The Darkest Shore Read online

  KAREN BROOKS is the author of thirteen books, an academic of more than twenty years’ experience, a newspaper columnist and social commentator, and has appeared regularly on national TV and radio. Before turning to academia, she was an army officer for five years, and prior to that dabbled in acting.

  She lives in Hobart, Tasmania, in a beautiful stone house with its own marvellous history. When she’s not writing, she’s helping her husband Stephen in his brewery and distillery, Captain Bligh’s, or cooking for family and friends, travelling, cuddling and walking her dogs, stroking her cats, or curled up with a great book and dreaming of more stories.

  Also by Karen Brooks

  Fiction

  The Brewer’s Tale

  The Locksmith’s Daughter

  The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

  The Curse of the Bond Riders trilogy:

  Tallow

  Votive

  Illumination

  Young Adult Fantasy

  It’s Time, Cassandra Klein

  The Gaze of the Gorgon

  The Book of Night

  The Kurs of Atlantis

  Rifts Through Quentaris

  Non-fiction

  Consuming Innocence

  The Darkest Shore

  Karen Brooks

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To all the wonderfully ‘wicked’ women in my life, especially Kerry Doyle, Caragh Brooks, Sara Warneke and Selwa Anthony.

  To the good men who love their women wicked, particularly Stephen Brooks, Peter Goddard, Hugh Swingler, Jim McKay and Adam Brooks.

  And a special thanks to Mr Nick (Mark Nicholson), and Bill Lark, two more good men, for giving me the gift of a story.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Karen Brooks

  Explanatory note

  Part One: December 1703 to August 1704

  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: August to November 1704

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Part Three: November 1704 to 30th January 1705

  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: February to May 1705

  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

  EXPLANATORY NOTE

  In this novel, married women — many of whom are fishwives — don’t always carry their husbands’ names. This wasn’t peculiar to those in the fish-trade, but appears to have occurred in small towns and villages in Scotland where generations of the same family or others with the same name lived. To distinguish, for example, one Mrs Morag Bruce from another, she might keep her maiden name and thus remain Morag Nichols even though she is wed to Duncan Bruce. So it was with some of the women in this book — real and fictional. The real Janet (Nettie) Horseburgh was married to Thom White, Beatrix Laing to William Brown, and the fictional Sorcha McIntyre to Andy Watson, and so on.

  Likewise, some characters bear the same surname, but aren’t necessarily related. I have mostly kept these out of respect for history and the real people involved in these events. As a consequence, there’s both a William Brown (Beatrix’s husband) and Thomas Brown, an old fisherman, but they aren’t kin. However, when it came to the Cooks, I added an ‘e’ to the end of the advocate’s name to distinguish him from Bailie Cook, who appears much earlier. Hopefully this alleviates any confusion. Please also note that the character Nicolas Lawson — based on a real individual — is a woman. In the Lowlands in the 1700s and 1800s, the name Nicolas (or Nicholas) was not uncommon for a girl.

  In no other place in Scotland were witches hunted with such fervour as in Pittenweem.

  — Raymond Lamont-Brown, in John Donald, Discovering Fife

  PART ONE

  December 1703 to August 1704

  My Lord, I reckon myself very much honoured by your Lordship’s letter, desiring me to write to you an account of that horrible murder committed in Pittenweem. I doubt not, but by this time, your Lordship has seen the gentleman’s letter to his friend thereanent [concerning the matter]; I refer you to it, the author thereof being so well informed, and ingenous, that I’ll assure you, there is nothing in it but what is generally talked and believed to be true.

  — An Answer of a Letter From a Gentleman of Fife, 1705

  ONE

  Freends ’gree best separate.

  (Relatives agree best when they don’t live too near each other.)

  Perched atop a patient cob on the western braes of Pittenweem, Sorcha McIntyre wasn’t prepared for what the familiar expanse of water — or the brackish smell of brine, fish and seaweed and the sweet chanting that carried on the wind — did to her senses. It was as if the combination whipped her heart from her breast and cast it adrift upon the pounding waves.

  She inhaled deeply, and it took her a moment to register the serious regard of the man who’d ridden beside her all day. Ignoring his scrutiny, Sorcha pressed a hand to her ribs and raised her eyes to the louring sky, where hulking grey clouds were pushed along by icy, seabitten gusts.

  ‘That be Pittenweem,’ she said, indicating the small township spread out before them. ‘Home.’ The word was both reassuring and bitter.

  The man made a gruff noise of acknowledgement. He would wait until she was ready to draw their journey to a close; a journey that had begun that morning, but in reality had started months ago.

  Waves that matched the oorlich palette of the sky thundered against the crescent-shaped shore and its stone-walled harbour, sending curtains of wash over the ruined pier, drenching the men who scrambled along it in their hob-nailed boots. As she’d suspected, not even the lure of Hogmanay kept them from work.

  Errant beams of afternoon sunlight pierced the thick canopy of clouds, spears of defiance that cast a holy light upon the scene. Sorcha could almost believe that God Himself was welcoming her back.

  Just as the thought rose, the sunlight was doused as if it was a figment of her overwrought imagination.

  Maybe the Almighty wasn’t welcoming her after all, but sending her a warning. God knew, she’d left the town of St Andrew’s with enough of those ringing in her ears.

  ‘I never want to see you again, you hear? Don’t ever come back.’

  It wasn’t the first time those words had been said to Sorcha, only now they had b
een uttered by her sister, the last remaining member of her family, they hurt worse than any threats or insults delivered by a self-righteous clergyman.

  Sorcha shivered and pulled her shawl tighter. There was no doubt it was a dreich day for a dreich homecoming — Hogmanay or not. She just prayed the rest of the village would not be as work-minded as the fishermen and their families. She was relying on folk being preoccupied with the date and consequent merrymaking to reach her house unseen; to give her time at least to prepare a story.

  Beyond the natural harbour and the dilapidated man-made one lay the silvery-grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, heaving and shifting, a restless lucent mass. Midway crouched the Isle of May with its weary lighthouse and never-ending whirlpool of seabirds swooping and gliding above the seething waters. Closer to Pittenweem lay Beacon Rock. From a distance, Sorcha’s practised eye could identify to which village, and even which owner, the boats dotting the sea belonged. The mast of each flew the flag of either the Weem or Anster, along with the sigil of the owner’s family. Sails snapped as the wind filled them and the boats raced the weather back to shore; rising behind them loomed a wall of rain so thick, it threatened to swallow all before it. No wonder there was so much activity; the storm was about to break. It was bustle Sorcha knew as well as the scars that bit her fingers. She curled them now, her gloves protecting the ridges cut by years of baiting lines, furrowed by fish-hooks and sharp shells.

  Her eyes dropped to the canting wreck heaving in the harbour waters, entombed, depending on the tide, by rock, sea and sand. How many years had the Sophia rested there? Too good to dismantle and repurpose its wood and iron, and too expensive to recondition, like the rotting pier beside it, it awaited funds that clearly had still not manifested. War and famine had long ago destroyed Pittenweem’s fortunes and it would take more than one of the Reverend Patrick Cowper’s much-touted miracles for them to recover.

  A scattering of moored boats, recently returned, surrounded the wreck. Men in their brooks — heavy cotton pants worn over their trousers — crawled over the decks. Shouts of frustration and warning issued from weathered faces. Baskets of fish were raised to eager arms and run to the harbourfront to await sorting. From the way they were being carried, it was evident the whitefish were shy for this time of year. She’d hoped the poor drave, as the fishing season was known, that had struck the town before she left had ended. Clearly not. It explained why the ships that called Pittenweem port, the Mary and the George, were not to be seen. Neither was her father’s large boat… nae, her boat, the Mistral. The crew were taking their chances up north in Stornaway. She sent a swift prayer to the sea gods to keep the men dry and safe and make the terrible risks they took worth it. Though Sorcha could not reconcile how a good catch and the coin that followed ever compensated for a life.

  Scrawny children ran hither and thither betwixt rocks, sand and waterfront, their caps and scarves blown off by a malicious squall, the young ones too intent on helping their elders to pay heed to lost clothing. One cap tumbled along the dock, sending a coven of gulls screeching into the air.

  Directly to her left, clustered in an arc around the harbour like watchful sentinels, were the fishermen’s houses. Not even the whitewashed exteriors and pantile roofs could quite disguise the dirt and mud, the cracks and holes, the havoc the contrary seas and passionate tempests wreaked upon the walls and windows. Just like the harbour, no one could afford to repair their dwellings, not when every last penny was spent feeding hungry mouths. Funny, she’d never noticed before how mean the place looked. Dark smoke coughed from chimneys, a couple of shutters swung loose. Fishing nets, ropes and an assortment of hooks, cogs, lines and empty creels grew like an untamed hedgerow by each peeling door. It was as if by going away for a time she was able to see her home through the eyes of a stranger. But no incomer would feel as she did as she drank in the sight, the people, the odours, the sounds. Memories unfurled. As sharp as the white walls, as blood-red as the tiles upon the roofs, as shrill as the cries of the terns; they were stark reminders of what she’d left behind.

  To what she’d returned.

  It was only then that she noticed a pair of fishwives, their creels strapped to their backs, heads and shoulders, colourful neepyins tied tightly over their hair. Their sleeves were rolled despite the cold, and their skirts tucked up beneath their aprons, exposing dark boots as they wove their way among the men, never once getting in the way, and passed the women crouched on their crowded stoops, bent over lines, mending them for the following day. The fishwives moved swiftly towards West Harbour, turning on occasion to check the advance of the storm. Depositing their empty creels, they reached into the full ones awaiting their attention. Taking up positions before the assembled trestle tables, their knives flashed as they began to gut and then salt the catch, moving from table to basket to salt bucket and back again. It was a dance Sorcha could do in her sleep and had filled her dreams of late.

  Recognising the women, she longed to cry out, draw their eyes towards her, only she’d also attract the attention of others whose welcome was less certain. Still, she longed to see her friends again. They were more than friends. They were akin to sisters. God knew, her only blood one was now lost to her.

  Wasn’t that what the fishwives were? Sisters of the sea. ’Twas the sea and its siren call and the men to whom they cleaved that made sisters of all the fishwives, regardless of who their mothers were, where they hailed from, and whether their husbands, fathers or brothers were alive or dead.

  Once a fishwife, always a fishwife. Sorcha was both blessed and cursed, doomed to live by the very element that had claimed those she loved.

  Seeing Pittenweem again, seeing its people and breathing the very same air, brought everything back. She could flee to her estranged sister or the ends of the earth, try to put the past behind her, and it wouldn’t alter a thing. The sea wasn’t only in her blood. It defined her past and present.

  But that did nothing to assuage the guilt that was only ever a breath away, infecting the bliss and pain of remembrance and reawakening senses she’d repressed for months.

  Now she had another crime to add to her tally: her sister Dagny had cast her out. Before she could prevent it, Sorcha’s eyes welled and a sob escaped her throat.

  Aware of her chaperone’s discomfort, the snickering of his horse as he shifted in the saddle, she pretended it was the wind making her eyes water and forced herself to cough. Using the kinder memories that came with the raised voices and tangy scents to give her strength, she managed to control the sadness, the terrible shame. After all, she couldn’t go back — in time or to St Andrew’s. She must go forward, forget what had been and gone, face the present and create a different future. A fresh start. Fitting it should happen on the eve of a new year.

  She turned to the man on his mount beside her.

  ‘I thank you kindly for your troubles, Mr McDonald. I can find my own way from here. I’ll not be needing your —’ She’d been about to say company, but the man had scarce said a word the entire way and it wasn’t as if he’d chosen to come with her. He’d been ordered to travel to the coast — not so much to see her home safe, but ensure she never came back. ‘… protection any more.’

  Mr McDonald grunted and tugged his cap. A gust tried to lift the plaid from his shoulders, but the brooch bearing the insignia of his laird kept it in place. ‘I told Master Kennocht I’d see you to your door, lassie, and that’s what I’ll do.’

  With a heavy sigh, Sorcha dismounted and began to untie her belongings from the saddle.

  ‘Nae, Mr McDonald, that you won’t do.’ She pulled a lock of hair from her mouth and tucked the escaped tendril into her scarf before the wind could snatch it away again. ‘While I appreciate the sentiment behind your insistence, I cannot accept your offer.’ She took a deep breath. She’d nothing left to lose. Not any more. ‘I’ve no doubt the reasons for my homecoming will follow me whether I wish them to or not. Even so, I would rather be on my own to greet them when
they do and introduce them to those I call kith and kin my way.’

  Mr McDonald’s thick grey eyebrows beetled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sorcha, closing the distance between them, continued before he could.

  ‘Forgive my bluntness, but the last thing I need is for an unfamiliar man to ride through there —’ she indicated the harbourfront with a push of her chin, ‘past those I’ve known my entire life, whether you promised my brother-in-law and his wife, or not. You’ll be doing me no favours and the protection you offer will have been for naught once the gossips start their clecking and finger-pointing, do you understand?’

  Mr McDonald peered down at the harbour, then back at Sorcha, his eyes becoming mere slits. Rain began to fall; light, fast drops that beat a tattoo upon the grass and rocks.

  Sorcha raised her face to the heavens briefly, blinking.

  ‘Very well, lassie. But I’m not leaving here until I’m assured you’re safe past the harbour. Mistress Dagny tells me your house lies on the eastern side of town.’

  Surprised she could hear her sister’s name without anger, Sorcha nodded. ‘Aye, in Marygate, up past the kirk.’ She faced the town. ‘You can see the spire of the Tolbooth over there.’ She pointed towards a tall tower that rose above the buildings. Abutting the kirk, the Tolbooth served as both gaol and council chambers.

  There were shouts from the harbour. The wall of rain had swallowed the Isle of May and was moving swiftly. The sky darkened; the wind became stronger. As one, the nagging birds wheeled away from the storm front, heading west.

  There was no time to waste. Heaving her burlap over her shoulder, Sorcha took the reins of her mount and reached up to grip the old man’s wrist. It was thin but strong.

  ‘I thank you for escorting me back, Mr McDonald. If the storm should catch you, there is a place in Anster Wester where you can bide. It’s not too far from here. Look for an inn with the sign of a corbie on the left-hand side of Dreel Burn.’