The Witchfinder's Sister

by Beth Underdown

  Helen Leech spat, richly, over the side of the cart.

  ‘It’s nothing, love,’ Anne said. ‘I fell in the dark.’

  Matthew twisted in his saddle. ‘Quiet,’ he called back, before turning again to the gaoler. ‘Ask at the Market Cross where to take them,’ I heard him say. ‘My money’s that it won’t be big enough. Anyway, wherever they bed down, I will owe you for three bales of straw. It will not help us if they are too stiff to walk.’ The man nodded.

  Matthew moved off, and Mary Phillips followed. I had to take hold of Rebecca’s bridle and turn her horse myself. Her eyes stayed locked with her mother’s as the slow cart receded.

  Rebecca said, ‘Do you think any will be spared? Apart from my mother?’

  ‘I hope so.’ My chest felt tight. ‘We must pray so.’

  Rebecca was quiet for a moment. ‘And my mother,’ she said. ‘He will do it, won’t he? If I do what he says? He will let her go?’

  Silently I asked for forgiveness. ‘I am certain of it,’ I said. For I did not want to think of what my brother would do to Rebecca, if she backed out now.

  The eyes of the women in the cart followed us silently away up the lane. When I think of them now, they look so strange and quiet that I could almost believe they were already dead.

  †

  We sat up late that night while Matthew went to find us other lodgings: so many folk had packed into Chelmsford for the trials that the keepers of the inn had put the board up to five shillings for each of us for only the two nights. Rebecca and I sat together in the inn’s back room. We could hear Mary Phillips out at the front, arguing still with the landlady. Rebecca looked drained.

  ‘Did you see my mother?’ she said. ‘Do you think the others are being cruel to her, knowing she will be freed?’ She stopped. ‘You do not think she has changed her mind about me speaking?’

  ‘No,’ I said. Because, I thought, what else can she do?

  After a time Matthew came back, and we moved our horses to a different inn, where Rebecca and I had to share a bed with Mary Phillips, who lay all night between us, silent and large, like a listening stone.

  The next day, I walked beside Rebecca through the crowds towards the court, Matthew several paces in front, and I thought of how easy it would be to slip away alone. But it was as if Rebecca read my thoughts: as we drew near the building, she took my hand. ‘Alice,’ she said, ‘you won’t leave me, will you?’

  I smiled, and squeezed her hand. ‘Of course I will not,’ I said, and as I said it I knew that it was true. I could not leave her. I felt the weight of what I had done in Suffolk, what I had not prevented, and I knew that I must stay with Rebecca now, for as long as there was a shred of a chance to help her.

  We sat on a bench reserved at the left of the courtroom. It was hot, the damp, fierce heat that prickles, and it grew hotter as the correct papers were given out among the twelve jurors, the six justices and their clerks. It was hard to be calm, for though I had pretended for Rebecca, I feared what the outcome of the business would be. Sitting on the hard bench, my hands sweating as the room around us continued to fill, I felt as though anything could happen. I saw Rebecca craning behind her to survey the public benches, and I remembered her dream, that her son would be brought there. But when the town crier began to call matters to order I felt her stiffen.

  It was the Earl of Warwick presiding. We had seen him riding into town from the window of the inn that morning. They had rung the bells to try to clear a way, but it had only made folk pack nearer. He was one of those blood-red men, like a plum about to burst, with moustaches and hair down his back like the pictures of men in the King’s train you see on news sheets. That morning he had stood up in his stirrups and raised a hand to the crowd. Now, he seemed harassed as he made a short speech about how much business there was to get through.

  First the bills were sorted, the vera from the ignoramus: the latter would be dismissed, if it was judged there was not enough known about the cases to hear them. Rebecca’s was read out ignoramus, as she said Matthew had told her it would be. But when it was announced, someone cried out, ‘Shame!’ from the public benches. I turned to see Prudence, the wronged wife of Thomas Hart, her face marred with rage. Though my heart lifted for Rebecca, after my own misfortune, my own lost child, I felt a flash of understanding for Prudence Hart. In any case, it was as if the woman had not called out at all: the court officials did not bother to hush her, accustomed as they were to disruption.

  They brought up the accused women in batches, like cattle at a market: Nan Leech and Bess Clarke were in the first lot, as well as Anne West. At least, I thought, it will be over quickly for Rebecca. Matthew took the stand, testifying against two of them, followed by the other witnesses, each trooping up in their turn. A smell grew in the room, of foul sweat and the trodden flowers near the justices’ bench, the blown roses, which did not serve to freshen the air but, rather, to make it fuller, heavier.

  Soon it was Rebecca’s turn. First, as Matthew had instructed her, she had to pretend to be afraid of Warwick, and she did well with that, seeming to try her utmost, calling him ‘Your Highness’ and stuttering, so that when Matthew stood up to suggest that since he knew the girl he himself did question her, it could seem to the justices to be a service rather than a liberty. Once Matthew began, though, Rebecca went on fidgeting, leaving long gaps of silence as Matthew put questions to her – and she became more and more upset, when Helen Leech began to interrupt, calling her a liar at every turn, and protesting at how Matthew put the questions so that Rebecca need only say yes or no.

  But Helen Leech was made to hold her tongue, and Rebecca confirmed that her mother had met with the other accused from Manningtree, that they had read from a certain book, that they had summoned imps. Haltingly she described for the court what service each woman had asked of her familiar, including what her mother had requested. A discontented hum grew up. Whatever they thought of Anne West, folk didn’t like seeing a girl send, as they saw it, her own mother to hang.

  It was Matthew who settled the mood of the room, with his exact and tireless questions, his equanimity and his pleasant drone. By the end of Rebecca’s evidence you could see the attention of the justices wandering, for his questions were phrased dully, though framed carefully to be precise about times, about happenings, about dates, and Matthew did not once falter in his manner or his memory. Questioning the midwives later on what they had discovered during the searchings, he was perfect in his respectful demeanour: for of course, he said, of course he would not make them say exactly where they had found the marks.

  Watching him was not like watching my brother. It had been so long since the closeness of when I had first arrived; months now since the night of Bess Clarke’s watching, when I had helped him to change his shirt. It was like observing a stranger, despite my knowledge of the fear that drove him. Matthew had achieved a near-unthinking proficiency, just as, even now, when I see a stain on a bedsheet, I still wonder, without wishing to, how best to get it out. And so the courtroom that day felt nothing like the swimming at Little Wenham: there was no sense of rawness, of triumph. Rather, it seemed that in his high boots and spotless collar, my brother had found his vestments; in the court, his pulpit. He was as effortless as a minister giving his hundredth sermon.

  At last Rebecca finished her testimony; Matthew had to remind her to sit down. When she came back to me, she looked flat and shocked, as if she had been cut out of paper. After that, there were so many batches of women that the jury weren’t let to retire, but had to give a verdict on the spot. Two of the women had their cases postponed; another few were dismissed, those of the most evidently witless fantasists. But nineteen were not postponed: nineteen were not dismissed. The coughing in the room came and went, and the heat only increased, as one by one the verdicts came in.

  Matthew was up at the justices’ bench, whispering, as the sentences were considered. When the Earl of Warwick at last stood up to confirm that all the convicted witch
es were to hang, he added that it had been brought to his attention that Chelmsford was a long way from the Tendring Hundred, the origin of this ugly business. He said how it was important that justice, as well as being done, was seen to be done; and so, while for convenience most of the convicted would hang in Chelmsford the next day, some few would be sent instead back to Manningtree, to be executed there before the month was out.

  A clerk read out the short list of women to be taken back north to meet their deaths, and I felt sure it had been arranged by Matthew, for Anne West was among them. When she heard her mother’s name, Rebecca went slack on the bench beside me, as if all the air had been knocked out of her body.

  39

  I slept ill that night, and I knew Rebecca, too, was wakeful, on the other side of Mary Phillips. In the morning, we followed Matthew through the crowded streets to where, overnight, the scaffold had been built. There was a press of people, but an expectant quiet among them, as they waited to watch what they had helped to occasion, as if they would not believe it until it happened in front of their own eyes.

  We were allowed to stand near the back, and I was glad that we did not have to move in closer, for Bess Clarke, Nan Leech, Elizabeth Gooding, all of them were to be hanged that day. I would have wished myself a hundred miles away from that evil business, but it felt a mercy at least that Rebecca and I would be able to close our eyes at the moment of it.

  For Matthew had pushed forward with Mary Phillips to join the court officials near the front; he had left one of the manservants from the inn with us and, I am certain, put a word in his ear to watch us, prevent us slipping away. The servant stood a few feet off, but every time I turned, his eye was on me. I was on edge: I had still not spoken to Rebecca of escaping with me, and I was starting to wonder whether I could even accomplish it. I had not expected to be so closely guarded.

  I was thinking of this when, close to my ear, someone said, ‘Alice.’ I turned, to see a small, older woman next to me in a dark shawl. She put back her hood a little. It was Bridget. ‘Make no sign,’ she murmured, and flicked her eyes towards the manservant. Rebecca saw at once what was happening, and slowly she stepped to block his view of us. My heart was in my mouth. In her shabby cloak, to the man, Bridget was just one more face in the crowd. But if Matthew should turn?

  I kept facing the scaffold, found her hand; it was warm, and dry as paper. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I said. ‘It isn’t safe.’

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to see you at the Thorn.’

  ‘I have matters to acquaint you with. The thing that Grace saw in my mother’s bed, I know now it was a charm for conception. I know it because Matthew knows it. He asked the accused women when he went through the Tendring Hundred. So he knows it, and I think you know it, too.’ Bridget said nothing, and I could not help turning to look at her. ‘I spoke with our old servant Sarah.’

  She paled. ‘You were in Wenham?’

  ‘She said that my father – she said that my father –’ I had to fight to keep near Bridget, as the crowd moved around me. Rebecca stepped nearer the manservant, said something to him. Desperately, I said, ‘Sarah said my father was free with his hands.’

  Bridget gripped my elbow, and spoke in my ear, low and fast. ‘It is true, about the charm, Alice. I didn’t want her to do it.’ She stopped. ‘But you must understand it is nonsense. It has no bearing on Matthew as he is now, it cannot have. That is why I did not wish to tell you. I did not want you to be afraid.’ I turned to her, uncertain what she meant, and she cast a glance at the manservant, and then kept her eyes on the ground. ‘When your father first married your mother, even then she was not like other women. She had dreams and fancies – but soon after the wedding, she was cast down more than usual, and when I asked her why, she said she did not like it with your father. That he was rough, and he hurt her.’ Bridget paused. ‘She said that, and I dismissed her. I could weep to think of it now. I told her she must bide with it, and that she would grow accustomed, that soon a baby would follow and after that he would leave her alone. For your father seemed a cheerful soul. I said to her, “Marriage, this is what it is.” But she said she wished she could only get with child, so she would be free of it for a while.’

  I watched the hangman, who had climbed up onto the scaffold to check his knots. It would be fifteen, that day, across the three scaffolds: they would not have had room for more.

  Bridget let go of my elbow and spoke still more softly, as the crowd jostled around us. ‘And so they had not been a year married but there was an Easter fair in Manningtree, and we went, and I even took you, though you were in arms. And we saw the entertainments, but soon your mother said she was tired so we started for home ahead of your father.’ She took a breath. ‘There were some folk camped by the side of the road, not far out of Manningtree. They were grazing their horses there, and they had a tent up. And there was a man among them, a bearded man, and he stood up and said, “Something to fetch your suitors, ladies? Something to make your bellies big?” And I was going to jog the horse on, but your mother said, “Stop.” ’

  I looked at Bridget. ‘I did not like it,’ she said, ‘for I had you to reckon with. I did not like to stop the cart among such folk, but your mother was set upon it, and time was, I thought a foolish charm a harmless thing. I mean, I still think that.’ She shifted her feet. ‘So we went into the tent, your mother, and I following with you in my arms, and she told the man she wanted a baby. And he brought out a hank of hair – God knows where he got it, but he looked severe at your mother and said, “This I grew specially on my own head.” And he began to twist and wrap it into a certain shape. And he said, “What this child will have is a father above and a father below.” He said, “The child will be strong. It’s only fire or water that will kill this one.” I said to him, “Stop it, you’re scaring her.” And when he had done I told her to pay him, that we might be gone. But he looked at your mother, and he said that to make the spell complete, the two of them must be alone. And I did not like that. I told her, “Don’t be foolish.” I tried to pull her out, but I had you with me, and I was her servant, remember, and she said, “Go,” and so I went.’ She was struggling to find her words. ‘It must have been ten minutes, before she parted the tent and came out again. I don’t need to tell you, Alice. She was settling her clothing, and she was white as a sheet. What I think is, when that fellow saw us, he thought he saw some easy coin, but he also thought he saw some easy flesh …’

  The crowd stirred. They were bringing the women out, each of them no bigger than a thumb at that distance.

  I averted my eyes. ‘And that was why, that night he was born, why she thought Matthew was no good. Why she –’ I stopped in horror. ‘But, then, why did she throw you out? If it was she who –?’

  ‘She did it that I might be free,’ Bridget said. ‘Your father had never laid a hand on me before. To my knowledge, I never made eyes at him. But once your mother’s condition showed –’ When she spoke again, her voice was dry. ‘I believed your mother, after that, though it was too late. But I think when she saw what he was doing to me, she blamed herself. And though she was not settled in her mind, she found a way, even in her trouble, to help me. For the night your brother was born, the night she dropped him and I saved him, when your father came home and sent me out, there in the kitchen she showed your father the charm, said she had found it under her pillow, that I had put it there. And so he put me out into the snow. What else could I do? I walked as far as East Bergholt. The water was frozen three inches thick in the horse trough. I could not bide on the doorstep. I would not have left her, but I could not tell him the truth.’

  The crowd moved, and a great roar went up as the women finished clambering onto the scaffold. There had been some delay: one had fainted. Bridget said, ‘I was not carrying any child when I left. I had made sure of that. It almost felt as though I had got clean away, left her caught, and I always felt it,’ she said, ‘how I abandoned her. For after that, in the years I
was gone, she was with him so long and I think she began to think that she herself was at fault. That was why I came only rarely to your house, for her sorrow, day by day it would grip her close, or spin her away – and you could not always tell which it would be. When you have been a prisoner as long as she, you grow to love your gaoler.’

  ‘But when you came the day before she died,’ I said, ‘she gave you the charm? That was why Grace could not find it?’

  When she replied, there was nothing in Bridget’s eyes but honesty. ‘Until then, I thought it was long gone. I could scarce believe she had kept it all those years. She hadn’t wanted to destroy it, in case it – It is nonsense. But that day, she tried to make me take it. I tried to persuade her how it was foolishness.’

  I looked up at the hangman, carefully draping the necks of the women. Numbly I saw the back of my brother’s head, as he watched, motionless. I thought, I do not even know who you are.

  ‘And is that what you still think?’ I said. ‘That it is nonsense?’ I turned to her. ‘Bridget, I saw things, in Suffolk –’ I stopped. ‘But what do you think – that my brother is that fellow’s son? The one from the side of the road?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Bridget said. ‘He is so much darker than the rest of you.’ She followed my gaze. ‘God help us, but I could not say whose son he is.’ She turned to me. ‘The charm, I did not think he would find it, much less learn what it was. These things are what women most usually keep among themselves.’

  A roar went up as the first of the women dropped. She went cleanly, and then I saw the small figure of the hangman move to the next. He dropped them steadily, one by one. After the sixth the great din of the crowd faded somewhat, but still as each woman fell there was a sharp noise, like a swiftly taken breath. The twelfth woman kept moving, after the drop, her legs twisting in the air. I was thankful that at this distance, I could not recognize any of them; could not tell which of them Elizabeth Gooding might be.