The rain became heavier; thick, powerful drops that presaged a dowsing. Pulling a blanket from one of the panniers draped across his horse, Captain Ross wrapped it around her. She wasn’t even aware she was trembling. It wasn’t cold, not really, not the weather. Rather, it was the realisation that what had happened while she’d been locked in the Tolbooth, all the suffering and accusations she and the others had been forced to endure, had divided the village.

For that was what she was witnessing now. Those who stood with the accused, welcoming them back, taking them in their arms and leading them away, and those who stood with Cowper, watching, as if to memorise the names and faces of those offering succour to use against them later. Surrounding them were armed men ready to prevent any violence.

At that moment, Isobel Adam appeared in the Tolbooth doorway. Dear God, she was so thin. How had she not noticed before? Bruises circled her wrists, her cheeks were underpinned by dark hollows, as were her eyes. She stared about uncertainly, seeking a friendly face, not understanding that those in front of her were that and more. A cry went up at her appearance, and she recoiled as if struck, the noise quickly dying before it reached full volume. It was only when her father came forward and enswathed a shawl across the lass’s shaking shoulders that Isobel fell to her knees and began to sob.

There were grim mutters from the folk around Cowper, looks of disdain cast in the direction of the young lass, as if Isobel had given a performance. Did they not understand this was no ploy to garner sympathy? That the poor woman could scarce stand?

It was more than Nicolas could do. Carried out in the Tolbooth keeper’s arms, she was deposited directly into those of her husband. Having been away south helping with the harvest, he’d come home to news of his wife’s imprisonment. Along with Nettie’s man and the captain, he’d fought for her release — to no avail — until now. There were gasps of horror as Nicolas’s skirt rode up and exposed the injuries to her legs. A mass of deep scars and bloodied swollen holes oozing pus and blood, they were shocking to see.

Mr Lawson quickly pulled her skirt down, as Nicolas, weeping softly, buried her face in his chest.

It was then the mood began to turn. Some of the folk began to shout. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, reverend.’ It was Therese Larnarch.

‘Aye,’ came cries of agreement. Someone spat.

‘And you too, bailies,’ yelled one of the men. It sounded like Mr Lawson. ‘You are as much to blame for this as anyone — you and your damn pricker.’

‘This is what you call justice?’

Sergeant Thatcher raised his musket and looked towards Captain Ross who subtly shook his head.