The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘Goody Wainwright had all her children taken by the plague,’ Anne explained.

  ‘I am sorry for their loss, but why do they regard us with such hate in their eyes?’

  ‘It is hard for them to reconcile themselves to their lot. My daughter lives still. Theirs does not. That is all.’

  As if to underline the truth of this, Mr. Wainwright slowed his step to hawk heavily and spit in the direction of Anne’s feet. Bess wanted to respond, to say something in their defense, but she noted her mother’s forbearance and stayed silent. She was so unsettled by what had happened it took her a moment to realize she was being spoken to. She turned to find William standing beside her.

  ‘Good morning to you, Bess. I had hoped to find you here.’

  ‘William, if you have come to press me further…’ She found herself uncomfortable in his presence.

  ‘No. No, please forgive me for offending you, Bess. I … I had not given the matter proper consideration. I see now that I misjudged your feelings for me. I am sorry. I had no wish to cause you distress.’

  Bess looked at him. What was the point in trying to make him understand? He and she had grown up separated by a divide that could never be crossed.

  ‘There is nothing more to be said on the matter,’ she told him.

  Anne moved closer to her daughter. ‘Good morning, William,’ she said levelly.

  He responded with a stiff bow, clearly unsure of how his proposal had been received. His eye lighted on the pig.

  ‘Ah, you are selling her?’

  ‘Why, no,’ Bess snapped, ‘we fancied the ride to market might improve her temper.’

  Anne stepped between William and Bess.

  ‘Yes, William. We are selling the sow.’

  ‘Good, well, we could use another such animal. She looks … well enough.’

  ‘She is a little lean,’ Anne said, ‘but she is young and has produced fine piglets in her time.’

  ‘Excellent. I will take her.’

  Bess could not help herself. ‘Now you insult us with your charity!’

  ‘Bess!’ Anne hissed. ‘The young master merely wishes to purchase the pig.’

  ‘The young master has not even asked the price of the pig.’

  ‘I assure you, Bess, I have need of another sow. This is not charity but business.’

  Bess opened her mouth to give her thoughts on William’s business but was prevented from doing so by a sudden commotion at the bottom of the high street. There was a sound of clattering hooves and barking dogs as a party of riders swooped around the bend and up the hill. Market-goers crowded to look and then quickly flattened themselves into stalls and doorways to avoid being trampled by the fast-moving entourage. There were six men mounted on good horses. All were somberly dressed but in clothes of good quality and with swords at their hip. One rider stood out. His garb was similar to that of the others in most respects, save his noticeably fine boots. His black hat had no feather, and his wide leather belt was fastened by a gleaming silver buckle. His horse was white as a newborn lamb and moved proudly, seeming to float above the cobbles. Bess thought there was an air about this man, something in his bearing, something in the understated elegance of his outfit, or the confident set of his jaw, that put him apart from the others. There was nothing flamboyant about him, nothing that could be criticized in these times where plainness and modesty were virtues, and yet for all his simple cape and unadorned livery, he had an unmistakable presence.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. It started as a hesitant whisper but quickly grew to a chorus, so that when the party swept past Bess, she clearly heard the announcement. The village was now host to Nathaniel Kilpeck, magistrate, coroner, and witchfinder. Bess’s mouth dried and she found herself unwilling to meet her mother’s eye. Instead, she silently took her hand, and the two women stood wordlessly watching as the group cantered toward the coaching inn at the top of the high street.

  6

  Two days later, Bess and Anne sat at their kitchen table and ate a meager breakfast of watery pottage in silence. They had not spoken of Nathaniel Kilpeck or of the nature of his purpose in coming to Batchcombe. Bess felt to voice her fears would give them more weight, would somehow bring them into being. And yet not broaching the subject of the witchfinder left her in private torment. She had heard of witch hunts in other parts of the country. Thomas had even entertained his sisters with tales of the witches’ spell-casting and evil deeds. And of the eventual hanging of those same women after they were brought to trial and condemned. Bess watched her mother finish her meal. Her once-handsome face now showed the skull beneath the flesh, and the intense blue of her eyes had faded. Even so, there was still a strength about her. A power. As Bess struggled to make sense of all that had happened in a few brutal months, she heard a horse gallop into the yard. She and her mother exchanged anxious glances and hurried outside to find Bill Prosser reining in his brown mare.

  ‘Good morning to you, Widow Hawksmith. Bess.’ He nodded hurriedly, clearly not intending to dismount.

  ‘What brings you to our door at such speed, Bill Prosser? Is someone in your household unwell?’ Anne asked.

  ‘No, thanks be to God. We were spared. The plague passed through the village, but the good Lord saw fit to protect us. I come to you on another matter, at the urging of my wife and daughter.’

  ‘Another matter?’ Anne’s voice gave away nothing of her fears.

  ‘You are aware Nathaniel Kilpeck is in the village? He has been sent here on government orders, to seek out witchery and try the accused. Old Mary has been arrested.’

  At this news Anne gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  ‘No!’ Bess stepped forward. ‘But on what charge?’

  ‘The charge of witchcraft.’

  ‘Mary is no witch,’ said Bess, ‘She is a good woman. A godly woman. She has saved lives aplenty in the village. Everyone knows this. Who accuses her?’

  ‘Mistress Wainwright. And Widow Digby.’

  ‘That woman has a serpent’s tongue!’

  ‘Bess!’ Anne sought to silence her.

  Bill had more to tell. ‘Mistress Wainwright claims Old Mary put a curse on her children and that because of it they fell quickly to the plague.’ He paused awkwardly, then added, ‘She names another in her accusations.’

  ‘Who?’ Bess demanded.

  Anne put a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘There is no need to press our good neighbor further, Bess.’ She looked up and gave him a nod. ‘My thanks to you for coming to give us this news,’ she said.

  ‘It is as I told you, my wife and daughter bade me warn you. Good day to you both,’ he said, turning his restless horse about and spurring it quickly into a scrambling canter.

  Bess clutched at her mother. ‘He meant you! You are accused! Mother, we must leave here at once; we cannot stay. It is not safe. We must take what we can and go this very instant.’

  ‘Hush, child,’ Anne said, her eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘Fleeing will avail us nothing.’

  Bess saw a look of calm resignation on her mother’s face. She squinted into the distance, following the direction of her mother’s gaze. Bill Prosser had disappeared into the woods, but still hoofbeats could be heard. They came, she saw now, from the fast-moving group cresting the hill and thundering down the path toward the cottage. At the head of the party rode Nathaniel Kilpeck.

  The meeting that had been called at the courthouse was essentially to determine whether or not the accusations brought against Anne had sufficient credence to warrant trying her. In fact, to Bess’s mind, it was a trial in itself. Anne was held by a constable, standing in front of the high bench at the far end of the room. The public gallery was full of murmuring, whispering people from the village. Everything had happened so quickly Bess still could not fully take it all in. Here she sat, in the echoing courtroom, surrounded by familiar faces she no longer recognized. These were neighbors, fellow farmers and stallholders, people she had known all her life, and yet here
they were, crowding the wooden benches, straining forward the better to see the supposed witch in their midst. A door opened and a procession of earnest men strode to their places on the magistrate’s bench. Bess recognized Nathaniel Kilpeck and two of his own men. With him were also the town councillor, Geoffrey Wilkins, and Reverend Burdock. As soon as they were seated, Councillor Wilkins banged his gavel three times for silence. A hush fell.

  ‘This meeting is called to order,’ he declared, ‘for the purpose of inspecting the evidence against Anne Hawksmith. Presiding is Magistrate Nathaniel Kilpeck, sent directly on the authority of Parliament in his position as witchfinder.’

  Nathaniel Kilpeck waved aside further introductions.

  ‘Thank you, Councillor,’ he said in his curiously high, tense voice. He paused, narrowing his eyes to take in first Anne, then the gathering of onlookers. ‘Many of you here will have heard my name, and you will have heard of deeds associated with that name. Grave deeds. I make no apology for them. These are dark times. The devil walks the earth, and we are none of us safe from his unholy grasp. It is incumbent on all of us, each and every one, to be vigilant. To be awake to the dangers that lurk within our midst. It is only through such vigilance that we can root out the putrid rot of evil from our society and cleanse our land of Satan’s influence. To rid it of creatures as the witch who stands before me, if witch she be, or else no child can be raised in safety and in God’s name in this town.’

  This drew assenting nods from the reverend and a ripple of ayes from the crowd. Bess’s palms were already damp with sweat. She had known her mother to be in great danger, but until that moment she had not realized the enormity of her peril. Here was a man out to show the world that ungodliness would not be tolerated. Here was a man, it seemed to her, who had not come to listen, to hear evidence and testimony, but to condemn whoever was put before him, regardless of their innocence or guilt, merely to further his own cause.

  ‘Rest assured I will be rigorous,’ he continued. ‘Rigorous in my interrogation of both accused and witness. And rigorous in my application of the law in these matters. I will not bend to mob rule. I will see to it that the evidence is correctly gathered and examined. Then and only then will I commit the accused for trial, and that trial will be conducted with the utmost propriety. However, should I find Satan has indeed corrupted this woman, that he has defiled her, taking her from the handmaid of God she was born to be and turning her into something vile and malevolent, then I will show no mercy. Witchery is against God. It is against the law. I aim to see that it is stamped out so that God-fearing citizens may live in peace and safety once again!’

  This time there was a cheer. In just a few moments Kilpeck had won the support of the majority in the room, and already Bess could see the frightening fervor with which hitherto gentle people now shook their fists and banged their canes on the floor to show their agreement. Through it all her mother stood straight and still, her eyes fixed at some distant point, looking at once both vulnerable and strong.

  Councillor Wilkins was on his feet.

  ‘Who accuses this woman?’ he demanded.

  There was a shuffling to one side of the gathered throng. Mistress Wainwright stepped forward.

  ‘I do, sir,’ she said.

  Nathaniel Kilpeck addressed the woman directly.

  ‘And what do you say she has done?’

  ‘I say that she, along with that beldame Mary, did put a curse upon my four children so that they suffered terribly and died of the plague.’ Mistress Wainwright’s eyes were reddened and puffy. Her skin was dry and pinched, as if all the juices had been sucked from her body. Bess could feel the woman’s rage and pain as she spoke.

  Reverend Burdock cleared his throat. ‘If I may…?’ He received a nod from the magistrate, ‘Mistress Wainwright, we are all deeply sorry for your loss. I know how you have suffered. But surely it is the nature of that dreadful disease that little ones are lost. If God saw fit to take your children, why would you think that Old Mary or Anne Hawksmith here had any part in it?’

  ‘Everyone knows the two of them are cunning folk. They use potions, they even sell them. They make no secret of their black arts.’

  The reverend risked a smile. ‘But for healing, surely. From what I know of these women, they have assisted at a great many births and eased the suffering of numerous members of our parish. What could they have to gain by wishing harm on your children?’

  At this, Mistress Wainwright clenched her teeth so that she had to spit out her words between them. ‘Anne Hawksmith’s daughter did not die.’ She pointed a bony finger at the accused, her extended arm shaking as she did so. ‘Her child was stricken with the plague but lives still. She should have died, but that woman made a pact with the devil to save her, so she did. She gave him my babes so that hers might live!’

  There were gasps of horror from the crowd and curses uttered. Kilpeck raised a hand to silence them once more.

  ‘Is this true, Mistress Hawksmith? Does your daughter live still, even though she had the plague upon her?’

  There was a tremor in Anne’s voice when she spoke, but she kept her tone level and her eyes fixed forward.

  ‘My eldest daughter, Bess, did indeed fall sick, sir. And yes, we are blessed that she is recovered,’ she said.

  ‘Blessed or cursed!’ came a shout from the gallery.

  ‘Silence!’ demanded Councillor Wilkins.

  Anne went on. ‘My younger daughter, Margaret, my sweet babe, was not so fortunate. She died. As did my son, Thomas, and my dear husband, John.’

  ‘So, Bess alone was spared?’ asked Kilpeck. ‘Bess and yourself, of course.’

  ‘It is as I say, sir. Bess fell ill but recovered fully. I myself was not afflicted.’

  ‘That is strange, wouldn’t you say? A house so riven with death, and yet you resisted its advance without so much as a fever?’

  ‘It is what happened.’

  ‘Indeed. And where is your daughter now? Is she here?’ He scanned the public gallery, ‘Bess Hawksmith, show yourself.’

  Bess pushed her way through the crowd, finding that people quickly stepped out of her path. She came to stand next to her mother.

  Kilpeck and the others on the high bench peered down at her, regarding her closely.

  ‘I see not one sign of your suffering,’ Kilpeck told her. ‘No pockmarks or scars. Indeed, you appear in remarkable health.’

  ‘I thank God and my mother’s tender care, sir. Though I had at one moment wished to join my brother and sister.’

  ‘Did you think you were going to die?’

  Bess hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I did.’

  ‘I see. So, you were so gravely ill that you considered yourself about to be taken into Our Lord’s arms, and yet here you stand. What kept you on this earth, do you think? What medicaments and prayers did your mother offer?’

  In the silence of the courtroom all Bess could hear was the beating of her own heart. She thought of how she had woken to find her mother chanting and singing before a candle. She thought of how her mother had spoken of Gideon Masters and the powerful magic he had given her. The magic that had saved her. Was she about to condemn her own mother? Would it be her own words that would place the noose about her neck?

  ‘Come, child,’ said Reverend Burdock, ‘tell us what you know.’

  ‘I am sorry, Reverend, not to be of any further help in this matter, but I was, as the magistrate has said, gravely ill. I do not remember any treatment nor details of my cure. I know only that I have God’s will and my mother’s love to thank for my life.’

  Kilpeck said nothing for a moment but sat watching Bess closely, as if he knew that the real answers he sought lay with her. At length he whispered to Councillor Wilkins, who stood up and demanded, ‘Who else accuses this woman? Step forward.’

  Widow Digby, handkerchief in hand, forced her way to the front of the assembled group.

  ‘I do.’ She addressed Kilpeck tearfully. ‘My name is Hon
oria Digby, and I was forced to watch helplessly as my dear sister, Eleanor, was taken from this world. In her delirium she clung to my hand, and she spoke of the vision before her poor blinded eyes. “Honoria,” she said, “they are coming for me. I see them!” I implored her to tell me who it was that terrified her so and she said, “Old Mary and Anne Hawksmith! Here they come, swooping on their brooms, naked and shameless, suckling their imps at their breasts!” ’ Widow Digby swooned into the arms of two nearby men and could say no more. A shudder of revulsion worked its way through the crowd. Nathaniel Kilpeck looked at Anne.

  ‘Well, Anne Hawksmith, you have heard testimony against you. What have you to say in your defense?’

  ‘Am I to be condemned by the rantings of a fever-addled old woman and the jealousy of a mother whose mind has been poisoned by grief? Am I to be punished for nursing my own child back to health?’

  ‘It is precisely how you succeeded where so many others would have failed that is of concern here,’ Kilpeck told her. ‘It will go badly for you if you do not tell us what methods you used to effect her cure.’

  Anne paused. She turned to look at Bess and smiled gently at her. She turned back to Kilpeck.

  ‘You have no daughter, have you, sir?’

  ‘I am not the one being investigated here,’ he said.

  ‘I know that you have none,’ Anne went on, ‘for if you had, you would know that you would do anything to save her. There is no power on this earth or any other that you would not use if it would end your child’s suffering and bring about her recovery.’

  The crowd grew restless.

  Reverend Burdock sought to counsel Anne, ‘Have a care, Mistress, you do your case no good with such statements.’