Winterbringers (14 page)

The horse was waiting where I’d left him, and we made our way home through the moonlight and were never seen.

If only that was the end of the story. I went about my chores in Pitmillie, imagining Janet making her slow way to Kirkcaldy perhaps, or Edinburgh, but it wasn’t to be.

They found her gone first thing in the morning of course and hunted her down. It was easy for the dogs to find her, because of the smell of the blood from the flogging.

The whole town gathered to see her brought back, but instead
of putting her in the Tolbooth again they hauled her down to the beach. They bound her and strung her from a mooring rope between a ship and the shore, and then they stoned her.

They took her down half-dead and threw her on the sand and laid boards on her, and the mob piled stones on top until they had crushed her to death. I believe Mr Cowper watched.

That was Janet Corphat’s justice, and it has haunted me all my life.

There is one more thing. About a month after Janet died, Patrick Morton fell ill again, quite suddenly. He did not rave this time. Rather, he seemed to have been struck dumb. I helped nurse him and though he couldn’t speak, I could tell from his eyes that he understood what was happening. He died after a few days.

And that was Patrick Morton’s justice.

They sat silent for minutes after they had finished reading, taking in what Agnes had written. Across the table, Rose still held the papers from the strongbox.

“Is this true?” asked Callie finally.

Rose nodded. She looked suddenly old.

“Beatrix Laing and Janet Corphat were accused of witchcraft by a man called Patrick Morton. Beatrix was forced to leave and Janet died just as it says there.” She gestured at Agnes’ account. “It was all documented at the time. But there’s no mention of Agnes Blair being associated with them. Patrick Morton died in seventeen oh five right enough. You can see his gravestone in the churchyard.”

We meant no harm. We did no harm
. The words went round and round in Callie’s head as she thought about Agnes and Beatrix and Janet and Patrick Morton, about the Winter King and the Queen of Summer and what they had all had to endure because of that one midsummer night, more than three hundred years ago.

“I wonder what happened to Agnes in the end?” mused Josh.

“She married and had children and died in her bed an old woman,” said Rose unexpectedly. “She’s buried over the road as well.” She took a deep breath and plunged on.

“You’re related to her, Callie. She’s your great great something grandmother. Mine too.”

Callie stared at the black writing in front of her, trying to
take everything in.

“I think I’ll put all this away now,” said Rose, and took the papers from her and folded them up.

“Well, that’s everything,” said Anna. “I’m sure you’ve given us enough fruit and veg to last us until Christmas.”

“No we haven’t,” laughed George. “So come back for some more before then.”

The car was loaded up and the engine was running. Josh and Callie stood awkwardly side by side as the others said their goodbyes.

“Well Josh,” Rose said to him. “I hope you didn’t find village life too boring?”

“Eh … no. Definitely not boring. Thanks for everything.”

They all walked to the car and Josh and Anna climbed in. Josh opened his window.

Callie summoned a smile. “Bye, then. Bet you’ll be glad to get back to a normal life.”

He screwed up his face. “Nah. It’ll be boring. Keep in touch.”

She nodded and he closed the window as the car pulled away.

George, Rose and Callie watched it out of sight. As Callie turned to go back to the house Rose caught her sleeve.

“I want to show you something. It won’t take long.”

Callie followed her across the road and round the corner and Rose led her into the churchyard and stopped in front of a stone half-buried in the muddied turf.

“Here lies Agnes Soutar or Blair, born 13th August 1688, died October 12th 1756,” Callie read. “So she was …”

“Sixty eight,” said Rose. “A good age for those days.”

“Do you think she really was a witch?”

“Witches don’t exist,” said Rose lightly. “But they used to say it passed through the female line, and you’re her daughter’s daughter’s daughter, etc.”

They looked at each other for a second before their gazes slid away.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Thoughtfully, Callie followed her grandmother out of the churchyard.

We meant no harm.

Agnes Blair stepped out of my head and into this story, but Beatrix Laing, Janet Corphat and Patrick Morton were real people. Patrick denounced Beatrix, Janet and others to the real Minister Cowper for witchcraft in 1704. They were tried in Pittenweem in Fife in one of the last Scottish witch trials. Beatrix and Janet met with the fates described here. I don't know what happened to Patrick Morton.

You can find information about the Pittenweem Witch Trials – as I did – in
Fife History and Legend
by Raymond Lamont-Brown, and
Scottish Witches and Wizards
by Lily Seafield.

Constantine's Cave is real too. I read about it in
Fife
History and Legend
, and am indebted to Alan Jeffreys of the Grampian Speleological Group and to Dr JLS Cobb for further information.

Thanks to my family for their patience with me, to Gale and Katy at Floris, and to Kathryn and Lindsey for their support.

Read on for an exciting extract of
Dark Spell
,
where Josh and Callie once again find themselves fighting
evil while Callie struggles to control
her newly discovered powers.

“Imagine what it must have been like,” said Mr Davidson. “Kept in a dungeon for weeks, then dragged out and tied to a stake…” he paused for dramatic effect, “…and burned alive! That's what happened to George Wishart, just a few hundred metres away, in 1546. But why?”

He looked at the rows of faces in front of him, waiting in vain for some sort of response.

A hand went up.

“Yes, Evie?”

“Has anyone sent you a valentine card, sir?”

Mr Davidson flushed slightly. “This is a history lesson, Evie.”

Evie Carroll gave a theatrical sigh. “I was only asking.”

“You all live in St Andrews. Surely you know
something
about the history of the town?” Mr Davidson ploughed on determinedly.

The faces looking at him were perfectly blank. He swallowed nervously. There was a snigger from the back of the classroom.

Callie Hall, sitting near the back herself, thought,
Why are they doing this? He's only a student teacher, he hasn't done anything to them
.

“Come on, some of you must have ideas.” Mr Davidson licked his lips and swallowed again.

It was like watching people torture a kitten. Callie felt her fingers start to tingle as her annoyance grew. She had
had enough. She put down her pen which, strangely, kept rotating gently on the desk in front of her, and put up her hand to answer.

“It was religion,” she said. “Protestants and Catholics.”

Mr Davidson gave her a look of such naked gratitude that she was embarrassed. She looked down, caught sight of her pen, still turning by itself, and grabbed it.

“That's it exactly, Callie. Cardinal Beaton, who was Catholic, had Wishart, who was Protestant, burned as a heretic. But Wishart's friends took revenge…” He turned to write something on the board and half the class swivelled round to glare at Callie.

“You moron,” hissed Jessica Langston. “Why did you spoil it?”

“She fancies him or something,” said Evie under her breath. “
She
probably sent him a valentine card. She's such a loser.”

Callie did her best to ignore them, and to ignore the prickling in her fingers, and stared at the board until the bell sounded for the end of the lesson and the start of lunchtime.

She contemplated eating outside somewhere, but although it was bright, it was pretty cold. It was only February after all.

The school cafeteria was full of girls giggling over valentine cards and eyeing up boys. Some of the boys were sniggering over cards too. Callie wondered fleetingly if Josh, her friend in Edinburgh, had sent anyone a card or got one himself. She couldn't imagine him behaving like these prats, but maybe he was different in Edinburgh to how he was here.

She found a quiet table and fished her lunch and a book out of her bag. She was absorbed in both when she heard a voice in front of her.

“Got a date with Davidson yet then?”

It was Evie, lunch tray in hand, backed by the rest of the
posse that seemed to travel everywhere in her wake. They all wore matching sneers.

Evie put her tray down.

“Next time there's a plan, don't screw it up, you freak.” She picked up her cup of water and threw it in Callie's face. “Oops. Sorry.”

A ripple of laughter ran round the room as Evie picked up her tray.

Callie watched through her dripping hair as Evie walked away, anger building inside, fingers, hands, every inch of her tingling now.

At that moment Evie seemed to slip, though there was nothing on the floor: no pool of water, no smear of ketchup, no uneven floorboard. She screamed as she went down hard on her back, the contents of her tray flying up, then falling, to land with improbable accuracy all over her.

The posse squealed in horror and hurried to help her.

Callie dried her face and her long, brown braid of hair with her scarf, and went back to her lunch, ignoring the pool of water on the table in front of her.

“What did you do to her, freak?” Callie hadn't seen Jessica stomping over. “How did you make her fall?”

Callie felt heat rising in her face as she looked at Jessica and beyond her to Evie, who was screeching and carrying on as the posse helped her to her feet. She seemed to be holding her wrist.

“How could I have made her fall? I was over here, you know that. She just slipped.” Even as she said it, she could feel the treacherous prickling in her fingers again.
Not now, oh please, not now
…

The posse ushered the sobbing Evie past her, some of them shooting venomous glances at Callie.

“This is your fault, loser!” one of them shouted.

“I don't know what you did, freak, but we'll get you back for this. Just wait,” Jessica spat at her as she turned to go.

Callie watched them leave, fighting the prickling, trying to calm herself. On the table, the spilled water bubbled and steamed unnoticed.