The minister having got account of this from Mr Cook, he sent for her [and] he threatened her very severely and commanded the keeper to put her into some prison by herself under the steeple least (as she said) she should pervert those who had confessed.
— A Letter from a Gentleman in Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705
Despite Sorcha’s fears, the constables never came for her. Not that night nor the ones after. Beatrix and Nicolas were not so fortunate. Being in Anster ministering to her ailing husband didn’t spare Nettie either. She was dragged from his bedside and, along with the others, thrown into the Tolbooth once more.
Not a day went past that Sorcha didn’t linger outside their prison to hear how the women inside fared. Racked with memories, trembling as her mind took over her body, she forced herself to knock on the Tolbooth door, plead with Camron, if he answered, to pass on the food she’d brought, the extra blankets and other comforts she knew all too well the women would need. It didn’t matter whether it rained, sleet dashed or icy gusts howled, there was always a group of people loitering nearby. Some would spit and call her names, reminding Sorcha that she too should be locked away. Others would turn their backs, pretend she wasn’t even there. She tried not to let them see how much their venom, aroused by dread and uncertainty, affected her.
When she couldn’t bear the hostility any more, she would walk down the High Street and stand in exactly the same place Aidan used to, willing Nettie to look out. It worked. Nettie would come to the window, push it open and wave. Sorcha would fix a smile upon her face and return the gesture, determined not to let her friend see the anguish eating away at her; grateful she couldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Guilt was a shawl she donned daily. She should be in there with them. Had not Mr Adam said she was named as one of the witches who tormented Mr McGregor? How she evaded arrest, she was yet to learn. From the looks cast in her direction, the shouts that followed her wherever she walked, there were many who felt she had escaped justice. God forgive her, every time she stood outside the Tolbooth, every night as her slumbering mind took her back to that cold, damp cell and the attentions of Mr Bollard, the reverend and the guards, she was grateful she wasn’t. She despised herself for feeling that way.
As the days passed, she learned that Isobel’s second confession, despite what they’d heard, was extracted after a series of beatings and pricking. A report on her arrest and that of her accomplices, along with Isobel’s signed confession, had been sent to Edinburgh. Camron told Sorcha that as far as he knew, none of the other women had been hurt, though they had been questioned. Through Camron, Nettie passed thanks for the blankets and food and said that while they were warmer than they had been the last time they stayed (Sorcha had choked back a sob; as if the Tolbooth was an inn, their internment a holiday), they lacked the one thing they sorely needed.
Sorcha understood. What Nettie meant was hope. They were lacking hope. Truth be told, so was Sorcha, especially since the support they’d once had from the townsfolk had all but evaporated.
Word in Pittenweem was that Edinburgh had played them for fools by forcing the early release of the witches, putting everyone at risk of sorcery and malfeasance. If Edinburgh wouldn’t look after them, they’d no choice but take matters into their own hands. Thank God for the reverend, people said. Sorcha felt like screaming.
Look at us! she wanted to cry out. You’ve known us our whole lives. Comforted us when we skinned our knees as bairns, shared your bannocks, blessed our unions with your sons and brothers, passed us your wee ones to hold when they were born; cried with us at funerals, celebrated when the drave was fine and the ships came home. Why, Beatrix’s husband had been the town treasurer, feted and admired. How many of those baying for blood had not only brought their ripped shirts for Isobel to mend, but fantasised about bedding her? Sought Nicolas’s herbs and lotions when they were hurt? How many had benefited from the work of Nettie and Janet?
Sorcha was forced to face the truth. Reverend Cowper had found his witches. In doing so, he’d not only divided the town, he now had the majority on his side. Sorcha was heartsick. Children started throwing clods of mud at her whenever she appeared and, as early snows fell, clumps of ice were aimed at her head. Cow and dog shit were smeared on her front door one night and even, after she’d been fruitlessly trying to sell fish around the outlying farms, left inside the big pot in her kitchen. When she came home one evening to find some of her mor’s plates smashed, and curdled milk spilled all over the chairs and bedding, she began to lock her door — unheard of in the Weem.
She may have been spared arrest this time, but in the villagers’ eyes, she was as guilty as if she’d flown on a broom through the night skies raining curses on all and sundry. If it wasn’t for Moira Fraser and a few of the others, she would have starved or frozen to death as winter descended upon them in a fury of storms, snow and gale-force winds.
It wasn’t just Sorcha who was targeted by frightened and zealous folk. Fishwives, even those who’d never been accused, were being refused service in shops, hounded wherever they walked. Unable to sell their fish as no one would buy from them, they ate what the men caught. They may not have earned coin from the extra catch, but at least they didn’t starve.
Along with Nicolas’s and Beatrix’s husbands, the other fishermen were denied ale and whisky at the tavern. Furious at first, the fishermen soon jumped back in their boats and rowed to Anster to drink at the Dreel Tavern. Although they were regarded with some suspicion, they weren’t rebuffed; coin was coin, after all.
To the people of Pittenweem, it was as if by turning their backs on all those who associated with the accused witches, they were somehow convincing the reverend, the council, God and even themselves, of their innocence. Scorning the witches’ families, friends and allies was a form of protection, a talisman against evil. With heads held high, they’d attend the kirk each Sunday and heed, with increasing fervour, Reverend Cowper’s sermons. Sermons that Sorcha knew were thinly veiled calls to act against malfeasance — threats against the likes of her.
Listening to the reverend, Sorcha marvelled that this man of God, who should be alleviating people’s fears, was exacerbating them. When he should be encouraging unity, he was fostering discord and suspicion. How was this helping the town? It wasn’t. It was destroying it and giving Cowper the power he relished. She could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. It shone in his eyes every time they landed upon her. A self-satisfied gleam that some might read as godly fervour. Without words, he was telling her she was next. Part of her wanted to whisper to him to come and get her; the other part quailed in terror.
After another dismal day and another fish supper, instead of retiring to bed and the consolation of dreams (not that they’d offered much of that of late), she found some paper and writing implements and determined to write to Aidan again, keep him informed of events. When she first wrote to him, she’d explained what had happened to Nettie, Isobel, Beatrix, Nicolas and Janet, sparing him her more dismal thoughts. Gazing out the window, she wondered where he’d be when he read her words. What he was doing? Was he safe?
About to set down everything, she hesitated. It wasn’t fair to subject him to her tribulations, her apprehension, not when there was nothing he could do. Picking up the quill, instead she wrote about winter’s arrival, the way the clouds gathered over the mouth of the Forth, billowing ever forwards towards the shore, emptying their load of rain upon the township, causing rivers of water to rush down the wynds to the harbour. How children and animals were to be found splashing in the puddles. She described how the masts of the clippers leaving Edinburgh with their mighty sails full would catch the early or late sunlight, appearing like a group of angels hovering above the water. She chronicled the small catch, what she was reading, and how often she prayed for his safety. What she didn’t write was how much she yearned for him. It was an ache so deep, it was like missing a limb.
In a postscript, she asked if he’d heard anything of Robbie. She didn’t expect that he would, but thought if nothing else, making enquiries about her brother might distract him from the danger he faced.
She sealed the letter and, once it had cooled, pressed the wax to her lips, closed her eyes and tried to conjure an image of Aidan. The jet-black hair and coal-dark eyes. The evening shadow that limned his chin and the angular cheeks that made him appear so very rakish. She thought of the warmth of his body, the feel of his lips against hers. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with her memories swamped her. She pressed her hand against her belly. She was so very lonely and not just for that, but for him and the pleasure his presence bestowed. All those she cared about in the world had been taken from her. Please, God, let Aidan not be taken too, forever and ever. Amen.
If it wasn’t for the women in the Tolbooth, she would have left the Weem. But when she tried to imagine packing her burlap, locking the cottage door once and for all and setting out upon the road, she could not think where she would go. She couldn’t go to her sister, that was evident. The city held no appeal whatsoever. All she really knew was this sea life — the fishwives’ lot and the comfort of her daily tasks. But after one particularly rowdy sermon that had half the congregation on its feet chanting and punching the air, looking about for someone on whom to unleash, even that option was denied to her. Cornelia Gurr, the wife of one of the boat owners and someone Sorcha had always had an easy relationship with, came to see her and asked her not to come to work at the harbour any more.
‘We’ve no need of you at present, Sorcha, what with the drave being so poor and no one buying.’ Standing outside the cottage, declining the invitation to come in and sit by the fire, Cornelia refused to look Sorcha in the eye. Instead, she turned her head towards the spire of the Tolbooth, squinting into the fading light. ‘Far better you remain at home and look to your own self. Look to your boat. Or, if you be inclined, do what some of the other lasses do nowadays, chase the herring up the coast. We’ll manage without you.’
‘Better for whom?’ asked Sorcha softly.
This time, Cornelia faced her. ‘For us all, lass. For us all.’ She hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind a wee bit of advice, I’d steer clear of the Tolbooth. All you’re doing lingering down there is reminding folk that you should be inside.’
First making sure there was no one to see her, Cornelia touched Sorcha’s arm. ‘This will be over soon. Then we can all get back to living.’
Her choice of words took Sorcha’s breath away.
Cornelia scuttled off down the road as if the hounds of hell were baying at her heels. In her mind, perhaps they were, thought Sorcha, trying to be affronted but feeling forlorn. Cornelia was right, this wasn’t living.
The next day, the men who’d been sent out to search for Margaret Jack and Lillie Wallace — who’d both been named in Isobel’s deposition — returned. The women had disappeared completely, thank God. If only she could too. But Sorcha wouldn’t leave while Nettie and the others were confined. Especially not now she knew it was because of Peter Morton that she was not.
Unable to withhold the information from her, perhaps hoping she’d look upon him with forgiveness, if not something more, the lad had followed her home after kirk last Sunday. Aware someone was behind her and assuming it was children up to mischief, Sorcha twisted around, fists raised.
Upon seeing Peter, she’d lowered her arms. ‘Och. It’s you.’ She continued walking.
‘Mrs McIntyre,’ cried Peter and ran to catch up.
‘I haven’t changed my mind, Peter. I’ve still nothing to say to you,’ said Sorcha glumly. The last thing she needed was this man trailing her. She could scarce look at him, let alone speak.
Peter grabbed her skirt and wrenched her around. ‘You could at least show me a little gratitude.’
‘Gratitude?’ Sorcha stared at him in disbelief as she tugged her skirt out of his hand. There was a tearing sound.
‘Aye. If not for me, you’d be up there with that lot,’ said Peter, thumbing in the direction of the Tolbooth.
‘What do you mean?’ Sorcha examined her skirt with exasperation. The rip was wide. She wished she really was a witch and could not only repair her skirt with a spell, but cast one that would make Peter Morton vanish. The thought made her lips twitch.
Mistaking her smile, Peter stepped closer. ‘I refused to corroborate what Mr McGregor said, to name you, that’s what I mean.’
Sorcha frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Peter pulled an impatient face. ‘When the reverend asked me to support Mr McGregor in front of the bailies and identify the witches, those he’d revealed had come to murder him, I said it couldn’t possibly be you because I saw you in your cottage that night. I said you never left it. After that, Mr McGregor couldn’t claim you were in his house. He withdrew your name.’
Biting back a sour laugh, Sorcha threw up her hands. ‘Why would you ever have thought to name me in the first place? Why would he? Like the others, I wasn’t there. Like the others, I was at home. That part at least is true. I’m no witch. Though, in case you’ve forgotten, you were ready to call me such once.’
‘That’s because he ma—’ Peter bit his lip. His eyes darted left then right.
‘He? Who do you mean, Peter?’ Sorcha closed the distance between them. Further down the street, a group of small children were chasing a chicken.
Burying his hands in his pockets, Peter shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. All I meant was I could have said you were one of them, but I didn’t.’
‘Nae,’ said Sorcha, her eyes flashing, her anger rising faster than a tide at full moon. ‘But you named innocent women, Peter. Caused them to suffer terribly before and again now. You’ve ruined their lives.’ You almost ruined mine. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’
‘Why? Why do you think?’ He leaned towards her. Their noses almost touched. His chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed. ‘Because they’re not innocent. They are the devil’s servants and they seek to recruit all of us into Satan’s army. Steal our eternal souls. I see they tried to steal yours too. Don’t you ken? In naming them, I’ve saved them. They’ll be baptised now, or if they refuse, God will give them their dues. You should be thanking me, not blaming me.’
Taken aback by his vehemence, his ignorance, Sorcha studied his face, the earnestness in his gaze; earnestness and something else.
‘If that’s so, then why didn’t you name me? If you think you’re saving them, then why not save me too?’
Before she could say anything more, he grabbed her face and kissed her.
His lips were hard. His tongue, clumsy and rough, plunged so deep into her mouth she almost gagged. His whiskers grazed her chin, his fingers dug into her cheeks.
She wrenched herself away, drew back her hand and slapped him with such force her palm burned. ‘You want-o-wut blaggard!’ Fury made her slip into local dialect. ‘You fasionless dowgit. How dare you!’
Peter lightly touched his cheek, which was fast becoming red, and staggered back from the heat of her rage.
‘What’d you do that for? Don’t you understand? Now your capt’n’s gone, you can be mine, Sorcha McIntyre. I can protect you.’
Sorcha gaped in disbelief. ‘You think I’d look at you whether the captain was here or not?’ She spluttered, ‘I’d rather be locked up in that Tolbooth and named a witch than have you ever touch me again, you hear? Protect me? You near killed me.’
Immediately, Sorcha regretted her words. God, she’d called the lad stupid and thoughtless, limp and downtrodden, as if he was an abused pup. His face changed like a summer sky before a storm as a welter of emotions came and went. She saw confusion, before hurt took its place followed by a hardening of his eyes and mouth. His hand rested against where his face flamed. Much to her horror, his eyes began to well. He dashed the tears away.
‘You’ll regret this, Sorcha McIntyre. You mark my words. You tell me you’d rather be locked up than kiss a man who gives you his love; who wishes you safe. Wait and see. What you said’ll come true.’ He tried to glare at her, but his swimming eyes relayed only sadness and pain. ‘And that’ll just prove the reverend right, won’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sorcha, wanting to hate the lad, but finding only pity.
‘I’ll recant and name you the witch that you are. A witch that steals men’s hearts and then fucking well breaks them.’
With one last look of loathing and longing, he turned and stomped down the road, pushing through the group of children, one of whom fell in a puddle and began to howl.
Something Sorcha felt like doing herself.
Just as word of the discovery of another coven of witches spread about the countryside bringing those sightseers prepared to brave the cold and snow back to the Weem, gentlemen from Edinburgh also came. There were a number of lairds among them — Randerston, Lyon and Kellie. Once again the lawyers, Mr Ker of Kippilaw and Mr Robert Cooke, made an appearance.
Insisting on interviewing each of the accused witches without either the reverend or a member of the local council present, they also asked to see Peter Morton.
Sorcha could only imagine how the lad felt about that, especially after he’d been sent home from the city in disgrace. Whereas the townsfolk had been in two minds about his treatment then, this time most were sympathetic and ready to defend his claims. Including, Sorcha imagined, when he named her a witch.
Ignoring the disdainful looks of those gathered outside the Tolbooth, Sorcha had risen before dark and found a position as close to the studded door as she could get. This time, if she was to be identified, she didn’t want to be hauled from her house or taken unawares. She wanted any announcements or news firsthand. No amount of pushing, whispered threats or loud insults were going to move her. Call her a witch, would they? Well, she’d bloody well act like one, she thought, glowering at the Crawford women.
By the time the sun rose, revealing a patchy sky of grey cloud washed with insipid blue, and the wind began to wail up the wynd, bringing with it the sounds of gulls crying, waves crashing and the shouts of the inshore fishermen from across the water, a sizeable mob was spilling into the High Street and milling around the Mercat Cross. The mood was dark. Many had already decided that it didn’t matter what the city toffs declared, the women were guilty and they all knew it.
Sorcha’s heart was a lead weight. In her bag she carried extra blankets, food and a large boat hook. If she had to use force and threats to clear the way for her friends, or defend herself, she would. She also needed to let Nettie know that Thom was bedridden. Unable to work on the foreshore, Sorcha had gone to visit him and Rebecca in Anster. It was evident Thom was not long for this world. Nettie would be crushed.
The town clock tolled midday before the first of the gentlemen emerged from the Tolbooth. Warmly dressed in fine suits and coats, with ruddy-coloured cheeks and fleshy paunches, they were a stark contrast to the dowdy Weem folk with their worn clothes and thin faces.
Talking among themselves, they were largely oblivious to the crowd who, despite bold assertions before the men appeared, parted without a murmur. It wasn’t until a pale face flanked by two burly guards appeared that the crowd reacted.
It was Nettie. Behind her was Isobel, her sweet face bruised and bloodied, then Beatrix and, finally, Nicolas. Sorcha’s throat grew thick. Her vision became blurry. They were there. They were alive. Thoughts battered her mind like waves against the braes. It was going to be all right. It was over.
Thank God. She was wrong. Cowper hadn’t won.
Blinking like startled owls in the light, the women stood together in the doorway. The guards used pikes to keep the crowd, who were becoming restless, back.
‘Nettie!’ cried Sorcha. ‘Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel!’ She waved her arm above her head to attract their attention. Nettie saw her and, with a wide grin, pushed past the guards and beckoned the others to follow.
From within the crowd, Mr Adam came forward, taking his daughter’s hand, ensuring no one shoved or threatened her. Mr Brown also appeared, using his stick to create space, and Mr Lawson. When the women reached Sorcha, she hugged each of them tightly.
‘Come, let’s get away from here. We can talk later.’ Sorcha couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, wondering if there was a guard waiting to take her into custody. Best not linger. She had what she came for.
‘Come to our house,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I’ll have the lasses run hot baths and Mrs Gower has a stew in the pot. More than enough for all.’
Pulling Beatrix gently to his side, he set off down Cove Wynd. Linking her arm through Nettie’s, Sorcha waited for Isobel and her father and Nicolas and her husband to go ahead, before taking up the rear.
They hadn’t gone very far when they heard a clamour behind them. Spinning around, Sorcha saw two guards holding someone between them. Thinner than anyone had a right to be, with greyish flesh covered in sores, her hair looking more like a bird’s nest than human, was Janet Cornfoot. Hacking and coughing, she stumbled along the cobbles, her dress tripping her up as her crooked toes caught in the ragged hem.
‘Dear God.’ Sorcha stopped. Unwinding her shawl, she pulled out the blankets she’d shoved in her bag and, leaving Nettie where she stood, ran to Janet. The guards tried to prevent her getting too close.
‘Simon Wood and Gerard Stuart. Don’t you dare,’ she growled. Discounting them, she wrapped her shawl around Janet and thrust the blankets into her arms. Then, slowly, carefully, she embraced the woman. She smelled of musty old caves, fear and hunger. Of nightmares and endless days of loneliness. She smelled of defiance.
Janet hugged her back, her grip weak but determined.
‘You’re here.’ Sorcha pulled away from her and scanned her face, took in the wrinkly neck, the missing teeth in the smile that Janet gave, one that even after all this time, reached her eyes.
‘Despite the bastards,’ said Janet. ‘And they’ll ken I am too, Sorcha. Mark my words.’
Before she could say any more, Simon and Gerard shoved her forward. ‘Sorry, Sorcha. We’ve orders from on high. Back to the cave with you, Mrs Cornfoot.’
‘You’re not free?’ began Sorcha.
‘Not yet. Not until the lairds and lawyers consider what I told them, then I’ll be released. But I be fine, Sorcha,’ said Janet, resting a curled hand on her arm. ‘I be fine. Hello there, Nettie, looking good, hen, looking good,’ called Janet. ‘You too, Isobel and Nicolas. But you, Beatrix, you’re still the same auld clash-bag you always were.’
Beatrix began to laugh. They all did. ‘And you too, you silly auld cow,’ cried Beatrix, dissolving into tears as soon as Janet’s back was turned.
They watched as she was led down to St Fillan’s Cave, the crowd at the top of the wynd jeering and shouting.
‘Why are they taking her back?’ Sorcha asked Nettie. ‘What’s there to consider?’
Leaning heavily on her, Nettie grinned in admiration. ‘What I understand, lass, is that Janet, the gennick auld bitch, recanted everything she ever confessed to the reverend. Better still, she told the men from Edinburgh she only said what she did the first time because the reverend beat confessions out of all of us. She warned them not to count anything that was said or signed before or now. That they were as false as the reverend’s claims to be a holy man.’
Sorcha’s mouth dropped open. ‘She said that?’
‘Aye. You can imagine Cowper’s reaction. He told the Edinburgh gents Janet was “a woman of very bad fame” and a liar. That’s why, when the lairds suggested Janet be kept in custody while they investigated her claims further but he was to release us, he didn’t complain. A bird in the hand and all. He has his witch — for now — and while he has Janet, he still has a hold over us.’
‘But surely they didn’t mean for him to keep her in St Fillan’s Cave?’ Sorcha watched as the guards fumbled with the locks to the entrance.
‘They’re not here any more to see where he holds her, are they? The cave or the Tolbooth, he’s obeying their instructions — keeping her under lock and key.’
Sorcha nodded slowly. ‘While he has Janet, he can use her to ensure our co-operation — make sure we don’t make things worse for him.’
‘And no doubt try to make Janet retract what she said.’
They stared at each other in grim contemplation, then, arm in arm, continued towards Beatrix’s house.
As they passed St Fillan’s Cave, Nettie shook her head. ‘If there’s one thing Cowper won’t tolerate, it’s being made to look a fool again — not by anyone.’
‘Especially not a woman,’ said Sorcha.
They walked in silence a while.
‘He won’t hurt Janet further, though, will he? He wouldn’t dare, would he?’ asked Sorcha as they turned onto the shore road. Waves rolled up on the sand before retreating. Rows of kelp had been dumped on the beach, forming a miniature breakwater. Fishwives roamed among the slippery cordons, lifting smaller pieces into their creels. Some were kneeling over by the rocks, prying mussels away. Maybe now they could join them again.
‘Nae, he wouldn’t,’ said Nettie, catching the direction of her gaze. ‘Not now those city gents know what he’s accused of doing. They’ll want to question her further. Us too, no doubt.’ Aware they’d been dawdling and the others were some way ahead, Sorcha and Nettie increased their pace. ‘You wait,’ added Nettie, satisfaction making her voice stronger. ‘Janet will be free soon. Then no one can touch her.’