by Julie Hearn
Bang!
The minister pours himself a splash of claret. His fingers tremble. “Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.”
The Lord will forgive me this small transgression, he decides. For He knows the yoke I bear is a heavy one.
The minister will be glad when all this is over—when the whole matter is closed. He has been meeting for many weeks now with Puritan leaders across the border, men of vision, like himself, with plans to sail for the New World. Come spring, he and his daughters are to sail with them. They will start a new life, where no one knows them among God-fearing folk in a land wide open to new beginnings.
It is all arranged.
Meanwhile he must see to it that no breath of scandal touches his family. For nothing must sully the reputations of those embarking on this voyage in the Lords name. Nothing.
The cunning woman’s granddaughter will be silenced on Monday, and the witch-finder has been paid. The housekeeper, too, will hold her tongue and be rewarded handsomely for doing so.
All that remains is for nature to take its course. The result will also be dealt with, and then they will leave, he and Grace and Patience. And all anyone here will ever know and believe is that a witch cast her evil eye on the ministers daughters, causing a mysterious illness that eventually passed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The jeweled frog looks poised to leap away. It is a beautiful thing, a gorgeous thing, but the minister cannot look at it for long. Before sailing for the New World, he will find the time to visit his wife’s grave, for all it is two days’ ride away and the roads in winter might prove impassable. He made it his business a long time ago to discover his wife’s final resting place, and he goes there, when he can. Torn between weeping and cursing, he usually just stands with his hat in his hands, despising himself for continuing to love a woman who died in sin and shame, giving birth to another man’s child.
He never thinks of the brat. He doesn’t know if it was a boy or a girl, let alone whether it lived or what became of it if it did.
“Witch …,” he murmurs, blinking at the jeweled frog. She was a witch, all right—a practitioner of the ancient arts. He married the one person he could never hope to strike the fear of God in, and she haunts him still. It is the cross he bears. His secret shame.
Bang! Bang!
He shuts the frog away in a drawer and pours another drink.
The cart comes for Nell just after dawn. She has been kept locked away for more than a fortnight, and when they open the door, the light pains her eyes.
She doesn’t recognize the ones who yank her up and hurry her out into the miserable morning. She doesn’t feel the cold, either, even though she wears only a shift.
The people huddled in groups around the gaol shuffle forward, gawping. Their faces are ugly with anticipation, yet they dare not come too close, and some of the children cover their eyes with mittened or frostbitten fingers—too scared to even peep.
“Witch!” someone hisses from a safe distance.
Dully, mechanically, Nell registers the tying of her ankles so that the hem of her shift will not billow out. They always do that to women or girls, so they will not be shamed by men looking up their skirts while they hang. As if she cares. As if modesty is a concern this day. As if they are doing her a favor.
They leave her hands free, to enable her to pray. Another favor.
The cart is small and drawn by a horse so old, it shambles. It isn’t far to the crossroads, but the lanes are deep in muck and mire, so what with the horse and the mud and the ruts in the lanes, the going is slow. Nell has to stand on her tethered feet, gripping the sides of the cart as it slews and jerks along.
There are more people gathered along the way. Someone throws an apple—a rotten one. Nell feels it hit her shoulder, but doesn’t even flinch.
As they lurch over a slope she sees, up ahead, the biggest crowd of all. And the pole—the gallows pole—rising up from the crossroads like some abominable, leafless tree.
That’s for me, she tells herself, but somehow her mind will not accept the truth of it. And she is not afraid as the old, broken horse stumbles on, for what is happening to her this day seems so unreal that it might as well be happening to some other poor man-handled girl. It is nature’s way, she knows, this shutting down of the senses in response to unbearable pain … a kindness from within, when all without is beyond both kindness and reason.
The crowd—a sea of smug, excited faces—is parting now, and they are nearly there. Nell can see the minister standing right next to the pole and the witch-finder beside him. She cannot bring herself to look among the crowd, although she knows full well the Watchers will be there, their eyes boring into her, their big feet firmly planted in the mud so that no one can budge them from the spot they have chosen—the spot with the best view.
Some of the others jostling for space were surely birthed by her granny or are holding infants she herself helped bring into the world. It is the worst sorrow, that they they have come here now to see her, to watch what is about to happen.
As the cart trundles the last few yards the people closest to it reach out to prod and pinch. Some think it lucky to touch a condemned witch. Others are simply cruel.
Someone has hold of her hand and is trying to put something there, between her fingers.
What is it? A crucifix? A bone? A lock of someone’s hair?
She looks down, for this touch is not nasty, just insistent.
It is Mistress Bramlow, pressed up against the slats of the cart by other jostling bodies and struggling to keep her footing in the mud. Her face is gray with sorrow, but there is strength and purpose in her voice as she whispers: “Take it. Take it now.”
Instantly Nell understands. And as her fingers close upon the snippet of belladonna—enough to send her into a mindless stupor, should she swallow it in the next few moments—she has to struggle not to let this one small act of kindness undo her in a way that cruelty has so far failed to do.
For she will not cry. Not for any of them. Not now. It would be taken as a sign of repentance, and she repents of nothing—except, perhaps, of having been so lavish with the flying ointment that she sealed her own fate.
As daft as the chicken, she thinks dizzily as the cart jerks to a halt. I have been as daft as the poor old chicken.
The crowd is roaring now, and the pole, with its dangling rope, is so close that she could reach out and touch the splintered wood.
The chips or cuttings of a gibbet or gallows on which one or more persons have been executed or exposed, if worn next to the skin or round the neck in a bag, will cure the ague or prevent it.
The piece of belladonna, clenched in her fist, seems to throb there, like a trapped spider.
Take it. Take it now.
But she won’t. Stubborn to the last, she will stand up straight, showing neither weakness nor remorse. Yes, she will. Yes, she will…. A witch? Well, yes, she confessed to that in the end, since having the Knowledge, like her granny and her mother before her, truly made her one. But guilty of hobnobbing with Satan and causing harm? Never.
A sliver of wood, taken from the gallows pole, will cure the aching of a tooth, particularly if tamped down on the ache with the inner rind of an elder tree, made into a paste with three drops of sage water and a little pepper.
Busy. Her mind is busy, sifting through recipes, potions, and spells, taking her away from this moment, this place.
And the rope is round her neck, as thick as an arm, and the minister is right in front of her, telling her to make peace with the Lord. To beg His forgiveness while there is still time.
And as the hangman adjusts the noose, she keeps her head up and looks the minister straight in the eye. Appalled he stares back at her, his speech faltering, the pages of his Bible fluttering in the wind.
For it is as if … as if …
He looks blindly away, across the moor, then back again. But there is no mistaking it,
no mistaking the light in those eyes, the defiant curling of the lips, the tilt of the pointed chin above the chafing rope. He has seen that same look before, on the face of his wife … the mother of his children … the woman he loved. It is uncanny. It is—impossible.
He knows he must finish what he has to say before giving the signal for the cart to be pulled away, leaving the witch to dangle and choke.
But he cannot speak. He cannot move. And the Lords words are sticking in his throat, like fish bones.
“Re … pent!” he cries, but it comes out squeaking.
And as the crowd shifts restlessly, there is a drumming in his ears that can only be the sound of his own thudding heart. Can it not?
Confused, he turns around.
Everyone turns around.
For those are hoofbeats they can all hear, approaching from the west. And then … here they come, over the crest of the hill, a party of the Kings men—and favored ones, too, by the look of their horses and the billowing of their fine cloaks in the bitter wind.
The Watchers crane their thick necks. This is good fodder for their gossip—fine gentlemen come to see the hanging. Word must have got round that a witch is to swing this day, and these four, five, six young bucks are just in time to enjoy it.
“Get out of my way!”
The rider at the front is approaching at such a gallop that those in his path are at serious risk of getting their own necks broken or their bodies trampled by flying hooves.
With little shrieks and muffled curses, women and men grab their children and scatter, creating a space that the white mare and its rider seem to stream along before rearing to a spectacular halt right in front of the gallows.
The other riders rein in their horses on the very edge of the stumbling crowd, keeping their eyes on the one who led them here as he leaps from his saddle and points straight at Nell.
“Remove the noose,” he commands.
The hangman opens his mouth, then closes it again. He isn’t quite sure. He thinks he recognizes this person, this boy, but he can’t be absolutely—
“Hurry up, man! I haven’t got all day.”
Nell feels as if she is falling. This person’s words are swirling in her head, and she doesn’t know what to make of them. Is it a prank? It is bound to be a prank—and a mighty cruel one, at that.
Past caring, though … Beyond feeling anything … Nature’s way …
She cannot move much for the constriction of the rope around her neck, but by tilting her jaw very carefully, she can just about see the speaker standing below her, next to the cart. He is wearing a heavy buff coat over armor and a hat with a plumed feather. She doesn’t recognize him, nor does she care, until his voice rings out again:
“Are you deaf, man? Or simply stupid? Remove the noose, I say.”
And then she remembers.
What manner of creature are you? … Do you not seek payment, Mistress Nell?
It is him. The boy she found wounded up on the moor.
She closes her eyes, blocking him out. Blocking them all out. Foolish boy. Stupid bogger. Means well, but will be hanged alongside her, for certain, for his audacity this day.
“No. Wait!”
It is the witch-finder speaking. Or hissing, rather, through gritted teeth.
“Aha!” cries the boy. “Matthew Hopkins, is it not? I should have known you’d be in at the kill, sir. How much did they pay you for this one? Your rate is twenty shillings a witch, I hear. Or is that just for one-legged old crones?”
The hangman dithers, his fingers slack against the noose and loathsome on Nell ’s throat. The crowd has fallen silent, and the witch-finder’s face is boiling red as he splutters: “I work for the good of us all, Sire, and in accordance with the law of the land. His Majesty, I dare to suggest, would find no fault here.”
The boy raises one eyebrow.
“His Majesty, as you are doubtless aware, has other matters on his mind at present. He is leaving this one to me. Let her go.”
“But the verdict is sound, Sire, and the punishment fitting. The witch must hang.”
Nell sways and swallows. His Majesty? … Sire? What are they blathering on about?
Then the minister chimes in:
“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ Thus saith the Lord! Exodus, chapter 22, verse 18!”
His voice is as loud as ever, but there’s a wobble to it.
“Amen!” echoes the witch-finder. “’Tis fitting, wouldn’t you agree, Sire, for the Lord to have the final say?”
“Ordinarily, yes,” snaps back the boy. “But the Lord also speaks through His Majesty from time to time, don’t forget—or, if it’s easier, through me. And I’m not asking you, my friend, I am telling you. Let. Her. Go.”
Nell is sure she can feel the noose tightening while the men and the boy from the moor haggle over whether she swings or walks. Be done with it either way, she thinks wildly. Just be done. For all this … this tussling … it shames me somehow.
She closes her eyes. Waits for the crowd to roar its own “Amen” in support of the minister. Waits for the hangman to step away and for the signal to be given. But the crowd is holding its collective tongue and keeping a respectful distance. Everyone is gaping at the boy in a kind of gormless amazement. And a few of the women are wondering whether to kneel.
“Be it really him?” someone whispers to one of the Watchers.
Yes, the Watcher nods. Yes, it be him, all right. The young Prince Charles, sent to the west country a few months back to rally troops for the Royalist cause. The Kings heir, come to whisk the cunning woman’s granddaughter from the very brink of damnation. If he can. If they let him.
The Watcher blinks and smirks. Any piskies nesting nearby will be wide awake by now—wide awake, goggle-eyed, and sneezing fit to bust.
“What say you, good people?”
The boy-prince has swung round to face the crowd. They are his future subjects, God willing, but Royalist supporters, all? He cannot say for sure. He can only hope that most of them are and that a dazzle of words will win over the rest.
“Is it not the divine right of kings—God’s representatives here on earth—to be merciful at any time of their choosing?” he appeals, throwing both arms wide as if he owns everything—the people, the land, the cold gray air—and would embrace the lot, given half a chance.
A murmur of assent ripples slowly through the crowd.
“Has it not always been so?”
More ripples of agreement and a flurry of nodding heads.
He relaxes then. Whatever their usual sympathies, they are all of one mind at the moment—touched by the presence of a prince, as if by magic.
Madness. Nell is shivering now in the cart. Shivering so hard that she must clench her teeth to stop them rattling. This boy is talking madness and blasphemy and will be knocked down and killed for it in a minute.
“Well?” the Prince persists, smiling into the crowd. “Do we pardon this girl in the King’s name or not?”
And with still more noddings and mumblings and a few bobs and curtsies, the crowd lets it be known that if the heir to the throne, God bless and protect him, sees fit to show mercy to the cunning woman’s granddaughter, then who are they to stop him?
“Just don’t put her to dwell among us no more,” shouts Silas Denby, rubbing his big gut a little doubtfully. “Or I, for one, won’t be accountable. We want her three counties away, at least.”
His wife digs a bony elbow into the fat between his ribs.
“I mean, should it please Your Gracious Majesty,” he adds. “Sire.”
The Prince isn’t listening. His men are signaling that it is time to go. He has stayed long enough, and it is dangerous. There are nests of rebel soldiers hereabouts, and this is hardly an ideal time or place to be expounding on the divine right of kings.
The Prince nods and casts a final smile upon the crowd. “I thank you all,” he shouts, “for your benevolence this day.” Then he leaps easily back onto his h
orse and turns his smile upon the hangman.
“Go on, then,” he says. “Let her go. Its what everybody wants.”
Slowly the hangman loosens the noose, then lifts it away from Nell’s face and over the top of her head.
“Now untie her feet.”
The hangman does as he’s told.
The minister and the witch-finder step forward as one man.
“Save your breath,” the Prince tells them.
Nell grips the sides of the cart. She cannot speak, nor does she think she will be able to move.
But: “Quick!” the Prince is saying, reaching down to grab her hands. “Put your left foot in the stirrup and jump.”
So she takes his hands and scrambles and jumps as best she can while he hauls her up in front of him. And as the white mare wheels round, and she clutches its mane to keep from falling, she gets a fleeting glimpse of Mistress Bramlow’s face, beaming and beaming, before the Prince digs his spurs into his animals flanks and they are off.
“That was close, wasn’t it?” he yells in her ear as they gallop away. “There’s a coach waiting over the hill. Are you all right?”
She doesn’t answer. Cannot. All she can think is, I could have been dead. They were going to hang me. Me. I could have been dead. I could have been …
And her teeth begin to chatter again and her knees to knock. And they are still chattering and knocking a good half an hour later as she sits huddled in a coach, being taken to a place of safety.
She has never been in a coach before.
“We’re heading for Falmouth,” says the Prince. “It’s on the coast.”
She has never been to the coast before, either.
I should be swinging, she thinks. Had I not taken the caul with me that morning. Had I not saved this persons life. Had I not told him my name. Had he not learned of the hanging. Had he not been honorable. Had he arrived just a few minutes later….
I would have been turned off.
Finding her voice again feels strange—as if almost being hanged might have changed it somehow; as if it might babble, or curse, or howl for having so nearly been silenced forever.