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Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘Look at how poor the catch has been of late,’ the reverend reminded him in hushed tones. ‘And what about all the drownings and poor crops? This isn’t the work of God, but Satan himself. Will you help me, Peter my son?’ His voice made Peter think of warm milk laced with whisky, of the sun-drenched fields beyond the braes in summer. Most of all, it made him think of the sweet lips of Sorcha McIntyre and what it would be like to feel them upon his own. If he helped the reverend to expel the devil and unite the town in Christ’s love, then maybe he would.

‘Aye, reverend. I will help you in whatever way I can. I live to serve the Lord.’ And you, Reverend Cowper, thought Peter. And you.

Nineteen

NINETEEN

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By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…

— Macbeth, Act IV scene i

Beatrix lay on the foul straw, watching the way the rain beading down the high window reflected strange patterns onto the walls. She tried to remember how many days she’d been locked inside the Tolbooth. Was it four or five? She could no longer be sure. From the moment the constables, acting under the orders of the reverend and the council, placed her inside this room beneath the chamber where she’d been first questioned then beaten, they’d determined to make her incarceration even more miserable.

Ensuring she didn’t sleep, they stomped on the floor above, banged the door of her room at intervals or, when they saw her dozing off, would burst inside, lifting her to her feet and forcing her to walk around the room for hours on end. At first she couldn’t work out how they knew when her eyes began to close and her head to nod. But before long she understood that what she thought were just marks on the ceiling were in fact strategic holes those in the council room above could use to watch her. Shamed at first that they saw her squat to piss or shit, after a few days she no longer cared, raising her skirts to bare her backside, thrusting her hairy quim towards them when she thought they might be looking. It made her feel better knowing they would be shocked or aroused when they knew they should feel disgust. The very thought lifted her heavy spirits. Dear Lord, she’d never felt so injured, so full of sorrow and fear. What must her poor husband think? Or her daughter, Cassie, and her sweet wee granddaughter, Elise? What had they been told?