Then there was his colleague, Stearne. The little man was shifty and energetic, as though his feet could not keep still inside his boots.
“Good people of the Vale,” Hopkins began. His voice was quiet, but then he projected it in a burst of alarm. “There is a plague upon you! You are under attack from Satan himself! In your hearts you know it to be true.”
A murmur grew.
“Think, good people. Think of the unexplained evils you have suffered. Think of the blight on your crops, the war in this land, think of your illnesses and ailments. These are not the doings of the Lord who loves you … no, they are the work of the witches who live amongst you!”
A few people began to nod. It had always been problematical for Reverend Yates to explain why evil things happened to faithful people, if God truly did love them. Hopkins offered a tidy explanation.
“These witches are in league with Satan himself. They work to sow discord amongst you!”
“I been bewitched once, ’tis true!” someone from the back called out.
Hopkins paused and then, sotto voce, unrolled the terrible truth. “The witches are amongst you. I guarantee that witches are right here, in this room, defiling God’s church. They attempt to hide behind godly faces.”
The congregation shuddered as one. Heads turned from side to side. Hands were clutched, and children whimpered.
“Look around you!” Hopkins said. “You have not been imagining this spiritual attack! In the dead of night, when fear takes you, that is God’s own voice telling you to be vigilant. The Bible warns us of the insidious danger. ‘And thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’”
“Book of Exodus,” added John Stearne in a whip-thin voice.
“And I am here,” said Hopkins, spreading his hands, “to root out this disease that lays waste to our spirits. I am trained in the most modern techniques of discovering witches. Master Stearne and I have vast experience in interrogation, and in separating the good from the guilty. Trust us in this task, for we are—like you—godly men on His earthly errand.”
Some of the men were staring at Hopkins and Stearne with open admiration. It took a brave soul to not only stand up to witchcraft, but to make a life’s work of stamping it out.
Stearne said, “We have traveled far and wide across this country. In Essex, in the towns of Colchester and Ipswich and Bury St. Edmunds, in the countryside, hundreds are being found out. There are none but us who can lay claim to such experience.”
Reverend Yates stood. “I, too, can vouch for this process. I have spoken at length with these two men and they are gentlemen, pious to the utmost. We should be honored to have them.”
“No problem of the supernatural is too small for our notice,” said Hopkins, bowing to Yates. “With every witch convicted the world is made purer.”
“Ask in your hearts for the answer from God,” Yates told the crowd, “and let that knowing be your guide.”
Hopkins cleared his throat. “This is an open hearing,” he said. “We are a country ruled by a Parliament, a representation of the people, and so it is you—the people—who will participate in the course of justice. I will open the floor to hear your concerns.”
A tentative hand rose in the front: Robert Pye, the farmer. “Welcome, and thank you, sirs. As my family has been the victim of a foul hex, I wonder how the guilty are found out?”
“I am troubled to hear of your misfortune,” said Hopkins. “You ask a fair question, and I tell you, there are laws governing the interrogation of witches. These laws have been written by wise and virtuous men, even by kings. They are foolproof. I am but a humble questioner, the one who finds the witches. Their conviction is left to courts and the magistrates in this jurisdiction—in your case, Bury St. Edmunds. After I give my evidence, it is in the hands of the law. But fear not, our ways have proven reliable in the past. Justice will be done.”
“God bless you,” said Farmer Pye, and sat down.
“Any others?” Stearne asked.
Pippa’s heart skipped when Hugh Felton stood up. “I wonder,” he said with a trace of disdain, “what are the fees for your services?”
Good question, thought Pippa, cheering inwardly for Hugh.
Stearne, smooth as cream, said, “A just concern. Our fees are modest in comparison to the work we do, and the risk to which we are exposed. Remember that we look upon the very face of Satan’s minions.”
“But how much?” another man asked from the back.
“For each interrogation—which is an involved process—the fee is twenty shillings per witch-finder and his team.”
Another murmur, this time of consternation. Twenty shillings was a large sum, especially if the number of accusations was high.
“But worry not,” added Hopkins hastily, “if an accusation be made in jest, or out of pure spite without prior evidence, we accept it not … wages are not our aim, for we’re gentlemen already. This fee covers our general costs and the upkeep of our helpers.” He paused, hand to his mouth, looking over the congregation. “This reminds me of another point. As many of you know, we brought with us four experienced search-women. But they will train volunteers—devout women in this village—in the same techniques. We will need your help. Are there any women who would learn to be watchers?”
Pippa almost raised her hand. She figured there was no better way to avoid being “watched,” whatever that meant, than to become a watcher herself. But Lillibet snatched her hand back down, hissing, “Draw not attention!”
“Matrons,” Hopkins specified, “for the … nature … of this searching is not for maiden eyes.”
This time it was a tremor of titillation that spread through the crowd. It was not often that such things were touched upon in this clean white building.
A young farm laborer had the cheek to call out, “What sort of things? What nature?”
Hopkins lowered his eyes. “’Tis terrible,” he said slowly, and the people stretched their ears to hear what came next. “Witches consort with Satan. They copulate with him. They allow their imps to suckle their bodies and gain nourishment, and so there can be found unnatural teats which reveal this allegiance.”
An older woman—Sarah Ford’s mother Mary, devout to the point of prudish—fainted away at the mention of “teats” in church.
Pippa wanted to giggle and had to bite the side of her lip to keep quiet.
Several matrons rose and offered to be watchers—the Widow Moore was one of the first. She was nosy on a normal day, so an actual license to pry was too tempting to pass up. Several other women stood up, including Goody Brewer.
“And none may be watchers who have accusations to make,” warned Hopkins, “lest there be an unfair bias.”
Lillibet scoffed.
“Why don’t you do it?” Pippa whispered. “You’re a matron.”
“’Tis the search-women they will investigate first,” said Lillibet. “They would take a single look in our cottage and know we are cunning!”
“And not the same thing as witchcraft! For Heaven’s sake! How many of this village have you cured, how many babes brought into the world …”
“I will keep myself low,” said Lillibet, “and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” She crossed her arms and turned her face away.
When there were six women standing at the front, including a recovered Mary Ford, Hopkins said, “Good. Very good. Humble people, I understand how difficult it is to come forward with an accusation of witchcraft. You fear supernatural retaliation if you point the finger here in public … I know what it is to be afraid. Thus, I will be available in the Reverend’s study at his home, or found at the inn, for all who wish to come forth. One of us—myself or Mr. Stearne—will be in one of those places at all times.”
“What if we wish to accuse now?” asked Robert Pye.
“This is a public hearing, you are welcome to speak,” said Stearne. “Who has done this thing against you?”
“Anne Buckett!” Pye declared. “She—”
An eruption of cries, of agreement and fear, drowned the rest of what he said.
“Decorum, good people!” Reverend Yates called. “Goodman Pye, please continue.”
“She bewitched me son—Francis. He fell in a fit. Tests revealed Anne Buckett to be the culprit! Me wife was there to see it, and the children. Shortly after it happened Anne Buckett came round the house, wantin’ to sell some eggs. We told her we weren’t in need of eggs, but she refused to leave. She was drawn by her wicked spell!”
“Anne Buckett, step forward!” Stearne said.
But Anne and her mother Joan were not present.
“The accusation has been made and noted,” said Hopkins. “We shall interview this woman. Are there other stories about her?”
A chorus: “She gave me the evil eye.” “She sold me milk had gone rotten.” “When I gave her an apple out of me garden, she stood outside me door and stared for three days.”
The beggary of Anne had grown unpopular, surpassing the charity the Vale was duty-bound to give.
Pippa heard young Jane Radcliff speak up and say that Anne Buckett was a witch. Jane was excitable. The talk was influencing her young mind.
“Anne Buckett is just a poor woman,” muttered Lillibet. “Her manners may be ill, and her person filthy, but that don’t make a witch.”
Pippa swallowed guilt. It was partly her fault the Bucketts were on hard times. But unfortunately for them, Joan Buckett and Anne lived up to the idea of witches: warty, stringy-haired, bony-handed, bitter, and husbandless.
“It makes me nervous,” said Lillibet, “this notion of secrets. If folks haven’t the courage to say it aloud in front of all, then it shouldn’t be said.”
Pippa, however, doubted that many people would go so far as to accuse their neighbors. There were always conflicts and tensions between neighbors, but they were all Christians. Judging from the overwhelming opinion that Joan Buckett and Anne were witches, that was all that would come of this nonsense. Once the village had their scapegoats, all could go back to normal, and Pippa could work on charming Lady Felton into wanting her as a daughter.
When the people filed out of church together, the green haze of gossip and tension surrounded them. Lillibet looked wary, her arms crossed defensively against her chest. Pippa felt relieved.
“Do pardon me,” said a voice, hoarse but compelling.
Pippa turned to find the witch-finder, Matthew Hopkins, standing behind her. “Sir,” she said, curtseying once.
“I was hoping you might speak with me for a moment. I was told you are the midwife in this village?” He looked at Lillibet.
Lillibet sniffed and turned away.
“She is,” said Pippa. “My mother. How might we help?”
Hopkins nodded toward an empty area on the green. “Walk with me.”
Pippa skipped along next to him, Lillibet trailing behind, her face filled with shadows. Pippa had a feeling she would get shouted at later for speaking with the witch-finder.
“I saw you leaving the women’s Scripture study,” said Hopkins to Pippa. “Your name?”
“Philippa Wylde.”
“Miss Wylde, you and the other young ladies who attend the Bible studies … you are my best hope for righteous voices during my investigation. I would implore you to tell me anything you know about the doings of witches in this village.”
Pippa stopped walking and looked earnestly into Hopkins’s eyes. They were rich, filled with the shine of hope, or the shine of fever. Letting out a long breath, she knew she must follow Lillibet and stay far away from this man … and yet she wanted to help discover witches, too. Who else was better qualified? “Master Hopkins, if I hear anything, I shall come to you,” she said, settling for compromise. “But I think the Buckett women are a likely place to start.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “God bless you, Miss Wylde. I should hope that all the young women of this village are so lovely.”
Pippa felt a not-quite-comfortable tingle in her solar plexus. She couldn’t tell if she was pleased, or if her intuition was trying to warn her off.
When she dipped her head and took her leave, linking her arm through Lillibet’s on the way, she turned around to see Matthew Hopkins staring at her with a fresh gleam of speculation in his dark eyes.
The smell of fear was ripe in the Vale. Hopkins knew. Hopkins was long familiar with fear and the way it went scritch scratch in the night.
On Sunday morning, Hopkins dressed for church. He was eager to hear Reverend Yates’s sermon. Now there had been an unexpected kindred spirit. The Reverend was well-versed in the Puritan views, and he had been much humbled by personal tragedy. He was highly encouraging of the work of witch-hunting.
As Hopkins buttoned his doublet, an idea occurred to him to write a book. If it were to be published and widely read, he would be exalted as the true Witchfinder General, not just of East Anglia but of all England. Perhaps the Parliament would even create a special position for him.
Just past dawn, the bare-bones church—the style Hopkins approved—was packed with worshippers. With Stearne on one side and followed by their four search-women, Hopkins took a seat at the front. Families filed in around him. All was quiet except for a few coughs and throats clearing as the Reverend stepped up to the pulpit, heavy Bible in hand.
It was balm for Hopkins’s soul.
“The Bible is clear on the subject of witchcraft,” said Yates. “It is a mortal sin. It guarantees damnation. Witches are the very tools of Satan’s design and are beyond hope of reparation.
“But let not images fool you. Witches are women, but witches can also be men. And those who call themselves cunning-folk are also to be avoided! A white witch is still a witch. True redemption comes from simplicity and humility.”
The Reverend’s eyes fixed on the back of the room. Hopkins turned and saw several parishioners, women, looking uncomfortable.
As the service wore on, the air grew heated, and it was a meager breeze that drifted through the windows. Languid flies and summer gnats buzzed around faces. Women waved fans woven from brook rushes. The words were familiar, a low drone at the back of Hopkins’s awareness, and his mind wandered into a vague prayer. Give me the strength to continue, the prosperity to continue, that I may be your humble worker on the earth. Let me cleanse myself of the original sin that created me. Sin, sinner, bad like me. I am bad, I am special.
And then, as though following the beckoning imp, he wandered down the crack in his mind. He’d been fourteen when he discovered what a wretched soul he was. That day had changed everything.
“MATTY! MATTY! COME IN and take your elevenses,” Deborah called to fourteen-year-old Matthew from the door of their manor house in Great Wenham. He was reading in the shade of an oak, sitting upright in a wooden chair amongst the carpet of early autumn leaves. Glancing up, he waved at her to leave him alone, but Deborah grinned and came bouncing out to fetch him anyway.
As she approached, Matthew watched the curve of her breasts, visible at the top of her bodice. Her sleeves were rolled up for kitchen work, exposing wrists that were strangely delicate for a servant. He’d been noticing such things more lately.
“Come on, then. I’ve made the fresh bread ye like so much.” She ruffled his hair and he glared at her, for he preferred a tidy appearance … yet her touch made the heat rise on his cheeks.
“After I finish this verse,” Matthew ordered, his new adolescent voice cracking. He was reading the Book of Samuel from his own copy of the Bible, given as a gift from his father.
Deborah retreated.
Just as Matthew was ready to stand up and go inside for a thick slice of bread with a generous dollop of honey, his older brother Thomas appeared. “She favors you,” said Thomas, nodding toward the kitchen where Deborah worked.
“Just as Father favors you,” said Matthew.
Thomas smirked. “Yes, well, he knows that I’m his son.”
Something about this sent a note of alarm down Matthe
w’s spine. “What are you talking about?”
“Just think it’s about time you found out. I’m not supposed to know, and you’re not supposed to know, but if you’re going to be a man, Matty, you’ll have to prove you’re a real Hopkins.”
“What are you saying?”
Thomas shrugged. “Just that you’re not our mother’s son.”
A squirrel scrabbled out of a hole in the trunk of the oak and snatched an acorn from near Matthew’s feet. He stared at the creature, feeling his own heart stolen. Thomas was goading him, he had to be … his elder brothers loved to tease him. That was because he was the youngest. But Father treated them all with the same stern discipline.
“You’re fooling,” said Matthew. “You don’t know anything.”
“But I do,” Thomas whispered. “I overheard them talking about it. Mother and Father. They were talking about how you’re Deborah’s son, that she had in sin. And then Mother said, ‘I can’t look at Matthew without remembering how you betrayed me.’ See, Matty, I think Father laid with Deborah.”
Knowing how egregious this was, Matthew sat there, stunned and speechless. “I—I’m not Mother’s son?” Unspoken was the other thing. Deborah? A wave of shame rolled over him; he’d had such thoughts about her … she, his mother? Father laid with her, he thought, and was shocked by the bite of jealousy that nipped on the heels of his shame.
“Don’t worry, though. Father’s taken care of your inheritance, just the same as us real sons.”
Matthew didn’t want to hear any more. He was violently glad that older Thomas would be leaving for the New World soon. He never wanted to see his brother again. Leaping up, he shouted back at Thomas, “Don’t ever talk to me, ever!” and pounded into the house. He paused to see Deborah, hovering near the stove in the kitchen. Her hair was tousled, coming out of its pinned cap, and an apron was tied about her round backside. Matthew stared at the sloppy tie of her skirt, and at the creamy skin at the nape of her neck. Something warm and uncomfortable slithered through him. This, his true mother? This … loose woman? Horrified, he took off through the house, ignoring Deborah when she asked, “Matty? How much honey?”
Suffer a Witch Page 14
