King James VI of Scotland looked out over the Forth, awaiting his bride from Denmark. He had taken a few days to be with his friend the 6th Lord Seton in Prestonpans. The King berated him incessantly about the failure of his betrothed, Queen Anne of Denmark to arrive. There was obviously some conspiracy of Satan that denied him his birth right. He was itching, ill at ease, a young man waiting for his future, eager to begin life as Monarch and Husband. As he watched, the sky darkened. He ordered his servant to make light to the torches hung on the walls. He needed warmth from the grate so instructed him to do also. He paced in the square stone room, his mood matching the storm that brewed outside. Black clouds skudded menacingly, the forebear of doom that would tighten his heart. He could only watch in horror as the ferry from Burnt Island in Fife to the Port of Leith in Edinburgh was swallowed by the cruel the sea. The roar of thunder made the room sway in his manic suspicious mind. The ship he waited for was nowhere in sight, it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, when the devil cursed his God, his marriage, his wife, his ship, God damn it, the devil cursed his very life from hell. The devil lived in the hearts and minds of everyone around him.
Medieval text describing the storm; “…Sche being willing to mak deligence, wald not stay for the storm to saill the ferry; wher the vehement storm drave a schip forceably upon the said boit, and drownit the gentilwoman, and all the personnes except twa.”
The king bade Lord Seton goodnight. Seton cast a wry eye over the King, insinuating that he may not a have such a good night. True to Seton’s intuition the King tossed and turned, as restless as the storm raging over the Forth. He woke with a fierce pain in his abdomen. A large shroud hovered above him, a hideous silhouette swaying in the wind. “Who are you? What is your devilish purpose here?” The king tried to compose the unusually high intonation of his voice. It was difficult. The figure laughed as he flew around the room, every so often catching a glint of insipid and intermittent moonlight. “I’ll have you hung!” King James screeched, his voice no longer in his control. The King trembled under his plaid, it was a particularly cold night he tried to convince himself. “I am James, King of Scotland. I am Braveheart! Begone with you demon!” The vision Chortled. “I am here for you! I am the witch pricker” The King trembled some more, where had he heard this voice before?
“I was the Witch Pricker on the mortal plane. I travelled over all of Scotland, form the Highlands to the Lowlands, East to West, in the pursuit of the devil and his cursed work. My celebrity preceeded me. I was cheered and lauded on my way into town. The crowds loved me. I paid for nothing. My good health was toasted in every tavern, I was given meals in every hostelry. Everywhere I went was like a brave? Huh. I was respected and feared His tone was derisory. The apparition flew around the room again, this time joined by others who cackled and shrieked. The noise affronted the King’s senses to carnival. I am the man who took on the Devil. You think you are the degree of madness that had assaulted his dreams. “Begone you devil” shrieked the King, fear chilled his blood, he was sure of it.
“You’ll surely remember the lowly peasant woman called Agnes Sampson? She danced with the devil in the graveyard of North Berwick church, with her cronies, enjoying the moonlight, casting spells. I was forcefully taken from a hostelry in Edinburgh to officiate at this witch’s torture. Really, I was happy to oblige, but I had to put up a wee bit of a fight, hoping to up my wage. You agreed to double my fee. I thought you were a true gent. Mad, but decent. So, anyway, I came along to the coast, armed with my favourite Pricker.
Agnes lay naked on a slab in the dungeon of Haddington Sheriff Court. Sewer rats scurried to and fro in the dim light. You sat outside, door slightly open. You weren’t quite brave enough to enter the same room of a real witch. Hah, braveheart.” The king shuddered some more, afraid of what the dark ghoul would say next. He remembered the Witch Pricker, slowly becoming aware of his celebrity. So, anyway, my King James, I went about my job with delight, I always did. I had help to rid her of the hair on her head, each strand being pulled out by ropes. I hope you understand, I had to look everywhere on her body, just to make sure, I had to be certain. I pricked and pricked. Near the end, when the woman was as close to death as was possible and still be alive, I pricked her in a place where few men would be brave enough to go, under the circumstances. She had the mark of the devil! A small brown mark heralding the proof that she and the devil had caused the winds to blow and the waves of the sea to be hungry for human prey. You were so overjoyed, so happy, you ordered the church bells to ring. When this happened the towns people shut their windows, barricaded their doors. The town became silent. Everyone was afraid. Fear gripped the peasant people. No one knew who Agnes had incriminated in her fevered ramblings. Friends and family members were suspicious of each other. A blanket of evil was thrown over the town. I had the power to make all this happen. Then, you ordered that everyone present at the torture, at the reveal, should be put to death. The devil had shown himself at Agnes’s torture and infected everyone who was in close vicinity. That meant me! You said I was now contagious. You had me hung from the bridge in Haddington, where it straddles the River Tyne. The crowd was as jubilant toward me in death as it had been in life. I caused a scene, I made people happy. They cheered as the noose was tied round my neck, the people were relieved to see me gone, a collective sigh of relief was audible as I croaked my last breath, they were free until the next hunt. Celebrity had been my maker, given me life, now celebrity was my downfall, it gave me death.”
“Now, King James, I want you to know that I will come for you, with my pricker, when you least expect it."