Read Online The Betrayal of Maggie Blair by Elizabeth Laird - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Laird
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cry out as she tugged painfully at the knots.
Before I had finished tying the strings again and had the chance to do something to tame Granny's wild hair, Mr. Robertson's light footsteps were running back up the tolbooth steps.
"Bring them out, Donald. The sheriff's men will keep the crowd off them. I want them in the kirk before the people start arriving."
Chapter 8
You can be beaten and starved and locked up in a cold, damp cell, but worse than any of these things is to be shamed in public, in front of people who know you. That's what they did to Granny and me that Sabbath morning in Rothesay.
We were hurried the short distance up the hill to the church of St. Mary's, the Virgin mother of Jesus. The Virgin was a kindly woman, so Tam had always told me. I believe he held to her more than to the Lord Jesus, but that was papist thinking, I knew, and so it must be sinful. Anyway, there was no help for Granny and me from the Virgin Mary, nor from anyone else.
The kirk was new, the ground all around it still strewn with the masons' off-cuts, and the sheriff's man was holding me so tightly against himself, I couldn't look down to see where I was going. I stubbed my toe painfully and cried out, and he took the excuse to hold me closer. He was a dirty-minded man.
Granny was in front of me. By the time I came up to her, they had already ripped off her outer dress so that she was standing shivering in her shift. They had the dress of sackcloth ready, a horrible brown shapeless thing, stained with the filthy things people had thrown at the last person they had shamed.
I couldn't help struggling and crying out when it was my turn, but a look from Granny stopped me. It was nearly eight o'clock, time for the service to begin. The church bell was jangling in the steeple, and people were hurrying up the hillâmore eager to see us, I'm sure, than to hear Mr. Robertson's sermon.
There was nothing in their faces but hatred and cruelty and malice as we stood there at the church door, tied to the post, and the good people of Rothesay jeered and leered at us, jostling each other to get a good look.
The first gobbet of spit hit me on the shoulder. The second caught me on the cheek. Someone shouted, "Devil's whore! You lay with him, didn't you? Enjoyed it too!"
A hand plucked at my sackcloth robe, then another.
Mr. Robertson came hurrying out of the kirk.
"Get them inside," he said sharply to the sheriff's men. "They shouldn't be tied up here but sitting before the pulpit on the stools of repentance."
He even took a kerchief from his pocket and handed it to me once my hands were free.
"Wipe your face, Maggie. Compose yourself. You are entering the House of the Lord. Pray for forgiveness. The Lord is gracious and merciful. Cast yourself upon him. If you have not consorted with Satan, you have nothing to fear."
I heard Granny mutter, "Hypocrite," but I didn't think it was that simple. I couldn't understand Mr. Robertson. He'd come with the others to arrest us, but he seemed to be trying to protect us too.
The repentance stools were right at the front of the church, under the pulpit. We were shoved down onto them and had to sit there facing the congregation, who could stare at us as much as they pleased throughout the four long hours of the service. I knew what they were thinking. I'd not been to our parish church at Kingarth more than a few times a year, but once or twice I'd seen some poor soul sitting on the repentance stool, in the hideous sackcloth robe, and I'd spent the entire service enjoying my feelings of righteous indignation, despising the poor woman who was being punished for slander, or the red-faced man who'd been riotous and drunk.
There was a great rustling and creaking of stiff Sunday boots and a clatter of wood on stone as the people opened their folding stools and set them down on the flagstones, then settled themselves, ready to work their way through the psalms and prayers, waiting eagerly for the
Before I had finished tying the strings again and had the chance to do something to tame Granny's wild hair, Mr. Robertson's light footsteps were running back up the tolbooth steps.
"Bring them out, Donald. The sheriff's men will keep the crowd off them. I want them in the kirk before the people start arriving."
Chapter 8
You can be beaten and starved and locked up in a cold, damp cell, but worse than any of these things is to be shamed in public, in front of people who know you. That's what they did to Granny and me that Sabbath morning in Rothesay.
We were hurried the short distance up the hill to the church of St. Mary's, the Virgin mother of Jesus. The Virgin was a kindly woman, so Tam had always told me. I believe he held to her more than to the Lord Jesus, but that was papist thinking, I knew, and so it must be sinful. Anyway, there was no help for Granny and me from the Virgin Mary, nor from anyone else.
The kirk was new, the ground all around it still strewn with the masons' off-cuts, and the sheriff's man was holding me so tightly against himself, I couldn't look down to see where I was going. I stubbed my toe painfully and cried out, and he took the excuse to hold me closer. He was a dirty-minded man.
Granny was in front of me. By the time I came up to her, they had already ripped off her outer dress so that she was standing shivering in her shift. They had the dress of sackcloth ready, a horrible brown shapeless thing, stained with the filthy things people had thrown at the last person they had shamed.
I couldn't help struggling and crying out when it was my turn, but a look from Granny stopped me. It was nearly eight o'clock, time for the service to begin. The church bell was jangling in the steeple, and people were hurrying up the hillâmore eager to see us, I'm sure, than to hear Mr. Robertson's sermon.
There was nothing in their faces but hatred and cruelty and malice as we stood there at the church door, tied to the post, and the good people of Rothesay jeered and leered at us, jostling each other to get a good look.
The first gobbet of spit hit me on the shoulder. The second caught me on the cheek. Someone shouted, "Devil's whore! You lay with him, didn't you? Enjoyed it too!"
A hand plucked at my sackcloth robe, then another.
Mr. Robertson came hurrying out of the kirk.
"Get them inside," he said sharply to the sheriff's men. "They shouldn't be tied up here but sitting before the pulpit on the stools of repentance."
He even took a kerchief from his pocket and handed it to me once my hands were free.
"Wipe your face, Maggie. Compose yourself. You are entering the House of the Lord. Pray for forgiveness. The Lord is gracious and merciful. Cast yourself upon him. If you have not consorted with Satan, you have nothing to fear."
I heard Granny mutter, "Hypocrite," but I didn't think it was that simple. I couldn't understand Mr. Robertson. He'd come with the others to arrest us, but he seemed to be trying to protect us too.
The repentance stools were right at the front of the church, under the pulpit. We were shoved down onto them and had to sit there facing the congregation, who could stare at us as much as they pleased throughout the four long hours of the service. I knew what they were thinking. I'd not been to our parish church at Kingarth more than a few times a year, but once or twice I'd seen some poor soul sitting on the repentance stool, in the hideous sackcloth robe, and I'd spent the entire service enjoying my feelings of righteous indignation, despising the poor woman who was being punished for slander, or the red-faced man who'd been riotous and drunk.
There was a great rustling and creaking of stiff Sunday boots and a clatter of wood on stone as the people opened their folding stools and set them down on the flagstones, then settled themselves, ready to work their way through the psalms and prayers, waiting eagerly for the
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