The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  When I was standing beside him, he put his hand on my arm. His voice was low, honeyed. “You slept with Peggy, didn’t you? Now she’s gone away, don’t you find it lonely in bed at night?”

  I set down the decanter for fear my trembling hands would drop it. “No, master, I don’t get lonely.”

  “Never?”

  “I be kept too busy.”

  “I was lonely for you in Dublin.”

  “Were you, master?” I fixed my eyes on the golden-brown pool of liquor.

  “Aye, I was. I kept thinking about how cool your skin looked, and yet how hot it turned out to be when you pressed it against mine.”

  “Master, you must’n say such things! We have to forget we ever did that. It was wrong. We can’t ever let it happen again. We have to be strong.”

  “I don’t want to be strong, Ellen. Not if it means I can’t touch you. There’s no shame in what we did.”

  “But there is, master. It’s a sin.”

  “Don’t be cruel, Ellen. It’s only a small sin. It hardly counts.”

  He took my two hands in his and started stroking them with his thumbs, a feathery touch that made my willpower melt away. Then he bowed his head and kissed my fingertips, one by one. I knowed I should pull away, but I was helpless.

  He looked up at me and smiled, white teeth flashing, looking a wee bit disrespectable with his black eye faded to browns and greens. “I’m an early riser, like you. Tomorrow, I’m planning to head out early with my fishing rod. I’ll leave at dawn. Why not slip out for an hour and join me? Before the household stirs.”

  I wanted to tell him I would. Aye, I will, master. I’d like nothing better. It was on the tip of my tongue to say it. But my brush with disaster the last time couldn’t be set aside easily, and I hardened my heart. “No, master, don’t ask me. One thing will on’y lead to another. An’ I might end up shamed. It nearly happened the last time. I was at my wits’ end, so I was, and you far from home . . .”

  But all he could think about was his own wants. “You must call me James when it’s just the two of us. It sounds wrong to hear the word ‘master’ on your lips, when I long for you to call me sweeter names. Say you’ll meet me, Ellen. Just to walk and talk. Or to fish, if you like.” He laughed softly. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen, I give you my word.”

  “No, master, I darsent. No good can come of it.”

  “I mean you no harm. I only have your best interests at heart. You must believe me.”

  “Harm would come of it, all the same. It allus does. I know, to my cost.”

  But he still wasn’t listening to what I was trying to tell him. He stood up, walked to the door, and turned the key in the lock. Then he caught me by the waist, stroking a finger down one cheek. “You mustn’t be so hard on us. I know you want this as much as I do. Don’t deny it. Say yes, my bonny lass. Promise you’ll meet me. Let’s steal an hour together. Say yes.”

  Fool that I was, my willpower began melting. Maybes just a kiss or two, I thought. Maybes we wouldn’t do any more. The thought of being alone with him for an hour was like turning a corner and chancing on a rainbow: an unlooked-for joy. He knowed I was weakening because he laughed again, as though we were conspirators. He sat back down and pulled me with him, onto his lap. As he nuzzled my neck, I closed my eyes, feeling my bones turn to water. Or maybes it was wine, because a feeling of warmth swept over me from head to toe.

  “Open your eyes,” he said. “I want to see what you’re thinking.”

  I looked at him. His apple breath tickled my face.

  “Your eyes are shining. Wait a minute, are you crying? Have I made you weep?”

  “No, I bain’t cryin’. I’m happy.”

  “You wonderful, special girl. You make me happy too. But we can make each other happier. Trust me. I’ll look after you. Whatever happens, I won’t desert you.”

  I wanted to believe him. My eyes fell on our hands, twined together, like those of trueloves. But wait, my hand was closer to a fist: red and swollen from work, veins standing out on the back. It looked ugly compared with his. I stared at them as his other hand roamed up my leg. I didn’t want this reminder. But there it was, plain as day. Our hands showed up the difference in our stations. He could set it aside for a time, but I never could. What came of forgetting was too dangerous.

  Panicked, I pushed him away, jumping off his lap and onto firmer ground. “You have to stop this, master. It’s not fair of you to woo me.”

  “Ssh, don’t make so much noise, Ellen. I’d never force myself on you. I thought you cared for me.”

  “I do, master, you know right well I do. But you have to let me be. For the love of God, let me be.”

  * * *

  Just after cock crow, I listened to my master saddle his horse. He didn’t need a mount to go fishing – he must be headed further afield. I was tempted to climb down my ladder and run out to the yard to him. My heart and my head were not in agreement when it came to James Haltridge. It went against the grain to refuse him. But even a pockle could see my story would end the self-same way as Ruth Graham’s if I didn’t take warning by her.

  It was close on dinner time before my master came home, and he was in a foul mood. When he dismounted, he kicked away the greyhounds and tramped into the house, looking like he had supped with the Devil.

  The mistress pattered up to him. “Where were you, James? I looked for you hours ago.”

  “Carrickfergus. On business.”

  “Frazer was here, asking for you.”

  “Frazer can go to hell. I’ll be in my study. Send in a bottle of claret and some cheese, and on no account let anyone disturb me.”

  * * *

  When Constable Blan and a dose of deputies rode in later, my master had no choice but to make an appearance. With them, they brought a woman in a cart. She was left in the yard with the deputies, where she stood, arms folded, looking round her: a big woman, with a fearless way about her, along with beefy arms and skitter-jabs the size of ha’pennies on her face.

  “Jumped-up wee strap. He takes too much pleasure in his duty,” grumbled my master, when I knocked to say the Constable was there. He held it against Brice Blan for digging up old Mistress Haltridge. But out he came, and into the parlour, where Isabel and Mary sat, and the Constable had made himself at home.

  “Allegations of witchcraft have been made against a woman by the name of Margaret Mitchell – an unwed person, from Kilroot. We have reason to believe she may be the chief mischief-maker. If so, the coven’s power is broken.” The Constable had a strut to match our rooster’s.

  “It must be a relief to have the ringleader,” said my master.

  “Aye, but it has to be Mistress Dunbar who denounces her. And she has said on a number of occasions that the instigator is called Mistress Anne.”

  “Perhaps she used the name as an alias, to avoid detection.”

  “That’s what I’m here to discuss with Mistress Dunbar.” He turned to her. “You must face this Mitchell woman. Are you ready to do your duty?”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  He knocked at the casement, and made a signal to his deputies to bring in the woman. “She’s said to be a targe – all her neighbours complain about her picking quarrels with them. Information was laid before the Mayor, and we were sent directly to search her house. I personally discovered a wooden poppet, a close match to the one resembling Mistress Dunbar found in Lock’s Cave. The woman claimed it was only a plaything, from when she was a bairn, fashioned by her da. But he’s long gone to God, or the Devil, and in no position to say aye or nay.”

  A clatter outside the parlour door, and Margaret Mitchell was led in to stand before Mary Dunbar, as a tribe of others were before her. The young lady speedily agreed she was Mistress Anne, without any of the antics of previous denunciations. The big woman didn’t take it as seriously as she should, and laughed at her, saying Mary must be touched in the head. It made no odds. The Constable was ready to believe he
r guilty because of the poppet, and Mary seemed unwilling to disappoint him. I couldn’t help thinking this was hardly reason enough to name a woman a witch, and had no stomach to listen any longer, so I took myself off to boil water. Time I caught up on the cleaning.

  I was lifting the pot off the fire when Mercy Hunter burst in, breathless at being whipped by the wind, and from throwing shapes at the Constable’s men kicking their heels in the yard. She had news of a witch pricker lately come from Scotland.

  “What does a witch pricker do, Mercy? Here, come to the well with me, I’m behind with my work.”

  “Why, he strips the prisoners and hunts with his brass bodkins for the Devil’s tits, where familiars suckle their blood. Aul’ Nick sucks there too, ’tis said.”

  She followed me out, and we watched as Margaret Mitchell was taken away by three deputies. “It’ll be your mother or sister next,” she told one of the men, and he hit her a clatter on the head. She was ready to strike him back, but they roped her hands behind her. Three other deputies remained, looking Mercy up and down. Men always noticed her.

  “Every one of them women is refusin’ to plead guilty, so more evidence is needed,” said Mercy. “That’s why Mayor Davies sent for the witch pricker. All witches are branded by a witch’s tit. It gives them away.”

  Mercy was starting to think she knowed all about witches, on account of being maid to a minister.

  A deputy offered to carry the bucket of water for us.

  “We can manage,” I said. “Give us a hand, Mercy, instead of makin’ sheep’s eyes there.”

  When she caught up with me at the door, I had to satisfy my curiosity. “Tell me, what does the witch’s tit look like?”

  “It’s on’y wee, and you have to know what you’re lookin’ for. They try to hide it. It’s masked as a freckle or a mole, or it might be put in some secret place – on their nether parts, or the back of the neck, up high where the hair grows. Once it’s found, it damns you. Honest women have no such marks.”

  “But I have moles. I know you do, too, Mercy Hunter, for I seen them when we swum the-gether as wee’ans.”

  “Aye, but we don’t let familars suck on them, do we?”

  “I never heared tell of such a trade as witch pricker.”

  “My master persuaded the Mayor it was needful. Aul’ Sinclair’s smartin’ since Mary Dunbar went missin’ from his care. He thinks evil was visited on the island as a sign of God’s disfavour, because folk are grown slack here. Sure your head’d be noddled listenin’ to him bang his drum about it.”

  The water was bubbling on the fire when the parlour bell rang. “Mind that water does’n boil over,” I said to Mercy, before answering the call.

  The mistress directed me to serve ale in the kitchen to the Constable’s men, and Mercy went out to the yard to call them in. She was keen to stay on and help, but I told her I could manage.

  “Want them all to yourself, do you?” she asked, and I had to bite my tongue before I said something I might repent. It was bad enough having those great useless sides of beef in my kitchen, without watching them lose their heads over her forbye.

  “Stay awhile, Bright Eyes,” they called, when she waved farewell.

  The deputies were a talkative crew, even before the ale loosened their tongues, and inclined to laugh up their sleeves at Mister Sinclair and the other clergymen.

  “Them preachers are never done pesterin’ the witches,” said a baldy boy. “You’d nearly feel sorry for them. The questions they fire at the women would make your head spin. ‘How long have you been in the snare of the Prince of Darkness? What promises has he made you? Do you keep toads, snakes or lizards, and caress them indecently? Confess at once, or lose your immortal soul. You’ll know no peace till you confess.’ I dinna ken how the witches thole it.”

  “Witches can stand anything, they’re tough nuts to crack,” said another. “I would’n go wastin’ me pity.”

  “I’m jus’ sayin’ I would’n like to be on the receivin’ end of them Bible-eaters. And thon dissenter, Sinclair, he’s the worst.”

  “Ach, it makes a change for the witches. The worst thing about gaol is the boredom,” said the third man, the one who had offered to carry water from the well. “You dinna ken day from night once the key turns in the lock. Any chance of some meat to go with this ale?”

  I fetched them a platter of black pudding and a stale loaf, and they tucked in.

  “Has a witch pricker been sent in to them?” I asked.

  “Aye, yesterday. A Scotchman.” The second man tore the bread apart with his filthy hands. “We had fun and games. He had us strip them to find their Devil’s tit. You want to hear the yelps out of them.”

  “It har’ly seems right, strippin’ them,” I said.

  “Right does’n come into it with witches,” said the baldy boy.

  His companions slapped their legs as if enjoying a jest.

  “Buck naked, they were,” said another. “Not that we could do much more than look. I would’n a minded pocklin’ about a bit. But the ministers stayed close while we pricked them. Getting’ a good eyeful themselves, if you ask me.”

  “What do you know about prickin’ witches?” I was disturbed at the thought of Lizzie Cellar’s clothes pulled off, her flesh handled by these apes.

  “The pricker showed us how. The way to do it, see, is to blindfold them an’ stick pins in their flesh. The Devil allus marks them, an’ they never have no feelin’ there after. They dinna know when the pin touches, so there’s never a peep out of them.”

  “And do they cry out if it’s just a freckle?”

  “Oh aye, they squeal like pigs, some of them, if the pin goes in deep,” said the third man. “Sometimes it draws blood.”

  “Did you find witch’s tits on the women?”

  “Not all of them.” He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and belched. “Not for want of tryin’ with the young wan. She’s a sonsey morsel. Her ma, a mouthy aul’ sack, she fought us till we give her a couple of right slaps. We found a tit on her belly. Like mother, like daughter, I say. Maybe the young one needs to be stripped and searched again.” And he shoved his elbow into the side of the fellow nearest him, and was thumped back, whooping.

  I fetched them no more ale after that, even though one made a dumb show out of turning his empty beaker upside down. Listening to their blether, my dinner was threatening to work its way up my throat and out over the three of them.

  * * *

  Frazer Bell called to discuss the arrests with my master. In the past, they had smoked many’s a pipe whiles they mulled over politics and trade. Now all Frazer wanted to discuss was the witches. And, for a change, he and my master were not in agreement. Frazer felt sorry for the prisoners, while my master said they were a matter for Church and State to handle together, and honest men should stand aside and let them deal with it.

  “Islandmagee will never be the same again,” said Frazer Bell.

  “Islandmagee can weather any storm. But I’ve had enough of witch talk. Can you believe it, Frazer? Bullocks are selling for up to four pounds and six shillings each in Dublin. The most you’d get for one here is two pounds, five shillings.”

  “James, don’t pretend everything is all right now that a band of women have been arrested. A witch trial is upon us.”

  “Aye, I’m to give evidence at it. Will you be in court tomorrow?”

  “The whole county will be there, I suppose I may as well join the rabble.” His words had an edge. “I thought to spend the day on the land and miss the spectacle. But a sense of duty and a sense, I suppose, of inclination have acted on me. I feel the need to see this through.”

  The mistress was troubled by the coldness between such old friends. She put her hand on our neighbour’s sleeve. “Of course you must go, Frazer. Would you stay home reading poesy on such a day? Mister Sinclair has volunteered to accompany us, hasn’t he, James? To lend spiritual guidance.”

  “Folk are calling it the Isl
andmagee witch trial,” said Frazer. “It’s an outrage that Islandmagee’s name should be tarnished.”

  “Islandmagee’s name has been tarnished,” said my master. “That’s why the sooner this business is laid to rest the better. I’m relieved they have that Mitchell creature. No point in rounding up the small fry and letting the ringleader go free. I hear she’s a woman of unruly spirits – apparently the dogs in the street are less quarrelsome than her.”

  “Being a scold doesn’t make a woman a witch,” said Frazer. He looked troubled. “Still, I can’t deny Mistress Dunbar seems more her old self since the last of these women was locked up.”