Gallows at Twilight

by William Hussey

  ‘That seems reasonable,’ the Earl said. ‘But the prisoner has obviously been ill-treated, Master Hopkins.’

  ‘My Watchers and I have done no more than examine and observe. I would swear that on my Bible.’

  ‘And what are your conclusions? Is he a witch?’

  ‘Alas, although I have gathered much evidence as to Mr Hobarron’s guilt, he has not confessed. There is one last weapon in the witchfinder’s arsenal, gentlemen. I must be allowed to swim the prisoner.’

  Lanyon looked horrified. ‘You must not agree to that, sir! The swimming of witches is the worst form of barbarism.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Hopkins said. ‘The late King James approved of the swimming test as a true way to discover witches. Although the king’s ungodly son has now been chased from his throne, his father’s opinion on witches is still most wise. I am only advising we use such a method because I want to be absolutely sure of Master Hobarron’s guilt … ’ Hopkins shot Jake a sly smile, ‘before we hang him.’

  ‘Sire, I beg you—’

  Earl Richard held up his hand. ‘I am minded to approve Master Hopkins’s request. Let the witch be swum.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Hopkins bowed. Then he turned to the vicar and his face darkened. ‘Mr Lanyon’s objections can go on record in my little ledger. I have other such statements there from men of the cloth. Of course, a good many of them were later discovered to be witches themselves, and hanged for their trouble.’

  You told me not to confess, Jake projected the thought towards Lanyon. You said you’d help me. You have to do something!

  Lanyon looked from Jake to the smiling face of the Witchfinder General.

  I’m sorry. Jake could hear the quiver of fear in Lanyon’s thoughts. God forgive me, but I cannot help you.

  The sky was dull, the sun masked behind grey clouds. Nevertheless, the light hurt Jake’s eyes as he was half-led, half-carried through the castle’s outer gate. The company, made up of the Witchfinder and his assistants, the Earl, Mr Lanyon, and Jake, passed under the jaws of the portcullis and onto the drawbridge.

  ‘A pity that the moat is dry,’ Hopkins observed. ‘It would have served us well.’

  ‘The river isn’t far,’ Monks said.

  Jake managed to lift his head and follow the direction of the sergeant’s fat finger. In the near distance, he saw a shimmering blue thread snake its way out of the forest and roll down through the fields. Partway along the river’s course stood a millhouse, its great wheel churning the waters.

  It took the company ten minutes or so to cross the fields and reach the river. En route, they picked up a procession of gleaners, yeomen, and plough-hands, all eager to witness the spectacle of the swimming test.

  The Witchfinder came to a halt on the bank of the millpond. This deep pool stood before the rush of the wheel, its underwater forest of reeds swaying in the swell. Hands released Jake and he fell to the ground. Above the roar and clatter of the millwheel he heard the talk of the crowd.

  ‘Is he really a witch, Ma? He don’t look bad.’

  ‘Witches are cunning, Michael. Sometimes they can deceive us with pleasing forms.’

  ‘Pleasing forms! Look at the poor creature, Mary Goodwife. He’s nowt but bones and bruised flesh. What have those devils at the keep been doing to him?’

  Hopkins turned to the crowd and made a deep bow.

  ‘Good people, as some of you may know, the swimming test is one of the surest methods to discover a witch. Some may call it superstition, but I say there is much wisdom in the old ways.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘Well said, Master Witchfinder!’

  Hopkins bowed again. ‘Now, I call upon you to bear witness. If the suspect sinks to the bottom of the pool then he is as innocent as a newborn babe. But if he floats we will know that he has embraced witchcraft and has renounced his baptism. In this case, the pure, godly element of water will reject him.’

  Hopkins gave Monks a nod and both men knelt beside Jake. Mr Lanyon and the Earl were standing with the crowd and could not hear what passed between Jake and the Witchfinder.

  ‘You want me to say that I’m a witch?’ Jake’s voice cracked under the weight of his despair. Mr Lanyon had been his only hope, but the vicar would not risk his neck for a stranger. Now, as he stared into the frothing, churning waters, a final burst of resilience flared in Jake’s heart. ‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, you pathetic lunatic. I’d rather drown.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t drown,’ Hopkins whispered, stealing a glance at the crowd. ‘No one that I accuse of witchcraft ever does … Mr Monks, you will bind him exactly as I taught you.’

  Monks took a ball of twine from his pocket and cut two short lengths. While Hopkins held the exhausted prisoner, Monks tied Jake’s opposing thumbs and big toes together. In this hunched position, Jake was rolled onto his side and a thicker, longer rope was secured around his waist.

  ‘All ready, sir.’

  ‘Then cast him into the river!’

  Between them, Monks and Utterson carried Jake down the bank. When they reached the riverside, Jake looked back and saw that the crowd had ceased its chatter. Among the faces, only Mr Lanyon looked away, his expression one of utter shame. Monks nodded at Utterson, and together they pitched Jake into the river.

  The icy water robbed Jake of his voice. He tried to swim, to kick his arms and legs, but the twine held fast. Locked in that huddled ball, he started to sink. The whitewashed walls of the millhouse, the dark, dripping paddles of the wheel, the people on the bank and the pale sun overhead: all of it shimmered and grew dimmer.

  Once, long ago it seemed, Jake had used magic to save himself from drowning. Now he did not even try to summon his powers. Bubbles erupted from his nose and he took in a bellyful of water. He tried to cough it up but more water flooded down his throat. He could feel the thinly scabbed wounds on his back reopen and blood bloomed around him. He sank, down, down, down into the misty red river.

  Then the rope around his middle pulled taut. A small tug, and Jake felt himself turning in the swell. The current cradled him as he was rolled back through the reeds and towards the sunlit world beyond. He broke the surface and coughed up pints of river water. Through the swish of his blocked ear he heard the cries of the crowd:

  ‘See, he floats!’

  ‘Just like the Witchfinder said—the water will not take him!’

  Another tug of the rope, done so gently that no one on the bank noticed. No one except Mr Lanyon, who glared at Sergeant Monks. For a moment, Lanyon looked as if he was about to say something, then he glanced at the Witchfinder and the words died on his lips. Shivering, the vicar turned and walked away.

  The rope seized Jake’s stomach and he was pulled to the bank.

  A voice called out—

  ‘Witch!’

  The word was taken up and passed around.

  ‘Witch!’

  ‘Witch!’

  ‘WITCH!’

  By the time Jake reached the bank the cries had become a chorus.

  ‘WITCH!’ ‘WITCH!’ ‘WITCH!’

  And then—

  ‘Hang him!’

  ‘String him up!’

  ‘Build the gallows high!’

  ‘In the name of God, rid us of this EVIL!’

  Jake was dragged up the bank and thrown at the feet of the Witchfinder General. His eyes came to rest on that quietly savage face. Matthew Hopkins smiled triumphantly and mouthed the words:

  ‘Death to the witch … ’

  Chapter 21

  The Devil’s Disciple

  The cart rumbled down the rutted road. Every jolt twisted Jake’s tired muscles and rattled his aching bones. He was standing in the bed of the cart, hands tied in front of him. At each corner sat a guard holding the end of a thick chain which ran back to the manacle locked around Jake’s throat. When the cart lurched, the chains pulled tight and the iron collar cut into his flesh, causing blood to trickle down his crisp linen shirt and his fin
e black breeches. Seeing the finery of his dress a few of the poorer peasants lining the road took up the now familiar chant of ‘WITCH!’ and spat at the prisoner.

  Jake had to hand it to Matthew Hopkins: the Witchfinder General could manipulate earls and paupers alike. After the swimming test, he had petitioned Richard Rake to hold Jake’s trial as soon as possible. Jake had still been lying on the bank, recovering from the ordeal, when he overheard the conversation. At first the Earl had been reluctant. Any case of witchcraft ought to be tried by the judges at the next Assize court, he said. Hopkins immediately objected—the next Assizes would not take place until March the following year …

  ‘The witch’s evil is infecting this godly town.’ Hopkins placed an imploring hand on the Earl’s arm. ‘Every day there are stories of ill omens. Only this morning I heard tell of a demonic hooded woman seen in the woods just outside Cravenmouth. For the sake of your people, you must act now, my lord!’

  ‘I am an Assize judge … ’ the Earl considered. ‘All right, Master Hopkins, you’ve convinced me. In three days hence we will hold the trial in the Shire Hall.’

  The mutterings of the crowd by the river had not been missed by Matthew Hopkins. As soon as they returned to the keep he had instructed that Jake must be fed and washed, that his wounds be tended by the barber surgeon and that new clothes be brought up from the town. And so, three days after his torture had ended, Jake now presented a less wretched figure to the crowd. Any sympathy the poor might have had for him vanished as soon as they saw those expensive clothes.

  A piece of rotten fruit smacked against Jake’s face.

  ‘Can’t we let him sit, Mr Monks?’ one of the younger guards asked. ‘He’s an easy target standing up like that.’

  ‘What say you, witch?’ Monks smiled. ‘Care to drop ye down?’

  Jake looked over his shoulder at the narrow wooden box behind him. Sergeant Monks rapped the coffin lid.

  ‘No thanks,’ Jake said. ‘In fact, I don’t plan to go anywhere near that thing.’

  ‘Really? Think you’ll get off, do you?’

  Jake reached into his mind and felt the presence of the Khepra Beetle.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jake mused. ‘Like the offspring of a warthog and a dairy cow being selected for the position of town sergeant?’

  Monks glared and the other guards burst out laughing.

  The cart reached the south gate of Cravenmouth and passed under the wall. Eager to catch a glimpse of the witch, the watchmen craned their heads over the battlements. The prison wagon blinked out of the summer sunshine and entered the winding streets of the town. The driver slowed his ancient pony to a trot. It was too narrow here for the crowds to gather, though a few barefoot children raced ahead of the cart, tapping sticks at doors to announce the witch’s passing. Faces appeared at the windows of the crooked houses. One evil-looking old woman, probably too weak to join the party, shrieked and emptied her chamber pot over the sill.

  ‘God’s curse on all witches!’

  The foul shower missed Jake and hit Sergeant Monks square on the head. Monks roared and wiped the greenish brown water from his face.

  ‘You’ll answer for that, Abigail Sneap!’ he cried. ‘I’ll see your bony old backside in the stocks!’

  Mother Sneap shrieked again and disappeared back into her room.

  ‘Nicely tanned, Mr Monks,’ Jake grinned, ‘it’s a good look for you.’

  Again, the guards had to stifle their sniggers.

  After ten minutes of rattling through shadowy streets, the cart entered the square.

  ‘He’s here! The witch has come!’

  A rumble of turning feet. Voices rose up and shook the air.

  Jake’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were squeezed into the square. A sea of staring, blinking, gaping, gawping faces. The driver snatched the reins and shot up from his box.

  ‘Make way! In the name of the Law, make way!’ He eyed the rotten fruit cradled in the arms of a gang of rough-looking men at the front of the crowd. ‘And don’t you be throwing any foulness this way. Like as not, you’ll see the witch suffer enough before the day is out. Now, make a path!’

  He cracked his whip and the people parted.

  From his position on the bed of the cart, Jake could see the entire square. People were hanging out of the windows of the shops, some of them waving at Jake as if he were a celebrity. There were kids perched precariously in trees, men and women standing on buckets and barrels. Halfway into the square, an enterprising carpenter had erected a large platform and was charging people a penny to climb the rickety scaffold so that they might ‘have a fine view of the witch’s last moments!’.

  Bakers with trays of buns, pies, and puddings moved through the throng. There were saddlers and ironmongers, pedlars and ballad-sellers. Wandering barber surgeons offered to trim a straggly beard or pull a bad tooth. A few traders had even set up stalls. Standing beside a travelling apothecary, and trying to out-bellow him, was a chapman selling pamphlets:

  ‘Today we witness the godly work of Master Matthew ’opkins!’ the man cried. ‘But in these pages you will read of how the Witchfinder General began his Divine Crusade against all black-souled witches! Read of ’opkins’s first witch-hunt in his hometown of Mistley! Marvel at how he fought off the demon bear sent to kill him! Weep over the murder by witchcraft of his beloved pet greyhound!’

  As the cart moved on, Jake saw fiddlers and drummers, tumblers and acrobats. Outside the door of The Green Man tavern a troupe of actors had just started a theatrical performance. A man with ruddy cheeks and a booming voice stepped forward and addressed his distracted audience.

  ‘Good people, please attend! For your delight and moral education we poor players will now act out A Most Gruesome Tragedy entitled “The Lament of the Pendle Witches”.’

  The audience applauded and the play began.

  ‘Any other day I’d arrest that lot,’ Monks grumbled. ‘Plays being outlawed an’ all. Still, I wonder if one day they might act out the story of the Cravenmouth Witch.’ He shot Jake an evil glance. ‘I know how that play will end!’

  He pointed at the structure taking shape in front of the Shire Hall.

  The half-built gallows cast a thin shadow over the square.

  ‘English justice,’ Jake said, forcing a smile. ‘None better.’

  Despite his bravado, Jake had to turn away from the inverted wooden L of the gallows. He closed his eyes, but nothing could drown out the tap-tap-tap of the carpenter’s hammer. Inside, he felt the beetle stir and its pincers slacken their grip on his brain.

  When he opened his eyes again, they had reached the steps of the Shire Hall. Monks got down and waddled to the back of the cart. He cut the rope around Jake’s feet and the guards helped to lift the prisoner to the ground. As Jake was led to the stairs, the crowd surged forward.

  Monks gave a signal and twenty or more brawny watchmen appeared from behind the pillars of the hall. Armed with muskets, pikes, and halberds, the men lined up in front of the crowd.

  ‘The Hall is full!’ Monks shouted. ‘Once the jurors have reached a verdict the town crier will step out and announce it.’ He glanced at the gallows and gave a knowing smile. ‘Then what may be done may be done.’

  ‘Fair enough!’ a voice cried out. ‘We don’t need to hear the blather as long as we sees the hanging!’

  Laughter greeted this remark and rumbled its way back into the square as the joke was repeated. Then the blare of a trumpet sounded and cut the merriment dead. Jake looked over the heads of the crowd. A beautiful closed carriage pulled by a pair of snow-white horses was making its way towards the Hall. The driver and the footmen were liveried in clothes so fine that they drew gasps from the people. Monks ordered the prison wagon away and, seconds later, the carriage drew up in its place.

  A servant opened the door and Richard Rak
e stepped out, followed by Leonard Lanyon and Matthew Hopkins. Some of the crowd gave awkward little bows while others applauded their betters. The Earl mounted the stairs. At the Hall door, he turned and held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Good people of Cravenmouth, it is customary before a trial such as this for a minister to say a prayer. I therefore invite Mr Lanyon to address you.’

  Lanyon hurried past Jake without a word.

  ‘M-my flock,’ Lanyon flustered. ‘I … I … ’

  Silence in the square. Neighbour glanced at neighbour and shrugged. Jake could see the struggle in Lanyon’s eyes.

  ‘I pray that Earl Richard and his magistrates will remember that the sword of justice must be tempered with mercy. I pray that we may all understand that life is precious and … ’

  Lanyon’s gaze rested on Matthew Hopkins. The Witchfinder shook his head and smiled.

  ‘That is all,’ the vicar sighed. And then, in a softer tone that Jake could only just hear, ‘God forgive me.’

  The Earl raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He nodded to Monks and Jake was hauled up the steps and into the Hall.

  The central chamber was a huge wood-panelled room with a long bench on a raised platform at the back. It was already filled with people. Earl Richard and two dusty-looking men with hook noses mounted the dais and took their seats behind the bench. From the chatter of the crowd Jake identified these men as ‘Sir Thomas and Sir Daniel Noakes, the brother magistrates’. Chairs had been set up to the left of the judges’ bench and the jury, a rabble of twelve freeholders, were sat down and sworn in.

  Jake was positioned to the right of the bench. The chains around his neck were fastened to iron staples in the floor and his feet were rebound. There was a rustle of paper and the squeak of stoppers as people unwrapped bundles of bread and cheese and started passing around bottles. Jake was surprised that this mass picnic went unnoticed by the Earl and the magistrates. Sunlight poured through the wide windows and the stink of a hundred hot bodies filled the air. The Earl covered his face with a scented handkerchief while Jake spluttered on the stench.