“Oh, very well. You’re right about business anyway. The boys will only sit on their hands all morning, or sneak down to the Sessions House to hear fresh news of the trial.”
He called to Peter, and when his assistant stuck his head in the doorway, he gave him his orders. “Go fetch Arthur Wilts. Tell him to come straightway.”
Matthew lingered until Arthur arrived, which was not more than a few minutes. During the interval, Matthew tried to pry from Joan just what it was she thought would be found in the ruins besides ashes, but she wouldn’t say. It wasn’t clear that she knew herself. However, her uncertainty made her no less positive about what should be done. Matthew’s apprentices were to do the dirty work. Arthur, who wanted to go to hear the verdict, was disappointed when Matthew told him he was to supervise the digging.
“You wish the horse buried, Mr. Stock,” asked Arthur, curious, of course, why this project should be undertaken at all.
“Yes, yes, bury the beast. I’ll come to you at dinnertime and inspect the work. If you find anything unusual”—he paused to glance at Joan—“anything . . . strange, bring me word at once.”
Joan looked pleased. She was off to the Sessions House herself, and she planted a warm kiss on his cheek as he went out the door to fetch the women.
The horse and cart were ready, brought up before by Peter. By the time he was halfway to the Blue Boar, Matthew had forgotten completely about the Waite barn.
• EIGHTEEN •
THE journey from the Blue Boar to the Sessions House, a distance of not more than a quarter mile, was more tumultuous than it had been the day before, and therefore seemed the longer. Faces surged toward Matthew as they might have done in the worst of nightmares, in which the threat of physical danger joins forces with verbal abuse and calumny of the vilest sort. Hands clawed at his prisoners huddled in the back of the cart, grasped at the moving wheels and tried to restrain them. The cart was rocked and jostled, pelted and spat upon, yet Matthew drove it forward, thanks to the aid of three of the magistrate’s men who rode alongside. The epithets hurled at him slashed like razors.
By some miracle, Matthew got the women into the court without injury to them or himself. The trial, scheduled to resume at eight o’clock, did not get under way until nearly nine, an unfortunate delay. By that time claps of unseasonable thunder could be heard in the distance, and these gave the onlookers and the jurymen even more cause for concern. When the great Bible, used for the swearing in of witnesses, was inadvertently knocked onto the floor by a flustered clerk, nearly everyone concluded that this second and final day of the trial had begun on an ominous note indeed.
The prosecutor Malvern rose first to make a short summary of the previous day’s evidence against the accused women, as though it were not already etched permanently in the minds of all those who had attended the proceedings. He made
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much of the testimony of Mrs. Roundy, the baker’s wife. He emphasized her special status as an eyewitness to the reality of the apparition, and interpreted her fainting fit as a clear sign of the Satanic influence that continued to emanate from the accused women. He summarized rapidly and with an air of confidence, as though to say, “This all is behind us, like the foundation of a great edifice upon the which I will now erect an even more spectacular superstructure.” He gestured dramatically like a player on the stage, his bulging eyes fixing by turn on the judges, the jurymen, and the onlookers.
Finally it was time for the last witness. Seated rigidly next to Malvern was the boy with whom the prosecutor had arrived in town. Upon entering and taking his place behind Margaret and her sister, the constable had not noticed him. Now, in response to the clerk’s summons, Michael Fletcher—or so he was called—stood up. He did not step forward to the witness stand, however, nor was his oath taken. It was quickly apparent that the young man was to be a witness of a different sort.
“Michael Fletcher, whom you see before you, was himself possessed of an evil spirit,” Malvern explained when the magistrate asked to know who the boy was and what use the prosecutor hoped to make of him. “Was possessed, I hasten to add. For nearly a year he was afflicted. During that time, he languished, convulsed, spewed pins and needles from his mouth, vomited rocks and stones, to the wonderment of his friends and parents. At length he was freed from the possession through much earnest prayer, both of learned clergy and of his family. Since then, he has on many occasions done valuable service to towns such as yours cursed with this terrible malignancy of witchcraft.”
A clap of thunder was heard; there was a visible shudder among the onlookers. Malvern paused, noting the sign’s effect, and made a shrewd face. Young Michael Fletcher himself stood very still and stony-faced, as though Malvern were speaking of someone else. Matthew wondered what it was the boy would do. Give an account of his possession? Preach a sermon against witches?
But as Malvern continued, describing his protege’s powers without specifically saying how they were used, it became apparent that the boy was no accuser of witches, but a detector of them. He was a wonder, a prodigy—endowed with a marvelous gift, made more wonderful by its serviceableness to a righteous cause: the identification of others possessed by Satan.
“If a woman or man or child be contaminated ” Malvern went on, shuddering at the word, “if that contaminated person has made room in his heart for the Devil, then Michael Fletcher will know of it. Since his own deliverance, he has become abnormally sensitive. He can no more endure Satan’s presence in another than a rose the first grip of frost.”
Matthew studied the face and form of this marvelous personage, who indeed looked like any other boy his age except for the good value of his clothing. The eyes were bright blue and intense, the skin of his face waxy pale, and at his chin was a crop of pimples. Beyond the white lace cuffs of Michael Fletcher’s jerkin, his small delicate hands hung limply like little dead fish. There was something cold and watery about Michael Fletcher—certainly something intimidating about his reputed powers. Matthew began to feel uneasy.
Malvern said a trial would be made of the women, one that would lead to an inescapable conclusion. It would be a kind of demonstration, he said, that would make their possession all very plain, even to the most skeptical. He conferred with the clerk briefly and gave some instructions that resulted in a hiatus in the proceedings while the spectators in the first row were asked to move to the side of the room so that their bench could be shoved back to allow more space before the judges’ table.
When this was done, Malvern handed the clerk a paper on which had been written the names of six women present in the chamber, women who were all reputable wives of the town and who had not previously served as witnesses. The names were called and the women were asked to come forward and stand before the judges. Among them was Joan.
Matthew had been first surprised to hear his wife’s name
called, then anxious. It was evident the women called were also confused and embarrassed by this curious and seemingly spontaneous summons. Some smiled or giggled nervously, others looked on solemnly, waiting for further instructions or at least an explanation from Malvern. When they were all at the front, Malvern had them form a line and turn to face the spectators. Then he asked Matthew to bring his prisoners forward and place them within the line. This even more strange and unexpected development caused some consternation, both among the women standing and among the audience, for many were not happy to find themselves—or to see their wives—lumped with the accused witches, and those so distressed made audible comments to that effect.
When this was accomplished—Matthew now beginning to suspect what Malvern intended—the prosecutor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and made it into a blindfold for Michael Fletcher, explaining as he did so that the blindfold would guarantee the validity of the demonstration. Malvern stepped forward and, planting his hands on the shoulders of several of the women, repositioned them so that the order of the line was different from that which his protege had
last viewed. By now every woman in the line, including Margaret and Jane, had grasped the prosecutor’s intent, and the few among them who had giggled nervously when brought forward were as solemn and anxious as the rest. The whole courtroom was tense with anticipation, and those whose eyes were not fixed on the faces of the eight women were giving equal attention to the blindfolded figure of Michael Fletcher, who to many in the room must have appeared as the male counterpart of the allegorical justice, wanting only the scales and sword.
Now Malvern announced in sonorous tones that he was prepared to begin, and asked, unnecessarily, that all give heed to what was about to happen. Taking Michael Fletcher’s hand, he led the boy toward the women and asked them to extend their hands before them, extending his own to demonstrate what he wanted them to do.
The women extended their hands. There was a little buzz
of talk in the court but it soon fell silent. Malvern led the boy to the first of the women, guiding his hand so that his fingertips merely glanced hers. The poor woman, who had obviously been holding her breath for fear, now let it all out in a loud “Whew!” that would have provoked laughter in other circumstances. She smiled broadly and Malvern moved on. The next woman, as it turned out, was Joan, and Matthew was seized by a sudden dread. It was clear to him that as theatrical as this so-called demonstration was and as spurious as Michael Fletcher’s powers might be, his friends and neighbors in the room were convinced of the validity of the demonstration; it might have been Saint Paul himself performing the wonder. There was therefore real danger in the boy’s touch. The cold white fingertips made contact with Joan’s fleshy brown hand, and Matthew flinched and then, when nothing happened, sighed for relief, expressing in the sigh as fervent a prayer of gratitude as he had ever uttered in his life.
Inevitably, Michael Fletcher came to Margaret Waite, who was standing in the fifth position from where the demonstration had begun. By now, four of the women having been touched with no more response from Michael Fletcher than a twitch of his youthful nose, the spectators had been lulled into a false sense of security. But when the boy’s hand touched Margaret’s, the touch turned instantly to a vice-like grip, Michael Fletcher’s face contorted violently, and he shrieked as if Margaret’s hand were a searing brand.
“Satan! Satan! Satan!” Michael Fletcher screamed, as though each mention of the name were wrenched from his soul.
Everyone, including Malvern, appeared shocked at the violence of this outburst, and immediately the prosecutor began to struggle to break the contact his protege’s abnormal sensitivity had forged. It was as if the boy were unable to let go Margaret’s hand, and this nearly proved to be so, for despite his greater physical strength and his intense determination, it was all Malvern could do to break the grip. It seemed an eternity until he did so. Poor Margaret shrieked and quaked,
and with her free hand clutched at her heart in obvious terror.
Then it was over. The contact was broken, and the shrieking stopped. Malvern and the boy breathed heavily with exertion; Margaret fainted dead away and had to be carried back to her bench. For a few minutes the court was in an uproar; however, since everyone wanted to see if the boy would respond similarly to Jane Crispin, the spectators quieted down.
Malvern moved the boy down the line, touching two more women without noticeable response. Jane was at the very end. When he came to her, just as the audience expected, Michael Fletcher’s performance was repeated.
But it was more dreadful than before, more ear-piercing, the jerks and wriggles more violent. Michael Fletcher ripped the blindfold from his eyes and, with his free hand, flailed about in the air as though fending off a host of winged and invisible devils fluttering about him and Jane Crispin. He whined and howled like an animal.
While Jane Crispin endured this with the utmost disdain for her accuser, some in the audience, terrified by this show of Satanic power, were making for the doors in an effort to escape. Others left their benches to get a closer view, while some fainted or began to imitate the boy’s seizure, writhing in agony or snarling and howling like dogs. One would no sooner give over his fit than a new victim would appear whose contortions and shrieks were more dramatic and otherworldly than his predecessor’s. For a half hour at least, the chamber was a perfect bedlam. The judges shouted themselves hoarse in their effort to restore order. A physician was summoned. The parson made the sign of the cross repeatedly, in a vain attempt to exorcise the disruptive spirit. The magistrate, bewildered by the reaction and appalled by the breakdown in decorum, ordered his men to clear the chamber at once, but they too seemed affected by the general hysteria and were more concerned to use their halberds to ward off any supernatural threat to themselves than to defend the civil order. Even after Malvern succeeded in his superhuman struggle to free Michael Fletcher’s hand from Jane Crispin’s,
the uproar continued. Indeed, it did not begin to abate until the most vociferous of the possessed were prostrate on the benches or so raw of voice that they had to keep silent.
Young Fletcher too had been exhausted by his fit. When his grip was broken, he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
The howling and shouting finally stopped, and everyone gave their attention to the fallen boy, whose marvelous touch had proved the prosecutor’s case, or so it had seemed. Malvern was down on his knees beside the prostrate form of Michael Fletcher, trying to revive him. The crowd was on their feet, pressing around for a better view. “Give him air! He’s only fainted!” shouted Malvern. He called for water and water was brought. He dipped his handkerchief in the cup and wiped the boy’s brow and cheeks. Some color could be seen in the smooth young face and within minutes the closed eyelids fluttered and opened.
Despite these signs of returning life, Mrs. Roundy cried, “She’s killed him!” The baker’s wife pointed an accusing finger at Jane Crispin, who all this while had stood taut-faced and apparently indifferent to the chaos around her. Now it was evident her apparent lack of compassion was construed as responsibility for the seizure, and from everywhere in the room the charge of the baker’s wife was echoed: “Away with them! Away with them both!”
In time the prosecutor was able to get Michael Fletcher up, brush off his clothes, and help him to a seat. The court quieted, much sympathy was expressed, and the boy’s revival was looked on as a miracle. A recess was called to allow sufficient time for the boy to recover from his harrowing experience.
Matthew led his prisoners to the clerk’s office.
“Did you ever see the like?” stormed the previously unperturbed Jane Crispin when the door was shut behind them. “The boy is nothing more than a monkey on a string. What if he does wear a blindfold? He responds when cued and will denounce whom he likes. No woman, nor man either, is free from his accusations. Have my neighbors lost their minds?”
Margaret, more undone than her sister by what had gone on in court, wailed piteously, “Oh, God, help us now!”
Matthew was equally alarmed and disgusted. But what was he to do? It was all up to the jury, who were obviously taking in the whole spectacle with the greatest amazement and credulity; intoxicated as they were by their powers of life and death over the women, what justice could one expect from their hands?
He waited in the office commiserating with the women until they were recalled, then led them to their place. He watched while Malvern rose and, screwing up his eyes at the judges, announced triumphantly that the prosecution had made its case.
Then the magistrate asked if the women had any answer to make to the charges against them other than what had already been said, and Jane Crispin said she had. She stood and faced the jury.
“Goodmen of the jury, I rise to speak for myself and for my poor sister, who is too abjectly melancholy over these proceedings to speak another word for herself. You have heard what passes for evidence against us—idle gossip, speculation, the malice of enemies, and ignorance of the uneducated. It is a sorry bit of evidence, but this previous demonstration by the callow youth yond
er surpasses it all for treacherous undermining of reason and justice. The Bible says, ‘Answer a fool according to his folly.’ But I confess, sirs, that I cannot conceive of such folly as would be fit to answer this foolishness with.”
At this point, Jane was silenced by the magistrate, who said he had heard enough. He commanded Jane to say no more.
“The court has already been abused grossly, sir,” Jane continued, ignoring the order to be silent. “If you have no charity for me or my sister, consider what peril your own wives, daughters, mothers, and grandmothers stand in when such as Malvern and this wretched boy are allowed to traipse about the country accusing whom they will. And what defense—”
“No more, woman!” cried the louring magistrate, rising to his feet and shaking a warning finger at Jane. He ordered Matthew to restrain her.
Reluctantly, Matthew moved forward to execute the magistrate’s command. Momentarily, she resisted the pressure of his hand on her arm, and then allowed herself to be seated. Her eyes smoldered. “Don’t say any more,” Matthew whispered, leaning over her. “It will do you no good at all.”
“I will be silent,” she said, in a voice loud enough for the judges to hear. “I will say no more, no, not to any man. If I were a witch, I would empty my store of curses upon them all, but since I am a Christian I can only pray forgiveness for them who despitefully use me.”
The magistrate sat down and said, “The jury is instructed to consider what it has heard from the witnesses against these women, from Mr. Michael Fletcher, and from the very lips of the accused. Let the jury now retire to consider its verdict.” At this, everyone began talking and there was a general movement toward the door. Matthew led Jane and Margaret to the clerk’s office to wait the jury’s decision, while the jurymen were led to the small adjoining courtroom to consider what they had heard. Matthew saw the women inside the clerk’s office and made certain that guards were placed at the door. As he was preparing to leave, the relatives of the women descended on him with their complaints.
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