The Last Witch of Scotland, page 5
‘We’ll swing for this,’ he said straightening up.
They all stared at the gruesome sight for several moments in silence.
‘Sim’s right,’ said Hector, who had regained some of his composure. ‘Strangers like us will find no justice here, regardless of the facts.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Ellen.
‘I’m not dancing the hangman’s jig for dirt like this,’ said Sim.
Everyone turned to Jack. He had never come so close to being killed and his mind seemed frozen in shock, but they needed a quick decision and he would not let them down.
‘We’ll dump the body in the river. That should hopefully give us a bit more time before the hue and cry is raised. Then we need to leave Edinburgh, fast and far.’
‘But where to?’ said Bess.
They fell silent again. In the end it was Sim who provided the answer.
‘Well, if no one else has any suggestions . . . I’ve always fancied visiting the Highlands.’
5
Parish of Loth, 9 March 1727
OUR CROFT WAS AROUND FIVE miles from the kirk in Lothmore and we travelled to the mid-morning service that Sunday as usual, Mother walking by the side of Abel while I rode him. Most people thought it was extravagant to keep such a fine animal when a sturdy Highland pony would do the work required for considerably less cost, but Abel was Father’s horse and neither of us could bear to part with a living connection to him, something with eyes that once looked upon his face and ears that once listened to his voice.
Despite the fierceness of our normal winters the one now coming to an end had been unusually mild, and from my elevated position I could see the occasional splash of yellow where patches of gorse flowers were announcing their early arrival. The seasons dominated everyone’s life.
This particular morning was bright and crisp, Abel’s breath making small clouds that disappeared into the air every few seconds. I was glad of the heat rising up into my body as I felt the cold more since the accident. In bad weather Mother rode behind me as neither of us was heavy and I suspected Abel preferred this as he could go faster. He tossed his head and snorted, as if reading my thoughts and confirming his current frustration at our slow pace.
‘I think we’ll miss our dear Reverend MacDonald,’ said Mother.
We had heard that our minister had had to make an urgent visit near to the town of Tain where his twin sister was seriously ill. Nobody we’d spoken to knew anything about the temporary replacement other than his name was McNeil, but I shared my mother’s misgivings. Our small, rotund minister was loved by his congregation and respected even by those who risked the wrath of kirk elders by missing a service.
‘I hope we can speak to Peggy without her husband getting in the way,’ she added, the welfare of her cousin having become a constant concern recently.
I walked the last half mile, partly because I didn’t want to appear haughty, and, if I was honest, I didn’t want to admit how crippled I really was. This close to the kirk we started to meet others on their way to the service and we greeted familiar faces; nearby tenants and landless cottars, tradesmen we’d employed such as the local blacksmith and carpenter. Few craftsmen made a living solely from their particular skill and, like us, they generally worked a croft as well.
We encountered the farmer who sold us our pregnant cow and he was so interested to know how it was doing that we had to give him a detailed account of the animal’s health. Gaelic rolled easily off Mother’s tongue. She was born in Caithness, so grew up with the language, and she taught me even though it was much less dominant in the Inverness area by the time I was born.
Inside the kirk’s entrance Mother added some coins to the collection plate, which was already filling up with farthings, halfpennies and pennies. This money, and that made by the mandatory hire of the mortcloth for burials, formed part of the alms that were handed out most weeks by the minister to the poor of the parish. Reverend MacDonald was particularly active in providing practical and spiritual help to the elderly, sick and those who had fallen on hard times.
Mother and I made our way slowly to the pew near the front where we always sat. Those who could afford it pledged a subscription so that they could sit at each service in what was essentially their pew or seat, while at the same time contributing money towards the kirk. Many wealthy people believed that being nearer to the front meant they were closer to God, and although neither Mother nor I agreed with this line of thought we did appreciate being farther away from the draughty entrance.
I liked the kirk in Lothmore. There was a beauty in its simplicity and when we sat in the pew, the thick oak planks worn smooth by the years of worshipping that had gone before us, I felt a connection to those people from the past. Mother believed Presbyterian kirks were too austere, too bare of anything to interest the eye. There wasn’t even a figure of Christ because of the association with the Roman Catholic faith and its use of icons. Since we’d moved to the area, Mother had never spoken openly of her time in Italy as she feared this might be unwise.
We greeted Mistress MacGregor, who always sat next to Mother, her husband and two sons spread along the pew and their dog on the floor by the boys’ feet. A few men tied up dogs outside, but there was no rule against bringing them into the kirk and there could easily be more than a dozen, snapping and snarling at each other so often that a kirk elder with a large stick was always on hand to beat the offenders.
Directly ahead of us, and immediately below the pulpit, sat Murdo, the precentor. He was also the gravedigger, session clerk and part-time schoolmaster. As there was no school nearby he visited people’s houses to instruct children, parents paying a set amount each quarter depending upon the subject. A large, dour man, Murdo was chosen mainly for this role because he had a loud voice. The sound he produced always reminded me of the occasion when I watched a cow give birth, although that event was slightly less noisy and significantly more melodious.
‘Almost full,’ said Mother. ‘I think the singing is about to start.’
This was a little joke between us. The problem lay not merely with the precentor’s lack of musical talent but in the method of lining-out used in Scottish kirks. Because books were expensive and many folk couldn’t read, the precentor would sing two lines of a psalm or hymn then stop in order to let the congregation repeat the words. However, people sometimes sang a different melody if they preferred it and unfortunately Agnes Munro, who always sat behind us, appeared to know only one tune. It felt like a minor miracle when this matched the words actually being sung.
‘The Lord’s my shepherd I’ll not want . . .’
Murdo stopped. As was the custom the congregation remained seated and a few moments later a sound erupted from the kirk floor that must have made the angels in heaven weep. I think every dog joined in apart from the MacGregors’ on the floor near us. As ever, he had buried his head under both paws as if in great distress.
I loved singing and had to force myself to ignore my surroundings. Mother tapped my thigh with a finger when Agnes enjoyed a brief solo because her phrase finished a little after everyone else and I had to clench my teeth in order to stop myself from laughing. This torment continued for many agonising minutes as lining-out was tedious beyond belief, but any humour in the situation died when the temporary minister walked into view and slowly climbed the stairs. His appearance had a powerful and immediate effect, with many voices simply trailing away.
It wasn’t his clothes, for they were similar to most Presbyterian ministers – black breeches and leggings on top of black shoes and with a long black gown. The only white items were his cravat and preaching tabs. Nor could you really say it was his physique, even though his extreme thinness was the opposite of what we were used to. Rather, the huge impact came from an aura of hostility, which made me think, although I didn’t know why, of a reptile. When he stepped into the pulpit the minister looked down upon us with an expression that seemed . . . angry.
There was a rigid format to a Sunday service and when the psalm was over we all stood for the first prayer, men removing their bonnets if they hadn’t already done so. The prayer normally formed a significant part of the morning but it was surprisingly brief. As we sat and Reverend McNeil stared upon us, I felt a strange unease creep over me. He gently laid down the Bible in his hand. As expected, he had no papers; ministers who relied on notes were viewed with suspicion.
‘Evil walks among you! It works beside you in the field. It eats at your table and sleeps in your bed! Look around. Yes, examine closely those sitting nearby because evil can enter even a house of God.’
Mother and I glanced at each other. This was not the type of sermon we were used to. Heads turned this way and that, people looking at family, friends and neighbours as if expecting to see someone different to the person who had sat there every Sunday month after month. I wondered if the minister was leading up to an attack on the Catholic faith or perhaps those who secretly held Jacobite sympathies. The last Jacobite rising had occurred only eight years earlier.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘Witches! There are witches among you!’
This caused a huge stir, with murmured comments flowing throughout the kirk. It was a sign of how shocked people were that they made any noise at all, as speaking during a service was severely frowned upon. The minister waited patiently before continuing.
‘You think that Reverend MacDonald has had to leave because his sister is sick. I say to you no! He has gone because it is God’s will that I should come here to root out the evil that has been left to spread like the pox. Remember the words of Peter: be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’
No one felt comfortable at such talk of witches, while many feared mentioning smallpox so openly would tempt yet another wave of cases. The country had been battered by the disease, an unstoppable tide coming back again and again. Within only a few minutes the minister had created significant unrest. Mother tapped my thigh and I leaned in slightly towards her.
‘Sowing mistrust is a dangerous seed to plant. It’s a crop that can so easily lead to violence.’
There was enough noise for there to be no risk of her whispered comment being overheard. I straightened up as people quietened down.
‘I tell you that in doing God’s good work I have come across women who have renounced their God-given baptism . . . Who have stood with a hand on the crown of their head and another on the sole of their foot and offered everything in between to the Devil!’
He paused, scanning the faces below as if seeking out a guilty expression. Many of the congregation found something of interest by their feet. The minister could certainly play an audience, his dark eyes blazing with such passion and zeal to do God’s work. Then they alighted on me and I felt a physical jolt throughout my body that left me unable to break his gaze, as if he was indeed a snake hypnotising its prey before striking.
‘I have seen women who have willingly given their naked bodies to the Devil in vile lust and depravity! I have seen the marks on women who have let the Devil’s imps feed at their breast!’
Mother gently laid a hand on one of mine, breaking the spell by her touch. She gave me a tiny nod of reassurance. After that, I didn’t let myself be controlled again regardless of how much the minister focused his attentions on me.
When we finally emerged from the kirk I thought that the fresh air had never felt so welcome. A breeze was blowing in from the sea and it carried the salty tang of seaweed from the nearby shore. Mother and I moved away from the rest of the congregation, who were babbling as noisily as excited children.
‘I didn’t like his apparent interest in me.’
‘No,’ agreed Mother, ‘that was unfortunate.’
‘For some reason I can’t explain there is something about this man that scares me.’
‘I know what you mean. He’ll believe he’s doing God’s work when the dead body of some poor soul is burning at the stake.’
‘Some poor woman,’ I added.
‘Yes. I’ve come across this type of zealot before, although not for many years. He’ll seek out witches amongst women.’
‘Because he hates them?’
‘Perhaps not in the way you mean. The words of John Knox and his like continue to echo down the generations. I suspect he hates what he sees as the enemies of God and thinks he is more likely to find them amongst women.’
‘Seek and you shall find.’
‘Mmm, well he needn’t go searching in our direction.’
We paused in our analysis to study those around us. No one appeared to want to leave and potentially miss an exciting incident that would no doubt be talked about for weeks to come. I sighed, wishing my father was here. I did every day. Even a man of the cloth would hesitate to threaten us if Father had been present.
‘Look, Aila, there’s Peggy by herself. Let’s take our chance.’
Even before reaching her it was clear that Mother’s cousin had a new bruise on one cheek. We embraced. She looked so fragile that I was frightened to hold her too tightly. Peggy was big with child.
‘Not long.’
‘No, Janet. April for sure.’
‘If you have no one else then you must send Butcher to us at the time.’
‘Thank you.’ Peggy lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think my husband will want to pay for a midwife.’
‘Perhaps we can pay her without him knowing,’ I offered.
‘I wouldn’t want to upset him.’
She said this as though merely being thoughtful of his sensitive feelings, rather than that she didn’t want him to have an excuse to beat her – not that he usually needed one.
‘Let me speak quietly to midwife Jenkins,’ said Mother. ‘I can slip her the birthing fee and when the time comes she can appear to offer her services for free.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Peggy. A single tear ran down her face and she hurriedly wiped it away as if it was something to be guilty about. ‘Mister Butcher, he would like some work if you have any?’
What she meant was that the brute wanted money and free ale for as little work as he could get away with. However, Mother and I were forced to hire someone for tasks like cutting and transporting peat, and Butcher was the only man nearby who was readily available. Before Mother could answer, Peggy’s expression suddenly changed and I thought that Butcher had approached without us realising. When we turned around, I found myself face to face with Reverend McNeil. Mother was quicker to recover her composure.
‘Reverend McNeil, I am Mistress Horne, the merchant, and this is my daughter, Aila.’
Like my father used to be, Mother wasn’t subservient towards those in authority beyond the necessary acknowledgement of their rank or social standing. She gazed steadily at the minister, waiting for a suitable response, but his eyes were fixed upon me as though I was the only other person present.
‘Reverend McNeil,’ I said, with the minimum amount of respect necessary. I met his stare and deliberately said no more so that he would be forced to set the tone of the conversation. It seemed clear that, with the entire congregation around us, he had specifically hunted me out.
‘Do you attend the kirk regularly?’
‘We do, Reverend.’
The question was put to me, yet I let Mother answer as was fitting to her status as head of our household. It angered me that he was ignoring her.
‘We attend every Sunday as Reverend MacDonald will confirm when he returns,’ added Mother.
‘But we do not know when that will be. Until then I am the minister in Loth and therefore your minister.’
I hadn’t thought such a comment could possibly sound like a threat, yet it certainly did coming from the lips of this man, who was now standing uncomfortably close. I was a similar height and refused to back down one single inch. This meant I was forced to endure the unpleasant experience of us both gazing into each other’s eyes. It felt painfully intimate.
‘And this is our good neighbour and my cousin, Peggy Butcher,’ said Mother, forcing him to move away from me.
The minister looked at Peggy for several moments. She curtsied, then we stood in an increasingly awkward silence waiting for him to speak. His expression was curious and I was still puzzling on this when Butcher arrived.
‘Reverend McNeil. I was greatly moved by your sermon. I hope my wife has been suitably respectful?’
‘I can see that your wife is a good and God-fearing woman and I expect you to be looking after her properly in her current condition.’
This concern for Peggy’s welfare was a surprise to me, and I suspected also Mother. It certainly was to Butcher, who seemed so taken aback at the comment that he was momentarily lost for words.
‘Yes, yes, of course, Reverend. My dear wife means everything to me. If you wish, I could show you around the area.’
The encounter was becoming stranger by the minute. I had never heard our neighbour refer to his wife with affection, nor offer to help anyone. The minister nodded and when he spoke again he was once more looking at me, as though his next comment was directed at no one else. His previous expression had returned, and the idea of a reptile once more came into my mind.
‘Yes, perhaps tomorrow you can show me where people live,’ he said.
I shivered. It wasn’t because of the cold.
6
North-west of Edinburgh, 13 March 1727
JACK PUSHED THE LITTLE GROUP hard and by the morning of the fifth day even Hector was tiring. The blacksmith was also worried about one of their three ponies, each of which pulled a sledge that was loaded with their portable stage, props and every other item they owned or needed to survive.
There was one addition. Malie lay cocooned amongst a pile of clothes, too weak to match the forced pace that they were making. No one had discussed whether the girl should come, even with her, and during the early morning after that terrible fight she had simply been bundled up with everything else in their frantic bid to get away.
