Latest / The Story of Scotland: Clans, Crowns, and the Fight for Identity — Fexingo History / The Scottish Witch Trials: Fear, Faith, and the Kirk
Transcript
- Lucas: When we think of Scotland’s identity today, we usually picture the tartan patterns or the rugged Highlands, but there is a darker thread woven into that tapestry. For decades, I’ve been looking for the angle that hasn’t been covered yet, especially after we spent so much time on the Enlightenment’s reason and the Jacobite passions. The gap left by those stories is actually filled by something far more chilling and intimate: the witch hunts. Luna: I had no idea Scotland was such a hotbed for that kind of panic. Lucas: It wasn’t just a hotbed; it was an inferno. Between 1563 and 1736, roughly three thousand to four thousand people were executed for witchcraft in Scotland alone. That might sound lower than some European countries proportionally, but the intensity was concentrated and brutal. Unlike the later English trials which often focused on solitary old women, Scottish cases frequently involved large groups, alleged covens, and even nobility. Lucas: To understand why this happened, we have to go back to the late sixteenth century, specifically to the year 1590. The winds from Norway had blown hard that autumn, delaying the fleet bringing Anne of Denmark to her new husband in Edinburgh. In the superstitious mind of the court, this wasn’t bad weather; it was malice. Someone was using magic to stop the King’s ship. Luna: So the storms were blamed on sorcery? Lucas: Exactly. And the man who believed it most fervently was King James VI himself. Before he became James I of England, he was already deeply invested in the dangers of witchcraft. He didn’t just watch the trials; he participated in them. He interrogated witnesses himself, demanding confessions under torture, convinced that witches were plotting to drown him and his new Queen. Lucas: This leads us directly to the North Berwick trials, named after the town where many of the accused claimed to have met in devil-worshipping gatherings. The trials exposed a network of ordinary people—servants, farmers, locals—who were dragged into a web of accusation. One of the first to fall was a woman named Helen Duncan, but the most famous figure from this period was actually a man named George Gordon. Luna: George Gordon? A man accused of being a witch? Lucas: Yes, and that’s what makes it so strange. In many parts of Europe, men were rarely targeted unless they were powerful wizards or leaders of covens. Here, George Gordon was a local landowner, a minor nobleman, yet he was accused of practicing necromancy. He allegedly conjured spirits and sent them to disrupt the royal wedding festivities. His case shows how the fear crossed class lines; no one was safe if you were suspected of having too much influence or too much knowledge. Lucas: But Gordon wasn’t working alone. The investigations pulled in dozens of others, including a woman named Kate Edmonstone. She became a central figure in the prosecution’s narrative because she provided detailed accounts of the coven’s activities. Under extreme pressure, she described meetings in the churchyard of North Berwick, where they would mock the sacraments and invoke the devil. Luna: Did anyone try to defend themselves against these claims? Lucas: Some did, but the legal framework was stacked against them. The evidence relied heavily on testimony gathered under duress. If you confessed, you were tortured further to name accomplices. If you denied it, you were tortured until you confessed. It was a self-perpetuating machine of fear. The King wanted results, and the judges were eager to provide them to show their loyalty. Lucas: This obsession wasn’t just a Scottish quirk; it was fueled by broader European ideas. James VI was reading works like the Spiculum Ecclesiasticum by Martin Delrio, a Jesuit scholar. Delrio wrote extensively about the power of witches, arguing that their pact with the devil was real and that the Church had a duty to root them out. James took these texts seriously, incorporating them into his own book, Daemonologie, published in 1597. Luna: So the King was writing a manual on how to catch witches? Lucas: He was. Daemonologie wasn’t just a scholarly treatise; it was a guide for magistrates and clergy. James argued that witchcraft was a crime against God, akin to treason against the state. By linking the two, he gave the trials a political weight that made mercy impossible. To pardon a witch was to risk divine wrath upon the entire kingdom. Lucas: The Presbyterian Kirk also played a huge role here. After the Reformation, the Church was trying to establish its authority over every aspect of daily life. They saw superstition and witchcraft as remnants of Catholic idolatry or pagan chaos. By prosecuting witches, they were purifying society, enforcing a strict moral order. The ministers were often the ones who identified the suspects, viewing them as threats to the spiritual health of the community. Luna: It feels like religion and politics were completely fused in this. Lucas: They were inseparable. The trial of Kate Edmonstone, for instance, involved not just secular judges but also church elders who monitored her behavior. The line between a spiritual failing and a criminal act was non-existent. If you were suspected of witchcraft, you were excommunicated, shunned, and then prosecuted. It was a total collapse of social standing before the sentence was even passed. Lucas: What’s particularly striking is how the methods of interrogation evolved during this period. Early in the sixteenth century, torture was rare in Scotland. But by the 1590s, it became standard practice. The 'pricking' of the accused, searching for a supposed devil’s mark on their body, became a common tactic. And the 'swimming' test, where suspects were thrown into water to see if they floated, was occasionally used, though less frequently than in England. Luna: Floating meant you were guilty because the water rejected you? Lucas: Precisely. The logic was that pure water would accept a Christian, but a witch, being impure, would be rejected by the element. If you floated, you were a witch. If you sank, you were innocent, though you likely drowned anyway. It was a lose-lose scenario designed to produce confessions quickly. Lucas: The North Berwick trials ended with the execution of around sixty people, mostly women, but also a few men like George Gordon. Gordon managed to survive, partly due to his status and partly because the evidence against him was somewhat flimsy compared to others. But his case terrified the local elite. It showed that even nobility could be dragged down if they fell out of favor or were suspected of hidden practices. Luna: Did the King ever regret his involvement? Lucas: There’s no record of regret, only of continued vigilance. James remained obsessed with the topic until his death. He even insisted that a statue of St. Peter be erected in Edinburgh to protect the city from witches, a symbolic gesture that mirrored his active persecution. His daughter, Mary, would later marry Frederick V of the Palatinate, carrying this intense belief in demonic interference into the heart of Protestant Europe. Lucas: The legacy of these trials lingered long after the last execution. It created a culture of suspicion where neighbors watched neighbors. Accusations could stem from petty grudges, failed crops, or sick livestock. If your cow died, and you had a falling out with your neighbor, that neighbor might suddenly become a suspect. The witch hunts were as much about social control as they were about theology. Luna: That sounds incredibly isolating for everyone living there. Lucas: It was. And it persisted well into the eighteenth century, unlike in England where the hysteria peaked earlier. In Scotland, the legal framework remained robust for longer. It wasn’t until 1736 that the Witchcraft Act was repealed, largely due to Enlightenment thinkers beginning to question the evidence. But by then, the damage was done. Thousands of lives had been destroyed by the machinery of fear. Lucas: If you've been stepping into history with us episode by episode, you know we dig deep into these uncomfortable truths. Keeping this show ad-free and independent relies on listeners who value this kind of detailed exploration. If today’s dive into the witch trials felt useful to you, consider supporting us at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. It helps us keep digging without commercial interruption. Luna: Yeah, it really helps to hear these stories told with this much care. Lucas: Returning to the North Berwick trials, there is one final detail that haunts historians. Among the accused was a servant girl who claimed she was forced to attend the sabbats. Her testimony implicated high-ranking officials in the court, suggesting that the conspiracy was broader than mere peasants. Some historians argue that these claims were fabricated to protect the King’s reputation, shifting blame away from any potential political rivals. Luna: So the King might have used the trials to silence enemies? Lucas: It’s a strong possibility. The timing was convenient for James. By focusing on witches, he diverted attention from political disputes and unified his court against a common supernatural enemy. It was a masterclass in distraction. The trials served to reinforce his authority as the divinely appointed protector of Scotland against evil forces. Lucas: The stories of Kate Edmonstone and George Gordon are now remembered not just as victims of prejudice, but as casualties of a political strategy. Their names appear in the records alongside the King’s own annotations, reminders of a time when the boundary between justice and persecution was blurred by fear. It serves as a stark warning about how easily institutions can be turned against the vulnerable when driven by ideological certainty. Luna: It makes you wonder what other histories are built on similar fears. Lucas: That is always the question. When we look back at the thistle and the castle, we see strength and pride. But underneath, there are shadows of those who were silenced. Understanding the witch trials helps us see the fragility of the social contract in times of crisis. It reminds us that identity is often defined by who we exclude as much as who we include. Luna: A heavy price for unity, indeed. Lucas: Indeed. Next time, we might look at how the Clearances reshaped the landscape after the fires of faith had cooled, but for now, let’s leave ourselves with the echo of those storms off North Berwick. What remains is not just the memory of the accused, but the enduring question of how fear shapes our laws.