The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  Bess felt all the breath leave her body and heard no sound but that of blood rushing in her head. She watched in despair as Old Mary kicked and jerked, her body more animated as it neared death than it had been for many years in life. By contrast, Anne slipped silently from the boards of the moving cart, her face as serene as ever. There was a crack, but she did not so much as twitch once. It was clear to Bess she was dead in less than a heartbeat, even though her beautiful blue eyes remained open, gazing benignly on the mob that screamed for her death.

  * * *

  During the slow journey home with her sad cargo in the wagon, a calmness overtook Bess. It was over, at least for her mother, and all that remained for her to do were practical things. Things within her control. The sun shone down with inappropriate cheerfulness as Whisper came to a halt in the farmyard. Bess went into the house and fetched what she needed—a shroud for her mother and a length of cloth that would serve as a winding-sheet for Old Mary. She had accepted both bodies, not being able to stand the thought of the poor kinless woman being buried outside of the churchyard, alone and unmarked. It took the rest of the day for Bess to gently prepare the two women for interment and to dig their graves. She shut her mind to the cruel memories of how she and her mother had buried first Thomas, then her father, and then little Margaret. She worked for hours, chopping at the dry soil with her spade while birds flitted overhead with twigs in their beaks. Here she was at the start of another spring, when all about her was burgeoning and budding, signifying new life, and yet she was entirely occupied with the matter of death. A soft movement of the air carried the scent of the sea with it. Bess felt a sudden longing to go to the shore and gaze upon the soothing water. She promised herself that when she had finished her grim task she would do just that. She was in no hurry to re-enter the empty house that had once been such a loving home. It took draining effort to drag the bodies from the cart onto the barrow and then lower them as gently as she was able into their earthen tombs. By the time she had replaced the soil, she was trembling with exhaustion. She knelt beside the fresh graves that lay alongside the three earlier ones, not in prayer but in a state of near collapse, her legs unable to support her a moment longer. She felt she must say something meaningful, something to mark the tragic moment. But neither words nor tears came. Instead, into Bess’s benumbed mind came the sound of distant voices and the rumbling of cartwheels over hard ground. Squinting into the lowering sun, she could see a small crowd, some on horses but most on foot, and one scruffy wagon. The procession moved without urgency but with determination, and soon arrived at the farmyard.

  Bess hauled herself to her feet. She saw Widow Digby sitting on the cart, along with Mistress Wainwright. She recognized a constable among the men and familiar faces from the market. She braced herself for whatever might come next.

  A man stepped forward, who she now saw was Mr. Wainwright. He pointed at the dark mounds of earth.

  ‘Be they the graves of the two witches?’ he asked.

  Bess spoke through gritted teeth. ‘They are the resting places of my mother and of Old Mary.’

  There was some activity near the wagon. Wainwright signaled to the other men.

  ‘Bring them here!’ he called.

  The others unlatched the rear of the cart and slid out four broad flagstones, each big enough to require two men to carry it. They approached the graves. Bess was stung into action.

  ‘What are you about? Take those away!’

  ‘Stand aside, Bess,’ said Wainwright. ‘Let us do what must be done.’

  ‘No!’ But even as Bess protested, she was shoved from the path of the men. There were heavy thuds as the stones dropped into place on top of the graves.

  ‘Can’t you leave them be?’ Bess cried. ‘Even now, when they are dead, must you harry them still? Can you not let them rest?’

  One of the stone carriers turned to her. ‘Aye, we’ll let them rest,’ he said, ‘and we’ll see to it that they stay resting an’ all.’ He paused in his work only to spit noisily. Others followed suit.

  ‘Get away!’ Bess screamed, ‘Get away! Go from this place, I tell you.’ She flung herself on top of her mother’s grave, emboldened by fury, ‘Are you satisfied now? Can you sleep easier in your beds knowing you have sent my mother to her death and pinned her soul with your wretched stones? My mother who showed you only kindness. My mother who saved your sister’s life, Tom Crabtree, and eased your pains in childbirth, Betty Tones, and drew a poison nail from your foot, Mistress Baines. Have you truly such short memories? My mother was a good woman! My mother was a healer.’

  Wainwright stepped forward, close enough for Bess to smell the whiskey on his breath and see the madness in his griefstricken eyes. His voice was a slow growl.

  ‘Your mother was a witch!’

  Silently the mob turned their backs on Bess and left her kneeling on the cold slabs they were content would prevent the witches rising from their graves and riding naked on their broomsticks about the village.

  Bess watched them go. Only when the last of them had vanished from sight did she stir herself. She could see now that her mother was right. These were people in the grip of a fever every bit as deadly as the plague, and it would not be long before they came looking for Bess herself. She went quickly into the house and fetched a small bundle of possessions. Her hand hovered over treasured items, such as her father’s pipe, but she left them. They belonged in the cottage. She took her mother’s best shawl and tied it around her shoulders. She paused in the doorway for one last, lingering look at the only home she had ever known, then went out, latching the wooden door behind her. She turned the livestock out into the fields, opening the gates between enclosures. The cow trotted for a few paces, then settled to grazing. Whisper swished midges away with her tail and browsed for tender shoots. There was plenty of grass to be had and access to spring water. The chickens would have to take their chances with the foxes. Bess stood awhile by the graves, still unable to form words, merely letting her heart speak to the departed. As the dusk deepened, she set off with determined steps, not knowing when or if she would ever return. She had a promise to keep.

  Bess knew Batchcombe Woods well. She had played in them as a child and scoured them for their treasures as an adult. She had sneaked in to pick wild garlic or collect moss or flowers for her mother’s remedies. She and her brother had climbed many of the knuckled oaks and peeled strips of silvery bark from the birch for its fire-lighting properties. She found her way without difficulty, despite the failing light. By the time she came within sight of Gideon’s cottage, owls were raising the alarm and hedgehogs had begun to rouse themselves for their nighttime activity. The cottage itself was small, wooden, and unremarkable. Its weathered timbers were a perfect match for the trunks around them and seemed to merge with the woodland, sinking into the scratchy embrace of the trees and undergrowth. To the left of the house, though, was a sight that drew the eye. Now, in the darkness, there appeared to be two slumbering dragons sitting, heads bowed, their smoky exhalations echoing the slow rhythm of their sleeping hearts. On closer inspection, these wonders turned out not to be fantastical creatures but the work of man, for these were Gideon’s charcoal clamps. Day and night there would be at least two of them burning, while round about others cooled, their crumbly harvest calming from flaming wood to brittle bits of blackness, waiting to be lifted from their ashy beds. As Bess neared the rumbling pits, she could detect their frightening heat, despite the layer of turf that covered them and kept out the air. It was a wonder to her that the infernos did not escape and devour the cottage and indeed the entire wood. She stepped quickly past these fearsome objects and made her way toward the cottage. Her hand was raised to knock when the door was wrenched open. Gideon must have seen her approaching. The two regarded each other wordlessly, the distant rumble of the burning charcoal the only sound in their heavy silence. At length, Gideon moved aside and gestured for her to enter. Even at that moment Bess found it hard to believe that she was wi
llingly putting herself in the care of a man she knew to be capable of rape and cold-blooded murder. It was a measure of her distress, of her grief, of her unshakable feeling of hopelessness, that she no longer cared what happened to her.

  The single room, which constituted the whole accommodation of the house, was dimly lit by two lamps. The only other illumination came from the fire burning in the stone hearth. There were two chairs by the fire, a small table and bench, an assortment of cupboards, and a large feather bed in the far corner of the room. Bess turned to face Gideon. She was about to speak when he said, ‘Your mother is dead.’

  It was a statement, not a question, and so devoid of sentiment it was impossible for Bess to take either comfort or offense from it. She merely nodded, then said, ‘It was my mother who … She told me to come to you.’

  Gideon moved closer, letting his eyes rove the length of Bess’s body, cocking his head a little on one side. Despite her weariness, Bess found she had the energy to feel indignant at his treatment of her. Here she was, recently bereaved, alone in the world, distressed, and exhausted, and he had not a civil word or offer of sympathy. What had made her mother believe he would even wish to help her?

  ‘If I am not welcome here, I will leave, of course,’ she said.

  Gideon waved away the suggestion.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I am being a poor host. I am unaccustomed to company. Please, sit.’ He indicated a comfortable chair to the left of the fireplace.

  Bess slipped the shawl from her shoulders and placed it with her bundle on the floor. The chair was soft with cushions, and the moment she lowered herself into it, tiredness began to swamp her.

  ‘Rest awhile,’ said Gideon. ‘When did you last eat?’

  Bess rubbed her temples. ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘I will fetch some food. You will need your strength for what lies ahead.’

  Bess closed her eyes, intending only to rest them, but within moments she was asleep. She dreamed of dragons flying above Batchcombe Woods, flames spouting from their fanged mouths as they sent Nathaniel Kilpeck running for his life. The dream altered, and the dragons turned on Bess. She awoke with a start, sitting upright in the chair. The strains of “Greensleeves” seeped through her bleary consciousness. The woolen blanket that Gideon had placed over her slid to the floor. Her eyes regained their focus to find him sitting still as stone in the chair opposite, pipe in hand, humming the melody as he watched. Watched and waited. He gestured with his pipe at the table.

  ‘Go and eat,’ he said.

  Bess did as she was told. She was surprised to find herself ravenous. There was a tasty stew of rabbit and pungent herbs, with bread to soak up the gravy. She ate greedily, not even caring that she was all the while observed by Gideon. When she had finished, he stood up and began to pace unhurriedly about the room. Bess wondered what would happen next. Here she was with someone who was, in fact, a stranger to her. She had never been alone in a house at night with a man before. There was no one left to protect her. She was at his mercy and had no notion of what to expect from him, aside from knowing him to be capable of taking from her whatever he desired. She straightened her back. She would not let him take from her the small amount of dignity she still retained. He noticed her unease but made no move to put her mind at rest. Instead, he stood, fingering a curious wooden carving. In the gloom Bess could not quite make it out. It appeared to be of some sort of goat. Abruptly he returned it to its place on the shelf.

  ‘Tell me, Bess, how do you think I might protect you, hmm? Do you imagine these flimsy wooden walls will repel your persecutors? Do you think they will listen to me when I tell them to leave you be?’

  ‘I do not know. I had not thought.’

  He lunged forward, slamming his palms down on the table directly opposite her. He leaned toward her so that his face was only inches from hers.

  ‘Then you must begin to do so! I have no interest in a frilly-headed maid who has not the wit to help herself. I can assist you only if you show yourself equal to the task.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall do my best, sir.’

  ‘Let us hope your best is good enough, then.’ He stood up slowly, never once taking his eyes from her. ‘It would be a great pity to have that delicious neck of yours scarred with the burns of a noose. Your mother sent you here because she meant you to learn what she herself learned. And more. She sent you here to be my pupil. The same power that saved you from the plague will save you again, Bess. But there can be no turning back, be sure you understand that. Once you have embarked on this journey, you may not return to the place you previously inhabited on this earth. You will be forever changed.’

  Bess felt her mouth dry, but she forced herself to speak. ‘And what price must I pay for your help?’ she asked.

  Gideon shook his head and allowed himself the smallest of smiles. ‘We will not talk of that now. Enough for one night. Sleep, and we will begin in earnest in the morning. I must tend my charcoal fires. You may take the bed.’ He picked his black hat off its hook on the wall and began to walk toward the door.

  Bess was on her feet. ‘You would have me strike a bargain blind?’

  He paused, his hand on the latch, not turning to look at her as he spoke.

  ‘You are in no position to bargain, girl. You will take what I offer and not argue terms. Because if you do not, you will break your promise to your mother. And because if you do not, you will most certainly twist in the wind beneath the Hanging Tree, just as she did.’

  The next two days and nights passed for Bess in a whirl of strange-sounding names and unfamiliar words. Gideon showed her books the like of which she had never encountered before. For the most part, they were not in Latin nor English nor French nor any language she might recognize. He had her repeat curious words over and over until she knew them and her tongue was fat from stumbling over the unknown sounds. He was a hard tutor, not letting her pause for rest or sustenance until he was satisfied she had learned what he wanted her to know. To begin with, Bess failed to see a use for these unintelligible utterances. She did, however, understand how much importance Gideon placed upon them and quickly realized he would explain nothing until he deemed the moment right. Sometimes they worked at the table in the cottage. Other times they marched through the darkest parts of the woods. Occasionally, he had her sit outside and study while he tended his charcoal stacks. Bess found the process fascinating. Gideon sang as he worked, in a low, curiously melodic voice, always the same tune. Always “Greensleeves.”

  Alas my love you do me wrong

  To cast me off discourteously;

  And I have loved you oh so longer

  Delighting in your company.

  Greensleeves was my delight,

  Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

  Greensleeves was my heart of joy,

  And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

  Singing the strangely hypnotic love song, he would tend his charcoal pits. He started by clearing a space for the hearth, then hammered in a charcoal burner six feet in height. Around this, he constructed a chimney formed by a triangle of strong sticks. Around this chimney, he laid cords of wood, sometimes oak or sweet chestnut. Other times willow, all coppiced from the forest around them. At length, he would complete a dome-shaped stack, which he then covered with loose earth and turf, damping the hole down. The motty-peg was removed, and into the space he poured burning charcoal to ignite the heap. The chimney was capped off with more wet turf, so that the only escape for the steam and smoke produced was the vent he gouged out in the side of the stack. To Bess’s mind, these were nothing more or less than the nostrils of those slumbering dragons. The nights were still fresh, but the days were warmed by a smiling spring sun. The work was hard so that Gideon often stripped off to his breeches, his sinewy torso tensed with the effort of lifting the heavy wood. On the days when he uncovered a finished kiln, the air was full of gritty steam as he poured water on the fresh charcoal. The dust from the powdery black remains of the wood
mixed with his own sweat, so that soon he appeared as if he himself had climbed out of the pits. It still disturbed Bess that though he was not a young man, his body was not weathered or weakened from such work. Despite his harsh labors and simple existence, he had the appearance of a member of the gentry, with his fine features and firm, smooth skin. All this time he charged her with committing to memory lilting incantations or bizarrely rhythmic passages from one of his books. On the evening of the third day, he bade her sit at the table and he produced a new volume. This was the most beautiful book Bess had ever laid eyes upon. Its cover was of the softest red leather, tooled with gold, covered in a pattern of stars and a curling, sinuous script. For the first time Gideon sat beside her. She was acutely aware of the pressure of his leg against hers.

  ‘This,’ he told her, ‘is something wonderful, Bess. Something sacred.’

  ‘It is a Bible?’

  ‘Of sorts, perhaps. But not the kind familiar to you.’ He let his fingers glide lightly over the lettering on the cover before gently, with great care, opening the book. ‘This is my Book of Shadows.’

  As he let the first page fall flat under the pulsing light of the candle, Bess could smell sweet incense and feel a warm breeze against her face, even though the windows were tightly shut and the weather outside near to frost. Gideon turned the pages, handling the book with a tenderness Bess had not seen him display before. She peered closer at what was written and found the words were English. As she read them, she let out a small cry.

  ‘Spells! These are all spells!’ she said

  ‘Naturally, for that is what a Book of Shadows is, Bess, a book of spells. As well as being a journal, and a record of magic used and encountered. In here are words to ease suffering and end pain. There are spells to lend courage to the weak and melt the hardest of hearts.’