CHAPTER 7 - Coffee in Edinburgh

24 October 1687

THE ROYAL COFFEE HOUSE was full by the time Scougall arrived, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of coffee – a drink which he had no liking for, but which was much praised by MacKenzie. He spotted him at the back of the room, reading a book.

‘Here, sit down, you look tired, Davie.’ MacKenzie smiled at his young assistant. ‘Some coffee will revive you.’ He signalled to the boy that he wanted two more cups.

‘I did not sleep well last night, sir. The execution left me in a state of… agitation. After dinner I read a book which I had bought from Mr Shields, a most engrossing, but disturbing work – Satan’s Invisible World Discovered.’

‘I have a copy, Davie. It was published by Reid in 1685.’

Scougall ignored MacKenzie’s comment. ‘Once I began reading, I could not put it down. By the time I sought sleep, it would not come. My mind kept returning to certain passages, especially relating to the troubles Sir George Maxwell of Pollock met from the Devil and his hags.’

‘I would have advised you not to attend such a spectacle, nor to read such a book after witnessing it. You have watched the death of an innocent woman,’ said MacKenzie sternly.

‘Witches are infecting the kingdom, sir!’ exclaimed Scougall, suddenly invigorated. ‘There is news this morning of delations in Ayr, Dumfries and Fife. A witch-hunt is started!’

The waiter arrived with two steaming cups of coffee. MacKenzie took a sip from his. Scougall let a small amount into his mouth, swallowing reluctantly. It was, perhaps, an acquired taste.

‘Our countrymen lose their wits,’ MacKenzie observed. ‘The kingdom is supposedly threatened by the charms of old women. Most are accused by their neighbours out of spite.’

‘Then you do not believe we are in danger?’

‘A fever takes hold of us, a frenzy of our senses. We seek to explain our ills by blaming others. It is a malady which has only afflicted us for a hundred years or so, Davie. Our histories have little to say of witchcraft before the great change of religion in 1560. Witches are the spawn of our reformation! The witch-hunt is a cancer which robs all of reason, whipped up by men of God!’

‘Are you saying there are not any witches? Sinclair warns of Sadducism.’ Scougall was troubled.

MacKenzie recognised that Scougall would have difficulty accepting his sceptical views on the subject. A debate could wait for another occasion. ‘I simply ask you to lay aside your prejudices. Apply reason to these cases. Do not accept what you read in the pamphlets of fanatics or what you are told by ministers. Think for yourself, Davie. Rosehaugh calls into question the legal basis by which many of these poor wretches are convicted.’ He took another sip of his coffee before continuing. ‘I accept that the parishes of Scotland are full of men and women who believe in witches, or who believe they are witches. But it is a delusion. It is superstition. The kingdom is in as much danger from the smoke from his pipe.’ MacKenzie nodded towards a man at the next table.

Scougall reflected on what MacKenzie had said. But his acceptance of witches was as firm as his belief in the existence of his own mother and father. The name of Rosehaugh did not sway him in any way. The man was a cruel persecutor of conventiclers, brave men and women who risked everything to worship God in the way they chose. MacKenzie was wrong. The kingdom was in danger. Satan was present in Scotland. An image from his childhood came to him. The face of a woman accused of witchcraft in Musselburgh. She was known to his father as she had worked as the servant of a burgess. His parents’ conversations were full of nothing else for weeks. And he had met the woman! She had even been civil to him, greeting him warmly in the street, seeming little different from the other women in the burgh. He had never seen her again. She was tried in Edinburgh, found guilty and executed. Her children and grandchildren were shunned, left to fend for themselves. Most of them died in poverty. Satan could destroy lives, innocent lives. He summoned up the courage to pursue the point.

‘I can only praise the ministers who root out such Devilry.’

‘May I suggest you leave aside the study of witchcraft. There are enough zealots in Scotland. It is a crime which masks others, revealing the very worst of humanity.’ Anger flashed in MacKenzie’s eyes.

Scougall yawned. He could not deny that the subject was interrupting his sleep. He knew the word of God on the subject. Witches should be put to death. The Bible said so.

MacKenzie sensed that it would take more than a conversation in a coffee house to overturn a lifetime’s belief. And the Presbyterians accused the Papists of superstition!

‘Let us change the subject, Davie, and turn to the reason I have asked you to meet me this morning.’ MacKenzie withdrew the letter from his leather case and passed it to Scougall. ‘Yesterday I received this from Lady Lammersheugh. She lives, or I should say, lived near Haddington. I have represented the family for years.’

After reading it, Scougall raised a perplexed face.

‘This morning I have word that Grissell Hay is dead, drowned in the Lammer Burn. She is to be buried two days hence. What do you make of that?’

‘She has foretold her own death, sir. Or at least she had suspicions that her life was in danger.’

‘I must follow her instructions. Her husband, Alexander Hay, died a couple of years ago. He was a client and friend. I travel to Lammersheugh tomorrow for the funeral. I will have little work for you over the next few days. You may rest your quill and practise your golf swing.’

‘Then I will leave town also, sir. I had intended to visit my parents. Now I have the time to do so,’ Scougall said enthusiastically before taking another sip of coffee. ‘We could ride together to Musselburgh. Take a meal with my family before you travel on to Haddington.’

‘That is a fine idea, Davie. It would give me great pleasure to meet them. Let us leave tomorrow at dawn.’