Burnt Offerings E-Book

Danielle Devlin

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 427

Beschreibung

How far would you go to save yourself when the truth can't set you free? Scotland, 1589. Besse Craw is a young mother whose husband has mysteriously vanished. And in a time when women were powerless, she is accused of witchcraft, abused by her employer, and destined to lose her daughter, her freedom and her life. Set during the infamous North Berwick Witch Trials, that saw many persecuted, tortured and killed, Besse uncovers long-held secrets as she fights for justice and truth in a world of suspicion and lies.

Leseprobe

BURNT OFFERINGS

Danielle Devlin grew up surrounded by stories. After studying for a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing, she won a place on the Future Bookshelf mentoring programme with a story that would later become her debut novel, Burnt Offerings. Danielle was a founding member, and senior editor, of Virtual Zine, a publication that specialises in amplifying the voices of underrepresented writers. She now lives in County Durham with her daughter, Molly, and a host of four-legged family members.

First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2023 byPolygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

Birlinn Ltd

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Edinburgh

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Copyright © Danielle Devlin, 2023

The right of Danielle Devlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 1 84697 616 2eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 539 6

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset in Dante 11.5/15pt by The Foundry, EdinburghPrinted and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

For Mam and Molly

OCTOBER 1589

‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.’

MARY SHELLEY

PROLOGUE

The sea boiled.

It boiled and it raged until the rocks wept and the dawn cursed.

The women of North Berwick gathered to thunder against the ferocity of the storm. Shouts and screams drowned out by the furious crashing of waves. Their eyes fell upon the fleet trying to make harbour. The king’s ships. Manned by town men. And all the while the sea was trying to swallow them whole.

Marion could think of nothing but her husband as the ships disappeared. Spinning. Turning. Sails cracking like thunder. She clung to her young daughter; all she had left of him. Both sodden with sea-spray and rain, barely able to hold their feet. She had begged him not to leave.

A widow in the blink of an eye.

‘Ma’ – she grasped at her mother’s skirts – ‘will Da be home soon?’

‘Aye, before you know it.’ Marion squeezed her tighter.

‘Will he have the doll he promised?’

‘He would never break a promise.’ The words tripped on her tongue.

Marion tried to shake the image of her husband from her mind, but it stuck like hardened tallow, gripping her heart. She knew her words were true, but it was no longer his promise to keep; now it belonged to the sea.

All around her, mothers, sisters, daughters clutched at each other, open mouths screaming at the sea. It would not help, for the storm was a wicked mistress who would not be beaten back by man nor beast.

They watched on as the king’s ship The Grace of God pitched and rolled, battered by waves across deck, slamming into the men and knocking them from their feet. Maybe the men were screaming, shouts drowned out by the sounds of the storm.

* * *

‘Lord, help us!’ a man cried out on all fours, spewing seawater.

The ship heaved again.

‘To yer feet!’ the captain called, the weight of his shoulders smacking into the wheel. He snatched at the small doll that almost fell from his top pocket, pushed it further in. ‘Get the ropes!’

To set sail on a Friday was ill-omened, the captain knew, but King James would not be dissuaded. His men had been mutinous but had agreed for fear of losing their heads. Who would trust him as captain now? If he survived, he would never captain another ship again. He had angered the sea with his folly.

‘Captain, we’ll be run aground!’ The sea water choked the deck hand.

‘On yer feet!’ the captain bellowed again. ‘This is for our king and queen.’ He didn’t believe his own words.

The deck hand tried to stand, but as slick as a seal he slipped across deck, and was thrown into the mast. Rendered as limp as a rabbit with a snapped neck.

‘Get him below!’ the captain roared over the sea. ‘The rest of you, hold steady!’

The captain had been in Acheson’s when the Dutch fleet had warned them about the reason why their crossing to Copenhagen had been so tempestuous. A half-truth, he’d thought, but the king would not listen. And now, as he was thrown about deck, the captain knew the truth of it. What would it take for the king to believe it? His men dead? His fleet at the bottom of the ocean?

The gulls were tossed paper, flashes of white as they tumbled against the gale.

The captain could see the pools of light flickering about the edge of the cliffs, like will-o’-the-wisps. Would it be his wife there watching? Waiting? With the rest of the women.

A gust of wind pounded the starboard side, sending the ship tipping and spinning off course.

The captain ground his hands to the helm. He had heard the Dutchmen’s stories of the limbs they’d tied to dead cats, casting them into the sea to call upon a tempest. He hadn’t believed them on his first crossing, but now . . . now there could be no other explanation.

‘This is the work of witches.’

Husband of Mine

This is where my story began. Not in the bowels of the Tolbooth or the trial that followed, but here.

Everyone called me Besse, but my name was Elizabeth Craw. I was born a bastard to a dead mother. I never really belonged anywhere, but everyone in Tranent took me for Agnes Sampson’s child.

It was a cold day. The last time the villagers had turned out in their droves like this, the sheep were dying. I had been no more than thirteen and Agnes was travelling. It was her that they’d needed, not me. What could I do? They needed a healer. What good was I? Agnes’s blood didn’t run through my veins. Those sheep died that winter.

On this day, Master Rivet had sent me out with a list of what he wanted from town. It was a small defiance, to sneak out when Rupert had forbidden it, but I’d rather risk his belt than disobey the man we worked for. I had everything I needed in my basket and was hurrying to get home when I stopped, and Jenny stopped beside me. I could already see what was there and it sent a shock to my heart. I put my hand out to block Jenny’s view, but it was too late for that. Too late.

From where we stood, we could see nothing beyond the pool of flickering light as they dragged her from the reeking pit, wide-eyed and smeared with blood.

Another flurry of snow blew against my craning neck. I could almost hear it sizzle as it touched my skin. Sweat trickled into my eyes as we pressed breast to back, vying for a better view. Pinned to the floor with no power over my own feet. I could not move. Like the others, we were drawn to the spectacle like moths to a flame. The smell of their overly ripe bodies clung to the back of my throat, choking me, like meat that had been left out to spoil.

Jenny peered through the ocean of backsides. I gripped her hand tighter and suppressed my gasp as they forced the poor creature through the crowd, towards the stake, its base littered with wood and tinder.

I should have carried on walking and spared Jenny, but what would be the point? There were few soft corners in our lives. Better the truth of what it was to be a woman, than a lie. Be forever on guard. Be forever weary.

The travelling Court Circuit had blown into Tranent like the wind from the Firth of Forth; in a squall of accusation and suspicion. The town’s County Bailiff, Master David Rivet, met them at Dirleton Castle and escorted them here. Three days I had been made to witness the town turn on itself. Now, they circled like corvids around carrion, carving up the rest of her possessions.

Through the crowd, her baleful eyes met mine. Cold touched my cheek as the snow fell faster. I looked at her with no more than a passing glance, for fear they would mistake eye contact for familiarity. Suspicion bubbled beneath the surface, like a boil waiting to be lanced.

I knew the story well. We all knew what could happen. Two days before the cattle were to be brought down from their summer pastures, they had all been afflicted with murrain and almost all had died. That night, she had been working in the tavern when one of the Douglas brothers came in to drown his sorrows. She was comely and soft, a fine figure of a woman, not the poor, gaunt wretch that stood before us. His wandering hands had advanced with every ale she’d poured. Any ear within spitting distance had pricked when she’d told him sharply to stop with his lechery. The next morn, he awoke to a face full of pustules, riddled with pox. It almost made me laugh. Were they so stupid that they thought we had the power to summon such things but did not have the power to escape the fate it brought?

The men that had been in the tavern that night had all pointed their accusing fingers at her. It was all the evidence they needed. It was no wonder that the cows had come down with murrain. Did I not have to take care? Being one who understood the lore of herbs. Wasn’t I the very one that might be standing there? Me with my witches mark, just below my right breast. She would be the first woman I watched burn.

Heavy ropes now snaked from her foot to her breast. She hung on the stake, as damned as Eve in the Garden of Eden. Above, the air was black with crows as they wheeled and flapped, cawing for their next meal.

A silence settled across the crowd as Master Rivet spoke. ‘You have been found guilty of using sorcery, witchcraft and incantations, of invoking spirits of the Devil, of abusing the town of Tranent with the devilish craft of sorcery. You are to be executed today, the twenty-eighth day of October, in the year of our Lord 1589 by burning until death.’

She made no noise beneath the bridle that bound her tongue. Her soft eyes closed and her muscles became languid as the last of her fight ebbed away.

A thin blanket of snow had fallen onto the wood beneath her feet as the man’s torch lit the kindling. I looked at Jenny, remembering her in her crib, the way her fingers played in mine, the way her cheek lay hot on my skin. I wished I had the power to give her safe passage through this life, but truth is, it would have taken a real witch to do that. As the fire took hold, it crept towards her chest, engulfing her. I prayed she would suffocate before she felt the flames.

I shrank back, pulling Jenny close. My eyeballs stung from the smoke that billowed skywards. The blaze swallowed her body, which writhed and twisted against the ropes. Her beautiful hand-stitched skirts were no more than ash. The cruelty of such a sight made me retch, forcing the contents of my stomach to the floor.

In the dying embers of the fire, she looked like a charcoal doll. Fragile, as though a gust of wind might cause her to crumble and be carried away on the wings of the crows.

‘Did I give you permission to be here?’

Startled, I whipped around to face Rupert. Dressed in his travelling clothes and his black hair scraped neatly back. I should have been pleased at the sight of my husband, but that wasn’t what I felt. Whatever we once had, had now turned into something else.

‘Master Rivet sent me fir tallow candles and mutton. We just stop––’

‘I ordered you tae stay home.’

‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I thought Master Rivet had sent you up to Edinburgh. I wasn’t expectin’ you home fir a few days, so when he asked me to collect th––’ I felt Jenny tense.

‘He did, but I had more work tae do. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow. Seems I’ve done mysel’ a favour, seeing as though my wife is intendin’ on whoring herself in my absence.’ He pointed a finger towards the pyre. ‘Is it him ye’ve come tae see?’

Shocked, I looked. Thomas Reed. I hadn’t seen him in twelve years. Not since the final night of our handfast, when I sent him away.

‘No, Rupert . . . No, I would never. It was you I married, please.’ I placed a hand on his arm. ‘I didn’t even ken he was here.’

Thomas had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showing his forearms, and his fair hair tumbled loosely about his ears as he cleared away what was left of the burning. A year and a day we had been together. Part of me had been relieved to end it. To know that my heart would not be broken every time he left to fight in another war. My heart did break, but Rupert had been there to pick up those pieces, mending them into something that was never quite whole.

Thomas turned and caught me staring. His face creased into a smile.

‘Home. Now. You’ll wait fir me there.’

I dropped my head and turned, hiding my face, and started walking. My heart hammered. Perhaps Rupert hadn’t seen me glance at Thomas. I hurried through the crowd, dragging Jenny with me. It wouldn’t pay to be late home – I was already in enough trouble.

* * *

I pushed open the door to the cot-house and closed it behind me, abandoning my basket on the table.

‘Straight to yer room, Jenny, and don’t come out until I say.’ I kissed her on the top of the head.

She nodded and disappeared through the doorway.

I set about lighting the fire and was clearing away the clothes that I had left out to dry when I heard the click of the latch.

‘What did you think you were doin’, deliberately disobeying me?’ Rupert growled, swinging his leather belt to and fro. ‘Yer my wife – you’ll do as yer told.’

‘I’m sorry . . .’ I said, backing away towards the hearth. ‘You ken I only meant tae get what Master Rivet had sent me for. Look . . .’ I pointed to the basket on the table between us. ‘We only needed tallow candles and mutton, but it was so busy and Jenny wanted tae watch. I had no idea he would be there.’ That’s when I felt it, just below my belly button.

‘So, my daughter thought it fit to disobey me as well? ’Tis a small comfort that she witnessed what comes of being a wayward, foul-mouthed bitch.’ He watched me through narrowed eyes, circling me. ‘You’ll recall what I told you when I left this morning?’

I remembered every word.

‘Aye, we weren’t tae leave until you returned, but if I hadn’t fetched Master Rivet what he’d asked fir, he would have had me flogged!’

‘You’re my wife. You belong to me. Not Rivet.’ His face grew dark.

‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I promise, I’ll never do it again.’ I moved, trying to keep the table between us. ‘If Master Rivet asks me next time, I’ll tell him he must ask you when you return from collecting his rents.’

‘Yer right, you’ll never do it again.’ He edged further around the table. ‘When did he decide tae make a reappearance?’

‘Who?’

‘You ken very well who . . . Thomas Reed!’ he bellowed.

‘I haven’t seen him in twelve years. Not once, Rupert. I would never—’

‘Disobey me? Oh, I think you proved you would. A good hiding might make you consider yer actions next time. Bring out my child. She can feel the strap first.’

‘Rupert . . . Please, it wasnae the bairn’s fault. I asked her to come.’

‘She needs tae learn there are serious consequences when a daughter disobeys her father.’ He flicked the strap. ‘Ye’ve both done me wrong.’

‘Please, Rupert, I forced her tae disobey you,’ I quavered. ‘You cannae blame a child fir her mother’s transgressions.’ I reached out to touch his hand, trying to make him see sense. ‘It’s me deserves ’em, not Jenny.’

He watched me closely, toying with what he might do next.

‘Have it yer way,’ he said finally. ‘Kneel and lift yer skirts.’

* * *

Rupert’s snores rattled through the rafters. I lay staring at the ceiling. I had brought it on myself. I should have known it would anger him. I should have known better.

He had changed in the year since Master Rivet had him travelling back and forth to France. He had become cold. Distant. Raised his fists more. War could be hard on men. I’d seen it so many times before, but we’d get back what we had. I was sure of it.

Rupert didn’t cheat on me, and he didn’t drink the way his father had. He liked to gamble, but what man didn’t? I’d leave him if he ever went too far. He wasn’t like Jonet Muir’s husband, beating her half to death. Rupert was only being a good husband, after all, as my actions were a reflection on him. It was his duty to keep me in check.

Every movement made me wince. I was reluctant to get out of bed for fear of waking him.

I had been willing at first and did as I was asked. After the third crack of his belt, I could stand it no more. In the struggle, I kicked over a clay pot and sent a pan of milk skittering across the floor. I’d crawled to bed, too shocked to clean up the mess.

I tentatively manoeuvred myself to the edge of the bed, still wearing yesterday’s dress. Hesitating as he stirred, I got to my feet and slipped unnoticed into the kitchen. The smell of milk on the turn sent my stomach rolling. I tiptoed through shards of splintered clay and milky puddles on the floor to fetch the broom. I couldn’t allow Jenny to see the devastation.

I busied myself on all fours picking up the biggest pieces. I hadn’t spoken to Rupert since he’d allowed me to bed. Nor did I want to.

‘’Tis a bit of a mess, aye?’

I stiffened. I could feel him behind me like a wraith.

‘It won’t take me long to have it all cleaned up.’ I gathered the last of the pot together.

‘Come here.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me close to his chest, kissing my forehead. ‘I’m sorry fir last night. You ken how much I love you and I don’t like tae discipline you, but you will insist on disobeying me, forcing me tae take the strap t’you. I dinnae ken what I was so worried about – Thomas Reed wouldnae want a woman who cannae bare him a son.’ He raised my chin with his hand and pressed his lips to mine.

He was always sorry. So was I. He never said the words, but I could tell by the look on his face that he knew he’d gone too far. There it was again. A fluttering in my stomach, so faint I almost missed it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I should never have looked in Thomas’s direction, but I faltered at saying the words I love you, after such a beating. ‘I’ll not give you cause tae do it again.’ I flushed and turned away, clearing away what was left of the mess.

‘No, I promise . . . That was the last time.’ He grinned, showing a glimpse of the man I’d fallen for. ‘What do my two ladies have planned today? Chores fir Master Rivet, no doubt?’

I knew the way it could take hold of him. The way the beast rose inside. He tried his best to resist it, but it was a sickness. A sickness even my mother did not have a cure for. There would be no more outbursts now. We would be safe. At least for a while.

‘Aye, I have my chores and then I have tae head into town tae meet with Agnes.’ I needed to see my mother. I needed to know for sure. My heart couldn’t take another bloodied chamber pot.

‘I thought we’d agree ye’d have no more to do with yer mother’s healing?’

‘I promised I willnae help with any healing. I want nothing more to do wi’ it, but I cannae deny my own mother.’

The atmosphere changed like the roll of a storm.

‘I never asked you tae deny yer own mother. Surely you can see that it will do no good in these times to be associated with healing?’ He didn’t sound angry, but then, he never did.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing he would never believe me. ‘I’m only visiting with her and helping with some of her chores.’ I got to my feet.

Sometimes, if I looked away – if I carried on normally, kept walking – it would be enough to calm him. I tried to walk past him, but he grabbed me by the arm, nails digging into flesh.

‘You think I’m a fool?’

‘Rupert, please, you’re hurting me.’ I could hear the pitch in my voice rise. ‘Rupert, you ken I would never think that of you.’

His grip tightened and he pulled me closer, deciding what to do next.

‘Please, you’ll wake Jenny,’ I said softly, pleadingly.

It was enough. His grip loosened and his arm fell by his side.

I stumbled back. What happened next would depend on me. I thought of the baby that might be growing inside me. I took a deep breath and picked up the pail. ‘When is it you leave fir Edinburgh?’ I swilled the floor of milk and watched from the corner of my eye as his muscles relaxed.

‘As soon as I’ve finished breakfast. Master Rivet is allowing me to use one of his horses, instead of that old nag of ours.’

My husband never liked to look poor. He had recently taken to wearing the finest of clothes, French from the cut of them. He always said there was no point in a man looking poor and being poor, he needed to dress as the man he intended to be. It was a costume to him, like that of a jester but he knew of no acrobatics or juggling. My husband’s greatest trick was to make women fall in love with him and the monster beneath the finery.

I stopped and hurried to the fire to put on some eggs. It wouldn’t do to leave my husband hungry. He would be quick to anger again, so soon after the trouble I’d already caused. He came behind me and slipped a hand around my shoulders, his breath tickling my ear. ‘Will you keep the bed warm fir my return?’ He patted my behind.

I winced. ‘Aye, I’ll be waitin’ fir you.’

‘I’ll make sure tae bring you a gift from Edinburgh?’ He slipped his fingers over mine, stroking them with a touch like a feather. ‘A beautiful ring, fir my beautiful wife.’

Another trinket to go in the mausoleum of gifts that I’d never wear.

The last time we had gone through this whole to-do, almost a month ago, it had been over the nanny goat getting loose. Jenny had left the gate open. Rupert was right. I should have gone back and checked, but I was so tired from the chores. I had been so lazy.

‘Almost cost us the goat. I dinnae have money tae be replacin’ livestock,’ he’d said.

It was funny, I thought, he always seemed to have money to gamble.

‘No harm done. The nanny is back safe and sound,’ I’d said as I cleared away supper. ‘She’s only a wee girl.’

‘As her mother, it was yer duty tae make sure she’d done her chores.’

‘As her father, you could have checked it on yer way home.’

Right there. Every time. I brought it on myself.

He never punched me. Nothing so crude as to leave bruises for my mother to see.

The next morning, I’d walked into the kitchen to find him whistling cheerfully and making breakfast. He glanced at me and smiled, as though everything was normal. Were we normal?

He always knew just what to say. Just like today.

I turned and kissed him.

Deadly Nightshade

I need to leave him.

Sometimes the thought came so suddenly, it felt like a jolt of lightening. I needed to take Jenny and get as far away from him as possible. One day, while he was away collecting rents. He would come home to find us gone.

But I had forsaken all others. To love, honour and obey, for better or worse, as long as we both shall live. My life was to be one of obedience and duty. It was not a woman’s place to leave her husband.

Today the thought came as I cleared away the flour and scrubbed the table, to rid it of the smell of yeast. I’d left the day’s bread cooling on the sill. I needed to finish my chores for Master Rivet and tend the goats and prepare for Rupert’s return. He’d be home by supper.

‘Come now, Jenny. I haven’t got long,’ I called. ‘I have the pigs to tend to and I must go into town and fetch the apothecary fir Master Rivet; he’s feeling under the weather.’

She trundled through like a goose, dragging her feet all the way.

‘But, Ma, why do I have tae go?’

‘You heard yer father; we mustn’t disobey him or Master Rivet. Hurry now and get yer cloak on.’

I knew Jenny would have rather been out with Willy and the other boys, but if I allowed it and Rupert found out, neither of us would be able to sit in a saddle for a week. I picked up the basket and headed out of the door, letting the latch click behind us.

We walked into town, the long way, past bare, weed-filled patches and lazy oxen. Coming towards us were three women, each of their faces looking as worn as their dresses. The first carried spinning and mending, and the others trotted behind, all of them farm servants from the neighbouring cot-house.

‘Good morning,’ I said, as they passed.

The first woman scowled at us, and the other two turned aside, tittering.

We carried on walking past the small church and its empty graveyard. I touched a finger instinctively to the rosary hidden beneath my clothes, a crime that could see me banished from Scotland. Since the Reformation, the churches had become like mausoleums. Inside, they had taken all the paintings down, leaving sombre walls, visited only on a Sunday.

It came again. A tiny quiver, faint and soft as anything. Reminding me it was there. I’m here, Mother, it whispered.

We followed the weathered track as it twisted through thinning trees, emerging near the entrance to the apothecary. A small and very precise queue had formed. We fell in line and waited to be allowed inside.

There was a shift in the air, a murmur that rippled amongst us, causing all our heads to turn.

‘Who is it?’ Jenny asked.

‘A young woman,’ I whispered.

‘Harlot,’ hissed another.

The lady’s presence sailed past us and was escorted over the threshold, missing the queue. A woman like that wouldn’t need to go shopping, she could have sent a maid. Probably taking a walk to the apothecary to fill her time while her husband was out hunting. Rich women were allowed their whims; the poor simply had to humour them.

Jenny and I reached the doorway and were permitted inside.

‘I’m here tae fetch the order fir the Rivet house, and he’d very much appreciate it if the apothecary could attend. Master Rivet is feelin’ very much under the weather.’ I handed over a small slip of paper to the woman with the pinched face, who regarded me coolly.

The corners of the lady’s mouth cracked into a smirk as she glanced down at the shopping they were placing in her basket, enjoying every minute of their attentions.

I felt uneasy. Jealous, even. The apothecary was expensive, something I could ill afford. I felt around inside my pocket, gripping on to the only two shillings I had left.

‘Ach, I’m sorry, Besse,’ said the woman, passing judgement from behind her counter. ‘We’re goin’ tae need Master Rivet tae settle the bill before I can let you take it.’

I felt my face flush.

‘Rupert must have forgotten to pay it,’ I flustered. ‘How much did you say it was again?’

I could feel Jenny tugging at my dress.

‘It’s three shillings.’ She tapped her fingers impatiently on the counter.

I felt around for my purse, to keep up the pretence.

‘I only have a shilling with me.’ I handed her the coin. ‘I’ll get Rupert to drop the rest in?’

‘I cannae, Besse, I’m sorry.’

‘We’ve been good customers all these years.’ I tried to sound indignant, but I only managed to sound ashamed.

‘I’ll settle the bill,’ the voice behind me said.

‘No, please, I’ll no’ hear of it. I’ll just run home and get the rest from Master Rivet.’

‘Please, allow me.’ Her voice was thick like velvet, with a hint of French about it. ‘Three shillings, did you say?’

Now, as I looked at her, I could see how much she glowed. Pregnant, maybe six months. She slipped off her glove and counted out the coins. Married to a gentleman, no doubt. A man who wouldn’t lay his hands on her; she’d see her baby grow. I placed my hand instinctively over my stomach.

‘No, mistress, I couldn’t accept it. My husband will be home this afternoon to settle the account.’

She took a hand in mine. ‘I have more than I need. I’m only here a short while. My poor husband has been travelling between Scotland and our home in France for almost twelve months. This is my first and only visit to your beautiful country. My husband has the last of his affairs to settle and make arrangements for his young child, and then we return to France, as a family, permanently. Please, take it as a gift.’

I studied her. Mibbe her husband was a little like mine, after all? Absent most of the time. But a gentleman, at least, who would settle his affairs to be with her. To be with his family. Rupert had always been good at that, letting a woman know just what he thought she should hear. Just enough bait to snare her, to keep her on the hook wriggling and squirming until he showed her who he really was. Showed me who he really was. I handed back the parcel, wrapped in paper, to the woman behind the counter.

‘No, I won’t hear of it, but thank you all the same.’

I hurried outside, moving as fast as my thoughts; past the same queue, my mind turning as to what conjuration I could give Master Rivet, disguised as an apothecary remedy. As if in answer, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement.

‘Besse.’ A voice fluttered by my ear.

I whipped around to be met by Jonet Muir. A small, round woman of around fifty. Her neat, fair hair was covered by her cream shawl, but it couldn’t disguise her sunken eyes and haggard expression.

‘I’ve been trying to find Agnes, but I’ve been up to Leaplish and there’s no sign of her.’

If my mother had been home, she would be found at the bottom of the garden, beneath the curves of the bare trees which coiled into the entrance to the forest. Never still, flitting around like the bees she tended and from spring she’d be tending her herbs, collecting plants and trimming stems to make curious tinctures. My mother had a certain ill fame among the people of Tranent. If she wasn’t in her garden, then the only explanation was that she was travelling.

The faint tremble in my stomach reminded me of the urgency of needing to visit her.

‘What is it that you were wantin’, Jonet?’ As if I wasn’t in enough trouble with Rupert: I promised him I’d have nothing to do with my mother’s healing. ‘She’s travelling.’

A look of horror passed across her face.

‘I . . . I . . .’ she stuttered, unsure of how to go on. ‘It was something fir my husband.’

As she said it, I knew. The whole village did. My mother could say what she liked about Rupert, but he’d never broken a bone. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t drink. Not in the way Jonet’s husband did. Rupert was no monster. He could lose all our earnings on two flies climbing up a wall, but show me a man that didn’t like to gamble?

‘Is there something I can do?’

She pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head.

‘What is it you were after?’ I said, careful of who was listening.

‘He comes to me at night, his fists full of drunken rage. Yer mother said she’d help. She had something tae help him sleep. Something to stop him.’

I stiffened. There was only one herb that could do that. Belladonna. Just enough to make him sleep, before he got good and drunk. Something to take the edge off his fists. What had my mother gotten herself into?

‘Jenny, will you just run back up to the apothecary.’ I fished around inside my basket. ‘I seem to have left my purse on the counter, hurry now.’

I watched as she disappeared into the thinning crowd.

‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’ I hissed. ‘Do you understand what it is yer askin’?’

She nodded, her eyes rimmed red. ‘Today is his birthday, and he’s been out drinking since sun-up.’ She shook her head in desperation. ‘I cannae . . .’ Her shoulders sagged.

‘I can get it, but not here.’

Not twelve hours had passed since I’d taken a beating for disobeying my husband, yet here I was again. Master Rivet was unwell, and I was meant to be finding someone to help. What did I think I was doing meddling in affairs I knew nothing about?

‘I can pay you what I was going tae give yer mother?’

Jenny appeared at my side, like a lost lamb, tugging at my shirt sleeves. ‘Ma, they––’

‘Just a second, Jenny. Pay me only what you can, Jonet. I’ll not see you without.’

‘Ach, Besse, yer Agnes’s daughter alright,’ said Jonet.

If she gave me enough, I could pay what we owed at the apothecary.

‘Aye, so they keep telling me.’ At least Rupert wasn’t in earshot. ‘I have tae prepare dinner for Master Rivet before I can steal away. Meet me in the usual place. I’ll fetch what you asked for.’

She disappeared into the crowd, and I turned to Jenny. ‘What is it, lass?’

‘Ma, the woman at the apothecary said you didnae leave yer coin purse there, said you must be mistaken.’ She twisted her skirt between her fingers.

‘I’m sorry, my wee one, I shouted after you, but you were already gone. It was in the bottom of my basket, after all. No harm done.’

Her face split into a twinkling smile. I placed a hand on hers. ‘Come now’ – I tugged at her small wrist – ‘the mutton isn’t going tae stew itself and you have mending that needs finishing.’

‘Never mind the mutton,’ came the voice of Allison Balfour, standing with a group of women, like a coven. ‘How is that lovely husband of yers? I haven’t seen him around in a wee while.’ Her nose turned up in the air.

‘Aye, what’s he up to these days?’ said Isobel Gowdie, smooth as butter.

My neighbours had always taken to Rupert.

‘Ach, he’s just fine.’ I waved a hand. ‘He’s out collecting again.’

‘Oh, aye, always was a good boy, even when he was wee and the bailiff took him in,’ said Marioun Lowrie her eye on Jenny. ‘Isn’t it about time you had another one, Besse? Add tae yer brood? I’m sure Master Rivet would enjoy havin’ more children about the place, bein’ as he has no granbairns of his own.’

The shock of her saying it hitched my breath. ‘One day, mibbe, aye.’ I forced the words out, the lie hanging thick on my tongue. Was I with child already? ‘But, what with Rupert always away . . .’

‘Speakin’ o’ that, have you seen Agnes? Only that husband of mine, well, he requires her services.’

As Jeane said it, I knew what kind of salve she was referring to – the whole town knew – and it was something far beyond my knowledge.

‘Jonet, I dinnae want tae hear of yer husband’s private parts again,’ said Marioun. ‘Every time you mention it, I feel my breakfast tryin’ tae revisit me.’

‘You ken my mother is a law unto herself,’ I said. ‘I cannae say fir definite but Rupert, I’m expecting him back this evening.’

Just the mention of Rupert being home would be enough to discourage any unwanted knocks on my door in my mother’s absence.

‘Showering you with wonderful gifts, no doubt, when he returns,’ Marioun said with a click of her tongue. ‘I wish my husband thought as much of me.’

I smiled, casting my eyes to the ground before walking away.

* * *

For a moment, I had thought he might return early as a surprise, arms laden with gifts of sorrow, and put his arms around me and plant soft kisses on my cheek, promising that he will never raise his hands to me again.

He wouldn’t. That was not my husband. He would bring a small trinket of his own choosing and I was to be eternally grateful. I had been born with no gifts, like my mother. The only gift I had been cursed with was to know my husband to the bone and be powerless to do anything about it.

Before I could steal away, I left him warm supper and a whisky. The last time I had been called away at such a late hour, I had left the table bare. I returned near dawn, tired and slick with rain. I hadn’t seen him in the shadows. Waiting. I peeled off my wet things and warmed myself in the last glow of the fire beneath the hook cradling the pot that I’d been using to make candles.

I’d bent forward, picking at my skirts and shawl. As quick as a fox, he was on me. His hand coming up fast and connecting with my ribs. Before I could feel the pain, he had spun me by the elbow to face the fire. Streaks of red and orange flashed in my eyeline before the burning, throbbing pain across my ankles as they were struck with the pan from the hearth, spilling molten tallow over my stockings.

‘That’ll teach you to leave yer husband without a warm meal,’ he’d said as calmly as though he were passing the time. ‘Where’s my supper?’

Tears had sprung from my eyes as I pulled together scratchings of cheese, piece of torn bread and the last of the gannet I’d salted. I’d tried to disguise my limp, but every time I moved my foot, I could feel the cloth tugging at my flesh.

His eyes passed over my offering.

‘A good wife would never leave her husband without his supper.’

When I’d finally taken off my stockings, the top layer of skin had gone with them. Leaving an oozing redness that I’d spend weeks smearing with honey. The scars, though fading, were a constant reminder.

‘Jenny,’ I called as I covered my hair with my plaid. She trotted over obediently. ‘I’ve left yer father’s supper on the table. Now, he’ll be tired from travelling, so you must stay well clear of him, you hear? And when he asks where I am, you tell him I’ve gone to tend Master Rivet in his sickness.’

She nodded and went back to the remains of the game she had been playing with the old farm cat, black as ink, who, more often than not, had become a master at avoiding her.

Letting the latch click behind me, I walked to the edge of our small patch of land. A candle burned brightly in Master Rivet’s bedroom; he’d be pacing the floor, no doubt. I’d tend him in the morning. My shadow passed quickly beneath the sill and disappeared behind the treeline. I had walked this journey a thousand times in the daylight, but tonight, knowing the lies I’d told, it seemed so much darker. It was strange how something so familiar could become so unknown in the darkness.

When the noise came drifting through the trees, it was as if the world had stopped. I could hear my own breath. In out. In out. A rhythm that shuddered against the cold, spiralling from my mouth like smoke, hanging in the air. Did I hear footsteps? I stopped and listened, holding my breath. Nothing.

The fear awoke something in me, so primal that my body felt as though it was about to burst from its skin. My heart beat in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Then I heard it, behind me, leaves crunching beneath a heavy foot. I quickened my pace without looking around. It matched mine stride for stride.

The trees were sparse, but there was no way through. One way in. One way out. The watermill loomed before me, if I could only get behind it. I kept walking, faster now; feet and skirts catching on the undergrowth. I glanced over my shoulder, but the figure melted into the blackness. It was closer now, so close I could almost smell it.

Almost there. I could feel the sanctity of the watermill. Almost. But not quite. An ice-cold hand reached out and seized my shoulder. I stifled a scream as my breath was forced from my lungs.

‘Besse,’ a voice whispered. ‘Have you got it?’

My body sagged at the relief of hearing Jonet’s voice and seeing her squat frame. The moonlight hinted at a smoky bruise above her eye socket, and fresh blood oozed from a cut to her cheekbone.

‘You almost scairt me half tae death! Sneakin’ up on people like that.’ Beneath my hand I could feel my heart almost dancing from my chest.

‘I didn’t think.’

‘I see he’s been using you as his punching bag again.’ Rupert never beat me like that.

‘Do you have it, then?’

‘Aye, I have it in my apron.’ Her eyes darted to the gap she’d come through. ‘It’s all I have.’ She crossed my palm with three shillings.

I had learned as a child, hiding in the darkness of Agnes’s kitchen, that a desperate woman would pay any price. Once someone made the decision to come to her door, they were ready to do whatever she told them; to use tinctures made from ingredients she would never speak of. They would be happy to hand over trinkets that had been in their family for generations. And the ones that had been wronged . . . they would pay even more.

‘Here it is.’ I put my hand on hers. ‘Now, you need to make sure that you dinnae put too much in.’ I slipped the parcel into her hand. I had given her enough for a few nights, to tide her over until my mother returned. ‘Just enough tae make him sleep.’ I motioned an amount the size of a farthing in my palm.

I only hoped I had given her the right amount. Agnes had the knowledge from her mother, old knowledge that had been passed through their generations. Books required a woman to know how to read, and that wasn’t a luxury most Sampson women had. So, she carried it around in her head. Agnes Sampson’s face would be the first and the last thing you’d ever see.

‘Will that be enough?’ She stared at it, mouth agape. ‘He’s a big man.’

‘It’s a potent herb,’ I said. Not utterly convinced.

‘What shall I do with it?’

On those murky evenings, when I watched in the darkness, Agnes would make a brew, letting the belladonna boil.

‘Hang it in a pot,’ I said, with a confidence I didn’t possess. ‘Over the fire with just enough water to cover it. When it boils, let it cool and mix it in his whisky. You must be swift in getting him tae bed – he’ll sleep like he’s dead.’

‘I’ll be sure of it.’ She squeezed my hand and turned, sailing away into the darkness.

I stood there a wee while, hiding behind the watermill, putting a good distance between me and Jonet. Being seen together would arouse too much suspicion.

It was here, on the edge of the wood, that I used to meet Thomas Reed. The memory caught and swarmed like my mother’s bees, vibrating and humming as it came to life. I’d steal away at dusk, my red hair plaited down to my waist, still with a sprinkling of hay, and my bodice laced tight to accompany my best homespun skirt.

He used to tell me that I’d come from the forest; that the travellers had left me by the clootie well, where Agnes first found me, beneath a tangle of brambles and knots of cloth. He said that my milk-white skin and tawny eyes were the thing of fairies and, for the gift of that, Agnes must have paid a heavy price.

Whatever the truth of my beginning, I didn’t want my ending to be behind this watermill, mistaken for some pedlar or, worse still, a harlot. I set off, wrapping my plaid around me and hugged my elbows. I couldn’t wait around all night.

The snow had soon turned to rain, and now the fog was as thick as potage as I scrambled up the embankment, finally emerging from the trees scratched and dirty. Still, a fair trade to avoid the notice of Master Rivet. He wouldn’t take kindly to his maid’s gallivanting all over the countryside when there were chores to be done. Neither would my husband.

I pushed open the door quietly; the draught caused the candle to flicker. Jenny lay on her back in front of the dying fire, her hands folded across her stomach. I watched her a while, the soft rise and fall of her chest, black curls falling about her ears as she stirred.

She looked so much like her father. The same heart-shaped face. Same hazel eyes. When she was wee, I would spend hours just gazing at her, wondering. I was always so fearful that she would inherit her father’s black humour, that she’d be quick to temper and slow to quiet. It would roll upon his face like a storm. But never hers.

Something didn’t feel right. The air buzzed with a charge that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I could hear nothing over the throbbing of my pulse. It felt like an unpicked hem slowly unravelling, about to leave a gaping hole. I felt uneasy.

‘Rupert?’ I called softly, but there was no reply. His chair sat ominously empty, along with the bowl of supper I’d left.

I brushed the dead leaves from my skirts, held my breath and listened. Nothing. The silence seemed to echo around the rest of the house. It wasn’t like him not to have returned. Where could he have gotten to at such a late hour?

‘Jenny.’ My gaze settled on her. Her eye lids flickered for only a moment and then closed again. ‘I’m sleeping,’ she muttered as she rolled over. She’d kicked off her shoes, which lay by the door. The old, inky black cat unfurled himself from her strewn stockings, mewing hungrily as he leapt to the tabletop, wanting to skim the cream from the goat’s milk.

‘You can only have a little.’ I ladled a small amount onto a dish, which he lapped greedily. ‘You ken you should leave this place’ – I rubbed behind his ear – ‘and find yerself a new home, Ratbag, before the next one comes along,’ and patted my stomach.

I hung the rest of the milk on to boil. Taking a seat on the crackett I used for milking the goats, I began poking the fire, breaking apart the embers to encourage a flame. In what little light I had, with eyes that stung from the smoke and lids heavy with tiredness, I counted the stitches on the stockings I was knitting for Jenny. Mibbe it wouldn’t be long before I’d be knitting for another wee one?

Eventually, as the shadows crawled across the stone and a thin crust flickered over the glowing ashes, I decided to make my way to bed. Rupert still hadn’t returned. I finished the last of my milk, placed an arm beneath Jenny and scooped her tiny frame onto the pallet that sat at the side of our bed. The dampness weighed heavy against my legs, but I hadn’t the energy to take off my skirts. As I lay down wearily beside her, the edge of her lip curled into a smile, just as it had when she was a wee bairn.

When the knock came, pounding, the sky was passing into sunrise. Rupert’s side of the bed lay cold and untouched. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed Rupert’s dirk from the top of the inglenook, sliding it onto the top of my skirts. I flung open the door to be greeted by Jonet Muir.

She was wrapped in what might have once been a cream shawl. Filthy and beaten. Her bare feet were pink with cold and covered in dirt. I hurried her in, sitting her on the crackett while I searched for my flint and tinderbox to light the fire.

‘He’s dead,’ she said, putting her hands over her face.

‘Who is?’

‘Andrew,’ she wailed.

‘No, he cannae be. You must be mistaken.’ I could feel my heart kicking in my chest. ‘He’ll just be sleeping. Did I no’ warn you that he’d sleep deeply?’

‘He’s dead.’ She sniffed, stifling a sob. ‘He had a pallor the colour of my mother’s when I went to wash and lay her out ready for burial.’

I stiffened. Her mother had been dead almost two days when they’d found her.

‘Was he breathing?’ I said, keeping my voice steady.

‘No,’ she moaned. ‘I gave him it, just as you showed me, but he has an awful tremor and sent it spilling down his shirt. Asked me to fill it up again, so I did, like you showed me.’

‘Again? Did you no’ ken how much you were givin’ him? I gave you enough tae fell a horse!’

‘Will he haunt me, Besse?’ Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. ‘Am I going tae Hell?’

‘No.’ I wrapped an arm around her. ‘No, he was a wicked man. He willnae haunt you. You just need tae call upon Father Cowper and have him tended tae.’

‘He’s lying in the garden.’

‘The garden! Why was he no’ in bed?’

‘He . . . He just––’

‘Shhh . . . shhh . . . He won’t have felt a thing. But we cannae be leavin’ him on the step like that.’

‘Ma?’

Startled, I turned to find Jenny in the doorway rubbing her eyes.

‘Ma? Why is Jonet here?’

I rushed over, ushering her back to bed. ‘She got a bit of a fright, is all. Seeing such a terrible sight on her way into town. A snarling black dog appeared to her, blocking her path. Poor Jonet fled through the trees and saw our candle burning.’