by Mary Hooper
“Well,” he said slowly, “what if, instead, you told the court that you didn’t know who was the father of the child. That you had lain with half a dozen men and couldn’t tell who was responsible.”
“I could not!” I said, horrified. “’Tis not true, and I would not bring such shame on myself or my family.”
“Then name one other only. Name your erstwhile suitor: John Taylor the blacksmith.”
“I could not do that, either!”
Mr. Peakes looked at me gravely. “Just think on’t, Anne: if you named John Taylor as the father, then Sir Thomas might relent and deal with the matter himself. You might not need to go to court.”
“But it isn’t true!” How could I name John! Why, he and I had only ever held hands. Besides . . . besides, I loved him, and would not besmirch his life to save mine.
“Name him and ‘twill not be so bad,” Mr. Peakes went on, “for all that will happen is that he’ll be hauled before the magistrates and be made to marry you. And Sir Thomas will drop the charge of murder.”
“No!” I said. “And anyway, John Taylor wouldn’t ever marry me. He hates me now.” And with this I fell to weeping again and wouldn’t be comforted.
A little bit later, while it was still dark, Mrs. Williams came down and said that the cart and two of the sheriff’s men were here from the prison to take me away. She’d done up all my possessions: some undersmocks, a tabby skirt, three jackets, my Sunday gown, and a day dress. There was also the precious, hateful, silver-threaded bodice, which they must have found under my mattress. “I have given you some foodstuffs,” she said, “and Susan has found a comb and mirror of yours, and a gold ring and some ribbons, and we have put them all in a pocket here.” She rolled everything into a tidy bundle, which she tucked under my arm and bade me take care of, then she took my hand and, squeezing it hard, wished me Godspeed.
I thanked her, and thought of that which had kept me awake and crying all last night. “How will I let my ma know?” I asked. “How will my family learn what’s happened?”
“You may rest easy on that,” Mrs. Williams said. “Susan is to go to your cottage in Steeple Barton straight after she’s finished her morning duties, and she’ll relate to them all that’s occurred.”
“And tell them I didn’t do it!” I cried, and Mrs. Williams nodded and turned away, for she didn’t seem able to look me in the eye. I didn’t feel then that I hated her or Susan, for it seemed to me that they both regretted what they’d put in motion by taking the matter to Sir Thomas.
A shout came that I was to get outside and look sharpish about it, and I stood, all of a shake, and Mr. Peakes offered me his arm to help me up the stairs. Together we walked through the kitchens while the rest of the servants paused in their morning duties to wish me luck, and some of the women (perhaps having more foresight than I about what was going to happen) fell to weeping. I found myself stopping and saying silly and comforting things to them, such as I was all right, and would be sure to be back with them before too long. And it reminded me of when Lily Grove the scullery maid had got married to a carrier two years before, and Mr. Peakes had led her through the kitchens and everyone had pressed flowers into her hands and given her little trinkets for luck (although these had not worked, for she had died giving birth to her first child).
Two men were waiting at the back door, and at first they looked at me very stern and spoke gruffly when asking my name, but afterward seemed to relent when they saw that I wasn’t going to resist. I climbed into the back of the cart with some help from Mr. Peakes, sat on the floor of it with my bundle, and one of the drivers climbed in after and clasped my legs together with an iron manacle and some chains, the way I’d seen highwaymen and the like pictured in the news sheets. Once secured, I crawled into a corner of the cart, huddled into my cloak, and prayed that the journey to Oxford would be quick. I was pitifully ignorant of the ways of the law at that time, for I thought that the matter might be settled that afternoon; that the jury would be there waiting and, when they realized that I was not a murderess, release me. I looked in fear for Sir Thomas or Lady Mary to come out, but they did not, and I cannot say that I was glad about anything on that morning, but I was glad about this.
Mr. Peakes gave me some money wrapped in a paper that he said was my wages, and we were just about to set off when he shouted to the drivers to wait a while for he’d just remembered something, and, going back to the house, came out again with a small bundle wrapped in a rough linen dish clout. I thought this must contain something that I’d forgotten, and so I held up my hands to receive it. Mr. Peakes shook his head at me and handed the bundle to the driver, who placed it under his seat. I realized then that it was the dead infant, and was struck with mortification and pity.
It was scarce light by the time the cart trundled out of the manor house gates, but there were already people in the lane outside going about their morning duties. I shrank back and hung my head so that my hood covered my face, fearing they might realize that it was a prison cart and follow the usual custom of shouting after it, or of throwing old vegetables and other rubbish at whoever was being borne away. I least wanted to draw attention to myself right there.
To my horror, however, as the cart turned at the corner of Cow Lane to go toward Oxford, John Taylor came by on his way to work and hailed the driver to ask who was aboard, saying it was news to him that there were knaves and thieves about these parts.
I prayed with all my heart that the driver might urge the horse on without replying or John might not wait upon his words, but God was not listening, for the driver paused to adjust his cape about him and John stood his ground.
“No thieves, but one murderess,” came the reply.
“A murderess!” John asked, astonished. “Someone from this village?”
“Aye.”
With my eyes tight shut I heard him walk two steps closer to the back of the cart to see if he could discern who was there. All he would have seen of me, however, was a huddled black shape. “A murderess?” he repeated. “From where does she come?”
“From the manor house.”
The carter whipped up the horse, and I heard John Taylor ask, “And by what name goes this murderess?”
But just then the horse began moving and the wheels of the cart turned on the gravel, and I don’t know if John Taylor heard the reply that came, or even if one was uttered. I pictured him standing in the lane looking perplexed, his hands on his hips, and I ached to look at him and see his dear face once more. I did not do this, however, for I was too ashamed and, besides, feared to see the repugnance and disgust that would be writ on his features when he found out it was me.
There followed a miserable journey. I was jogged and jostled about on the floor of the cart and became bruised and sore, and it was so fiercesome cold that even with my cloak tight about me I shivered. We went over a crossroads where a highwayman (so I heard my drivers say) hung on a gibbet, and I could not resist looking at the sight, which was terrible indeed, for the flesh of the person was near all gone so that it was a mere man of bone who hung there in an iron cage, with a bird of prey perched on his skull.
We went through the villages of Gylmpton and Wootton without anyone hardly noticing the cart, but at Woodstock we stopped so that the men could take refreshment at the Feathers, leaving me chained to a stave in the back. I curled up very small again then, and remained still, so that anyone seeing me would have thought I was just a bundle of rags. I heard some passing children talking of whether there was a person in the cart, and one of them jumped in the back and kicked me. I still didn’t stir, however, for I knew it would be the worse for me if I was discovered.
When the two drivers came back, they were merry from the ale, and, laughing as they whipped up the horse, thought they would have some sport by shouting to passersby what it was they carried to Oxford City. They thus began calling, in the manner of tradesmen shouting their wares, “What ho—a murderess!” and “Look sharp for a murderess!”
At Yarnton a group of villagers heard them and began to run after the cart, shouting that I should be hanged forthwith, so that I became frightened that they would pluck me out right then and hang me from the nearest tree. They beat on the back of the cart with branches, and clanged pots and pans, and threw stones, and one came right up with a sharpened stick and gave me a hard poke through the bars of the cart. This tore right through my clothes and lacerated my arm, but I still did not move or utter a sound.
The journey to Oxford was perhaps twenty miles. We covered this in five hours, and it was terrible and wearisome all the way, and muddy, too, for the wheels of the cart went into potholes and puddles and splashed up water so that I was fair soaked with mud by the time we neared Oxford. I did not weep, however—I had wept so much in the past day and night that I could weep no more. I just sat as still as a stone, infinitely weary and sick to my soul, trying to brace myself for whatever should come next.
As we entered the city of Oxford and the horse began to labor up a hill, the drivers shouted back to me that I should stir myself, for the end of the journey was in sight. I peeped out from under the hood of my cloak and saw at the top of the hill a hideous and forbidding old castle, and I knew that here lay my destiny.
Chapter ~ 16
“What next?” Dr. Petty asked his colleagues with some urgency to his voice. “What ought we to do?”
“Should we do anything?” Dr. Willis replied. “We will not dissect her at present, of course. Perhaps we should just . . . leave her.”
“Let nature take its course?” asked Mr. Clarke.
“Exactly.”
No! Robert wanted to shout. Don’t leave it to the healing power of nature, in case nature chooses not to heal.
Dr. Petty put his hand to Anne’s cheek, where the rope had rubbed and caused abrasions to her skin. “But . . . don’t you agree that we may intervene a little?” he asked. “Assist nature?”
“I wonder if that would be ethical,” Dr. Willis answered, sounding concerned. “Isn’t the Puritan correct? Wouldn’t anything we do be deemed as interfering with the will of God?”
Dr. Petty shrugged. “But God—or whoever,” he couldn’t resist adding, for it was known that he was a doubter, “has chosen to leave signs of life within this woman, so surely it would be going against his wishes if we didn’t aid her?”
“Excuse me, sirs,” one of the scholars said, “but on the gibbet she asked that God in his wisdom should prove her innocence to the world.”
“Indeed she did,” said Dr. Willis, his face clearing. “And mayhap this is God’s way of answering such a request.”
“And we are but his assistants,” said Dr. Petty. He spoke with a slight mocking tone to his voice, but Dr. Willis didn’t seem to notice.
“Is rigor mortis set in?” Mr. Clarke asked after a moment.
Dr. Petty felt along Anne’s arms. “Difficult to tell whether it’s rigor mortis or she’s frozen solid. It’s so damned cold in here.” He gestured to the back row of the scholars, where the one who had sung and danced earlier stood. “You. Kindly go and fetch more coals.”
The scholar went out, reluctantly, and Wren turned to his pad of paper and began drawing a picture of Anne’s recumbent body. Robert, suddenly feeling an immense frustration at the uncertainty, the indecision, the slowness of what was occurring, stepped forward. He didn’t think of the unreliability of his speech, merely of a desperate desire to move things on; to take away that blasphemous and odious noose, that dread reminder of death.
“T . . . t . . . t . . . take r . . . r . . . r . . . ?” he suggested. He tried again with the r, then gave up and made gestures with his hands to show what he meant.
Dr. Petty nodded. “There would be no harm in that.”
“And then we will see what Bathurst has to say,” said Dr. Willis.
Robert stepped forward, his hands shaking slightly. He touched Anne’s head, felt the cold roundness of her skull, the hard roundels of her spine, the matted dampness of her hair. His fingers caught at a knot, and as he gently lifted her head from the table and felt the slackened muscles beneath the skin at the nape of her neck, he saw that she’d tied back her dark hair with a red ribband. This was damp and bedraggled, but the sight of it touched him. He could not help but picture her in her prison cell early that morning, preparing herself for death and tying her hair back in one last feminine and practical gesture. The pity of it. The very pity of her death—especially if she had been innocent.
But perhaps she was not going to suffer death. Suddenly he was overcome with some emotion that he barely understood, and his vision blurred. Blinking hard, he maneuvered the heavy noose over Anne’s chin and up over her face, then dropped it. It landed on the floor, scattering sawdust in all directions.
Sir Thomas gave a loud and exasperated sigh. “I have never before witnessed such a farrago. I’m going straight to the prison governor.”
Dr. Petty leaned over and laid a gentle and restraining hand on his arm. “Just allow us a few more moments, sir. We must make completely sure that this young woman—”
“I’ve already allowed you a few damn moments!” Sir Thomas pulled out a pocket watch golder and grander than Dr. Petty’s. “I’ve been here near on fifty minutes and not a thing has been done—you haven’t even started the cutting. I’m going to the prison governor now to discover the ruling on these things. If necessary, I’ll have this jade hauled back to the prison yard and re-hanged.”
“And I shall come with you, sir!” called the Puritan at the back of the room. “’Tis going against the law of the land that these men should mess with corpses. She cannot be dead one moment and alive the next!”
The atmostphere grew tense as the two of them left the room. Frisk, who had hauled himself to his feet, was leaning on the wall looking pale, and the only sound in the room came from Norreys, who, although not now on his knees, was muttering what sounded suspiciously like a Roman Catholic prayer. Robert hoped, for his sake, that there were no fervent anti-papists present.
The singing scholar came back with a scuttle containing hot coals and threw these onto the fire, which flared up immediately. A moment after, Dr. Ralph Bathurst hurried in with snowflakes dotting his cloak and his arms full of glass jars. A slender, clever man who wrote verse in French and Latin, he had personally been hit hard by the Civil War, for six of his twelve brothers had been killed fighting for the Royalists. Calm and sociable, he tried to retain an equable disposition at all times, and, together with Drs. Petty and Willis, was an enthusiastic member of the small group of natural scientists who met regularly in Oxford.
“I was on my way here and was nearly bowled over at the door by Sir Thomas Reade hurrying from the building!” He looked around the room at the rapt faces. “But whatever’s going on?”
He was told by a chorus of voices and fell to marveling, then placed the jars in a row along the windowsill. “I brought these jars to receive the woman’s vital organs for preservation,” he said, “but possibly they won’t be needed.” He nodded outside. “There’s a mob down there waiting to claim her body. If they hear of this, I fear they’ll break the doors down.”
“Then we must not let them hear of it until the matter is decided one way or the other,” said Dr. Willis.
Dr. Bathurst looked down at Anne, touched her cheek, bent over to check if he could hear breathing. “But the whole story is almost unbelievable. Several of you saw it, you say?”
“All of us saw her eyelid move,” said Dr. Petty.
“It has moved twice!” Wilton interjected, and Robert looked at him gratefully. “And before that she seemed to croak in the back of her throat.”
“There may be nothing in it,” Dr. Bathurst said. “It may be certain fluids and humors moving about her body—but, if you both agree, I think we must give her a chance.”
Both doctors nodded, and Dr. Petty glanced at the scholars. “I’m inclined to the view that we should treat this as a lesson,” he said. “It may be disappointing
to some that there’s no body to dissect, but scholars can take instruction just the same.”
“Indeed,” said Dr. Bathurst. “So perhaps we should first ascertain which of her humors might be wrongly balanced.” He looked at the students standing before him. “What are the vital forces in the body, young sirs? And which of these four may be out of kilter in this young woman?”
But no one was willing to venture an opinion on which element might be lacking, or in excess, in the body before them.
After several moments’ silence Dr. Petty asked, “So what should we do to help to restore her to the world?” He spread his hands. “And this question is also for me and my fellow doctors, for to my knowledge such a thing has never happened before.”
Indecision clouded the room.
“Cut pigeons in half and apply them to her feet?” Norreys suggested, but this being a method regarded as rather old fashioned, all three doctors shook their heads.
A powdered burned swallow and the drippings from a roasted swan evoked similar responses.
“A cordial, perhaps?” said Dr. Willis. “Surely a restorative cordial could do no harm.”
“A cordial might be in order . . . perhaps cinnamon and sorrel mixed with rainwater?” Dr. Petty bent down so that his face was very close to Anne’s own, and placed his fingers on her lips, pushing them open to reveal small white teeth. “Although her teeth are so hard clenched,” he went on, “that ’twill be difficult to pour any such liquid into her mouth.”
“Her fists are also tight shut,” Dr. Willis said, lifting her right arm. “Each finger is turned inward.” He replaced the arm. “Can you move your hand, Anne?” he asked the still form.
Robert held his breath, but nothing about her stirred.
“What should we do?” Dr. Petty asked. He pounded his hand into his fist. “We must do something!”
“Take blood?” Dr. Willis suggested.
“Of course!” said Dr. Bathurst, and the medical men nodded as one. Blood-letting was generally regarded as mandatory in all cases where a prognosis was in doubt.
