My backbone stiffened. I hoped that Cecil would help if need be; it was also true that the queen might step in. Might. She’d done that for Gladys, but it had set a dubious precedent. I dared not hope too much. I must break free without her help, if I could. And I thought I could see a way. I rose from the bench and went to stand in front of Heron.
‘Sir Edward! I have something of importance to say.’
Heron surveyed me in no friendly fashion, but said: ‘By all means, Mrs Stannard. Is it a confession?’
‘No, it is not. Sir Edward, you are the sheriff of this county and in charge of seeing that when charges are brought, all the facts that have a bearing on those charges are known and can be presented to the judges. Do I – and Mistress Jester – not have the right to produce witnesses who will speak for us? For we can produce them – other witnesses, I mean, besides those present.’ I glanced at Brockley and Wilder. ‘And,’ I said, ‘would it not be best to hear them before we are brought before a judge? So that if they can refute the charges against us, then those charges can be dropped, and no judges will have their time wasted.’
‘Who may these witnesses be?’
‘Mistress Jane Cobbold,’ I said, ‘and Master Paul Emory.’
There was a stir all around me, of murmurs and whispers and the rustle of clothes as people turned to look at each other. The chaplain’s rounded eyebrows rose.
Walter went rigid. ‘That is unthinkable. No Cobbold has set foot in this house for over a hundred years, and no Cobbold ever will again.’
Did I detect fear as well as anger in his voice? Ignoring him, I said: ‘Brockley can fetch them. Can you not, Brockley? It surely won’t take too long.’
‘I know this district well. It would be a round journey of only seven miles or so,’ Brockley said. ‘No, it shouldn’t take me long, given that they’re at home.’
‘I will not have a Cobbold in my house!’ Ferris shouted.
There was silence from Thomas and the two women, but I saw all three of them looking intently at Heron. Ferris, sensing, I suppose, that the Cobbold–Ferris feud was not of interest to most of us, changed his tone. ‘This is all folly. What can Mistress Cobbold and Master Emory have to tell us that has any bearing on this?’
‘If they are asked, we may find out,’ I said. I kept my eyes on Heron. Behind me, I heard Sybil whisper: ‘Good, good.’
‘It was Mrs Cobbold who first complained to me that she believed that Mrs Stannard had been indulging in the black arts,’ Heron said. ‘Yet you wish to call her as a witness on your behalf, Mrs Stannard. That seems strange.’
I said: ‘It would be best, I think, to let Mistress Cobbold and Master Emory speak for themselves.’
I had been right. Heron, however bigoted, however fanatical in his beliefs about witchcraft, was not corrupt. He wished to be a conscientious sheriff. Once more I waited, as the two sides of him struggled with each other. Hoping desperately that the right one would prevail.
Finally, he said: ‘Very well. Return the accused to their cellar meanwhile. I will send two of my own men to fetch the individuals in question. Mr Brockley is too much of an interested party. We don’t want our witnesses tampered with. Mr Brockley, you will instruct my messengers as to the likely whereabouts of this Jane Cobbold, and of Mr Emory, but you will remain here, as will your companion.’
‘I can’t admit a Cobbold here, and this is my house!’ Ferris spluttered.
‘But I am conducting this enquiry, Mr Ferris. The witnesses will be fetched,’ said Heron. ‘That is all.’
Sybil and I were brought back from the wine cellar three hours later. We had been given water to drink and some more bread and cheese in the interim, a replacement for dinner. I gathered that the delay was because Paul Emory had been out in his fields and it took time to find him. We were escorted back to the hall, once more by Peter Maine and his two henchmen. We had found out by then (because Sybil asked) that one was a kitchen hand and the other, a very brawny man, was a groom. As we came into the hall, I saw Brockley glance sharply at the groom, but he did not speak.
Little had changed in the hall. Everyone who had been there before was there still, and they had been joined by Jane Cobbold and Paul Emory, who were standing side by side, looking bewildered. When we came in, Jane was staring about her and declaring that she couldn’t think what her husband would say about her being brought here. He was on an errand to Woking, and she hadn’t been able to ask him if she ought to come, and she had agreed only because it was by order of the sheriff himself, and what in the world was happening?
Since she was the first Cobbold to set foot in the house for at least a century, her agitation was understandable. Ferris was glowering at her and standing well away from her, as though she might contaminate him.
She must have been working in her kitchen when the sheriff’s men arrived, since her open collar and her creased brown dress were both dusted with flour. Emory, fresh from his fields, was clad in workmanlike breeches, with a sleeveless leather jerkin over an old shirt and earth clinging to his boots. He looked angry.
There were used plates and glasses on the table and some wine flasks. Refreshment had evidently been served. I could have done with some wine myself, and no doubt so could Sybil, but no one offered us any.
‘Well,’ said Heron, opening the proceedings. ‘Here are your witnesses, Mrs Stannard. What do you imagine they can tell us? You have my permission to question them.’
The interval had let me gather my thoughts. I turned to Jane. ‘Mistress Cobbold, you have laid an accusation of witchcraft against me. It was based on the idea that I might have created the recent smallpox outbreak by casting a spell, and thereby put your daughter Christina’s life at risk, and in the end, permanently damaged her complexion. In fact, the outbreak was probably started by the old cloaks that Master Ferris brought to my daughter’s wedding. Christina borrowed one of them – when she went for a walk in our garden, before you all left for home. That cloak has been identified as formerly belonging to his married daughter Lucy, who lately died of smallpox.’
‘There is no proof that either of the cloaks were Lucy’s,’ Ferris broke in.
Margaret said: ‘The green one was!’ and was rewarded by a sharp nudge from Bridget Ferris’s elbow.
I kept my eyes on Jane. ‘Did anyone suggest to you that I might be responsible for the smallpox? Or was it all your own idea?’
‘It’s not the sort of thing I’d be likely to think of,’ said Jane in a flurried fashion. She eyed me, though, with blatant dislike. ‘But there it is, you have kept that witch woman Gladys Morgan in your house and . . . and you’re unwomanly!’
Jane, alarmed at having been brought to the Ferris house in such a hasty and unceremonious fashion, and now confronted by me, the person she had officially accused, blurted out her opinion of me, more candidly than ever before. ‘You’ve travelled about and got yourself caught up in high matters and enterprises that aren’t the proper sphere for ladies. I’ve worried, thinking: what sort of example are you setting to Christina? I couldn’t say much because Anthony and your husband are such friends, but girls are so easily led astray; she seemed to admire what she’d heard of you, and I didn’t like that. And then she got the pox and her face is all spoilt, and soon after that, Master Emory came to see us and said to me, isn’t it queer, a trouble like smallpox breaking out in the Stannard household, all of a sudden, and spreading beyond, and did I know the bride’s uncle died of an apoplexy just after he got back home, too? And there’s a known witch at Hawkswood, he said. He thought I ought to report it, seeing that Christina was an injured party.’
Brockley had moved to my side. ‘So that’s how she got to know about Ambrose Blanchard dying,’ he muttered. ‘But how did Emory know?’
‘From Ferris, I expect,’ I muttered back. ‘And he’d have got it from gossip, I dare say. Or maybe we were right when we wondered if Dorothy was the only spy in our house.’
Emory was talking now, partly to me. ‘Ha
wkswood’s got a funny reputation, ever since that woman Gladys Morgan was brought back from London and you Stannards gave her a home. She should have been hanged, but you Stannards got her off. You choose strange company, Mistress Stannard. And it’s sad to see a lass like Christina with her looks so damaged.’
‘Yes, it broke my heart, seeing her like that and hearing her weep over it and thinking that no one would ever want to marry her now!’ Jane cried. ‘It was a wicked thing to happen to a girl, and it all started up after the wedding at your house, Ursula Stannard, and everyone knows it’s the sort of thing witches like to do, making misery that goes on for years and years, through lifetimes, and—’
‘Yes, and so I told Mistress Cobbold!’ Emory declared. ‘I thought, since she knew Sir Edward here, she could go to him about it. I wouldn’t have liked to go to such a great man myself.’ He gave a sketchy bow towards Heron. ‘Seems she acted on what I said,’ he added.
‘You’re quite mistaken in me,’ I said to Jane. ‘I’m just . . . not the same sort of woman that you are. We’re not all alike.’ I turned to Emory. ‘I believe, sir, that you have lately done a favour or two for Master Ferris. Were those the favours? Telling Mistress Cobbold about Master Blanchard’s death from apoplexy – and urging her to accuse me?’
‘No,’ said Ferris sharply.
‘But he has done favours for you?’ I asked him.
Margaret stared at her father, biting her lip.
‘Oh, I’ve done him a good turn now then,’ said Emory easily. He gave another polite little bow, towards Ferris this time. ‘I’m glad enough to be of service to a good neighbour. I once got some value knocked off someone else’s young bull, too, so as he could get it cheap. That kind of thing.’
‘Gossiped about murrain on the farm the bull was bred on, did you?’ enquired Brockley in an interested voice.
Beside me, Sybil had raised her chin. ‘Maine!’
‘Madam?’ said Peter Maine.
‘You told me that Master Ferris asked Emory to suggest the witchcraft charge to Mistress Cobbold. He knew a Cobbold wouldn’t accept the idea from him. You told me that Master Emory obliged, in return for the match being settled between his daughter and Thomas. You said he agreed that if Mistress Cobbold didn’t take up his suggestion, then he’d go to Sir Edward himself.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Ferris.
‘I certainly don’t recall saying such a thing,’ said Maine, smiling slightly but fixing her with eyes in which there was no smile at all. ‘Tell me, Mistress Jester, was anyone else there at the time?’
Sybil stared back at him and did not reply.
‘Come. Answer,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Sybil unwillingly.
‘I thought not. You mustn’t make up tales, you know, even to protect your friend.’
‘I’m not making it up!’
‘She certainly is,’ said Paul Emory and Walter Ferris simultaneously.
There was a silence, in which terror ran through my veins like ice water. Every piece of evidence I and my friends had produced had been brushed aside or dismissed as lies. Ferris and Maine – and, under compulsion, Thomas – had been the liars, but I couldn’t prove it. The letters – oh, mere forgeries. Margaret was a silly girl who could not possibly know for sure that an old cloak had once belonged to any particular person. No one could prove that Ferris had used Emory to drop a poisonous idea into Jane Cobbold’s receptive ears and unintelligent brain. No one could prove that the mysterious favours had nothing to do with buying stock cheap. I would waste my breath if I said that Ferris himself had fostered the link between my household and that of Jennet and Margery. He would just deny it – another lie – and they were not alive to testify. I thought once more of how their deaths must have been for them, and the nausea rose.
And then Paul Emory startled everyone. Clearing his throat, he announced: ‘I have something to say.’
Heron inclined a polite head (or stooped a long yellow beak, I thought distractedly) and said: ‘We will hear you, Mr Emory.’
‘I don’t quite understand what all this is about, but it sounds as if this Stannard woman wants to blacken the name of Master Ferris, and I’m sorry about that. He’s a friend of mine, and it’s true enough that I want his son as a husband for my girl Margaret, there. That’ll settle her in life, with a good home and a fine healthy young man. And here we all are, in this hall, with witnesses aplenty and two men of the cloth here. I don’t doubt Sir Edward needs a bit of time to think over what he’s heard. Why can’t we pass that time by tying the knot, here and now, between Thomas Ferris and my Margaret?’ He fixed his eyes on Walter Ferris. ‘What do you say about it, my friend?’
Everyone looked at him in astonishment.
‘You want,’ said Heron, as though he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, ‘to interrupt a . . . an investigation into a crime, by holding a marriage ceremony?’
‘A bit unusual, I grant you,’ said Emory. His gaze was still on Ferris. ‘But it need only take a few minutes. Then it’s done and Margaret’s safely wed to a good husband. Ferris ain’t against it, I think? Once more, what do you say, Walter?’
Something was passing between those two: unspoken, but it was there. Emory’s attitude to Ferris had changed. Earlier, he had had a respectful air, but the respect had vanished now. He was addressing Ferris as an equal or even an inferior. As though he had power over him.
Heron had noticed it too. ‘I have a feeling,’ he said, ‘that something is going on here to which I am not privy. What is it?’
‘It’s just my wish to see my daughter settled and to take the opportunity, while she’s here and young Thomas is here and we have a chaplain on hand,’ said Emory stolidly. ‘Been trying to bring this match about for a long time, I have.’
‘Indeed?’ Heron’s voice was anything but encouraging.
Emory, however, was unmoved. ‘Well, why not?’ he said. ‘Given Master Ferris here agrees.’
‘This is hardly the time or the place,’ Ferris said. ‘Certainly, I am in favour of the marriage, but here and now . . . No, this is no way to go about it. It should take place in a church or in our own small chapel, with guests and a feast . . .’
‘Oh, come. I’m not asking for the moon, you know. Just a neighbourly favour, like I did for you over the young bull,’ said Emory.
Ferris was silent. He was going to give in. Obliquely, Paul Emory was telling him he must. I was watching them, and I could see it. Emory had a hold over Ferris all right. Well, of course. He had assuredly been Ferris’s mouthpiece in persuading Jane to accuse me, and I would have sworn on oath that Ferris had told him of Uncle Ambrose’s death and bidden him to pass that piece of news on, as well. And now Emory was tacitly threatening to say so, if Ferris didn’t consent to the marriage.
I opened my mouth to shout it all out, before it was too late, but Thomas got in first.
‘No one,’ he said, ‘has asked me, or asked Margaret, whether we are willing. And I for one am not.’
His father rounded on him. ‘You will do as you are bid. Before God, you will. You know what will happen if you don’t. I expect obedience from my son. Remember this, if nothing else moves you: I can always will my property to someone else.’
Thomas, who had half risen, sank back into his seat. So that was the final lever, I thought. When violence could no longer control him, the fear of losing his inheritance might.
‘And Margaret,’ said Paul Emory, ‘will also do as she is bid. Margaret is a good obedient daughter, and I have no doubt of that.’
Margaret said nothing. She looked as though she were shrinking inside her clothes. Bridget said nothing, either.
‘Very well,’ said Ferris. ‘Sir Edward, I know it seems strange, but this is after all my house, and surely there is no harm in pausing for a pleasant few moments, before you proceed with the arrest of these women.’
‘If I do so proceed,’ said Heron. ‘The two witnesses Mrs Cobbold and Mr Emory have certainly interested me. T
his is an odd situation. I find virtually all the evidence in Mrs Stannard’s favour to be unconvincing, but I begin to think that after all there is a formidable amount of it. Small bits and pieces and all dubious . . . but a lot of them.’
So he wasn’t as sure as he had seemed to be. I had achieved that much. I had damaged his certainty.
‘I do indeed need time to consider,’ Heron was saying. ‘Mr Ferris, if you want to fill the gap with a wedding ceremony which in no way affects my deliberations, you may do so.’
Jane Cobbold, not looking at me, said: ‘Thomas, you may as well. Believe me, you will never marry Christina. My husband will only agree to that when it starts to snow in hell. Cobbolds can’t marry Ferrises, and that’s that, as he’s said to me and to Christina, many a time, and—’
‘Enough,’ said Heron. He turned to Giles Parkes. ‘You are willing to perform this ceremony?’
‘We would prefer my steward, Peter Maine, to do so,’ said Ferris. ‘Since this is a Catholic household. He is a priest as well as a steward, and we do have a private chapel. It is small, but it is consecrated.’
‘I have heard about it,’ Heron said sharply. ‘A Popish place, polluted by incense and Papistical rites. I have not hitherto interfered in your private devotions, Mr Ferris, but I cannot allow Popish rites to take place in my presence. The ceremony will be conducted here in the hall, in decent Protestant fashion. Mr Parkes!’
‘By all means,’ said the chaplain. ‘We can use my writing table to represent a homely altar, and perhaps a ring could be found . . .’
NINETEEN
Fox in the Hen-Run
It seemed strange to me, and somehow inappropriate, that the terrifying events in which I was trapped seemed to be inextricably tangled up with weddings. Weddings, after all, are supposed to be joyous. But there it was. First there had been Alice Cobbold’s marriage, and then came Meg’s, and now it was the wedding of Margaret Emory and Thomas Ferris. Alice’s was the only one that followed the conventional pattern. Meg’s was outrageously interrupted by Thomas’s father, and as for that of Thomas and Margaret . . .
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