The Witchfinder's Sister

by Beth Underdown

  But Grace replied, ‘It was not that. I never heard him speak of her at all,’ she said. ‘But it was I who took that gold ring to her, and your mother’s Bible, when she died.’ She rubbed at her hands. ‘Your brother had turned the pages down in Exodus, Deuteronomy, Leviticus, Samuel. Twenty pages turned down, or thirty, all of them with verses about witches and whores.’ She began to weep again. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. But when I saw he had done that, I thought she must be bad …’

  I struggled almost to understand her, was lost for what to say. I reached out to her. ‘It’s all right, Grace.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘You only did as you thought best. It’s done with, now.’

  But I knew it was not done with. After she left me, I tried to forget the low, ticking aches in my belly and force my mind to work. Perhaps Matthew’s hatred of Bridget was not only to do with the item Grace had found in Mother’s bed. Perhaps it was also to do with Father’s daily book, the nameless remorse it contained. How Bridget always seemed to feel guilty, responsible for Mother, her bad state. How Bridget had given in so easily, and left our house in Wenham that night long ago, on foot and through the snow. The ghost of a suspicion suggested itself, though I tried to dismiss it swiftly from my mind. But I was worried. Matthew’s business through the hundred had led my eye away from Bridget. Now I was not so certain he had forgotten her.

  As for Matthew, when I came down to dine with him that night, his eyes rested only for a moment on my belly, and then he was talking pleasantly of the hospitality they had received in the different villages. He wore a larger hat, I noticed, and higher boots. But though his talk was varied, animated, he did not seem content, more like a rope, stretched too tight. It had chilled me, the way his eyes rested on me so briefly as I sat down, before he confirmed his suspicion and moved on; that my scoured numbness could be of such little consequence to him, could be only one more inconvenience removed from his path.

  After dinner, he talked for a time of Ruth Edwards, about the arrangements he had in hand for his wedding. I struggled to follow his talk, for my pain had expanded till it was all I could think of. Then he said to me, ‘When you were a midwife …’

  I stopped still, thinking I had at last been caught in my lie. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, how many women did you deliver, would you say?’

  ‘Not many,’ I said, shifting in my chair. ‘Perhaps ten.’

  He nodded, frowning. ‘Still. That should be sufficient.’

  ‘Brother, I don’t …’ I said. ‘I think Ruth would want someone else. Surely she would not want me.’ But at my reply he only looked confused, and began to talk of other things.

  26

  I saw over the next days how Matthew’s eyes rested briefly but often on Rebecca. She had put on flesh, and grown golden, sleek. She took to wearing Mother’s green gown, the one I had altered for the trial. I was almost grateful for how she drew his attention away from me: I did not need to trouble to hide my dull face, my slow movements.

  I heard him coaching her sometimes, in the middle of the day, his murmur coming from the parlour. What they might do is put it to you in this way. Then you must say this. And if they press you, you must shrink as though afraid, and then I will ask permission to question you instead.

  Rebecca began to avoid my eye at mealtimes. But one morning, when we were coming out of our chambers at the same time, she glanced at me and said, ‘I must think of my mother, her being spared.’ When I looked her in the eye, she added quietly, ‘He asked me whether, while he was gone, you went to Bridget’s house. And I said you didn’t. Because you didn’t.’

  I smiled. ‘I thank you for that,’ I said.

  Then she said, ‘And he asked me whether you had been ill, while he was away.’

  I saw that she had confirmed for him what had happened. And though I had grown to care for her, I saw, too, that when I was strong enough I must go to London without her, for she had made her choice. I was sorry, but I did not blame her for it. She loved her mother, and you cannot always help love, what it brings you to do.

  ‘I must thank you also,’ I said, ‘for how you took care of me.’

  She met my eyes. ‘You have thanked me already,’ she replied. I thought she would go on down the stairs but she remained standing close to me, as though she did not want the moment to pass. ‘At least now your brother’s business will be finished with.’

  Matthew had travelled the length and breadth of his warrant. To go further, he would have needed to take the great roads north or south or west, and to do so would be fraught with risk. For, since he had been gone, armies had been on the move. While Rebecca and I had been packing crates and washing floors at Mother’s house, there had been alarm through Cambridgeshire, Suffolk and Essex; rumours that the King was ready to move on the eastern counties. Odd reports had been heard, of large groups of men seen from a long way off, but nobody could say whose men they were, or what their business was. It was too dangerous to travel far, and so now Matthew would be occupied in collating his evidence against the women accused.

  But over the next days I noticed dully that Matthew did not seem like a man tying up loose ends. Travel had taken its toll on him: he was thinner, his hair sparser. But he did in no way slacken his pace. John Stearne, whom I had met at the dinner, visited a good deal. From my chamber window I would see his foreshortened face with its unmistakable brow as he ducked in at the back door. More than once, I heard their voices raised in disagreement or excitement, but I could not catch the substance of their discussion.

  When he was not with John Stearne or coaching Rebecca, Matthew was at his desk. I glimpsed him through the open doorway, writing and writing, his shirtsleeves rolled up to show his thin forearms, skin over muscle over bone, and browner after his travelling.

  Though the sun still shone, I could not get warm. Grace crept about the house, meeting no one’s eye. I vowed that as soon as I was strong enough to travel, I would ask her to come with me to London. I thought the day had nearly arrived; at each meal, I was managing to eat a little more. I did not know that I was about to run out of time.

  †

  I remember the news of it, passed quickly, half gleeful, half reverent, and not just among the men. For Naseby was not some manoeuvre, with merits to be argued over this way or that, but a piece of delicious fact. It was Grace who told me of it, when I came down to breakfast: how our side had swept downhill upon the King’s men, stomachs light and psalms in their mouths, how we had flattened them. She showed a flicker of pleasure as she spoke of it, the first I had seen from her since her return. We did not yet know, of course, what the victory would mean.

  That Sunday, a service was to be held in honour of it, a thanksgiving service, and a special sermon to be preached. On the Sunday morning we waited in the yard for my brother to be ready: myself, Rebecca, Grace and Mary Phillips. Matthew came out and down the steps, putting on his hat.

  Walking to the church, I noticed how Grace struggled to keep pace with me, how her walk had turned inward, shuffling. I had thought, when she had come back from the hundred, that it had been only sore legs from riding. But now I thought it was not her legs that were damaged. It was her spirit.

  The minister was pale and agitated as he gave his sermon. I kept waiting for him to speak out, as I had waited all those weeks for him to declare himself against what my brother had done. But he spoke only of Naseby, what a great battle it had been. He took as his text something bland from the psalms, about the wonderful works of the Lord.

  Afterwards, I stood near Matthew, where he was talking to Richard Edwards and some others in the church entry. Hands folded patiently, I allowed my thoughts to wander, until I heard Robert Taylor say, ‘For myself I would burn such women, as they do on the continent.’

  I saw Matthew make a dismissive gesture. ‘It is foolish to speak of burning. Everything must be done in the proper fashion. And you know, Robert, that under our own law, for maleficium it is hanging that is the penalty.’r />
  ‘Quite so,’ said Richard Edwards. ‘And how do your plans go forward for your journey into Suffolk, Hopkins? For that is where you are bound next, is it not?’

  I looked at my brother, and saw it was true. Suddenly I could not stand to listen more, and I made to step past them, but then Matthew said, ‘It is indeed. My plans go forward nicely. And my sister, Alice, will go with me, this time.’

  I stopped, and put a hand on the cool stone arch of the entry. Richard Edwards must have made some reply, for Matthew said, ‘No, it would be too much riding for Mary.’

  I felt myself sweating as they began to drift outside, while I stood rooted. At last I followed them, and watched as a crowd gathered and Grimston presented to my brother a letter of safe conduct, written on fancy paper, handing it over in front of the assembled townspeople. He slapped my brother on the shoulder and eyed him with what seemed to be respect, touched slightly with fear. Matthew even made a little speech, said he hoped to remain in the prayers of every man and woman there. Then Grimston stepped back, and Ruth Edwards came forward. She took my brother’s arm.

  As I watched, I saw the minister was at my elbow. ‘Are you well, Mistress Hopkins?’ he said.

  I turned to him, but kept my gaze down. ‘I thought this business finished with. I thought by now someone would have prevented it. Someone with the influence to do so.’

  I glanced at him. But his face was carefully blank. ‘I’m sure we all wish for peace,’ he said.

  I felt frustrated, but when I saw his eyes I had to lower my own away from their tenderness. Quietly, I said, ‘I have seen enough. I think I must leave here.’

  The minister turned back to watch my brother, where he stood beside Ruth Edwards. ‘There is more than one way out at your disposal,’ he said, and I knew he was speaking of marriage. I thought of the life I could have with a man like him: his gentleness, his hopefulness, so unsuited to the times. I thought of the children he would want to have, to fill the rooms of his pleasant vicarage. Long moments passed. But no, I thought. That way out is not the one for me, not any more.

  I faced him. ‘I wish my brother joy,’ I said frankly, ‘and that I could summon the courage to marry again myself. But I lost five children, sir, with my last husband. And now, you see …’

  He smiled sadly. ‘Well, then, my best wishes to you,’ he said. ‘Whatever path you choose.’

  27

  While folk were still approaching Matthew to wish him well, asking him to remember them to some cousin at Hadleigh or St Edmundsbury, I turned to Grace, and spoke under my breath: ‘Will you tell them I felt ill? I must go to Bridget …’

  Grace looked queasy, but she nodded, and I slipped away in the shadow of the yews and out of the church gate. I felt light and hollow as I walked, almost jittery. In a few minutes, I was at Bridget’s. The row of cottages seemed different in the early-summer heat: dust rather than mud in the road, and white washing hanging out to dry.

  Bridget did not seem surprised to see me when she let me in. Her eyes were so busy looking into my face as she greeted me that, at first, they did not travel downward. The back door stood open; someone’s cat peered in at the entry. ‘I was wondering where you were,’ she said. She flicked her dishcloth at the cat, then turned back towards me: saw what was missing.

  ‘Oh, love,’ she said, and came towards me. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘A few days ago,’ I said. I had worried she would weep and that I would have to calm her, when I was only just preventing myself from melting into tears.

  But she did not weep: instead she pressed my belly gently with her fingers, checked the colour of my tongue.

  ‘He has a safe-conduct letter, now, from Grimston,’ I said, once she was satisfied. ‘He says he is taking me with him, into Suffolk.’ Bridget’s eyes widened. ‘So I have decided I shall go south, to London. I think he will not follow me.’

  ‘It’s right you should go,’ she said.

  ‘But if Grace needs help,’ I said, ‘if she comes here, will you give her my mother’s ring?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Bridget smiled. It felt like a long time, suddenly, since I had seen anyone smile. ‘So you are truly going,’ she said.

  I pulled out a chair and sat at the table. It was clear of papers and food; looked as though it had been recently cleaned. I was aware that I had not asked her to go with me but I knew that she would not, for, if only because she had loved Mother so well, she would not leave Manningtree until matters with Matthew were resolved.

  ‘I am sorry to leave you, Bridget,’ I said. ‘You have been a friend to me.’

  ‘You know, Alice,’ she said, ‘that the only reason I was wary about you and my Joseph marrying – you think that I preferred Rebecca, or that I wished him to stay with me, but it was not that. It was just, for all I loved him, my Joseph, he was a man like any other. And Rebecca, she was brought up to that, she knew what to expect.’ She averted her eyes. ‘I knew that he could never have disappointed Rebecca. Could never have been too rough for her.’

  I paused, speechless. Then, ‘Bridget, look at me,’ I said. ‘Joseph loved me. He was the gentlest man I ever met.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, and peered down at her hands. ‘I am glad of that.’

  I knew that I should go, that I would be missed, but somehow I could not. For there were things still unsaid between us. All at once I felt I might never see her again, and there were a thousand questions I wanted to ask her, about herself, about Mother. I would have asked for one last sight of Mother’s ring, too, but I did not want Bridget to think I craved it. Then I remembered what Grace had said about Mother’s Bible.

  ‘Before I go,’ I said, ‘will you show me my mother’s Bible?’

  She hesitated. But then, ‘Of course,’ she said, pushing herself up with her palms. She went to her shelf, and reached it down. It was an old one, which had been my grandmother’s. Bridget placed it on the table, then slid it across to me.

  Sure enough, the page was turned down that contained the verse, A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them. Then another turned down in Proverbs: For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil; but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Ten or fifteen more like it were all turned down, each treating of witches and whores. I looked up at Bridget. ‘Why would Matthew do this?’

  She avoided my eyes. ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Bridget. Were you and my father – Did you and my father have some … dalliance?’ The word sounded offensive as I spoke it. I half expected Bridget to get angry, but she did not.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Forgive me. It’s only that – I found Father’s daily books that he wrote his confessions in. There were pages missing from one of them. I think that Matthew … I think he cut them out. But the pages that remained – my father seemed to feel some great remorse.’

  ‘I don’t know what was in your father’s heart, Alice,’ she said briskly, ‘though I cannot think it was much different from what is in the hearts of other men.’

  I could feel her closing off against me. I sat back, shut the Bible. ‘My brother knows,’ I said. ‘He knows, for Grace told him, about the item she saw in my mother’s bed. Will you not tell me what you can of it?’

  She sat up straighter. ‘It isn’t mine to tell. It won’t help, Alice. Let him think, if he wishes to, that I was seeking to harm your mother.’ She sounded almost angry, but then she quietened. ‘Do you know? When I came into your mother’s service, I was eighteen years old. She was thirteen. They were short of a maid, and I was knocking door to door for work, and your mother answered my knock. She wrote my character with her own hand, and showed it to her father, and after that I never needed to worry again about the roof over my head, or having enough to eat.’ She leaned forward. ‘Alice, believe me, if I ever loved anyone, I loved your
mother.’ She sighed. ‘Though I don’t expect Matthew to believe that. But I did think he was fond enough of you. Forgive me, but I thought you would be able to check him.’ Suddenly, she stood up. ‘What I don’t understand is, if he thinks me guilty, why does he not arrest me? Does he want me to leave? To confess? Or what? Why does he go after these others, and not me?’ She shook her head. ‘But you believe me, do you not, Alice? That I had only your mother’s good in my heart?’

  I moved in my chair, frustrated. ‘I wish – I wish only that you would tell me all you know.’

  ‘I can’t. It would not help. Your brother knows no more than you, and as for your mother and what truly happened with his burns, you must not speak of it to him. It won’t help you to know what I know, if you are going. And I truly believe it would not have helped you to fight him.’

  I felt a flicker of anger that she would not be frank, not even now that lives were at risk, the lives she claimed to care so much about. But Bridget seemed not to see my anger. Her face was firm, but troubled. ‘You should go. None of this is your doing, and somehow it will find its end. He is not invincible, Alice. It can’t go on for ever. He is flesh and blood,’ she said.

  Even at the time I thought, I never suggested he was anything else.

  28

  I did not sleep that night, or if I did, I dreamed of lying awake, of hearing something in the dark. I had decided to go at first light. I knew there was still some deeper part to the business that I could not see, some blacker shade of black. But I thought, I shall not stay to see how it ends. My old landlady, Ellen, has made me an offer: I shall take it.

  Getting back from Bridget’s, I had found the Thorn quiet and my brother out still. I had burned Father’s daily book for, though I was loath to destroy it, any chance to replace it seemed gone, and I could not safely hide it or carry it with me. I knew I would need my sleep, but I was kept wakeful by a sense of danger, as nameless and certain as a horse must feel when it flicks back its head and shows the whites of its eyes; when it will not be coaxed or led across a bridge, and later the bridge gives way.