The Last Witch of Scotland, page 1
First published in the UK in 2023
This electronic edition published in 2023 by
Black & White Publishing Ltd
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Copyright © Philip Paris 2023
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Philip Paris to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
This is a work of fiction and not intended as a historical or factual account. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HBK): 978 1 78530 450 7
ISBN (EBOOK): 978 1 78530 451 4
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Contents
Historical Note
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgements
Also by Philip Paris
Historical Note
During the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the ‘enemies of God’ were sought throughout Europe in every sector of society; men and women, the old and young, as well as the rich and poor. People watched out for signs of witchcraft amongst their neighbours, friends and families, while an accusation spread fear faster than an outbreak of smallpox.
In Scotland the church was particularly diligent. The Bible was clear ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ and in 1563 the Witchcraft Act became law in Scotland, making witchcraft a capital offence.
The last person in Britain to be executed for witchcraft, known as Janet Horne, was arrested with her daughter in 1727 in the Sutherland parish of Loth in the Scottish Highlands.
Dedicated to all those who suffer persecution because of their appearance.
1
Inverness, 7 July 1723
‘IMAGINE YOU’RE AN APPLE.’
I loved the way my father used words. He could paint a picture in such detail that I’d been known to wipe the salt spray from my skin after listening to a story about his life as a ship’s captain. My father craved new words like some men desired coin, women or power. He was an anomaly in the world in which we lived. Of course, I interrupted him, as expected, and he gave a theatrical sigh of exasperation, which was also expected.
‘What sort of apple, Father?’
‘Sweet . . . tender . . . a Grey Leadington,’ he added, anticipating that I would ask the variety. ‘And the apple is cut into two halves.’
‘Both equal then,’ I said.
‘Yes, exactly like the characteristics you’ve received from your mother and me.’
This was what lay behind the analogy. While we had been setting up our ale stall at the weekly market in the nearby Highland town of Inverness, we had started discussing how people became what they were. Like most of our conversations we were soon so engrossed and carried away by our enthusiasm that we forgot where we were and what we were meant to be doing, often to the annoyance of those around us.
‘So, what did I get from Mother?’
‘Well, your beauty didn’t come from me.’
‘Am I beautiful?’
I was sixteen, yet this question did not stem from a search for praise, rather it was a quest for a greater understanding of the reasons for attraction. I was tall compared to other girls of a similar age and my hair was as black as jet stone. My skin was smooth and, according to Father, my eyes were emerald green, although Mother felt they were blue. Whatever the reality, I had become increasingly aware in recent years of men watching me as we went about our day-to-day business of brewing and selling ale. But was this anything to do with beauty?
‘Leave that question for another day.’
‘What else then?’
‘You have her determination and strong sense of right and wrong . . . Her love of the land and nature . . . Of wanting to understand different cultures.’
‘What did I get from you?’
‘The most obvious are your height and strength . . . A thirst for knowledge, and an interest in the sea.’
‘My love of language?’
‘You get that from both of us, along with your intelligence.’
My father was not a vain man. To him his intelligence was simply a gift from God. There was no reason either to hide it or brag about it. The sin would be in not using the gift. He was also forthright, treating everyone as an equal and describing a situation as he believed it to be, whether he was speaking to a beggar on the street or a laird on his estate. This earned him respect from all but the meanest of souls.
It didn’t hurt that he overflowed with humour and cheerfulness or, indeed, that he was so big and prodigiously powerful. I once saw him beat off three men who were attacking a poor woman upon the road we were travelling then he insisted on taking her to our home so that Mother could nurse the woman back to health, which she did with a tenderness that made me weep, at least in the privacy of my box-bed. This example of how well my parents were suited often came into my mind. It did again that clear, bright summer morning.
‘A man could die of thirst while you two blether your nonsense!’
I had rarely met a man more unpleasant and certainly never one more like the produce he made than Inkster. He was repulsively smelly, sweaty whatever the weather and had something so unwholesome about him that you were always left with a nasty taste in your mouth. He had obviously waddled along from his cheese stall and been listening to our conversation without us realising.
‘Mister Inkster! I apologise. How could we possibly have missed such a presence?’
When he wanted to, Father could charm bees into bringing out their honey, spreading it on your bread and then enquiring if it was thick enough.
‘I should be able to sample that before I spend my money.’
This was a huge insult as our ale was renowned for its quality, yet we would never let someone unsettle us with such a comment and instead usually set out to make great fun of the person without them realising. It was a game my father and I played all too regularly and there had been occasions when I wanted to laugh so much that I had had to quickly excuse myself.
‘You’ve always struck me as a man of unusual wisdom, Mister Inkster,’ said my father, handing over a pewter cup.
Inkster looked suspicious, but my father met his gaze with an expression of total innocence. The cheese maker sniffed the liquid as if he suspected it contained arsenic then he swilled it around his mouth for an unseemly amount of time before swallowing. The idea of arsenic had its appeal.
‘It’ll do. A mutchkin of strong.’
‘Let me get this for you, Mister Inkster,’ I said, forcing my way into the conversation. ‘I expect you’ll enjoy it almost as much as the free sample you enjoy every week at the market.’
As I handed over the cup, filled to the measure of a mutchkin, he appeared to be trying to work out if my attitude was disrespectful. Although the cogs of his mind moved at the speed of maturing cheese, I had managed to irritate him, which, I should confess, was my intention.
‘Isn’t it about time your daughter was married? It seems to me that the firm hand of a strict husband wouldn’t go amiss. Women need to know their place and we men have a responsibility to show them what it is.’
I smiled, imagining my fist slamming into his fat, squat nose and putting him on the ground on his fat, squat arse. God, I would have enjoyed that so much.
‘It’s always interesting to hear the opinion of an educated person, Mister Inkster, but I’ve never believed that a man owns his daughter or his wife as though they were merely property to do with as he wishes.’
How I loved my father.
‘That’s where you’ve gone wrong! You can see it in her manner and hear it by the unnatural words she speaks,’ said Inkster, pointing as if he couldn’t bear to acknowledge me by speaking directly to my face, although I hadn’t missed his earlier sly glances. ‘And I thought you were meant to be clever,’ he added with a sneer.
There was a brief pause in the conversation then one of Father’s enormous hands shot out with such speed that Inkster yelped in fright, too slow to othe
‘That will be tuppence if you please, Mister Inkster.’
We would normally never rush a customer but Inkster gulped the ale as if his innards were on fire then he hurriedly put the cup down on the table before handing over the coins. For a moment he appeared unsure what to do.
‘It’s always a memorable experience to converse with you, Mister Inkster,’ I said with gushing respect. Father made a little noise that he turned into a convincing cough. ‘We look forward to your business again next week.’
The cheese maker glared at our smiling faces, muttered something under his breath and waddled away.
‘What a despicable toad,’ said my father quietly, just as the man turned to stare back at us. We waved enthusiastically and he continued on his way.
‘I think you’re being unfair to toads.’
‘Ah Aila, I believe you are correct.’ Suddenly, he broke out in a booming voice that made several people glance in our direction. ‘If there are any toads within earshot, I offer my humblest apologies.’
My father and I looked at each other and moments later we were bent over double, the world around us blurring through our tears. We were still laughing when Mother appeared a short while later. As was her habit, she had walked around the market while stalls were being set up to see who was present that week and what bargains might be had.
‘I’m not even going to ask what the pair of you have been up to. Goodness me, I can’t leave you alone for a moment without some mischief or other.’
Father walked around to the other side of the table and enveloped her in an enormous hug then lifted her off the ground as if she was a child. One of his many unusual traits was a willingness to show affection in public, even though this was frowned upon by many elders of the kirk. Mother always loved it, while always pretending that she didn’t.
‘William, put me down this instant! What will people think?’
‘Janet Horne, if you believe that I’m going to be influenced by what other people think then you don’t know me at all.’
‘That’s all very well, but it’s hardly dignified to be on view to every passer-by, dangling in the air like . . . like . . .’
‘A marionette?’
She slapped his arm, which had no effect whatsoever, but he gently put her down and kissed her forehead. Mother straightened her clothes and her dignity with a great deal of huffing and puffing, although I could see she was struggling not to smile.
‘Have you even sold any ale?’
‘Only to Mister Inkster,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m sure that was pleasant. Well Aila, there’s some good material on a couple of stalls but not much, so we had better make haste.’
‘I’m ready,’ I said eagerly.
‘I thought you might be.’
Mother was skilled at making clothes and had promised me a new coat plus other garments for the winter depending upon what cloth she could obtain.
‘I shall see you ladies later,’ said Father. ‘Try not to spend today’s profits.’
‘Well at the moment we’ve enough from your sales for a small piece of ribbon, so it’s a good job I brought money with me from home.’
The market thrilled me. Its conflicting smells, sights and sounds jostled for your attention with such force that your senses were shaken up with every step. Sometimes I wanted to shout out with the sheer excitement of it all. The assortment of goods on display was always staggering: live chickens and ducks flapped in cages alongside their already departed cousins hanging on an array of bloody hooks, while another few yards took you to a stall selling vegetables, fruit or preserves, or better still a craftsman like a leather worker or basket weaver. A queue was forming at the baker’s stall but I knew that Mother’s regular order would already have been set aside for her. Like most Highland people we didn’t have an oven, and used our girdle to make bannocks. Any chance to buy fresh bread was always grabbed at.
By noon, our stall and the one selling whisky would be busy with groups of boisterous men, although they were generally good humoured. For all its apparent chaos the market was well ordered and organised, with stallholders paying for their pitches at the nearby tolbooth and sheriff officers walking around throughout the day to ensure there was no trouble. There were also officials whose job it was to check the quality of goods on sale as well as confirming that quantities and measurements were accurate. I could never understand how Inkster got away with selling his cheese.
We spent a long while with the cloth merchant, buying several rolls of material and striking a deal that pleased everyone involved. Mother was a respected merchant in her own right, successfully brewing and selling ale long before meeting my father. It was a skill she had learned from my grandmother, who had learned from her own mother, an era when brewers were often females.
When she was a young woman, Mother had travelled around Europe accompanying a wealthy lady from a powerful Highland family. Her position had always seemed vague to me, much more than a servant yet not exactly a companion, although by the end of the journey there had apparently been as good a friendship as two people could have from such totally different backgrounds.
I loved her stories of these far-off places with their strange languages and buildings, their exotic foods and colourful clothes, their customs, religions and traditions, so different to what we knew in Scotland. As a young girl I dreamed often about the great Highland lady and imagined her to be a fragile, romantic heroine with a long line of handsome suitors. Yet to make her more real she needed a name and I pleaded constantly to know her identity. That was until the day when I was seven and Mother sat me down for a ‘serious’ discussion.
‘Aila,’ she had said, ‘do you understand the meaning of honour?’
‘Yes,’ I had replied, although both of us knew I really didn’t.
‘I only tell you these stories because I have not revealed who this lady is. To do so would break the great trust there had been between us. It would not be an honourable act and if I told you then I would never again speak of my adventures. It’s your choice.’
I had sat for some while before answering. My desire to know the true identity had existed for as long as Mother had tucked me up in bed with her captivating stories. However, not to hear them again or the untold ones that I knew were yet to come would be more than I could bear.
‘Father says that honour cannot be bought or in . . .’
‘Inherited.’
‘Inherited . . . and that we can only achieve honour by the way we live. To break the lady’s trust would be shameful. I will not ask again.’
Mother had hugged me so tightly that I almost couldn’t breathe, but I could tell she was pleased. I had given my word and never did enquire further, although over the years I still wondered at times about the woman whose journey helped to make my mother into the woman she was. In turn, of course, this lady had also influenced the person I had become.
One of the results of travelling so widely was that Mother had a vast knowledge about a wide variety of subjects and she knew quality when she saw it. She could also spot a liar or a charlatan with the precision of an owl falling upon a mouse.
‘Ladies!’ a voice called out from a stall ahead. ‘I can see you are women who appreciate an object of beauty and my wares have been produced by one of the most skilled artists in Italy.’
I had never before seen this stallholder, who was dressed in such a strange mixture of clashing items that I assumed it was an attempt to create an image of mystique or at least something foreign. He looked so foolish I wanted to laugh. Mother adopted her ‘disarming’ expression as we walked over to inspect his goods. If the young man was false he could hardly have chosen a worse country of origin for his produce, as Mother had stayed there for many months.
‘Italy you say?’ said Mother, carefully examining the highly painted vases and bowls on display. ‘And is that where you’re from?’
The man was so obviously Scottish that he hesitated in replying, probably wondering if the person facing him was a bit simple in the head and how far he could push his luck.
‘No mistress, but I worked there for years and although I’m not a craftsman I can appreciate the skill and time . . . That piece you’re holding, for example.’ He tipped his chin at an impressive-looking bowl Mother had just picked up. ‘You’ll not see anything so fine in the whole of Scotland. It’s a bargain,’ he said, quoting a figure that had probably changed second by second while he tried to guess how wealthy we were, and how gullible.
