Corrag. Susan Fletcher

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      Then we rode amongst trees for a very long time. I don’t know when we crossed into Scotland, but it was somewhere in those woods. I patted the horse, and saw that all I had now in the whole world was a cloak, a purse, two crusts of bread and Mr Fothers’ old grey mare.

      This is my final stitch tonight.

      Cora. Who thought the pricking men might take her but no, the gallows did. I don’t know this for certain. But I think they snared her that night, and a few weeks later they tied her thumb-to-thumb. I think she said nothing. I think she was strong, and defiant, and knew the realm was waiting for her so why be afraid? I don’t think she was afraid. I think she shook her hair free from the rope around her neck, and looked up at the sky, for she always looked up at the windy autumn skies. And then the trapdoor banged twice against its hinges, and she heard a crunch in her ears, and I wonder what she saw, in her last mind’s eye – if it was me, or her mother sinking under.

      I also think that Mr Fothers saw it. I think he went home with a quietness inside him that had no name, and it grew in the weeks that followed. He saw Cora’s cottage be lost to the holly and storm-water. He thought of her with newborn calves or cherries, or with a lightning bolt that lit up the fields very briefly so that all things looked white and strange.

      He found his stable empty and thought Cora did this.

      When her cats slunk by him, his heart creaked open like a door.

      

       Dear Jane,

       I am tired tonight, my love. Not in body, as such – as I was when we rode here, through the drifts and wind. But my mind is tired, which some may say is a far greater fatigue. I was grateful to leave that cell, and looked forward to the peace that a good fire and solitude can bring – and does bring, as I write this. I am glad of the hearth – a little light and warmth. I am also glad of this proper chair, for that three-legged stool that I perch upon in there is low, and may trouble my back, in time.

       I was also glad of a meal. I did not think I had an appetite, after such an unsavoury place, but when I ate it restored me. Sometimes we are hungry when we think we are not.

      You are, I am sure, anxious to hear of my latest encounter with the witch. I will tell you of it – but I will use less words than she did, for she talked more than I’ve ever done. I preach, Jane – I have preached, and written my pamphlets, and have I not been called the orator of the age? A generous name, perhaps. Yet I wonder if I have ever spoken as much as she speaks. Her talking is like a river – running on and bursting into smaller rivers which lead nowhere, so she comes back to her starting place. I listened to her and thought, is this madness? How she uses her hands asks this question, as well – for she is rarely still. She talks with her hands up by her face, like she’s catching her words, or feeling them as she speaks them. Can you see that? I am not one for description. My strength is in sermons, and not in decorative talk.

       I think this is what has tired me – her manner of speaking. It is chatter.

      But also, what she speaks! I am glad you were not there, my love. Such blasphemy! Such wicked ways! She sat there like a beggar – all rags and large eyes – and told me of so many ungodly things that I felt several feelings, amongst them revulsion and rage. Her mother sounds a dire piece – slatternly, is the kindest word. She (the mother) saw some unkind sights in her youth, but it does not excuse the wrong path she walked along in such a wanton way. Herbs are not to be dallied with. Prayer is the best cure, and a true physician – not this greenish alchemy that I won’t abide. And this woman told lies, and hid her false face behind a church smile! She took the communion to hide her debauched ways.

       I do not recall her name. I do not wish to recall it – for it is poisonous. But I’ll say that the world is well to be rid of her.

      Corrag defends her, of course. What harm did she do? I was minded to say plenty – an unfettered woman brings much trouble in. But I held my tongue.

       I think this is why my mind is so tired, my love: I have endured an afternoon of rambles and offences which were of no benefit to our Jacobite cause. How can an English childhood bring James to the throne? Or some gabble on half-drowned kittens take William away?

       Still. She promises she has news to help us – on Glencoe, and the deaths. If so, it is worth the endurance. And how else might I fill my afternoons, in such weather? It snows even more, now, Jane.

      My landlord has the fine trick of appearing from air, spectre-like. On the stairwell this evening, he expressed shock at finding me upon there – when I am certain he was well aware. We exchanged pleasantries. But as I turned I heard and how is the wretch in the tollbooth? Helpful? Foul-smelling? They say she can turn into a bird…I was polite, Jane, but did not indulge him – not tonight, for his interest is rather tiresome, and the hour is late, and your husband is not as young as he was.

      I will say this much more on Corrag. For all her wounds and sadness, and her squalid condition, and for all her prattling, her wickedness, and her restless hands, she can tell a tale. She has an eye which sees the smaller parts of life – how a tree moves, or a scent. It means I felt, briefly, as if I was in this Thorneyburnbank where she lived. But I’ll call this bewitchment – and resist it. It is further proof of her sin.

       Moreover, I hope this will not offend you, but her hair is like your hair. Not in its knots or thorns – of course not. But it has the same dark colour, the same length. I think of your hair’s weight, when I last untied it. I watched her twist a strand of it about a finger, as she spoke, and I imagined you as a child – before we met. If our daughter had lived, I am sure she’d have had this same hair.

       I will write more tomorrow. What would I do, in these hours, if I did not write to my wife? I would sit in the half-dark, and dream of you instead. If I did not have you at all, I would imagine the woman I’d wish for, as wife – and she would be you. Exactly as you are.

       I marvel at your patience. I worry that you, too, worry – for my health, and protection. But do not be troubled. Am I not protected? Do I not have a shield? ‘The Lord Himself goes before you, and will be with you; He will never leave you, nor forsake you.’ (Deuteronomy 31:8)

       Write if you can.

       Charles

       II

       ‘It is commonly found under hedges, and on the sides of ditches under houses, or in shadowed lanes and other waste grounds, in almost every part of this land.’

      of Ground Ivy

      Last night, she was with me. When you had gone, she sat on the stool and looked at me with her shiny bird-eyes. I said to her I spoke of you to a man today and I reckon she knew. I thought of all the things which belong to her, which make me think of her when I see them, or hear them – thunder, rope.

      Every herb I ever used, Mr Leslie, has had my mother in it. She taught them to me. In the elm wood she plucked them, rubbed their leaves. She boiled their roots, pressed their stems, and she said do not think that the small leaves are not useful. Sometimes СКАЧАТЬ