“Be not sorry for me,” said Sybil. “There are better worlds than this one.” There was a purity to her prominent cheekbones and pale eyes and filthy clothing that made Pippa think she was halfway in Heaven already.
Innocent, she’s innocent, thought Pippa, reaching through the thick wooden slats to grasp one of Sybil’s bound hands. Winifred took the other. They walked alongside the cart.
“Back!” said the soldier.
“Hush, or I’ll speak to your commander!” Winifred returned.
The soldier was not sure what to do with a strident woman of Winifred’s class, and so he turned back to the crowd.
“Here, Sybil, I brought you something.” Pippa reached into her pocket and found Ursula’s feather. She passed it through the bars.
In the morning’s light the feather was black and red and azure and violet, a nighttime’s rainbow, a million girlish secrets. Sybil held it with white bony fingers. “Ursula,” she whispered.
“A gift from her,” said Pippa.
Winifred was crying.
A lone tear dropped from Sybil’s eye, too, but it was not sad somehow. Instead it gleamed lustrous like the feather. “Goodbye,” she said, as though stepping out the door to buy a new spool of thread. “A merry parting!”
“A merry parting,” agreed Pippa, so stifled with tears she could hardly speak.
“God bless you, Sybil, oh, God bless!” Winifred cried as their hands were wrenched apart by a knot of people, and by the cart’s implacable motion toward the gallows.
Pippa saw Sybil tuck the feather into her hand, clenching a fist tight around it. Then she was swallowed by the rowdy multitude. Standing bereft with Winifred, she made her way slowly back toward Hugh’s tall figure halfway across the square.
Another mighty thunderclap rolled through the crowd as the first five were led up the ladder; Sybil was not among them. The condemned were blindfolded with black cloths. A great hush across the square followed them in case there were any last confessions, condemnations, or pleadings. All five women remained silent. Another woman’s voice could be heard from the cart, exhorting God to have mercy, that she was the lone innocent amongst these witches. “Please,” came her thin cry, “Oh, the Almighty Lord will embrace me! I am as the Israelite cast in the land of magical Egypt, and I fear not the reckoning of God!” There were some rumblings of sympathy for her.
Pippa had more sympathy for the silent ones. They would not dignify this awful thing with words.
Appalled, fascinated, Pippa watched the hangman move off the platform. She could not see him move the mechanism for the doors, but—with a swing and a violent “snap”—the five living people dropped and met the ends of their ropes. Pippa jerked when it happened. So did many of the spectators around her.
One of the hanging women was motionless. The rest, Pippa realized with a shock, were still alive. Their feet did an airborne jig. Their mouths opened and closed like fish. The skin bloomed purple and red, and their tongues swelled, and their hands clenched and unclenched.
“How long does it take?” Winifred whimpered. “How long?”
It took a long time.
Then, when all had ceased their convulsions and swayed in stiff circles, the ropes were released and they tumbled to the ground beneath the gallows.
In the intermission, the crowd chattered and drank ale and bought fresh pies.
“When will it stop?” Pippa asked when the ropes had been used twice, and a third group was up. Sybil was still in the cart. Along the current row of condemned, Pippa recognized Anne Alderman from the gaol. There was also a man in the attire of a minister.
“John Lowes,” said Hugh, nodding toward the gallows. “He was known to preach in favor of Bishop Laud.” Hugh’s face had gone quite pale. “I … I’ve never seen anyone die before. And I said nothing to stop it. It was my responsibility to speak and I was silent …”
“I fear responsibility is beyond any of us,” said Pippa.
“I am certainly forming new opinions of earthly justice,” said Hugh.
Snap.
The bilious lump in Pippa’s stomach tensed again as the dead bodies were released onto the growing heap below. I don’t want to watch, I can’t watch, I won’t. Breathing hard and fast, she stared at a spot of mud on a shoe, four feet over.
Winifred’s hands were clasped in prayer. Nearby a rough-hewn woman with a snaggletooth said, “Stop that prayin’! Don’t you know they’re witches? Ha!” She took a large bite out of a loaf of rye bread and spat a seed on the ground.
Pippa twitched as though she’d been struck.
A tiny figure was climbing the ladder. It was Sybil, clenching a fist. Her other hand was splayed outward, guiding her along. She was led by the hangman to the middle rope, between two grimy men, the thieves. The hangman forced Sybil’s head forward. The rope was fastened and tightened. She raised her head and tilted it this way and that. It was as though she could see past the blindfold, or inside her own eyelids to a world of her own. A better world than this.
A strong breeze lifted the hairs on Pippa’s neck. On the western wind was the scent of an afternoon rain that Sybil would not live to see.
Overhead, drawn by the juices of fresh death, an unkindness of ravens flocked in the sky, rasping. Pippa knew Sybil must hear them, because even from this distance she could see the slender arc of a smile.
Some in the crowd must have caught their breath at Sybil’s delicate beauty. Some must have wondered if she was a misplaced child, caught by unfortunate accident.
Or, perhaps the crowd was mindless and intent in their fear, like animals, not knowing friend from foe. Godly was another uniform.
None of Pippa’s racing thoughts could stop the hangman from descending the stairs and walking to his station.
Oh, Lord God, let her neck break, let her suffer not.
The floor was released and Sybil fell, fell, and her neck did not break. Her feet jumped and skipped and hopped the way she had uncounted times in the forest. It was her last dance, her death-dance.
Go, Sybil, leave!
Sybil suffered first. But after that eternity of shaking, her hand unclenched and a glossy black feather was seen to float downward and settle in the dust.
The spectacle had taken most of the morning. They did not stay to see Sybil cut down. That which had made her their friend was long-gone. They had no standing to claim her body, which only the living father could do.
Deep sickness fell upon them as they walked toward the Proctors’ home. Hugh would not speak, Winifred was crying, and every time Pippa blinked she saw a row of broken silhouettes swinging against the restless sky. The rumble of the mob was behind them.
It surprised Pippa when Hugh’s fingers clasped her own, in public, but the streets were empty of watching eyes. Most everyone was at the hangings. She clutched his hand in return.
Mrs. Proctor, who had accounts to settle in her husband’s ledgers and no time to waste on capital punishment, waved them in. At first she did not notice their grim mood. “We have cold meats for dinner today, and Hugh, our boy Samuel wishes to accompany you to see about the lamb leather. Sam will take over the business someday and it would do him good, if you mind him not … Your father, Hugh, has fine such herds … Why, what be the matter?” Mrs. Proctor looked from one to the next.
“’Tis nothing,” said Winifred, her voice sodden. “We happened by Cornhill Square.”
“Oh, you’ve not seen a hanging before,” said Mrs. Proctor, bustling with sympathy. “A cup of tea will cure you. East India Company. Mr. Proctor buys it in London.”
Pippa took a bitter sip of the expensive tea. India tea was rare and only Winifred had tasted it before. They sat facing each other, their tears obscured by the gentle coils of steam. She could hardly meet Winifred’s eyes, fearing that she would see the echo of what she’d just witnessed. Instead she bowed her head and looked into the cup and saw the glimmering reflection of her own nose, her own mouth, as she raised her cup and touched the
liquid blackness to her lips. Her heartbeat was slow and pained, carrying a weight that she was certain would never leave her.
Mrs. Proctor did not seem to mind their strange silence, or more likely, she didn’t understand it. A woman whose husband could afford India tea would never imagine such a thing as Pippa and Winifred had shared.
“Of course young Samuel may come with me on my errands, if he pleases,” said Hugh with an odd tightness. He too refused to meet glances with Pippa and Winifred. It was as though they had become strangers to one another. Hugh took slow, deliberate sips of his tea.
The smooth white of such fine porcelain reminded Pippa of polished bone. It clinked and she was lost again inside her own thoughts. “Take me head when I be dead.” Lillibet gave me instructions. Sybil’s hair is about her throat. A rope about both their throats … how did she know? Oh Lord … Lillibet, Sybil …
They were scheduled to ride back to the Vale at four o’clock and according to the lantern clock on the Proctors’ mantle, it was noon.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Proctor, but my head is aching,” said Winifred. “The tea did help.”
“Of course, dear. Lay thyself down for a nap, I’ll have Prudence close the shutters in the room for you.”
Pippa said, “Thank you, Mrs. Proctor, for the tea. I’ve never tasted anything like it.” It was a day full of new and bleak things. “I’ll take a rest as well.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Proctor, “this heat does no good for the constitution.”
When Pippa and Winifred had their shoes off and they were side by side on the bed, Winifred murmured, “Nothing will ever be the same.”
“No,” said Pippa, “it won’t.”
“I cannot think of it. I … I cannot think.”
Pippa lifted herself up. There were two washcloths hanging on a rail near the basin of clear water. She dipped a cloth in and wrung it out. The water was cool. “Here,” she said, folding it into a band and placing it over Winifred’s eyes.
“Thank you,” said Winifred, but then she was sobbing again. “’Tis my own blindfold.”
Pippa squeezed her eyes closed against the analogy. She was torn between curling up with Winifred to cry out her grief, and avoiding any reminder of it. If only she wasn’t in a city. She craved the quiet of the fields and the forest, to be safe from what lurked amongst men.
The Proctors had a garden. That would have to do. At least Pippa could see the sky and await the journey home. “I’m going to sit in the garden for a spell,” she said. “Rest, Winnie. I’ll be back soon.”
Winifred nodded feebly and held the washcloth tight over her temples.
As quietly as she could, Pippa laced her shoes and went outside. She stared up at the clouds, but all she saw was the face of the reaper of death. A rain shower hit her face, but all she felt was the hot cascade of tears.
Later that afternoon, they left for home, a miserable caravan of three plodding through the streets crowded with soldiers and drunken civilians, and then into the open countryside. Pippa swayed in her saddle, rolling around with the horse’s motion, unaccustomed to so much riding. The rain had passed and the sun was bright in the sky; at this time of year, it would not set for many hours.
Pippa wished it were night. Then she would not have to look at Hugh and Winifred, or see the inconstant horizon, the road that spun sickeningly in front of her. Her stomach felt too light, too buoyant. She wanted the blanket of summer’s darkness to protect her from these wide-open spaces.
Hanging, swinging, swaying.
All at once, the trotting of the horse was too much, and the empty country fields and road were a dizzy blur. She reined the animal to a halt, swung her legs around, and dismounted in a clumsy heap. Hugh barely had time to say, “Pippa?” before she swaggered upright, stumbled into the holly hedgerow, and vomited in the dirt.
ONLY THE STRAWBERRIES HAD been saved in Winifred’s garden, and that was because her sister Jane liked strawberries and could be bothered to tend them. Everything else had been chewed on by rabbits, or eaten by insects, or baked in the sun, or drowned in the corners because the ditches were not kept clear. The healing herbs were brown and wilted on their stems. No one had harvested them. Their house-woman had unearthed several of the carrots and radishes, but they had not been ripe yet, and the rest were rotten. It was quite shocking how quickly a garden could deteriorate without the care of a conscious soul.
The blazing, overheated summer had faded into a pleasant autumn. Winifred had regained weight under the watchful eye of her mother. “It would be best for you to marry soon,” said Mrs. Radcliff, “for with a husband you might settle down and forget this nonsense.”
“This nonsense” was how Mrs. Radcliff referred to the witch hunts.
Winifred thought it would be years before she felt ready to be married. She barely felt like herself anymore, let alone capable of choosing a husband. It was September, and her main priority was to harvest what could be saved from her garden, trim back the rest, and weed out the noxious plants that had taken root there.
She had a special miniature scythe made of silver. It was a sharp, shining curve that was ideal for the precise work Winifred had in mind. It took too long to get back here, she thought, looking around her garden. For weeks she’d been unable to venture into what had been her favorite place. She kept thinking of the search-women and their invasions. This was where they’d watched her. This was the garden where she’d lost her innocence.
Life at the Radcliff house had become subdued for other reasons. The summer’s battles revealed a losing streak for the King. They’d heard nothing from Thomas for months, no letters and no word of his health and whereabouts. Thinking on it, Winifred realized it had been almost a year since they received word of him. That didn’t seem right.
She remembered how things had gone the night before. Her cousin Jonas Martin, the Bible printer, had visited for dinner along with Elizabeth and Catherine Yates. For two unbearable hours Winifred had listened to Elizabeth harp on about the moral qualities of various neighbors, and Jonas had mentioned victories of the New Model Army, to Catherine’s encouraging nods. He was now courting Catherine Yates and she’d taken on his Parliamentarian politics.
Jonas and Mr. Radcliff had gone to the study for an uneasy smoke, giving Elizabeth the chance to start on about the witch trials.
“’Tis truly a shame you were wrongfully accused, Winifred. There is such a stigma attached to it, you know not how many times I’ve had to explain it away, seeing as we’re friends. You ought to think of the Americas. There at least the influences are pure and free from the stain of it. Even though you were innocent, unlike my poor father’s changeling child—”
Winifred had been simmering low all evening. It took a great deal to ignite her temper, but listening to the words “pure” and “free” and “innocent” issuing from Elizabeth’s lips … to hear of Sybil … something erupted inside of her and she could not contain it. “You have no right!” she’d shouted. She’d stood up and shaken a finger in Elizabeth’s face. “You have no idea, you have nothing but your pale imitation of a life! You judgmental, pock-marked spinster! Judge not, lest ye be judged!”
“Winifred!” their mother had gasped. Jane’s eyes were the size of saucers.
Unable to tolerate it, Winifred had thrown her cloth napkin to the floor and run upstairs.
In her garden now, she sighed and pushed away the memory. The bridge was burned. She need not ever keep company with Elizabeth Yates again.
The day was warm and sunny, and it was the time of the grain harvest. Winifred wielded her blade without passion. Out came the tangled knot of collapsed fennel. Out came the nettle weeds near the roses. Out came the heads of stunted cabbage. Their leaves were full of holes.
Winifred tossed it all into a compost pile in the center of the yard. That would have to do over the winter. Come next spring she would use the material to spread out new beds for flowers and vegetables.
Sighing, she saw that the en
tire bush of white roses would have to be pulled.
With swift strikes, she untangled the roots and yanked upward. It left a hole in the ground. Winifred stared down into the bare earth and thought of Sybil and, connected to her dead friend, her brother Tom. That absence, too, was a hole in her heart, an ache that never quite seemed to diminish. Every day she thought about it less and less … but she still thought about it.
Taking a deep breath, Winifred pushed the earth back into place to cover the pit left by the white roses. Someday, Sybil would not be the first thing she thought of when she woke up in the morning. Someday, Sybil would not be the last thing she thought of before falling asleep. It was, like the dead garden, being sorted out.
Through the hole in the fence she could see the figure of a young woman carrying a milk pail. She narrowed her eyes. Alice Baxter did not speak anymore, not even in stutters.
Winifred did not care. She did not allow for a lying weakling who’d betrayed her friends. Besides, the Baxters’ farm was not prospering. Fluctuations in the price of wool and the rising quality of Flemish weavers meant that it was more difficult for them to break even on their herds. Alice was on a downward slope. I was right about that one, she thought. A common girl who ought never to open her crooked mouth again. Winifred would remain with her own set that included the Feltons and now Pippa.
Winifred’s snobbery could not explain the volcanic rise of anger whenever she saw Alice, though. The Bible taught forgiveness. Winifred was unsure if she would ever forgive. It was easier to gloss it over with class consciousness.
“Just shows that weakness is born and bred,” she muttered to herself as she pulled out a stinging nettle with bare hands. “Those girls did wrong to befriend her.”
Alice, almost past the fence, seemed to pause in her step, but then continued on.
Winifred turned to a patch of dead lavender. It still smelled nice despite its condition. She might be able to rescue the blooms, ground them up, use them to make scented water or frosting for a cake.
Suffer a Witch Page 30
