Chapter 11
THEN
Newcastle upon Tyne
‘John Kinkaid. Are you willing to assist us further afield?’ The row of magistrates sat on a long wooden bench, staring at the man in front of them.
John Kincaid was a tall, imposing man. He favoured black clothing and stood like an immense bird of prey before the city dignitaries.
He tapped his wooden staff on the floor thoughtfully, then raised it up and weighed it between his hands.
‘How much?’ he asked. His voice was deep and throaty.
The measured tones had driven fear into the heart of Newcastle’s underclasses.
Thirty citizens had been invited to stand trial at the Guildhall.
Unfortunately, he had only had the pleasure of witnessing the hanging of fifteen of those wretches on a sultry August day.
He had simply curled his lip when one woman had begged God to show a sign of her innocence, and blood had spewed from her neck.
God had seen fit to despatch her regardless, which was ultimate proof that she was lying. He felt no guilt – it had ended as it must.
The Puritan magistrates were still discussing costs between them.
Kincaid flicked a look at the sergeants who had brought him here in the first place: Cuthbert Nicholson and Thomas Shevel.
Shevel was no threat, but Nicholson was one to watch.
He had seemed intrigued by Kincaid’s methods – and it was him, it appeared, that had mooted the idea that Kincaid be invited to search further afield for witches as well.
It seemed, however, that the magistrates had come to a decision. ‘Twenty shillings per witch,’ replied the chief dignitary. ‘That remains the standard reward.’
Dammit. Kincaid was hoping for more. However, it was still a reasonable sum, and he excelled at his task. He could make it a lucrative project if he set his mind to it.
‘And where would I be travelling to?’ he asked.
‘Northumberland.’
Kincaid laughed and shook his head. That changed everything.
‘You forget I travelled down through the Borders. I shall not travel through those lands unprotected. You must find yourself another man. I refuse to do that for such a paltry sum of money.’ He turned and made to leave the room.
The Borders were the lawless lands of the Border Reivers.
The Union of the Crowns in 1603 was supposed to have stopped all that fighting and stealing – but Kincaid disagreed. He did not like Northumberland one bit.
‘Wait! Mr Kincaid. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement? There is a like-minded gentleman we could arrange to travel with you. Mr Nicholson here is keen to accompany you. I am sure he will be a great asset on your trip. How about he travels as your Bell Man? And perhaps you could teach him the skills to bring back to Newcastle. This plague is never going to leave us – the more men we have on our side, on God’s side, the better.
We know you have done a great deal of good in Dalkeith these last few years, but we cannot possibly prevail upon you to traverse such a distance to us regularly.
Mr Nicholson shares your concerns and Christian values.
’ The magistrate leant forward and interwove his fingers.
‘Would that persuade you to cleanse Northumberland of these vermin?’
Kincaid paused, thinking. Then he shook his head. ‘No. I shall take my leave. You cannot guarantee safe passage through those lands, and I will not discuss the matter further.’
The real truth of the matter was that news was spreading that the Newcastle Witch Trials had been some of the most violent and aggressive trials in the country.
Kincaid had come south after the Great Scottish Witch Hunt, and, during the Newcastle trials, his authority had been challenged by a judge, the Lieutenant Colonel Hobson, who had accused him of trickery on the sixteenth witch.
Kincaid had escaped by a cat’s whisker and had not, thankfully, had to prove the veracity of his witch-pricking stick. But he was not willing to take the chance again. Far rather escape back to Scotland with his head held high, and not in a noose.
He bowed to take his leave from the magistrates, but as he turned, a voice rang out in the panelled room.
‘But Mr Kincaid!’ It was Nicholson. Kincaid turned slowly and saw a desperate gleam in Nicholson’s eyes.
The magistrates looked at him in shock, apparently for having the audacity to speak.
‘Filth resides in Northumberland as much as it did Newcastle. Jane Martin – one of your accused – was from Haydon Bridge. Just a few miles from Hexham, where she was held in the gaol awaiting trial! Only twenty miles from here. These bitches work in covens – in groups – Jane Martin cannot be and will not be the only witch…’ Nicholson’s voice was rising hysterically.
‘She escaped this time, but there will be more of her kind. We need to find them.’
‘Perhaps Mistress Martin is not a witch,’ said Kincaid smoothly. It was important to let the magistrates see he was a fair main who tried the witches fairly. ‘But I am not staying here to search for more of them in that godforsaken area when—’
‘Godforsaken! You said the word yourself.’ Nicholson was animated, excitable. ‘They will inhabit the countryside, spreading their malignant lies throughout the countryside, spoiling crops, cavorting – yes, cavorting – with Satan himself.’
Kincaid blinked. The man was quite mad. ‘Very well.’ Kincaid sighed and looked at his witch-pricking stick.
There were more where that came from; he could have them made to his design as and when he required them.
Far better to rid himself of any evidence and travel incognito back to Edinburgh.
‘I am happy to pass the mantle fully to Mr Nicholson. Here – take my stick and use it wisely. You are welcome to the twenty shillings per witch, Mr Nicholson. If you find any.’
‘You are a saint, sir!’ cried Nicholson. He rushed across the room and grabbed the implement. He knew how it worked; of course he did. The men had worked closely for many months now. But far rather Kincaid and Nicholson retain the mystery of the sacred object and not let a magistrate near it.
Just in case.
‘Safe passage to Scotland, sir,’ said Nicholson.
He bowed to Kincaid, then he turned and fixed the magistrates with his small, sly eyes.
‘If you will allow me, I shall travel north through all our market towns and small villages. I shall flush them out for you. It is what God wills. These wenches are well-documented in country villages.’
The magistrate, although he looked rather shocked, nodded, and conferred with his colleagues.
The men bent their heads close together, their grey, curled wigs nodding like sheep in unison at muttered comments.
Finally, they broke apart. Kincaid remained by the door, curious to see what the response was to be.
‘We agree to your terms, Mr Nicholson. This evil is widespread. If you are willing to bring trials to these villages, we will pay you for services rendered.’
‘You will not be disappointed,’ said Nicholson. He bowed. ‘Thank you for putting your trust in me.’ He straightened, his eyes glinting with opportunity.
Kincaid raised his eyebrows. He was not sure Nicholson was astute enough to understand the situation fully, but it was not his problem any more. He had done his job. Two hundred and twenty witches had been ended at his behest.
It was a good and godly sum of people to have brought to justice and to have brought to face God’s judgement. Kincaid’s purse was heavy with his reward.
And now, he wanted nothing more than to leave this place and lay low for a time.
He cleared his throat gently and the magistrates looked at him.
He nodded. ‘Good day, gentlemen. Now that is settled, I trust you will arrange my journey forthwith?’
‘Leave it with us, sir. Good day. And may God go with you.’
Kincaid made the sign of the cross and bowed to the magistrates. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.