Pat McIntosh - The Rough Collier

‘The one before that was an accident below ground, in the pit. How could she contrive that? Women don’t go in the pit, they tell me.’

‘They can work evil at a distance — ’

‘And the first one took ill and died miles from home. And did your own father not die up at the heugh? When was that?’

‘My father’s death, Christ assoil him,’ said Fleming, going red and crossing himself, ‘was certainly an accident, for it was long before the woman Lithgo came to the heugh. See, Maister Cunningham, I’ve a wee bookie I’ve been reading, that a friend lent to me, tells me all about witches and how to recognize them and all sorts of things they do. And in it — ’

‘What book is this?’ Gil interrupted, with a sinking heart.

‘It’s cried Malleus Maficarum ,’ said Fleming proudly, ‘which means Hammer of Evil Women , ye ken — ’

‘That should be Maleficarum,’ Gil corrected. Sweet St Giles, help me, he thought, if this fool has got hold of a copy of that pernicious work, he’ll find witches under every hedge.

‘Aye, Maficarum,’ agreed Fleming. ‘Oh, the things witches gets up to, I never kent the half of it afore I read about them in this book. It’s but the second part of it, I truly wish I could get the whole of it to read!’

Thank you, St Giles! thought Gil.

‘Tell me what Mistress Lithgo has done, then,’ he prompted.

‘Have you read in this book, maister? I never kent they did more than charms and glamour, but this makes all clear, how they entice innocent maids to join their perfidious company, and take an oath of allegiance to the Devil himself, and fly from place to place by the power of demons and a wee pot of ointment — ’

‘I’ve heard of all that,’ Gil interrupted. ‘I don’t believe it, either. What I want to know is what you have seen Mistress Lithgo do yourself. Have you proof of her working witchcraft? Has she injured you, for instance?’

‘She spends her time in that lair of wickedness she calls her stillroom,’ declared Fleming, ‘times I’ve kent her even refuse to come out to hear Mass because the spells she was working needed to be watched all the time. She’s in there burning herbs and mixing poisons, wi’ charms and cantrips and curses to say over them — what could that be but witchcraft?’

‘Go on,’ said Gil.

Fleming opened and shut his mouth a few times, drank another draught of ale, and recalled something else. ‘She’s stole candles and holy water from the chapel. There’s aye less of either than I look to find, every time I’m up there, and I have the one key and Mistress Weir, the devout woman that she is, keeps the other.’

‘But not the Host?’ prompted Gil.

‘No, no,’ Fleming crossed himself at the word, ‘I bear the Body of Christ away wi’ me in a wee pyx, sooner than leave it in an unattended place.’

‘You’ve not convinced me so far,’ said Gil. ‘Can you show me anyone she has injured?’

‘There’s folk all about here been injured! Old Forrest up at Thorn, the old soul, has pains like knives in every joint, and so does Annie Douglas next door to him. What could that be but her work? And done wi’ a glance, just as it tells in the book!’

‘They seemed to feel she had helped them with the simples she gave them.’

‘Aye, no doubt, but who should undo the injury but the witch herself?’

Gil sighed. ‘Maister Fleming,’ he said firmly, ‘none of this is proof of anything at all.’

‘And she’s injured me!’

‘How?’

‘Well, she — she gave me a pot of ointment, and it never worked. It made matters worse. And she tellt me to boil well-water and drink that instead of ale, when a’body kens ale’s better for you. The very thought of drinking water!’ Fleming took another pull at his ale in agitation.

‘Did you go back when the ointment never worked?’ Gil asked.

‘Aye, and she refused to help me. That was when I kent her for a witch, for she met me wi’ evil words, and I’ve heard her use the very same words wi’ Thomas Murray, and here he is dead in a peat-bank!’

‘And what words were those?’

‘I’ll not defile my mouth wi’ repeating them, maister.’

‘Then they won’t stand as evidence.’

There was another pause.

‘I clearly heard her say to the man Murray,’ said Fleming at length, ‘that if he continued in some behaviour she would make sure he regretted it.’

‘What behaviour? When was this?’

‘It was last summer, in the midst of August three weeks after the quarter-day. As to what he was up to, I have no notion, for she never said in my hearing. And when I threatened to report her to Sir James for a witch, two weeks syne,’ announced Fleming indignantly, ‘she swore I would regret it in the same tone of voice, mais-ter. And what more proof could you want?’

‘But how would he get hold of such a book?’ asked Lady Egidia. ‘He’s no university man, is he? Can he even read?’

‘It seems so,’ said Gil.

Across the hearth Michael swallowed down the mouthful of bread and meat he was chewing and said, ‘No, he’s no Master of Arts, but he can read Latin, for old Sir Arnold taught him. That’s how he got his post, see, he’s Arnold’s sister’s son, he was left fatherless and Arnold saw to his training, and my father thought the world of Arnold.’

‘Aye, and quite right. He was a good man and a good priest,’ said Lady Egidia.

‘Which is more than the nephew,’ said Michael roundly.

They were seated in one of the chambers off the hall at Belstane, where Lady Egidia had summoned her godson as soon as he arrived from his tour of the collier’s round. He had admitted to being ravenously hungry, having missed both the midday meal and supper, but his consumption was slowing now he had half cleared the platter.

Beside Gil on the settle Alys leaned forward and said, ‘Does he run after the maidservants, Michael?’

Michael, chewing again, nodded and rolled his eyes.

‘He’d bairned three afore St John’s Eve last year,’ he divulged, as soon as he could speak. ‘And there was at least two the year afore that. There’s been less trouble since then, by what my father tells me,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s getting so decent women willny hire to us, so Jock the steward says. And there’s the amount of ale he gets through, I noticed it at Yule. He’s no often drunk, I’ll give him that, but he’s a drouth on him like a tinker. And he aye smells of those candied pears like my mother used to make, and willny admit it. Why can I smell them on your breath, says my father, and Fleming swears he was never near such a thing. He must have a secret store of the stuff.’

‘But where did the book come from?’ persisted Lady Egidia.

‘He was at Linlithgow wi’ my father the last time,’ Michael offered, eyeing the final wedge of bread and cold meat. ‘When the court was there, you ken. It’s possible someone there would have such a thing to lend him.’

‘Malleus Maleficarum,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘The hammer of women who do evil. I’ve never seen the book.’

‘I have,’ said Gil, grimacing. ‘A copy came my way in Paris. It’s written by a Dominican who was an inquisitor in Austria or somewhere of the sort, and became obsessed by witchcraft as a particular heresy. The word in Paris was that the bishop of the place put a stop to his witch-hunting, because of his methods, and he went away and wrote this book in retaliation. It’s all allegation and anecdote, richt pungitive with wordis odious. You can hear the man frothing at the mouth on every page.’

‘It sounds unpleasant,’ said Lady Egidia.

‘It is.’

‘Can you or your father not take the book from Fleming?’