Widdershins
Page 16
‘Second, it is a known fact that the devil’s imps secrete in their saliva a special healing quality. Simply put, they do not want to dry the teat that feeds them – whither of milk or blood. So the marks must seal themselves.’
Oh, the crowner was thorough, very thorough indeed. But I’d help him.
‘It’s true! It’s true! For weeks, my wife complained of pains and flashing lights in her head. It was impossible for that lady to rest when even her sleep was stolen from her. Thus, the devil’s imps were draining her of goodness, taking what belonged to my child before the mite even got a chance to draw breath.’
I wiped tears from my eyes and pointed at the two cowering women.
‘The blame lies in the wicked hands and black hearts of the old witch and her accomplice. Between them, they’ve stolen my sweet mother, my goodly wife and my child. All died unshriven, my babe not even baptised and therefore condemned to limbo evermore.’
My own words moved me so that tears flowed down my face, which moved some of the ladies in the room to dab at their own eyes with dainty kerchiefs. Hopefully, the moderator was also swayed by this spectacle and the mighty surge of feeling in the room. I watched closely as the moderator spoke again.
‘These women stand accused of stealing the lives of innocents, but also of stealing their eternal souls, thus damning them to an eternity deprived of heaven. But first, we must be certain that these women are witches and not just bunglers. So they must be pricked, which will determine the manner of their deaths and the destination of their eternal souls. George Campbell will assist us.’
At this, the moderator nodded to the sergeants, who dragged forth Dora. A tall man, carrying an elegant cane and shod in soft leather boots, took the centre of the floor. He had to be well paid, judging by his finery. No doubt, the throng was similarly impressed as a low rumble of conversation grew until the moderator spoke again.
‘Silence, George Campbell must be allowed to concentrate.’
The pricker clenched Dora’s shift and ripped it so that it hung either side of her body, showing her spindly frame and slack breasts. With the tip of his cane, he lifted her left breast, indicating a discolouration on its underside.
‘It’s here! The devil’s teat. Though I must prick it for certainty.’
His voice rang around the room and I envied its resonance.
Dora was quaking and a trickle of urine ran down her legs, pooling at her feet. Campbell stepped away, no doubt fearing for his boot leather. From his belt, he removed a silver implement. It resembled a giant’s bodkin, ten inches long, with a handle making up more than half of its length.
Upon brandishing this instrument, Campbell turned to the crone, lifted her breast and pricked her in the centre of the ragged-looking brown mark. He pressed his pricker ever deeper until the hilt met her skin. Dora uttered no sound and only blinked.
‘The hag bleeds not and feels no pain. So witch she certainly is, on both counts.’
A feverish chant rose around the room, ‘Kill the witch! Kill the witch!’, accompanied by a great stamping of feet, which made my heart leap. Finally, I was to be avenged. When the room quietened, the moderator turned to Dora.
‘George Campbell has found your devil’s mark. We have seen with our own eyes that the mark lets no blood and feels no pain. Therefore, this kirk session must find you as a witch. What words have you, witch, before you meet your end?’
Dora ran to the moderator and threw herself at his feet. ‘But I felt nothing at all when Mr Campbell pricked me. Sire, there’s trickery afoot. I beseech you, please don’t take this man’s word. I’m no witch. I’ve never harmed a soul.’
It was impossible to hold my tongue any longer. ‘Sire, the old woman is nothing if not convincing. But she must not live. She must suffer for what she’s done to my family. She must be destroyed as they were destroyed.’
The moderator raised his hand. ‘Silence, John Sharpe. We understand your agony, but we will determine this woman’s guilt, not you. Pricker, bring the instrument so I might determine its veracity.’
With a flourish, Campbell presented the implement on his flat right palm.
The moderator took the proffered device and examined it. He beckoned the crowner. ‘A moment of your scientific time, crowner.’
The crowner walked towards the moderator.
‘Hold out your hand, wise and reasonable crowner.’
The crowner did as bidden, and the moderator plunged the pricker into his fleshy palm. The crowner bled copiously and then sucked at his wound, looking most aggrieved at this turn of events.
‘Thank you, crowner, please be seated. I am satisfied there is no trickery afoot. Apologies to the crowner and pricker, both. Dora Shaw, you are to be taken to a place of execution, strangled to death and then burnt. Your immortal soul will trouble men no further, so that their goodwives and children will be safe once more.’
Dora Shaw screamed as she was dragged out and Kirstie Slater wept.
The moderator banged his gavel. ‘Bring the sister witch.’
While a sergeant pinioned Kirstie, the pricker ripped her shift and her solid flesh trembled in fear. I gaped at her nakedness. It was impossible not to and there were bawdy offers of assistance from the lower men. The moderator banged his gavel three times for quiet and only succeeded in bringing this about by threatening to clear the floor.
Campbell was no blunderer and didn’t go jabbing in any old place. Not for him the bony, skinny planes of the shoulder. For him, the softest, most succulent parts of Kirstie’s body. He stroked the delicate skin inside the wrist, the creamy vellum of the inner thigh, the heavy under-moon of the breast. He’d no sense of constraint, the big arseworm. I could see by the curve of the man’s hands that he was fair itching to weigh Kirstie Slater’s tender orbs as he ran his hands to the north and south of them, seeking supernumerary teats. It filled me with envy, watching Campbell fingering the girl’s breasts, heavy yet pert, teasing rosy teats to terrified peaks. After a thorough examination of her plush hide, he announced that there were no marks.
‘However, there are two hiding places that remain to be searched.’
Campbell nodded to the sergeant and the room fell silent. The sergeant forced the wailing girl over a table and then the pricker rammed two long fingers into her rectum, making her howl.
He withdrew his fingers. ‘No mark of the devil, but hold her down, sergeant.’
The sergeant pinioned the struggling Kirstie once more and Campbell forced his dirty fingers into her vagina. Kirstie kicked and screamed until he finally withdrew his fingers and held them up – bloody.
‘A virgin maid, a virgin maid, a virgin maid!’ cried an excitable man from the rabble. ‘The dark saint has not yet ridden her with his chilly prong. She is a maid, or was!’
The justice shut him up immediately. ‘Quiet! Or I will have the room cleared! Her blood makes her innocent, does it not, Campbell?’
‘It does not, sire.’ Campbell sniffed. ‘This is only womb blood. She’s no maid, for she has a child – a bastard – already. Sire, it’s unlikely this one is a witch since she does not bear his mark. Yet, for certainty, prick her I will.’
A nervous laugh ran round the room. I rubbed my forehead, feeling too hot. Campbell pushed the blade no more than half an inch into the girl’s flank, but she yelped and blood flowed down her leg. She collapsed, clutching her naked body.
The moderator held up one hand. ‘Thank you, George Campbell, that will be all. Kirstie Slater, we have found that you did not give suck to the devil and you have not lain with him. However, you have willingly – if unknowingly – consorted with one of the devil’s own bitches, thereby resulting in the death of innocents. Yet, you are innocent of witchcraft and so this session will show mercy.’
Kirstie gazed at the moderator. ‘Oh, bless you, sire. God bless and keep you.’
My spirits plunged. Was the witch to escape justice before my very eyes a second time?
The moderator contin
ued, ‘Kirstie Slater, you will be taken to a place of execution and there hanged by the neck until dead. You will have benefit of clergy and your mortal remains will be buried in the kirkyard. Take her away.’
Kirstie screeched and kicked, needing to be restrained by the sergeant’s club.
‘Try not to kill the girl yet, sergeant, else she escape her just punishment.’
The moderator paused until Kirstie was taken away, and then he turned to face me.
‘John Sharpe, thanks to the services of George Campbell, a certain hag and her unwitting accomplice will be banished from this world. This act cannot restore your mother, your goodwife or your child, but I hope justice being done will bring your soul some much-deserved Christian peace.’
20
Jane
Thirty Shillings
I laid some roses next to Tom’s cross and then looked up at the sky. It was fine today and a soft breeze wound itself around the graves, giving lie to the same wind that howled around the dead in the middle of winter. It made me wonder what winds must have wrapped themselves around The Durham and what terrors my Tom had endured before dying in that cold, dark sea. It was unbearable to think of him at the bottom of the sea, his resting place unknown and unmarked. Swallowing back tears, I looked over at the part of the graveyard unmarked by stones and pondered the layers of ordinary people buried, quickly and anonymously, without their resting place even being marked.
The ground was uncommonly warm from the gaze of the sun, so I lay flat on my back, arms and legs flung wide to the elements. Weather-beaten gravestones towered over me and I felt myself sinking into the warm grass, as if being pulled down into the welcoming earth. But it didn’t feel right, lying here enjoying the sunshine when Tom’s life was over. If only Tom were back here, standing on the firm earth of home. This was our home, this hill, this land, all the way to the bottom of hell and all the way up to the top of heaven.
At this thought, joy bolted through my body and – hoping I might be spirited away to join Tom – I shut my eyes, clenched handfuls of grass to either side and pressed my toes into the warm earth, imagining digging down through the soil until reaching bone. It felt strangely comforting, as if all those people sleeping underground were watching me, encouraging me down and down to join them. But then a shadow slowly crossed me. I wiped my eyes before sitting up.
‘Andrew Driver! What are you doing creeping up on me like that?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve just come to see how you fare.’
I wrapped my arms around myself and hunched forward. ‘I fare as well as can be imagined with Tom being sent to a watery grave. So now you know, you can be on your way.’
But Andrew grabbed my hands and dragged me to my feet, holding me very close to him. I arched away from him and twisted my wrists free of his hands.
‘So, you want me to be on my way, do you, Jane?’
‘Yes. You’ve no business being here. Tom wouldn’t like it.’
He laughed and blew his hair out of his eyes. ‘Only Tom’s not here, is he?’
‘No, but his da is, and Bill Verger will soon see you off.’
‘What, that old bag of bones will see me off? Well, I’ll not stay where I’m not wanted. But I’ll come back. In fact, I’ll come back every day and you’ll change your mind, Jane, you wait and see.’
* * *
As good as his word, Andrew Driver came to the house every day. And every day, he went away again without a word from me. After today’s visit, he’d finally just left after standing outside the door, being ignored as usual, but I could still see him dawdling on his way home. All I had to do was bide my time and stay inside the house. My belly was showing, but with care, no one need know. And it would be easy to pass off the baby as a foundling, as babies were left on church steps all the time. The Reverend and Mam would move heaven and earth to protect me and the bairn.
The sound of an approaching horse interrupted my thoughts and I moved towards the door. Then, looking at my belly, I thought better of it and stayed at the window. It looked like a messenger, but what business would he have here? Maybe it was the official news of Tom. The rider pulled up next to Andrew Driver and they exchanged words. The messenger gave something to him, which he put in his pouch. What could it be? Why would the messenger come near the church and give something to Andrew? I wanted to run out and demand to know what was going on, but it wouldn’t be wise to reveal my belly to this stranger. As soon as the horseman turned tail, I opened the door and ran to Andrew.
‘Who was that man? What did he have? Was it for me?’
Andrew nodded. ‘Aye, it was. The messenger stopped to check that this was where Jane Chandler lived. I thought you’d not want to be seen, so I told him there was fever in the house and that he could rely on me to pass the message on.’
‘Oh, sorry. Thank you. That was kind. But what’s the message?’
Andrew held out a pouch. ‘It’s from the navy. For Tom’s loss.’
I took the pouch and emptied it into my hand. There were three golden coins.
Andrew plucked one from me and held it to the light. ‘Angels, Jane. Golden Angels. See, a galley on one side and the archangel Michael slaying a dragon on the other. There’s thirty shillings’ worth there.’
‘Thirty shillings? Is that what my Tom’s life is worth to the navy? For snatching him away and letting him drown? Was there no note?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘No, just this pouch. That was all. The messenger said to pass on the message and the pouch, and that was all. No note.’
‘Well, this is blood money and I’ll not have it.’ I flung the pouch into the garden and ran back inside. From the window, I watched Andrew retrieve the pouch and walk to Bill’s shack. The coins would be better given to Bill now that he had no son to look after him in his old age.
21
John
God’s Work
Dreams of Kirstie Slater tortured me. The remembrance of George Campbell fingering her breasts and orifices stirred me somewhat, but the terror on her face roused my blood. Memories of him pricking her with his implement, her shriek, her blood and the bloom of fear on her face caused my loins to erupt, leaving me breathless, damp and grateful for my concealing cloak.
The spectacle moved me so greatly that I considered it at length, with myself as pricker. At first, my consideration took an innocent path, with me doing God’s work by seeking supernumerary teats. But soon, my thoughts took a darker turn, as I pictured myself ramming my own fingers into Kirstie and pricking her endlessly. I imagined her udders dangling over my face so I might bite them at my leisure. But after abusing myself, I was drenched in a wash of guilt. Perhaps I’d mortify my flesh in the hope of bleeding out the impure dreams that had haunted me of late. It also occurred to me to take my woes to Uncle James, but in truth, I feared his bad opinion of my transgressions. Quickly, I knelt on the cold, hard floor, closed my eyes and clasped my hands, all the while begging God’s forgiveness.
‘Almighty God, please forgive me these transgressions.’ I decided not to point out that they had only happened because He’d taken my wife before I’d fully enjoyed my conjugal rights. ‘In return for your forgiveness, it will be my lifelong mission to prevent other men from losing their mothers, wives and bairns at the hands of these satanic slaves. Forgive me, Lord. So be it.’
I stood up and rubbed my knees. Kirstie Slater had slipped through my hands the first time I’d tried to prove her a witch, and she’d escaped justice, despite being guilty of the most heinous acts of witchcraft. And yet the justice explained away the maid’s actions as if she were as mild as mother’s milk. There must be a better way to make sure that God’s will was carried out. Had I succeeded the first time, she might not have lived to kill my wife and child. But George Campbell, that blessed man, had succeeded where I failed and brought her to justice.
It struck me then that it wasn’t enough to report these women to the authorities and leave someone else to determine their guilt. Justi
ces were too easily swayed. And in truth, while Campbell had ended Kirstie’s life, her eternal soul was still safe. I imagined myself in Campbell’s place. That was where the power lay. The pricker could influence the judgment for good or ill. That would be my way. I had to become a witch-pricker. I’d attend more trials until I understood the art of witch-pricking, for art it surely was. Once I’d apprenticed myself, I’d free Scotland of this dread scourge. In this way, I’d avenge the death of my mother, my wife and my son, that innocent lamb who never once drew breath.
* * *
I followed George Campbell, who was kept so busy testing witches that it was a wonder he found time to sleep. After witnessing his work, it seemed that the involvement of lawmen and juries only made it harder for the witch-pricker to prove the accused guilty. In particular, it seemed impossible to achieve a guilty verdict when the assizes sat. Many more women were found guilty at the kirk sessions, where perhaps those overseeing the cases enjoyed more success due to their being fuelled by godly fervour. But the hastily arranged lay sessions achieved the best results. These were run by local men. Because these laymen owned close knowledge of the accused, it seemed easier for them to get a witch confirmed.
These hearings then, which meted out almost instant justice, these were where I’d offer my services – where the people knew the sinners in their midst and where a little religious zeal never went amiss. God would find His channel in me. And there was no need to wait for the legal system to grind into action. Instead, I’d go into the villages and offer my services, rounding up the witches myself, if necessary. I’d travel from village to village, following news of strange happenings and make the necessary interventions.
In the event of there being no strange happenings, it was the work of a moment to uncover some. It struck me that people were not so very observant and their memories often required some encouragement. By telling them of the queer goings-on in nearby villages, I’d dislodge memories of similar behaviour in their midst. In this way, I’d intercede on behalf of God. It would take time and money, this itinerant life, but if I was to serve in poverty, then so be it. And if I succeeded and God saw fit to reward me, then so be it. I was in His hands, to be used as He saw fit.