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Widdershins

Page 22

by Helen Steadman


  ‘Well, nature grows everything we need to make us better. It’s all there for the picking.’ I did not add that it was all there for the picking, whether it be apple or pennyroyal.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘And have you no fear of thunderbolts striking you down?’

  It was an odd question, and I wasn’t sure how to answer it. I supposed God must not mind our work so very much. Yet my stomach churned for reasons that were not only to do with the child inside me. The apothecary’s wife waited for my answer with a sly look in her eye, and I found myself not liking her much today.

  My pondering was interrupted by a great crash from the cellar, and I turned to see what was going on. Heavy footsteps pounded up the cellar steps and two sergeants burst through the door. My mother’s ale cup smashed on the floor and I ran to her side.

  27

  John

  The Dry Wound

  Finally, my hour had come. It seemed all of Newcastle had come to see me try their witches. Ranged along the high bench at the back of the courtroom were the magistrate and the common council. They were flanked on one side by the clergy and on the other by the respectable professions, who were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the polished pews. In a side gallery sat the women who must be their wives. Standing down in the main hall were the tradesmen, and behind them, anyone who’d managed to press his way in. Opposite the high bench stood three rows of ten people. Many of them held hands. To my mind, each of these witches wore the same face as Dora Shaw – that very same hag who’d stolen my father, my mother, my wife and my son. She’d paid the price for her devilry and now so would these damned souls.

  The magistrate looked around the courtroom before standing to address us.

  ‘Thanks to our witch-finder, John Sharpe, fetched down from Scotland under petition to the council, thirty people have been rounded up and fetched here for trial in a manner that is most unusual, which gives me some cause for caution.’

  Loud jeers rose from the standing crowd and there was a great deal of foot stamping. The magistrate stood his ground until the jeers died out before continuing.

  ‘In summary, these people stand accused of consorting with the devil. But I must consider whether they were just too near the source of misfortune. Crops may fail, beasts die, cows turn dry, men ail and wombs let loose of still children. Can these not just be the result of providence? Must they be given some vessel of blame? I must take care not to send citizens to their deaths for being too red of hair or green of eye, old or needy, crippled or soft-headed, or for being otherwise burdensome. For cannot milk turn sour, beasts fall lame and children change their minds about entering such a world? I promise a full and searching investigation before reaching any verdict of witchcraft.’

  I walked towards the bench to address the magistrate.

  ‘Thank you, sire, for your wise words of caution. But please be assured that you can rely upon me and my tested methods for uncovering witches. No innocent citizen will be sent to the gallows by my hand.’ Then I turned neatly to address the crowd. ‘And no corrupt witch or defiled consorter of the devil will escape my most thorough testing.’ I cast my gaze along the gallery, causing several women to look to the floor.

  I took my place in the centre of the room. When visiting my prisoners in gaol, I’d dressed simply, but today I was in my full regalia of knee boots with polished silver buckles, a thick cape of black, a pure white linen shirt and hose, with dark-red breeches and jerkin. Before me stood a wooden contraption, which was simple, but solid. A raised platform of no more than a foot high and a few feet square. In the centre of the platform rose a wooden stake of seven feet. To my eye, it seemed hastily constructed. The wood was not planed and spelks stood ready to insult the accused. The tang of green oak cut through the fog of sweat and ale that suffused the room. Briefly, I wondered why the council would use oak instead of cheap pine. Money to squander, no doubt.

  From my tooled leather belt, I produced a tarnished silver implement of about eight inches long. This one had a sharp point at one end and a filigreed handle at the other. This pricker would prove witchcraft here today. When I brandished the pricker, no light reflected from its viscid blade. A hush swept the room as all eyes fell upon the pricker, and it pleased me to see the accused blanch in fear.

  ‘This is the tool for my witch-proving: the pricker! Be sure to note the congealed blood on the blade, ladies and gentlemen. This isn’t dirty blood. What you see coating the pricker is the blood of innocents unstained by the devil. The imp-infested witches do not bleed. The dry wound is certain proof of a witch. Before I begin pricking, do any doubters wish to test the efficacy of my blessed implement?’

  A brief buzz of chatter arose and I allowed it to swell. But when my eyes swept the room, the chatter died as people looked to their feet.

  ‘Anyone here present is welcome to test its solidity, its weight and its pricking abilities for themselves … Is any Christian present willing to put this device to the test by inviting a prick to their own thumb?’

  The room was entirely silent. There were never any takers when I made this invitation.

  ‘Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate what happens when this bodkin pierces the flesh of an innocent.’

  I held out my left thumb in front of me, turning so that all sides of the room could examine that godly digit. Then I plunged the bodkin into my thumb, causing a gash to open and blood to run from it. This caused a rumble of muttering from the floor and I nodded.

  ‘I trust that we are satisfied?’

  The magistrate glared at me. ‘Good God, get on with it, man. There is no need to prolong the misery. Imp-infested or not, remember that the accused are not yet proven guilty.’

  He continued to stare until, somewhat abashed, I addressed the two burly sergeants. ‘Bring down the first accused, sergeants.’

  The sergeants plucked a wailing woman from the back row, marched her forward and flung her onto the wooden platform, where she cowered. They dragged her to her feet, facing the stake, and lashed her wrists in front of her. The woman had room to move about the platform, but the height of the stake prevented her from going anywhere. She was barefoot, filthy and attired only in a threadbare shift. I withdrew a knife from my belt and cut the woman’s shift open. The woman sobbed as her breasts and private parts became visible. She closed her eyes and turned her reddened face to one side.

  The magistrate peered at the accused. ‘State your name, age and habitation.’

  ‘Margaret Taylor, two-and-fifty years, Spital Tongues.’

  The magistrate consulted his scroll. ‘Very well, Margaret Taylor, you stand accused of engaging in the gross sin of sortilege to envisage a husband for an ageing maid.’

  With a sneer, I turned to the floor to translate for the common herd. ‘Sortilege being the old Roman sin of casting lots to determine the future – a right, mark you, that belongs only to the Almighty.’

  The magistrate frowned at me and then turned to the prisoner. ‘How plead you, Margaret Taylor? Guilty or not? Speak up, woman. Have you no tongue?’

  I grabbed the woman’s chin, pulled her face towards the bench, shoved my hand into her mouth and pulled out her tongue. ‘The hag does have a tongue; she just chooses not to use it.’

  An alderman, seeming to enjoy the entertainment, guffawed. The magistrate narrowed his eyes at the man, who ceased his merrymaking on the instant. The woman began to gag and I let go her tongue, allowing her to speak.

  ‘Louder, hag, so the magistrate can hear you.’

  ‘Innocent, sire. Innocent as a newborn babe.’

  I shook her. ‘Silence, hag. I’ll be the judge of that. But first, I’ll examine this witch for signs that she has given suck to the devil and his imps.’

  At that, I pulled back the linen remnants hanging on the woman’s spare frame and scrutinised her body, lifting each breast in turn to examine its underside. I was thorough and twisted each teat, extracting a pleasing wince from the woman. Next, I had the sergeants unti
e her from the stake, grabbed her by the stubble on her head and bent her over while the sergeants tied her wrists to her ankles. This fetched a shriek of pain from the woman. I proceeded to examine her orifices, thrusting my fingers in deeply, eliciting further cries.

  ‘This hag is as dry as a stick, which is to be expected …’

  I paused to allow a cackle of dirty laughter to run through the standing rabble.

  A man on the floor leaned forward to catch my eye. ‘Turn her round, man, so us lot can get an eyeful.’

  The magistrate held up his hand before I could oblige, a pained expression on his face. ‘Sharpe, pray continue as expediently as possible. We’re here to determine guilt and not to provide some form of low spectacle. Must Margaret Taylor remain in that position?’

  Disappointment flashed across the faces of the aldermen and the rabble in equal measure. I ran my filthy fingers beneath my nose and threw the crowd a lascivious leer. This seemed to satisfy them momentarily, as a small cheer arose. Margaret Taylor was purple-faced and trembling, and urine ran down her dirty legs, leaving clean tracks.

  I ordered the sergeants to untie her wrists from her ankles. She stood up, staggering slightly, the blood already draining from her face. I waited until she was steady and the blood had returned to her body, then I brandished the bodkin before plunging it into her left haunch. She let out a screech that didn’t subside, even as the bodkin was withdrawn. Its exit was followed by a gush of blood, which ran down the woman’s leg and mingled with her urine on the floor. The room immediately blazed into excited exclamation until the voice of the magistrate boomed across it.

  ‘This woman is no witch. Free her forthwith. Margaret Taylor, you are proven innocent and free to leave. Yet, cover yourself, for you are a filthy specimen and hardly fit for decent people to witness.’

  The hag tried to tug the remains of her shift together and hurried from the room, not pausing to look at those prisoners remaining.

  When the room had quieted, I nodded to the sergeants once more. Next, they brought the man, Matthew Bulmer. He shifted his feet, reluctant to stand in the waste of his predecessor. The sergeant slashed Bulmer’s clothing, bent him over and lashed his wrists to his ankles.

  The magistrate spoke. ‘Matthew Bulmer, you stand accused that on the full moon, you did summon a black dog from the very bowels of hell, in the full and knowing company of your coven.’

  I stepped forward to examine the man. Upon examining him, I cleared my throat and waited for silence.

  ‘There’s a hidden teat upon this man in the darkest and most unholy recess. It isn’t possible to see it with the eye, so it must be felt manually. If anyone wishes to examine the devil’s teat for himself, please step forward.’

  The magistrate held up his hand. ‘We accept your word, John Sharpe. That is why we employed you. Prick him and be done.’

  As ordered, I thrust the bodkin up to its hilt into Bulmer’s haunch. Although the man started and roared mightily, there was not a single drop of blood when I stood clear, brandishing the bodkin. Women in the room covered their faces with their aprons and even the men seemed to shrink back.

  The magistrate locked eyes with the guilty man and pointed straight at him. ‘Matthew Bulmer, as possessor of the devil’s own teat and impervious to the pricker, you are hereby found guilty of consorting with the devil and of summoning a diabolical black dog from hell. You are a proven witch and will be put to death on the morrow in a manner concordant with your sin.’ The magistrate turned to the sergeants and nodded towards the condemned man. ‘Take him down.’

  The man’s howls could be heard over the noise of the crowd as the sergeants removed him from the room.

  * * *

  I continued in this vein, working my way through the ranks of the accused. So far, the bodkin had uncovered fifteen guilty women and one man. The magistrate stood up and ruffled his robes.

  ‘The court will try one more prisoner, with the rest to be recalled on Monday.’

  Groans and calls came from the crowd and the magistrate held up his hand to hush them.

  ‘Those found guilty today will be executed on the morrow, as planned. But we simply can’t be expected to sit here all day and all night in this heat without food or comfort. Sergeants, bring the final prisoner.’

  The sergeants seized a young girl by her thin arms. But an older woman forced her body between the girl and the sergeants, shaking her head firmly at the girl’s imploring eyes.

  ‘Take me, please. I beseech you.’

  The elder sergeant shrugged. ‘All the same to me, you daft bitch.’

  The sergeants walked her to the filth-ridden platform. The voids of bowels and bladders mingled with blood and there was no part clean or dry.

  ‘Woman, state your name, age and habitation.’

  ‘Annie Chandler, six-and-thirty years, Mutton Clog near Shotley Bridge.’

  The magistrate consulted his papers for a short time before drawing himself up and levelling his gaze at the woman. ‘Ann Chandler, perhaps the most heinous witch of all, you are hereby accused that in the last twelvemonth you did cause stillbirth in Goodwife Wright, made Goodwife Brown barren and destroyed a dozen babies while they slumbered in their mothers’ wombs. How plead you? Witch or no?’

  The woman looked at the girl, who I supposed was her daughter. Something passed between them in that look. What was it? An apology? More likely a spell. But whatever it was, the younger witch refused to accept it as she shook her head and closed her eyes, perhaps in prayer. Well, prayer wouldn’t save these witches.

  The sergeant held up the knife to me, but I brushed him away, reached forward and grasped Chandler’s shift at the neck. I braced myself then ripped the garment from neck to knee with an ease that belied my frame. The woman flinched and pressed her face against her shoulder to hide her shame. A hubbub erupted in the crowd and I let it continue, allowing catcalls from lechers in the front of the crowd.

  ‘Oho, it’s a pretty wench the pricker has kept himself until last.’

  ‘Turn her, witch-finder, that we might all have an eyeful of the tasty wench and those pert titties.’

  ‘No wonder he was up all night waking this one.’

  ‘SILENCE!’ thundered the magistrate. ‘Proceed, Sharpe, and do not make a meal of it.’

  First, I scoured Annie Chandler’s body with my eyes. Then, in the newly hushed room, I began to run my hands over her, beginning with her wrists and working my way up to her shoulders, then from her ankles up to her thighs. I cupped her breasts although they were still high and there was no need to lift them to examine the undersides. Even so, I gave each breast a hard wrench, causing the witch’s face to twist in on itself. I looked at the witch’s daughter, who buried her face in her hands, no doubt shamed by her mother’s misplaced bravery.

  Quickly, I bent the witch over, and once the sergeants had lashed her wrists to her ankles, I began my probing, pushing my hand deep into the recesses of her body, forcing her to cringe and her eyes to bulge in silent agony.

  ‘There’s nothing in the rectum.’ I plunged my hand into her vagina. ‘And there’s nothing in the vagina.’

  She wobbled and would have fallen over had the sergeants not steadied her with hands both large and willing. I took out my bodkin and pressed it up to the hilt in the woman’s thigh. She remained silent, and it must have appeared to those present that she’d somehow turned insensate.

  ‘Witness, all of you, how the devil’s bitch felt not a thing.’ With a flourish, I removed the bodkin. Chandler’s flesh was dry and bare of blood. Very real fear troubled her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘I give you the witch!’ I flung my arms wide to ringing cheers from the floor.

  As the cheers subsided, the magistrate cleared his throat and peered at the accused. ‘Stand up, woman, and make yourself decent.’

  The sergeants dragged her upright and the magistrate consulted his scrolls before speaking again.

  ‘Ann Chandler, proven witch, most dia
bolical, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging, with no benefit of clergy. Your execution will take place on the morrow at the Town Moor. Take her down.’

  The daughter wailed and sank to her knees as her silent mother was taken from the room.

  28

  Jane

  A Welcome Weight

  The first daylight I’d seen since being snatched from the apothecary on Thursday caused me to squint, and the fresh air dizzied me. My feet were raw from the walking I’d endured in the town gaol during the night. With every new step, it felt as though my bones scratched the hard cobbles. Newcastle’s streets jostled with folk, no doubt fresh-souled after cleansing themselves at morning prayer. Out of the crowd, a red-faced man lurched forward until he was so close that it was possible to smell his rancid breath.

  ‘Youse divvil’s bitches, you’re fit for naught but the gallows!’

  A gobbet of hot phlegm hit my face, but I’d not the list to scrape it off. My gaze returned to the ground and I thought only of my child. Of Tom’s child. What would become of Rose? How would she fare once I was dead? Once Mam was dead. The screeching of cartwheels and the hollow sound of heavy hooves roused me. The sun was already hot and the smell of horses surrounded me. The whip was being used and the crack made me turn my head. But it was the horses being whipped. A caravan of carts followed behind, each carrying a chained prisoner. Someone screamed as they fell from a cart. I shut my eyes and prayed that it was my mother. With luck, she might crack her skull.

  The faces of the men, women and children lining the streets merged into a blur of hatred, which had no discernible features, but merely contorted with disgust. The sun beat down on my uncovered head, burning my neck and scalp. It pushed through my shift, its warmth not welcome, but intrusive. My stomach was shrunken with hunger, my parched tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my head pounded in the heat.

  The Town Moor was thronged and its carnival mood sickened me. The crackle of fire and the sizzle of flesh haunted the air. What base desires led people to have an appetite at such a time? I had to be here, to say goodbye to my mother in this life, to witness men’s justice being meted out, to see the fate that awaited me in the coming days. But why were these others here? Too cheerful to be the kin of the condemned, these gawkers pressed in on all sides. Most had come to jeer and give thanks that the town was to be cleansed of its witches. No doubt amongst them, the treacherous apothecary and his sly-tongued wife. But there were some heads bowed, perhaps to acknowledge that there was something badly wrong in England today.

 

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