Alchemy

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘I will give you no cause sir.’

  ‘Nor no cursing to bewitch me neither.’

  ‘I curse no one sir.’

  He took a knife from his belt and advanced upon me with it. It would be easy for him to murder me now and take my money, alleging I had tried to escape. I held my breath and myself quite still as the knife sawed at the cords. When they fell away we both stepped back quickly, he with his knife pointing at my throat.

  ‘Show me the colour of your money.’

  I felt in the pocket of my slaps and produced a penny. ‘If you bring me withall to eat and drink I will give you sixpence.’ I saw that he trembled between greed and fear. ‘But if you harm me there are those that will avenge me.’

  ‘I will trust you for the sixpence. You must sit over in the corner with your back to the wall so that I may see you at once when I return.’

  ‘Of your kindness sir bring me a lantern too when you return that I may see to eat.’

  And so it was. When he returned with my requests I sweetened him with the sixpence and another penny. My stock of money was small and I understood that I must lay it out carefully for when it was all gone I should be no more than a beast. Sinking down on my pallet I began to eat a little bread and drink some wine to keep out the cold of this place, and to consider my situation. In vain my thoughts explored every passage out of my imprisonment and trial. Each was blocked as surely by the freezing air of reason which coated every vista with ice as thick as any that barred the mariners seeking the Northwest Passage to hope and the spice lands.

  I could not ask my lady for help without bringing shame upon her or her denial of me which would break my heart. And yet I understood that my very life was in jeopardy and that if the Lady Anne should die I would be hanged. Dr Gilbert’s word would stand against mine. Here was no malicious village neighbour accusing a poor old woman to whom he had refused a cup of milk or piece of bread, but a man of learning and the brother of a noble knight although he lay in prison, sometime favoured of a queen.

  Then I began to wonder how I might contrive to die rather than suffer the pillory or being drawn through the streets to be hanged before the multitude. With this I fell into a kind of ecstasy in contemplating my death and how I would die rather than any evil repute should fall upon my lady and she should know somehow of my sacrifice that whatever they might inflict upon me or threaten me with, my lips would be sealed. So keeping the lantern still lit that I should not be surprised in the dark I fell into a kind of stupor rather than sleep, only waking to piss and then to sink into my stupor once more.

  When I woke again I saw that it was day for there was a little window high up which I had not observed in the night, where a grey light entered my cell. I was glad that the night was over, for in my dreams I had ridden the nightmare of nameless fears and hopeless flight through streets and then woods where hands clutched at me.

  Suddenly there was a noise of the turning of a key in the lock, the door was flung open and the gaoler entered with three others, two women and a man.

  ‘We have come to search you to see whether you be man or maid or witch. Or all three. Will you lie quiet or must you be constrained?’

  ‘I will be quiet if you will do me no hurt.’

  ‘Take off your clothes.’

  I undid my shirt and laid it aside and the band about my breasts. Then I dropped my slops to my boots.

  ‘It be a maid,’ one of the women said at once.

  ‘You must lie down for us to search for the devil’s marks. Upon your face first.’

  I lay upon my pallet, face down, hiding my shame. I felt their hands upon me parting my buttocks to search, rough hands pulling them apart and a finger thrust between.

  ‘Her back is clean. Now the front.’ They turned me over and while I tried to look away for shame probed my navel and my armpits, fingered my breasts and came at last to my secrets. Parting my legs one began to dally there.

  ‘Is this not a witch’s teat?’

  ‘Nay sir. All women have those, some greater, some lesser. Ask your wife if you have not seen for yourself.’ And I heard one I supposed to be a midwife laugh, at which the other joined in.

  ‘The justice has ordered that she be brought a gown to be dressed more seemly now that her sex is known.’

  ‘I will do that sir. A woollen gown instead of her fine lawn shirt and silken slops that might become any true gentleman. And if you live mistress, and are not hanged for a witch, perhaps you will be glad to earn your bread in our calling instead of pretending to physician.’

  ‘I must make my report for Justice Ludlow that we found no evident mark of the devil or witch’s teat but that she is woman born and then her going in male clothing may be enough to convict her.’

  They all withdrew, the midwives still laughing together and I was locked in again. I put on my shirt and pulled up my slops and because my legs trembled I lay down on the pallet. Yet the memory of the last time I lay there caused me to sit up again and drink some of the wine I had saved to try to restore my courage for I understood this was only the beginning of my trials.

  Once more I heard the door being unlocked and one of the women returned with a russet grey gown which she would not give into my hands but threw upon the pallet.

  ‘You must pay me for that. I will take your old clothes in exchange.’

  ‘I will give you tuppence for it,’ I said for I saw it was neither new nor clean. ‘But my old clothes I must keep to wear under it against the chill of this place and the chafing of the wool.’ And I took two pennies from my pocket.

  ‘Your skin is softer than others then. The lice will feed well on you.’ And she turned about and left. When she had gone I settled down with the gown and began to search it for lice which I cracked between my thumbnails wondering whose blood was smearing them as I worked.

  After some time the gaoler returned. I had heard him approach and threw the gown over my head and was again sat upon the pallet as he opened the door.

  ‘Where are your old clothes? You were best have given them to my wife in exchange for her gown. Now give them to me.’

  ‘I gave her tuppence for it. It is worth no more. I need my clothes to keep my money in, for the gown has no pocket and I no other purse. Beside if I am here for long I may need to sell them for their true worth or at least nearer than a tuppenny gown.’

  ‘What would you have for your dinner then, mistress, for such it seems I must call you now. Or else witch.’

  ‘I am no witch.’

  ‘That shall be seen. It is true my wife says they found no marks on you yet you go about in man’s attire like Joan the French witch who was burnt.’

  ‘Perhaps I am rather a Moll Cutpurse who will call upon my roaring boys to break down the doors and rescue me.’

  ‘Thieves can be hanged as well as witches.’

  ‘No one has come forward to swear I have stolen anything. Master constable or gaoler, whichever you are, let us not wrangle but come to an understanding. If you do what I ask I will pay you and if you help me to more money I will pay you more.’

  ‘I am both constable by election because no one else will suffer it, and gaoler for my livelihood. What would you have me do, so it is lawful and does not put my living in danger?’

  ‘First fetch me pen and paper. I will give you money to buy them,’ for he had opened his mouth to protest. ‘I wish to write a letter which you must have carried for me.’

  ‘And will you also write a spell to curse me then?’

  ‘I shall curse you if you do not fetch them,’ and I forced myself to laugh in lightness for I knew that if he should turn against me in truth, as now he wavered, he might testify against me that I had said or done this or that devilish thing. ‘But you must bring me as many sheets of paper as the money will buy for I have letters to write to such of my friends who can help me but who do not know where I may be found since I was snatched in the dark.’

  ‘Snatched you say.’

  ‘Yes, b
y those who wished me harm. And there will be those even now enquiring for me.’

  ‘I had no hand in this. I only do my duty as ordered by the justice who committed you to my charge.’

  ‘And so I shall testify when my friends find me as they surely will.’

  ‘I will do what you ask mistress, in case you are a witch or have powerful friends, either of which might destroy a poor man like me.’

  ‘Here is a shilling. Get me what I ask, as much paper as may be had, a capon for my dinner, and some small beer.’

  ‘Even in my wife’s old gown you speak like a young master.

  This may be a kind of witchcraft itself.’ And he left still grumbling.

  This time I awaited his return without fear, comforted and emboldened by the feel of the silk against my skin under the gown. My secret was out yet I was not broken. And I had set myself a task to write an account of all that had happened so that, whatever my fate, some word of my presence on the earth might be preserved. But first I would write to my lady.

  It’s taken me some sleuthing on my computer and in the Yellow Pages to track down a couple of rope ladders. Torches were easy. Now they’re packed in the Crusader’s carrier and I’m spinning down the M3 feeling like a real prick or anorak out to foil I don’t know what with my pathetic amateur seamus equipment. A call to Charlie’s mobile has set up a rendezvous in the bike shed at seven. And now I’m wondering why I bothered with torches. It’s June and we’re rushing towards the longest day. It’ll be broad daylight most, if not all, of the time we’re at the chapel. Not very bright, Jade. Cockup time.

  In fact the madness of the scheme looms larger and larger as I turn on to the road for the college and head towards the gates. I must have a story ready in case I’m challenged but my skull is suddenly full of loose sand where a brain ought to be. If only I knew enough, had enough evidence to go to the police and dump it on them. I see myself trying to explain.

  A conspiracy, you say? To hold a religious service? I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about that in a free country. We’re all entitled to our views no matter now strange they may seem to others. Unless they promote racism or terrorism of course.’

  The adrenaline’s racking up my pulse rate as I dismount and push the bike up to the gate. But my pass card works. No alarms go off. I’m inside with the bars swinging to behind me. I make for the bike shed. Charlie is there already with a slim brown young man I can imagine gliding skilfully between the tables of an Indian restaurant. Willowy rather than robust. I hope that it doesn’t come to a punch up.

  ‘This is my friend Omi.’ We shake hands. ‘Some of the elect have already left St John’s Hall. The others, not the elect, have been warned that they must stay in until after the Gathering is over. Then a bell will sound and the doors will be unlocked automatically. Omi came out with some of the elect.’

  ‘They don’t all know each other then?’

  ‘They aren’t encouraged to get together or get too friendly except during their services,’ Omi says.

  ‘That’s some help for us. But Molders will know who everyone is and I bet she’ll be keeping a lookout. If only I knew a way to the outside of the chapel at the back without getting so close to the main door.’

  ‘I do, Jade,’ says Charlie. ‘I tried it out earlier. You see I didn’t go home last night. I hid and slept here in the bike shed. It means a bit of climbing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘There’s a window above the wall bars in the gym. It leads on to a flat roof above the kitchens. From there you can get down into the grounds on the far side and go through a shrubbery to the outside of the chapel. I’ve seen your iron staircase and the three doors.’

  ‘The most dangerous part will be getting to the gym. You go first, Omi, as the least suspicious. Then you can signal Charlie and I’ll come along last. We have to pass the dean’s door. Let’s hope he’s psyching himself up for the big number, whatever that is. What’s for sure is if we’re caught on the way all hell will break loose. We’ll just have to risk it.’

  We leave the bike shed after Omi has sussed outside to see all’s clear. He trots off towards the main campus building and disappears inside. Then he reappears, nods for Charlie and vanishes again. Charlie follows. At the door he stops, disappears, comes back and nods for me. I’m hurrying after, not wanting to be left behind. Once inside I can spot him ahead at the next turn in the corridor. I see his head bent forward, peering round. He looks back, waves a hand and is gone. Round this bend I know is Dean Bishop’s room, halfway along the corridor. As I pass the door I can hear voices but I hurry on, thankful to reach the next corner and see round it Charlie beckoning from the entrance to the gym. Gratefully I duck inside and Charlie closes the door behind me with just a little click.

  The gym reeks with the memory of rubber mats, ropes, varnished wood and old sweat. Charlie leads the way across to a set of wall bars. Too late I remember I was hopeless at gym, could never vault over the box or horse, dangled useless at the end of a rope, unable to haul myself up hand over hand like a jolly Jack Tar, took half an hour to climb the rungs of the wall bars, reverse and hang proudly like a crucified Christ.

  No good thinking about it, Jade. Already Charlie and Omi are shinning up, nimble as meerkats. At the top Charlie opens a narrow slit of window and props it up with the bag of equipment before slithering through. I start on my painful way up. I just hope my bum doesn’t get stuck in that narrow gap. It would be so shaming if the boys had to push and pull me through. Omi has followed Charlie, and is looking down at me anxiously. He must be standing on the flat roof.

  Somehow that, and the fear of failure before his concerned eyes, gives me a boost. I’ve reached the top. The boys have taken the bag away and are holding the window open for me, giving me the maximum space. I start to feed my head and shoulders through the gap, levering myself forward on my arms. The bitumen surface of the roof is only half a metre below. My nostrils are filled with its tarry, friar’s balsam fumes drawn out by the hot sun. I bring my arms up and through the window. The danger now that I’m not holding on is of falling back into the gym. I try to squirm through but the waistband of my jeans is caught on the windowsill. Fighting down panic I reach down to my hips and flatten it over the metal bar, wriggle again and I’m going through, falling forward with my face in the tar, drawing up my knees, turning on my back and pulling my legs and feet further into the foetal position and I’m there. What a dog’s breakfast. I vow to take up kick boxing, yoga, acrobatics.

  ‘Well done, Jade,’ Charlie says solemnly just like an old PE teacher, cheering on the slobs when they’d managed not to fall off the horse.

  ‘What next?’ I ask, still catching my breath. My diaphragm feels as if I’ve been socked in the guts.

  ‘Now we go down to the ground. With the rope ladder. I will go first. You next, Jade. Then Omi last, bringing the ladder. We can hide behind the bushes.’

  Stupidly I go to the edge and look over. It seems a long way down even though the kitchen block is only a single-storey extension. ‘Ready?’ I nod. Charlie comes across to the edge and hooks one of the ladders over the low parapet around the roof. He crouches down and begins to lower himself on to the first rung over the side. I see his body disappearing as if sinking in mud or quicksand until there’s only his face. Then that’s gone too.

  I go forward at a crouch and try to imitate him as closely as possible. My feet fumble around before they make contact with a rung. Then I begin to lower myself, my hands grazed by the stone coping, my legs weak with fright. It seems to take for ever going down because all I can see is the brick wall in front of my nose. My feet are reaching blindly for another rung when they touch ground with a hard jar to my spine. I’m down. I let go. Turn, look round and head for the cover of the nearest institutional azalea.

  Omi is down in a flash, jerks the hooks off the parapet and catches the ladder as it comes hurtling down before it can hit the ground with a clang. He must be i
nvaluable on a cricket pitch as the traditional safe pair of hands. The top of Charlie’s head comes out from behind a nearby bush and then a hand waving us on. We set off, dodging from shrub to shrub and then suddenly I see one of the side walls of the chapel. We’re there. Time for me to resume charge of this operation. I head for the iron ladder. No time to check whether the bottom door is locked. Mentally I cross my fingers that the other two aren’t.

  I can hear Charlie and Omi, panting a bit now, behind me on the ladder. I pull on the ring door handle. It turns. I’m inside the little room. Now I remember the reason for the torches. It’s pitch black as Charlie blocks out the light from the door. I take the bag from him, grope around for a torch and switch on. Omi joins me. I gesture for them to shut the door. Then we all stand still and listen. No sound comes up from below.

  Taking a tin of putty out of the bag I force some into the keyhole until it’s completely blocked. Any attempt to put a key in from the other side would, I hope, force putty deeper into the lock, jamming the mechanism. I move over to the little door opposite and begin to prise it gently open, switching off the torch at the same time.

  A muted hum rises from the body of the chapel, not of voices but an amalgam of breathing and shuffling with an occasional cough that tells us there are people there, people who aren’t speaking to each other even in whispers, who’re just waiting. You can almost feel the throb of expectancy in the air, steaming up from where they must be sitting. I have to risk being seen and take a look. After all that’s what you’re there for, Jade.

  Crouching down I inch forward as I did before until I can just see down through the gallery railing. There are indeed people in the chapel, some on their knees, others sitting quietly with closed eyes. I switch my view to the main door. It’s open and in the corridor outside I can see Mary-Ann Molders vetting the students as they approach. She seems to be asking their names and ticking them off on a list before letting them in to join the rest.