. ‘And you ken what that means, don’t you?’
Sorcha blinked Mr Adam back into existence.
She did. All too well.
It took less than two days for the reverend and council to extract a full confession from Isobel. Rumour had it she wasn’t tortured, she simply blathered the moment the reverend and the bailies appeared in her cell and mentioned the pricker, names and details spilling from her mouth. Beatrix was identified as head of a coven who conspired to murder Mr McGregor in his home. Isobel claimed it was because McGregor refused to rent one of Beatrix’s houses.
Sorcha didn’t doubt what Isobel had confessed, or who’d put the ideas into her head. All it would take was the threat of punishment to have any of them who’d been interned before to confess to anything.
Not sure whether she should sit and wait for the guards to come and arrest her or flee the village like Margaret and Lillie, Sorcha returned to work. If she ran, it would be an admission of guilt and she refused to give the reverend the satisfaction, not over such ridiculous claims. At least while she faked the nets, collected bait and hooked the lines, sorted, gutted and sold the few fish that were caught, her body was occupied, if not her mind.
It was down at the harbour that she heard the gossip. Whereas Edinburgh had thought the evidence upon which she and the others had been interned in the Tolbooth was flimsy and the interrogations dire, the reverend believed that not only would McGregor’s testimony and Isobel’s confession change the minds of city officials, but vindicate him and the council. Thomas Brown’s death would now be seen as just: God’s will made manifest.
Whereas there’d been many in Pittenweem in agreement with the Crown authorities who thought Peter Morton was as great an imposter as Christian Shaw from Paisley, they now expressed fury that the poor lad had not only been disbelieved but mocked. Peter enjoyed a wave of sympathy and support reminiscent of when he was first afflicted.
Sorcha could hear women and old men clecking on their stoops, reminding each other how the lad had suffered and asking what those toffs in the city would ken. They hadn’t seen the way his neck twisted or his belly distended. And what about when he coughed up all that hair and other strange objects? The stories grew wilder, more assured with each telling. Details were added and embroidered. Sorcha grew more despondent.
What had once been a murmur of discontent about the way Peter and, as a consequence, the reverend, the council and the entire town had been treated by Edinburgh, ridiculed and ignored when they were in the gravest of peril, in a matter of days had transformed into a blame-filled fury.
Alexander McGregor’s testimony was little more than kindling to an already burning flame; a flame about to erupt into a conflagration.
What unnerved Sorcha most was the way attitudes towards her altered from one day to the next. Even after she’d been released from the Tolbooth in autumn, there’d been folk prepared to risk the wrath of those who still believed she was a witch and not only greet her and celebrate her freedom, but continue to defy the reverend and buy their fish from her. No more. Doors were closed in her face. More often she would knock and wait, but no one would answer. It didn’t matter if she called out or smoke belched from the chimney, a curtain was quickly rearranged or a bairn’s cry muffled — she was stranded on the stoop.
With the few fish she did sell, she tried to buy milk, neeps and eggs, but found each farm or shop had suddenly run out. Likewise, when she sought to acquire some needles, and even take her boots to the cordwainer for repair, service was refused.
Dejected, she’d gone to Beatrix’s house to find she told the same story, only worse. Word had spread that Beatrix was leader of a coven and she was not only being shunned, but threatened. There were rumours she was going to be hounded out of town — she and Nicolas, whose once much sought-after homemade remedies were now viewed as something altogether sinister.
They were convicted and punished without even a trial.
Making her way home that evening, Sorcha was more conscious than ever of the way people took great pains not to cross her path, how they whispered behind their hands as they watched her progress up the High Street, her creel upon her back, their words dispersing about their averted faces in a cloud of white. Mothers placed protective arms about their children, some raised their eyes to heaven, their lips moving in silent prayer. Faces appeared at windows, doors slammed, barking dogs were dragged away and muzzled. It was unnerving; chilling, even. If Sorcha hadn’t felt anger build within her, the hot tears burning behind her eyes, she would have felt the cold cloak of doom descend.
She began to think of what she’d write to Nettie — how she’d warn her to remain in Anster with her husband. She’d also write to Aidan. She composed sentences in her head, trying to explain these new developments without expressing her fear, her need of him and the comfort his mere presence bestowed. How, with him by her side, she would know the world hadn’t descended into complete madness.
It wasn’t until she reached the Mercat Cross, vaguely aware of the crowd gathered outside the Tolbooth waiting for news of Isobel that, distracted, she almost collided with someone.
As she took a step back, the apology died in her throat. It was Peter Morton.
Since she’d been released, she’d barely seen the lad and then only from afar — on the street, in the kirk. Keeping her distance, she’d mostly ignored him. Much to her surprise she felt no bitterness towards him, despite what had happened. He was only a lad, after all. A lad in thrall to the reverend. Had he ever been sick? Sorcha wondered now, as she looked at him. Was it really only a few months ago that he’d collapsed at her feet and writhed and convulsed as if possessed? She’d seen how the fit had come upon him so suddenly; how sickly he subsequently became. What she couldn’t reconcile was how he identified her and her friends as responsible. All she could think was how much he must hate them. Him, or someone else.
Despite what had befallen Peter, he looked hale. His shoulders had filled out, his face too; he’d regained any weight he’d lost. No more a lad, he was very much a man. A man who appeared cockier and more assured than he had a right to be.
Surprised to see her, he stopped and stared, then dropped his gaze.
‘Peter,’ said Sorcha. Afraid of what she might say to him, the blame she’d lay at his large feet, even if he wasn’t the only one responsible, she went to pass him. Before she could, he blocked her passage.
‘Mrs McIntyre, Sorcha, I —’
‘Have nothing to say to me. Nothing I want to hear.’ Sorcha regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.
‘Nae,’ said Peter bitterly. ‘I’m sure you save all your words for your fine incomer, don’t you?’
Chin high, Sorcha took a few steps past him, slowed, then spun around. How strange that Peter should raise Aidan when he was so much in her thoughts as well. Unable to help herself, anger flared. Whereas Peter Morton had been the cause of so much misery, Aidan had tried to effect happiness and hope — to protect her and others. That Peter dare speak of him in such a way infuriated her, especially when she knew he must have also played a part in ensuring the captain was no longer in the Weem.
‘Bit difficult to utter any words to Captain Ross when he’s stationed in Bavaria. Not even a witch could shout that far.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But I’m sure you and your friend the reverend know all about that.’
The look of astonishment on Peter’s face was a performance that almost outdid the one he had enacted daily for months in his bedroom. With a click of frustration, Sorcha began to walk away.
‘Wait,’ said Peter, running after her. He grabbed her arm. ‘Wait, Sorcha, please. I didn’t ken about Captain Ross. He’s in Bavaria, you say? Why? When?’
Sorcha shook his hand off and looked him up and down. ‘Why do you think? He was posted there weeks ago. I doubt I’ll ever see him again and I know who I’ve to thank for that.’ Once again, Peter couldn’t hold her glare.
The sky was darkening as thick clouds gathered. A flock of birds cawed their way north. ‘Now,’ said Sorcha finally. ‘I’m going home to write to the very same man. Someone needs to know what’s happening around here before it gets out of hand. Again.’
This time Peter let her go. Sorcha was astounded by the level of relief she felt.
That might have changed if she’d seen the expression on the lad’s face, how it altered or where he headed next, striding away with fuming purpose.
It wasn’t until she was inside her cottage, a piece of paper and her quill and ink ready, a small dram beside her, and had begun to record the latest events in Pittenweem, that the tightness in her belly started to unfurl. Not that she relaxed completely. Every footfall, raised voice and even the crash of the waves and the rain as it drummed upon the roof set her nerves on edge.
As night fell and the room grew darker and the downpour became heavier, she finished her letter. When it grew lighter, she would take the missive to Mrs Fraser and ask her to ensure it was sent. Then she carefully washed, using a perfumed soap, dressed in her best clothes, combed her hair and tied a fresh scarf about her head. Shaking out her shawl, she wound it across her shoulders, pinning it with her mor’s favourite brooch. ’Twas of a mermaid. Sitting with her legs stretched out before the fire, she soaked in the sights, sounds and smells of her cottage. The way the windows rattled with every gust; how the embers in the fireplace looked like living creatures huddled together for warmth. How the smell of dinners past melded with the briny scent of the ocean, the almost mint-fresh odour of the rain. How the wooden arms of the chair felt beneath her callused fingers, the fabric of the worn cushions almost silky through her skirts. How the plates in the dresser gleamed, the patterns swirling as if they too were alive in the shadows cast by the flickering light. With her hand atop the letter clearly addressed to the captain, she waited for dawn to herald what she knew would happen.
The guards would come for her. Just like Isobel, she’d be marched through the streets and to the Tolbooth. Only, unlike the last time she was there, she understood that on this occasion, despite what she’d written, despite the pleas they’d all make, there’d be no escape, not unless a miracle occurred or, worse, another tragedy.