It was late June, and surely she’d be home in a few days. But Bristol humored him by laying a heavy cloak on the bed. She waited, unable to decipher what came next.
Corwin spied a large tapestry bag on a peg and packed her belongings; then he went to the barn and saddled Exodus for her.
It all seemed like a dream. When she awoke the following morning in the jail behind. George Corwin’s house, she had only fuzzy memories of how she came to be there. It didn’t seem real. But the jail was very real. Bristol swallowed and looked around her. Thank God her mind was beginning to thaw.
Goodwife Corwin, a plump little woman with kind eyes, brought Bristol a warm mug of beer and helped tie Bristol’s hair at the neck. Her hands were better this morning, but still puffed and awkward to use. Goodwife Corwin shook out the light green gown. “George thinks it best to leave immediately—to escape the worst of the heat.” The little woman helped Bristol dress.
The eight-mile ride to the packed village meetinghouse passed more quickly than Bristol would have liked. The lanes were tree-lined and shady, and a scent of warm earth and wildflowers filled her nostrils in a heady blend. They met other constables escorting other prisoners along the road. Had the faces not been so pale and grim, Bristol might have imagined they rode to a summer picnic. Except, she remembered, few New Englanders indulged in such frivolities as picnics and social outings. Their minds centered on darker pursuits.
Her heart sank at sight of the crammed meetinghouse. People spilled from the door and into the lane. Already they mopped slick brows, and dark stains wet their clothing. Everyone agreed it would be another scorcher; they blamed the witches for a lack of cooling rain. Unless the witches were stopped soon, the crops would burn in the fields. People would go hungry come winter.
Sheriff Corwin led Bristol up the steps and inside. Shuddering faces paled and drew away from her in fear and awe. They stared until her green eyes met theirs; then they hastily dropped their gaze before she could work an evil eye on them. Seeing their blatant fear, Bristol felt a hysterical urge to laugh. It was so ridiculous—so absolutely, terrifyingly ridiculous! If she were a witch, she’d hex them all and simply walk away. Why did no one think of this? Hysteria bubbled in the back of her throat, and she halted before a vaguely familiar woman whose name she couldn’t recall. “Boo!” Bristol hissed. The woman leaped back, and her eyes rolled up in a pasty face. Bristol laughed.
“Don’t do that,” George. Corwin snapped. “Get hold of yourself!” His grip tightened painfully on her arm, and he gave her a rough shake. You need your wits now as never before,” he said gruffly. “Fear works in their favor. Your fear as well as theirs!”
She slid a look at his ruddy perspiring face and wished the world was made up of George Corwins. She knew he was right; she was being foolish. But her mind felt detached from her body, out of control. Bristol was terrified.
A guard took her from the sheriff and pushed her into the dock. Everything was familiar; simply a new perspective. A matron lifted Bristol’s arms out from her body. “Don’t move, don’t fidget, don’t torment the girls,” the matron said in a bored voice.
Bristol turned her head and stared at the afflicted girls. She didn’t care that a staggering volume of noise immediately erupted, or that Judge Hathorne purpled in the face yelling at her to look away. She wanted to see them, to see her accusers.
The girls were in full cry. One of their own was dead, and the person they blamed stood in the dock. Their screams and howling rocked the room and roared through Bristol’s head. Her mind ached with the screeching, pounding noise. But she did not drop her eyes. Her mind fastened on small details, and these tiny observations seemed vitally important.
In honor of Charity’s murder, Mary Walcot temporarily had put aside her knitting and joined the others convulsing on the floor. Bristol noticed Mary now worked on a scarf—the vest must be finished. This seemed terribly significant. The scarf would be brown and gray, not colors Bristol would have chosen. Ann Putnam Junior wore her hair parted in the center today instead of to the side, and this too appeared urgently important. Mary Warren had sewn a new blouse. Mercy Lewes wore her hair loose, but it didn’t detract from the beginnings of a dark growth along her upper lip. Elizabeth Hubbard’s earlobes didn’t match, and Bristol wondered how she’d overlooked noticing this previously.
And Sable Horton had joined the accusers. Bristol stared at the pretty dark-haired widow rolling about the planks. It was fitting somehow. Sable Horton had been present the day her adult life began, the day she met Jean Pierre. Sable Horton should be here the day her adult life ended. Thinking of Jean Pierre steadied Bristol’s mind, and she looked away from Sable, coolly deciding Abigail Williams was the one to watch for detail.
Abigail attracted every eye: hers was by far the most grievous affliction. She frothed at the mouth and her tongue protruded to astonishing lengths. She tore out hunks of hair and writhed in spectacular convulsions. Bristol’s detached mind wondered how it was possible to tear out hair day after day and have any left. Curious, Bristol watched with a sharp eye. She saw Abigail’s teeth snap; then the girl’s arm rose for the audience to see. The crowd gasped at flaming teeth marks and shrank from Bristol in fright and revulsion.
Bristol smiled. It had happened so fast and could be seen only from where she stood. The mystery of bites and scratches and punctures was solved—only, she realized it hadn’t been an enigma for some time. Only Ann Junior produced marks that seemed impossible to self-inflict. Ann, the quiet visionary.
An image of nesting baby birds rose in Bristol’s mind. Could an adult bird identify a specific cheep with the gaping mouth that produced it? She doubted it. But she stared at the open howling mouths and tried to pluck a voice from the din to match. The swirling, pounding noise was too great; she couldn’t do it. Rough hands clamped the sides of her face and forced her eyes from the girls. Judge Hathorne screamed at her, and she noticed a tic in his left cheek.
Her examination began.
33
The courtroom was hot; unlit candles in wall sconces sagged and lost shape. Trickles of sweat ran between Bristol’s breasts and down her ribs. Her arms felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold them out. As the pain in her trembling muscles increased, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the judge’s questions.
Judge Hathorne paused and shuffled through the papers on his dais. He glared at Bristol from beneath heavy brows. “Did you witch to death one Charity Adams?” he repeated. A chorus of screams broke from the afflicted girls, and he stared them into moaning quiet.
“No, sir. I did not.” Bristol didn’t remember how many times she’d answered this question.’
“Did your shape inflict harm on Charity Adams?”
“No.”
“Tell the court again how Charity Adams died.”
Bristol stared, her eyes flickering resentment. They’d examined it again and again. And each time stabbing pain stung her heart. Yet, even with the endless repetition, she understood the full impact of Charity’s death hadn’t fully penetrated. A portion of her brain closed off the knowledge; she felt if she allowed herself to look into her emotions, to deeply examine Charity and Caleb’s deaths, her mind would fly off in darkness and never return.
“My sister took her own life,” she answered dully.
Judge Hathorne’s cheek jumped in regular spasms. He leaned forward with the crucial question. “What drove an innocent young girl to suicide?” he demanded. “Unburden your black soul and tell this court the truth!”
Closing her eyes, Bristol shook sweat from them. Her arms quivered; she could have sworn heavy stones hung from her wrists. “Charity did not confide in me.”
“Tell the truth! Why did Charity Adams die?”
No possibility existed for the truth. If Bristol hinted at Charity’s remorse, her love for Caleb, village gossips would feast for months on vicious speculation. She would not do that
to Charity and Caleb’s memory. But she couldn’t lie, either. Better people than she had stood in this dock and resisted damnation. And so would Bristol. It seemed the most important goal in her life—not to lie. Bristol’s hot eyes flicked to Goodman Cheever furiously filling pages with testimony. What was said here would be preserved for history; she’d not disgrace the Adamses or the Wainwrights by having history remember her as a liar.
“Tell us the truth!” Judge Hathorne shouted, his tic jumping wildly. “You tempted Charity Adams to her death! Your shape seduced her to fashion a noose and drape it about her neck! Your wicked familiar kicked the stool out from—”
“No! No! No!” Drops of sweat poured from her forehead and salted her eyes. “Please, sir, may I wipe my forehead?” She would have given ten years of life to rest her arms for one minute.
“No!” The judge nodded to a matron, who reached a desultory swipe across Bristol’s streaming face. The girls snickered, and all made a show of wiping their brows. They seemed the only people in the hot jammed courtroom not running with sweat.
Judge Hathorne fired question after question after question. They swooped down at her like flaming arrows. Arrows to pierce all the nightmares of her life. “No,” she cried again and again. If she didn’t lower her arms, she would faint. Spiraling dots swam before her eyes. Her arms quivered and jerked and sank against her will. The strength to hold them up vanished. The girls noticed and went crazy, weeping and beating at Bristol’s tormenting shape.
Immediately Judge Hathorne positioned guards on either side of her. They didn’t dare touch a witch, but it was safe to extend their lances. The lance bottoms were a thousand times better, but still agonizing. Her arms tingled and shook and felt like lumps of rock attached to her body.
“The truth! Everyone knows you refused your sister shelter. You took her life as well, didn’t you? Tell us the truth! She exposed your husband as a witch, and you lusted for revenge. Isn’t that true!”
“I’ve told the truth. I’m innocent of witchcraft.”
The judge paused. “Sable Horton swore in her statement that you appeared in the forest wearing the white shape of a snow creature and tried to force her to sign the devil’s contract. What do you say to it?”
Bristol fought a war in her mind. She knew her case was lost; what did it matter if she indulged herself? She gave in. “Who? I don’t recall anyone named Sable Horton. Is she that loose whore from Salem Town who meets men in the forest?” God forgive my petty vengeance, Bristol thought.
Sable Horton went crazy, flopping from her stool and screaming abuse at Bristol. Despite her aching arms, despite the sweat blurring her vision, despite knowing her case was lost, Bristol turned and smiled sweetly as the matrons dragged Sable from the room. A small insignificant victory, but no large satisfactions were left.
When Judge Hathorne restored order, he mopped his brow and pronounced Bristol bound for trial on witchcraft. She felt no surprise; the outcome had never been in doubt. He pulled his wet scarlet robe away from his neck. “Count two,” he read. “Bodysnatching.”
A ripple of delicious horror shuddered through the audience. No one would have departed if the village blazed in ruin. They stared with fascinated loathing. Dead bodies were all corrupt, but a witch’s dead body retained the seeds of evil. To touch one without immediate purification with holy water was to court death and certain rot of flesh and soul. They’d never before seen anyone who dared steal a witch’s body.
Feeling the weight of their condemnation, Bristol shook as a deep anger formed and swelled in the pit of her stomach.
“Did you take the witch’s body from Gallows Hill?”
“Caleb Wainwright was not ever a witch!” Bristol’s answer rang strong and clear. Her eyes flashed toward Goodman Cheever rapidly recording her words.
Hathorne’s left cheek jumped in spasms. “Wainwright was found guilty of malefic witchcraft under due process of law.”
“The law is wrong. He was innocent.”
“He was pronounced guilty by a jury of his peers!”
Bristol’s eyes hardened to green jade, and she refused to yield. “He was innocent! My husband was no more a witch than I am! Than you are! He was good and decent! Caleb Wainwright had more compassion and humanity than anyone in this room!”
The judge jumped to his feet, his left cheek jerking. “I’ll not tolerate insolence,” he bellowed. “Further arrogance will earn you severe punishment!”
A brackish clot knotted Bristol’s chest. She didn’t relish the idea of punishment, but neither would she bow to his threat. “My husband was no witch,” she whispered stubbornly. “And neither am I.”
Judge Hathorne glared down at her, making a supreme effort at patience. Slowly he sank to his seat. “If you are not a disciple of the devil, then how do you explain the evil possession you work on these girls?” He waved toward the base of the dais.
Mary Walcot knitted placidly. One of the younger girls picked her nose. Two lay on the floor serenely humming and examining their skirt hems. Abigail combed Ann Junior’s hair. One or two whispered and giggled.
At the sudden pause in testimony, they froze and glanced up at the judge. Instantly they fell into fits of screaming and howling.
When order was effected, the judge lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Well?” he asked, his point made.
Bristol couldn’t believe his blind conviction. “There is evil in this courtroom,” she agreed in a low voice. “But it is not wrought by any standing in this dock. History shall judge who perpetrated the evil here. History will see with clearer eyes than any alive today!” A deep hopelessness belied her impassioned words.
Judge Hathorne purpled in rage. He swung toward Goodman Cheever. “Strike that blasphemy from the record!” he shouted. He leaned over the dais, and Bristol knew he would have struck her if he could have reached that far. “Did you steal the witch’s body from Gallows Hill?”
It was useless to argue.
“Tell us the truth!”
“Aye.”
Shocked silence greeted her answer. Then a rush of breath hissed from the massed audience. Women toppled over like rag dolls. Hideous heat bounced from the walls and struck in waves.
“I took my husband home and I gave him Christian burial as befitted the decent life he’d led.”
Even Judge Hathorne stared in horror. The girls reached new heights of shrieks and spasms, but no one noticed. Every eye stared at Bristol as if she was a creature composite of all the grisly monsters in hell’s blackest cavern.
“The witch must be dug up and moved from sweet ground,” the judge croaked. “His flesh will poison good earth. A witch’s corruption is fit only for barren soil.” He wet his lips and blotted a streaming face. “Where is he... buried?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“In the name of God the father, redeem yourself and confess the witch’s unholy grave! I order you to reveal where he is buried!”
“Do whatever you will to me, but I’ll never tell you!” Bristol’s teeth ground together, and she spit the words. Ten days, she prayed, with rain, maybe a week. And the fertile sod would knit together. They would never find Caleb and Charity. Additional time would be better, dear God, but three more days will do.
“We will find the witch,” Judge Hathorne shouted hoarsely. The left side of his face moved with a life of its own. “We’ll find his corrupt body and throw it in a barren ditch.”
“No... you... won’t.”
He studied her, his hands clamped to the edge of the dais. His glare tracked the flow of sweat dropping past her flinty eyes, settled on her quivering, aching outstretched arms. A small satisfaction played at the corner of his lips. He folded his hands and leaned on the dais. “You claim you are not a witch,” he stated in a purring tone.
“Aye, I am not.”
“You are rational enough to agree your sister and your husband are both dead.”
“Aye.”
“Do these deaths disturb you?”
> She stared up at him, and her mouth fell open. He was insane. They were all insane. Nothing else could explain what they did and said. “I... I can barely endure the pain of thinking about it,” she whispered.
“And yet,”— he glanced at the expectant audience, snapping out his trump card—“yet not a tear wets your eye.” He smiled softly. “Can you explain that? How is it you present yourself dry-eyed in the face of multiple tragedy?” Now he allowed a full smile, and triumph glittered in his narrow eyes. Hopeless, weary to the point of collapse, she answered. “Long ago I took a vow not to cry. Tears change nothing. Will weeping bring my sister back to life? Will tears restore my husband’s good name?”
“Witches cannot cry,” he stated flatly. “Confess the truth! Unfetter your soul! It wasn’t a personal vow, was it?” His voice soared and swooped. “It was Satan! Satan stole your tears when you signed the contract to serve him as your master!”
“No.”
“Confess!” he screamed.
Bristol shook her head and dropped her eyes from the expression on his purple face. She felt sick and beaten.
His voice droned on and on. Then finally it was over. Judge Hathorne ordered she be tried on both counts. And mercifully, they released her arms. Bristol staggered at the sudden rush of blood needling up her arms.
A guard prodded her outside and shoved her into a cart; many of the crowd followed, hurling abuse and small stones. Someone knelt to bind her wrists.
Sheriff George Corwin pushed the man aside. “I’ll do that,” he said. He loosened the rope so it wouldn’t cut into her flesh. While he retied her wrists behind her back, he talked. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “It couldn’t have gone any other way, you know that.”
“Aye.”
“The judge ordered me and a bunch of my men out to the Wainwright place immediately.”
Salem's Daughter Page 55
