Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sorcha was crying openly now. Nettie too. Uncaring of the hands that tried to prevent them, the whispers of warning that urged caution even as folk, afraid of where the men might turn their attention next, fled back to their homes, they made their way down to the shore, standing where the rough wall met the water.
There, on the edge, they shouted at the men prodding Janet, trying to goad her to rise. Dear God.
‘Haven’t you done enough? What’s wrong with you?’ Sorcha screamed.
‘She be an auld woman, you bastards. Leave her alone!’ screeched Nettie.
The men, some mere lads and a few incomers with no right to dispense so-called justice, let alone be free with a Weem woman, ignored them and continued, spurred on by their challenge. This time, they used their boots as well.
Uncaring of the danger, Sorcha clambered onto the sands. Lifting her skirts, she ran across the pebbles and along the shore, over the exposed rocks and through the incoming tide, stopping just short of the mob. This time, others joined her — Nettie, Nicolas and her husband, Beatrix and Mr Brown, Isobel Adam’s father and a few more. Much to Sorcha’s relief, Sergeant Thatcher appeared. He was carrying a fresh musket.
‘Allow me, Mrs McIntyre,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘This should never have started in the first place.’ Levelling his weapon, Sergeant Thatcher stood with his feet apart. The soldiers with him also aimed their guns at the gang. ‘Didn’t you hear the lasses? Enough!’ he boomed.
The men attacking Janet froze and turned to see who was interrupting their sport. What they saw was the sergeant, his dark eyes like steel. They slowly lowered their fists and sticks. Their chests heaved. Blood spattered their faces, ran in rivulets down their necks, streaked their clothes. Janet’s blood.
‘Get to your homes,’ snarled Sergeant Thatcher, ‘before I arrest you all.’
Much to Sorcha’s astonishment, the bunch of sodden rags in the sand stirred. Janet lifted her head and groaned. She looked about, coughing wetly. Blood ran into her eyes, down her cheeks. When she saw Sorcha and Nettie, she gave a defiant grin.
‘Take more than a wee dunkin’ to finish me off.’ Her mouth was red, her gums seeping.
Before anyone could act, before Sergeant Thatcher could render aid, and with what must have been the last of her strength, Janet lumbered to her feet, loosening the rope that, like an umbilicus, attached her to the ship. She stood swaying, her hands out to her sides to keep her balance. Then, with a great moan, slapping away Sorcha’s arm, she stepped free of the rope’s coils and staggered through her attackers and towards the town.
Fifty
FIFTY
That the officer went to the other two bailies… but they concerned themselves no further…
— The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1526–1793