hair I’ve ever known, and red cheeks. He brims with words, and I have been in Inverary for a mere afternoon – four hours, at most! – yet he has already accosted me more than once. Even as I arrived I felt his stealth. He said, staying long? I replied that I, like all travellers, am at the Lord’s mercy, and that He and the weather will decide on my length of stay. I think he will pry, Jane. But this may prove of use, in its way. For if he pries with me, does he not pry with others? He may know plenty, in time.
Thinking this, I asked very casually, is that infamous glen in these parts?
How he liked that! He came near, said aye, what remains of it. Burnt and butchered, it was. His eyes blackened, and he leant closer in. Mark me, he said – it is no loss. Those that were cut down in that glen will not be missed…He caught himself then – for I am a stranger to him, so he said what is your name, sir? You have not given it.
May God forgive me, Jane – for I spoke falsely. With my true purpose in mind, I did not give my own name – rather, I fashioned a name from scraps that we know. I used, my love, your unmarried name. For what if they had heard of me? And my teachings? And my Jacobite ways? I could not risk the townsfolk learning where my sympathies lie.
Charles Griffin, I told him. Reverend.
Reverend? And what is your purpose? You are far from home, friend.
I said I’ve come to spread the Lord’s loving word in the northern, lawless parts. For I hear the Highlands are full of sin.
They are! To the north of here? Catholics and criminals, dishonest men…He polished his glass, shook his head. Brimful with cruelty and barbarous ways. They shame us! And, he said, a finger raised, the north is full of traitors. Ones who plot against the King.
William?
Aye, King William. God protect him. Thank the Lord he came across – a well-named revolution, was it not?
I took a sip of my ale. I would call it far from glorious, but did not say so.
He said do you know of the witch?
I was surprised at this – who would not be? I swallowed, said, no. I know that this country – indeed, our own – has been troubled in the past times with the matter of witches, and other black deeds on which I do not choose to dwell. But this was brazen talk. He said there’s one here in Inverary. She is chained up in the tollbooth for her malicious ways. I hear, he said, she crawls with lice, and her teeth are gone. She faces her death for her evil. Sir, she was in Glencoe…
Jane. My dearest.
We have spoken of this matter in the past, you and I – in the gardens in Glaslough, by the willow tree. Do you remember? You wore the blue shawl that makes your eyes bluer, and I talked of enchantment – so we spoke of witchcraft, by that tree. I know we disagreed. Men of my faith and profession know of it – of the Devil’s work. We know there are folk who serve him – perhaps not by choice, but they do. It is bedevilment, and a threat to a safe and civil nation. Some say no one who meddles in such a way must be allowed to live, and so must be purged by fire or water, for their own sake. Plenty think this. You know that I am with them? That such women cannot be endured? It worries you, I know – my feeling on this. But do we not have enough foes at this time, Jane? Do we not have enough to fight against – other faiths, and false kings, and wars – without being troubled by such Devil-lovers too? Who truly knows their power? If there is a God, there is a Devil – and there are both, as we know. There is enough wickedness, my love, in this world. It favours the pure parts of it to rid ourselves of the black.
I know your heart. I remember. Your blue eyes filled with water. You do not believe in witch, or rather you don’t trust the men who call it out – I know. You think such women are ill, perhaps. That they suffer delusions, or grief, or fear men. You said you felt sorry for such creatures – in your blue shawl, beneath the willow tree.
I love that trusting part of you – that faith in ones you have not met.
But there is evil, Jane, in this world – I promise it. It casts its darkness everywhere. It hopes to choke virtue, and decency, and I will spend my life fighting to prevent this – as my father did. There is a righteous path. My life’s purpose is to return all men to it – for us to walk, once more, in God’s light.
I hope I stay briefly in this town. It is merely a resting place, before I head north to this ravaged glen. This witch was there, my love. She was at the murders, and saw them with her eyes. I am not keen to visit her, or to spend time with such a cankered, godless piece – nor do I wish to get her lice. But I must remember my cause. If she was at these deaths then she must have her uses. She will have seen the red-coats – and any word, even a witch’s, is a better word than none.
It is late. Past midnight – my pocket watch tells me so. I will conclude this letter with assuring you how much I miss you. They are small words. But to look out of my window is to see Loch Fyne, and the sea, and I look west across it, which makes me think of you. I tell myself that Ireland is across that water. You are across it, and our boys, all that I love in the world beside God.
Keep strong. I know my absence asks much of you, and you endure a hardship by being alone. Forgive me. I ask this, but I know that I am forgiven already, for your faith and love of God is as mine is. I have slept in damp beds and I will talk to witches for His glory and for James, but I also think of you as I do it. I hope I make you proud.
It still snows. I might grumble at it, but it looks soft and beautiful with you, my wife, in mind.
My love to you, from across Loch Fyne, and all that is between us.
Charles
‘This is a common but very neglected plant. It contains very great virtues.’
of Comfrey
The gaoler knows me now.
He knows how I talk in the dark. How small I can be when I curl myself up – so small that he thinks I’ve done magick, and gone. Filthy witch he says, when he finds me. I hope they do you slowly…I’ll be there to warm myself.
But I also know him. I know his sideways eye, and that chickweed would help the leaf-dry skin on his hands that flakes when he moves. Those hands get worse in this weather. I know he drinks – for his breath is all whisky and old meat, and I’ve heard him snoring when there is daylight outside, or at least a paler sky than night. I think whisky is his best thing of all. I know his footsteps, too. I know he has a limp, so he drags his left leg. No one else walks like that – like the sea coming in. Also, his keys jangle. It is the only music I hear in this tollbooth – no birdsong, no pipes. Just his keys, and his heavy left leg.
I know the sound of him, walking.
This isn’t him walking.
These are the footsteps of a man who is not him.
Come in. Sit down?
I see that look that you give.
They all give me that look, as soon as they see me for the first time. It’s my size, I think – how small I am? I know I am tiny. I’ve been called mouse and little bird, and bairn, though I’m none of these things. The doctor came in and could not see me in the gloom. He was cross, shouted there is no prisoner in here! And then I shifted my chains so that they clinked, and I whispered to him oh there is…
Come in from the door. See how locked up I am? Most of the thieves they put here do not wear chains like I do. They are put behind bars, and that’s all. But I have chains because of witch – they think I might turn into