Isabel Alison

In Scotland, the years 1680 to 1688 were known as The Killing Time. Declaring himself to be the head of the church, the king outlawed all worship and preaching—except in the government-connected churches. But many Scots rejected this audacious act as heresy. Christ alone was head of the church. Now, the king—and the bishops, soldiers, and politicians who served him—made it a crime to say that anyone other than the king was head of the church.  

Offenders had been chained by the sea at low tide and drowned; others had been tortured by the boot, an object designed to crush the legs. Insisting Jesus was the head of the church was punished more harshly than committing murder, incest, or adultery. Still, some courageous people preached in the open air because no pulpit was open to them. Just talking with one of these preachers was enough to get a believer arrested.  

Repulsed, Isabel Alison spoke out against the crown and its cruel abuse of believers. For that, the authorities hauled her in to be questioned by local magistrates. Isabel simply admitted she had spoken with some of the outlaw preachers, the magistrate warned her to keep quiet, and he let her go home. There, she returned to her simple life, thankful to have avoided trouble, but there was a greater trial ahead.  

So Said Pilate 

About twenty-five-years-old, Isabel lived alone in a two-story house, with an outside staircase, a thick tile roof, and windows of several different sizes. Though the local magistrates had found Isabel had broken no laws, the king’s party continued to review her testimony. The woman was trouble. A loudmouth. Seditious.  

In November, 1680, “the Sheriff-Clerk and a posse of officers” showed up at her home, arrested her for treason, took her to Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, and locked her in the Edinburgh Tolbooth, “a rough old prison overlooking the [water],” famous for its brutality. From the west gable, a platform jutted out, equipped with a gallows, providing “…a first-rate view of public hangings.”  

Soon, Isabel was forced to stand before the Privy Council, appointed advisors to the king.  

These men had power. Knowing that what she said would determine whether she lived or died, Isabel had a choice to make. If she showed remorse, said the right words, she would live. But that would mean raising an earthly king above the King of kings.  

As the questioning began, a Councilman demanded, “Where do ye live—at St. Johnstoun?”  

Isabel said she did, and when he asked about her occupation, she didn’t answer at all. Then, an impatient bishop wanted to know whether she’d spoken to Donald Cargill, a famous, fugitive minister.  

Isabel refused to answer the bishop or even to recognize his authority because bishops were leading the oppression. So another man asked the question a second time.  

This time she answered, “I have seen [Donald Cargill], and wish I had seen him oftener.”  

They bombarded her with questions about the rebels, what she’ seen, who she’d spoken to. Being wise, yet holding to the truth, Isabel admitted only to being acquainted with some.  

But when they asked directly if she knew the men accused of murdering the Archbishop of Saint Andrews, a driving figure in the persecution, Isabel didn’t hesitate. “I never thought it murder,” she said. “But if God moved and stirred them up to execute his righteous judgment upon [the bishop], I have nothing to say to that.”  

The examiners were less than pleased. And when the preliminary inquiry was over, they gave Isabel a night in prison to reconsider, to take back what she’d said, to save herself.  

The next day, Isabel stood before the lords of the Court, and they asked if she’d changed her mind. Isabel said she would not deny a thing she’d said. Next, lying to her face, they claimed she had confessed to hiding the men who’d killed the archbishop, though she wouldn’t call it murder.  

Isabel merely said, “I confessed no such thing.” She considered the lords to be agents of the enemy, turning their words against them, as Jesus had done with Satan in the wilderness.  

Then they repeated every question and answer from the day before, demanding whether she held to her answers—yes or no.  

 “Ye have troubled me too much with answering questions,” Isabel said. “…I disown you all,” and she listed her reasons: “…you carry the sword against God and not for Him,” …you work to dethrone Him by swearing… against Him and His work, and you take “a power on to a human creature, which is due to [God] alone.”  

When the examiners read from rebel writings that called for the king’s removal, they asked if Isabel agreed with them. Isabel said she agreed, as they were in line with the Scriptures.  

Warning her to be careful what she said, they dangled her life before her like a bribe.  

Would they have her lie, instead? She said, “I would not quit one truth, though it would purchase my life a thousand years, which ye cannot purchase, nor promise me an hour.”  

Disgusted, they said, “Your blood be upon your own head; we shall be free of it.”  

 “So said Pilate,” Isabel said.  

They sentenced Isabel to be hanged by the neck until dead.  

Approaching the gallows, she sang the 84th Psalm and recited the 16th chapter of Mark, encouraging the crowd to rejoice.  

Even as she climbed the gallows ladder, she said, “Farewell, all created comforts. Farewell, sweet Bible, in which I delighted most, and which has been sweet to me since I came to prison. Farewell, Christian acquaintances. Now into thy hands, I commit my spirit, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” Whereupon, the hangman threw her over.  

 “What I tell you in the dark, say in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell” (Matthew 10:27-28 ESV).