What is this thing drawn here?
Margery Grew: I have no knowledge of such things.
Margaret Landish: I believe it is a charm or poppet.
Margaret Moone: It is a spell or charm.
What is it for?
Margaret Landish: It is for the conceiving of a child.
Margaret Moone: It is for conception.
Do you not think it is intended to hurt or harm?
Margaret Landish: If it had no thorns in it then it is not meant for harm.
Margery Grew: I have no knowledge.
They were accused women, all of them. Yet Matthew had taken it upon himself to ask them, to consult with them, about the thing that Grace had seen. It made sense: to his mind, who would know the nature of that item, if they did not? But he had not taken any one of them at their word. My eyes scanned the responses. He had asked his questions, but he had kept on asking. Perhaps because he did not like the answers he was getting. For it made no sense: why would our aging mother have slept with a conception charm clasped in her hand?
I turned the page.
Margaret Moone: It could not harm the mother. But any child conceived using such a proceeding, I have heard it said – by others, you understand, for I have not come across such a thing myself – I have heard it said that any child resulting would take a fever if you burn the charm that brought it, would breathe too tight if you buried the thing. The charm rules the child’s fate. That is what I have heard. That is all I know – except that such a thing is no use by itself. It is no use without a man’s seed. And the gypsies and wise-men that sell them, often as not, it’s not only the charm they’re selling.
‘What are you doing?’ Matthew said, behind me. I jerked before I managed to flip the ledger open to a different page; calmly, Matthew took it out of my hands. ‘If you wanted to read it, Alice,’ he said, ‘you had only to ask.’
My voice shook, as I reached for something to say. ‘Your handwriting,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing like our father’s any more.’ It was true: it had once been rushed and slanted. Now, it was like the writing of a different man.
Matthew opened the ledger, and touched the page, losing himself as I had at first, absorbed in the neat list of names. ‘I have spent many hours improving it,’ he murmured. ‘What I think is, I owe it to God. To do His work with as much thoroughness as I can.’ He looked at me. ‘You have helped me, Alice. You know that, don’t you? I could not have applied myself so diligently without you.’ Matthew closed the ledger then, and pushed it back into his case, with the other papers behind. ‘You had better change,’ he said, with a cold smile. ‘It will be time for dinner, soon.’
†
Each time I closed my eyes in bed that night, I saw the sketch I had found in the back of Matthew’s ledger. I had almost ceased to think of it, the item, the doll made of hair. But it was clear that Matthew thought his safety was in some way bound up with it. I wondered where it could have gone, whether Bridget had it after all. I thought of how quickly she had deflected me when I had asked her about it, how swiftly she had told me that Grace must have been mistaken in what she saw. I felt a fool for having begun to believe that the secret Bridget spoke of concerned something else entirely, and that what Grace had seen had been nothing more than a bundle of herbs that Mother had taken to bed to scent the sheets.
Yet I struggled to accept that the women Matthew had questioned had it right: what would Mother have wanted with a conception charm? My brother had been born hardly more than a year after her marriage to Father. I knew from my landlady that Papists had special prayers for a woman who remained barren, but even they did not resort to them quickly: most women trusted to God’s providence, for the first year or two at least. So why then would Mother have meddled in such a foolish proceeding? But I saw that, whatever the truth, the women’s answers must have changed what Matthew felt about her. For it came to me that he had not spoken of Mother with affection, not once, since coming back from the hundred. Rather he had snapped or grown silent at any mention of her.
For certain, though, it was Bridget whom Matthew hated, Bridget he feared. I remembered what Sarah had said about the threat of the long winter in prison prompting more confessions among the women round about. That there were those who would rather put themselves to trial this year than risk being arrested later and face rotting in the dark till the spring.
What if, I thought, what if, knowing the friendship and support she enjoyed in Manningtree, he had never intended to arrest Bridget too quickly but, rather, had planned to establish a precedent, to test his powers by gathering that ledger full of women? If the coming trials went his way, then who might he not accuse? What if, I thought, he was always planning to arrest Bridget in the autumn, then have her die forgotten in the dark months, or face a foregone trial in the spring? I wished I could get a message ahead to her, one that somehow did not endanger her or me or whoever I trusted it to. But there was no safe way to do it.
I tried not to think of the other thing Sarah had said. I could not conceive of my father overstepping the bounds in that way. I decided that she must have had it wrong, must have read into some clumsy friendliness what had not been there. I thought of how, when he talked to the women of his congregation, Father would always stand further back than he did from the men, with his hands folded behind him. Always proper. The memory was a league apart from the kinds of men who had plagued me in London, called out after me words I could not catch. Yet I could not dismiss the nagging recollection of the remorse I had found in Father’s daily book. And still I had found none of the missing pages that might name the cause.
Matthew had treated me no differently that evening, since catching me with his ledger. At dinner he had told the minister he had concluded his business, and that we would be leaving in the morning. The minister’s wife had set down her cup and begun to chide her eldest son for kicking his brother under the table, the better to conceal, I think, her relief at our departure.
36
Before noon the next day we were mounted, having thanked the Cardinals for their hospitality. But when Matthew turned his horse, it was not towards the road for Manningtree but in the other direction. ‘Where are we going?’ I called. ‘This road takes us out of our way.’
He smiled a thin smile. ‘We have one more piece of business at Little Wenham,’ he said. ‘Don’t fear. We’ll be back in Manningtree tonight.’
Little Wenham was scarcely a mile’s ride, but I had not often been there as a child: for anything we needed, it was to Capel St Mary or Ipswich that Father would ride. The path to Little Wenham was narrow, and on either side the hedges were thick with summer: rough grasses and the drooping heads of late cow parsley brushed my legs as my horse followed my brother’s. The crops in the fields stood high, tangling at the edges with rampant flowering weeds. The pleasant greenness all around served only to increase my fear for, though it was a summer day even more perfect than any that had come before, I knew we could not be going to Little Wenham for any good purpose.
As we crossed the stream near the great barn, I saw the church and the hall over the millpond. Its surface was still as glass, a pale, untroubled blue. But beside it a knot of folk awaited us, and in their midst stood a young woman.
Matthew collected his horse and got down, and the crowd moved towards us, but as someone thrust the young woman to the front, it was she who spoke. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I have come for swimming.’ She was simply dressed, perhaps seventeen but no older, and still with that round child’s face. I thought she was speaking of some summer lark, before I saw what she meant.
‘You are mistaken,’ I said. ‘We do no such thing.’
‘You are Master Hopkins, are you not?’ another woman asked.
Matthew became wary. ‘I am. But I was not told that these were your wishes. I understood I was coming to question someone. Where is the fellow who came to see me yesterday?’
‘No point questioning this one. You’ll get no sense out of her
,’ the woman said. ‘Swimming, that’s the only thing for her.’
‘It is not permitted under the law,’ I said, looking at Matthew. I turned to the girl. ‘You must understand, that was never my brother’s method.’
‘Please,’ the girl said, looking only at Matthew. She leaned closer, her face intent. She spoke confidingly, but loudly enough for the crowd around to hear. ‘Please, sir. I am afraid that the devil has got into me somehow. I have been afraid of it these four months. Sir, I need to know if I am saved.’
‘You should pray to God, then,’ I said, my voice unsteady.
‘That will not benefit her,’ said the other woman.
I touched the girl’s arm. ‘What would make you think such a thing?’
She did not lower her gaze. ‘I try to pray for folk,’ she said. ‘I try to remember them in my prayers, but then I find myself thinking about how I would hurt them. If I could.’ She spoke simply and sadly. ‘I love God, and so it grieves me. But I have been told that if I am swum and I sink, I will know for certain that I am beloved of God in return, however the devil might try to plague me.’
‘Who said this to you?’ I asked.
‘Go on, master,’ one of the women said. ‘Will you not try her? There’s something not right with her. She has often been unchaste, but in broad daylight, and without shame.’
‘Swimming cannot be taken as evidence,’ Matthew said thoughtfully, ‘if the matter should come to court.’
‘That is of little account,’ said one of the men. ‘If she does float, you can go on and do your usual proceedings.’
‘We’ve got up a collection,’ said someone else, ‘and the necessary rope.’
‘Will you come, sir?’
I looked over the crowd, searching for any face familiar from my youth. But I knew none of them. ‘Matthew, you cannot,’ I said. I was almost laughing with nerves. ‘Surely? It is folly.’
Matthew stood, and turned to the waiting crowd. ‘I will observe it,’ he said. ‘If you wish. For that, there is no charge.’
‘Brother,’ I said, grasping his arm. ‘Brother, do not do this.’ But he pulled away, as the crowd moved towards the millpond, Matthew and the girl among them. It looked mad, like a May outing, like a pageant.
I stood on the spot watching them go, torn, then hurried as well as I could back to the nearest house. I did not knock but opened the door and shouted.
‘Give me a minute!’ a woman called. I could hear her upstairs, her feet on the boards. She was moving about, singing to herself, and I yelled again. At length, I heard her coming down the stairs. When she appeared, she was middle-aged, brisk. She seemed disposed to be annoyed, but then she saw my good clothes. ‘What’s your pleasure?’ she said.
‘Would you know of a girl, about my height, about sixteen years? Somewhat natural? They’re talking about swimming her, and I need to know where her family is. Someone must speak up for her.’
‘She’s nineteen,’ the woman said. ‘She’s different, that one, for certain. She isn’t allowed to church now, for she kept making a scene, convinced herself that the steward’s son had fallen in love with her.’ She gestured with her head. ‘They live up the road in Capel St Mary, only a quarter-hour if you run.’
‘My foot, I cannot,’ I replied. I fumbled for money in the pocket of my gown, the few small coins I had. I put them on the table. They did not come to much. ‘Have you someone you can send?’
‘Of course,’ she said. She patted my arm. ‘You keep your money.’
But I did not wait to pick up my coins. Outside I saw the crowd milling, halted where the water looked deep. One of the men had gone round by the other bank, and was trying to throw a thick rope across. On each attempt the knotted end fell short and hit the water, but as I spotted Matthew and the girl, another man caught the knot and held it, and the crowd gave a stifled cheer.
Matthew saw me, and beckoned me across. ‘You’ll get her ready, now, Alice,’ he said. ‘Behind there.’ He waved at a small clump of trees.
‘I’ll have no part in it.’
‘Is that your servant, master?’ a man said, the one who had caught the rope. ‘I’d have my servant whipped if she spoke like that to me.’
Matthew stepped close to me. ‘Do it or not as you choose,’ he said evenly. ‘But if she goes in as she is, that gown alone could sink her, or the cap strangle her. Don’t you want her to have a chance?’
I took her behind the trees he had indicated. You could hear the folk from the village milling about. As I turned away to let her unlace herself, I saw the path winding out into the fields. No houses that way for miles. I turned back to her, about to take her arm, tell her to come quickly, stay quiet and low to the ground. ‘I could get you away …’ I began, keeping my voice low.
‘Away from who?’ she replied.
My next words died in my throat when I saw how mildly she was waiting. She had blue eyes – like Grace’s, like Rebecca West’s – the kind that bespeak innocence, the kind that make a man think a woman sees less than she does. I was struck by how white her shift was, how very white in the sun, as if she had thought about this moment for a long time, and dreamed of how it would look. She made me think of the folk at Joseph’s church – it was the bright eyes, I think, and the thinness, and the difficulty with standing still. From her elation it was as if to be submerged in the pond in the sight of so many, as if that moment would prove some essential quality in her that was more than dispelling the grubby hearsay of witchcraft. A proof of faith, perhaps; a proof of redemption. There was something of Mother in the way her hands moved ceaselessly.
I saw that it was useless to try to prevent her. The girl followed me out from behind the trees to the edge of the pond, where Matthew was waiting, the crowd looking on. I cast about desperately for someone to put a stop to it, for her family to come. But those gathered only looked expectant. Someone had left ready a coil of narrow rope; Matthew held out his knife, for cutting the spare ends when the knots were done. I shook my head, and he turned to the man beside him. ‘You, then,’ he said. The man reached for the knife with his thick red hands and began to tie the girl, her arms pulled behind her. The rope rasped across her skin, leaving its red marks.
‘You go thumb to toe,’ my brother said to the man, demonstrating. The man began to adjust the bonds as Matthew had told him, but though he did it clumsily, he was working too fast, I thought. For surely soon the girl’s father would come, surely someone would come. The man was showing no care for how the rope was pinching her and hurting.
I stepped forward, and took the knife from the man. Before I crouched, I caught the satisfaction on Matthew’s face. I began to adjust the rope at the girl’s hands and feet, as slowly as I dared. Then I looped another length several times about her waist. I thought about bringing loops up over her shoulders, to make it stronger, but though she had worn two shifts for modesty I did not want to cross the rope over her chest. So I merely tied the waist loops tight, then took the end of a thicker piece that one of the men held out to me and knotted it strongly to the harness. Those knots were what would haul her out. Innocent or guilty, they were all that would keep her from drowning.
I worked carefully, trying to slow down, the girl watching me with interest. I strained my ears for any voice or disturbance at the back of the crowd. But the minutes passed, and Matthew grew impatient with my tying and retying. ‘Very well,’ he said crossly.
Last I took the end of the second life-rope that the man on the far bank had flung across the pond. It was already wet from the several missed throws, and as I tucked it among the loops at the girl’s waist and tied some good big double knots, its wetness must have reached her skin, for then I felt her shiver, and when I looked into her face I saw the first hint of fear in her eyes, swiftly smothered. ‘I am ready,’ she said.
Matthew pushed me out of the way, and stepped forward then, to check the knots I had made. The girl’s eyes did not leave his face, as he tugged at the ropes where they joined th
e loop at her waist. Through the linen, as I had, he would have felt her warm skin. You might have thought, observing him, that he had placed his hands on a woman any number of times, if you did not know him as I knew him, if you did not know that the sweat on his upper lip was nothing to do with the heat of the day. Disgusted, I turned away, and stood on tiptoe, my eyes moving over the back of the crowd.
Those holding the life-ropes on their opposite banks made them slack, and one of the taller men lifted the girl into his arms, just as she was, and began to wade into the shallows. The water deepened quickly and he lost his footing, stumbled, then recovered himself, amid much shouting of instructions from the other men on the bank. If you had shut your eyes, they might have been loading a cart, or bathing a flock of animals, but there was a waiting tension to the group that you could taste. They all looked to Matthew to give the word for when to drop her, and I saw how he understood it, what the crowd had come for. That what they wanted was not the same as the dates and instances the courts needed: what those people craved was something holier, something older. Something that my brother wanted just as much to provide.
I turned to Matthew. ‘If you let her die, I’ll not speak for you in court.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll find some other woman to give evidence, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll find one with hair like yours, no one will know the difference. It is enough that you searched them, they were seen to be searched. It does not matter to me, what expertise you do or do not have.’ His face was satisfied, as he watched mine fill with fear. He had long guessed I was no midwife. And he barely even cared how I had lied to him.
‘Brother,’ I said. ‘Please. You must stop this. She’s done nothing wrong. You can see that. Her mind is not right.’ I took hold of his arm. ‘Please, brother. You can see for yourself she’s mad.’
At that I felt him twitch under me. The sun was in my eyes. He stepped forward, shook off my grip. ‘She is not mad, Alice. She is a devious whore. Jesus help me. Under your gowns and your false piety, show me one of you who is not.’ He turned to the man who was waiting for his signal, raised his hand.
The Witchfinder's Sister Page 23
