The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt

by Annette Siketa

  “Good God,” muttered Richard. “She looks like a magpie.” Apart from the snowy white curls peeping under her equally white cap, the old woman was dressed entirely in black. Her deep-set wrinkles, watchful eyes, and black eyebrows, might have rendered her formidable had she not been bent and walking with a stick.

  Custom and not manners prompted Nicholas to bow. “Good afternoon, Mistress Craddock, young Nancy.” He looked at the old woman and teased, “And how did you get here today - broomstick?”

  There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd, even though many were ‘pretending’ not to listen. Nancy however, was not impressed. “She came on a cart yesterday and stayed with me last night,” she said defensively.

  “Ah, Nicholas Faulkner,” said Fanny in her reedy voice. She turned myopic eyes on Richard and barked, “And who are you?”

  “Richard Faulkner of Foxbury Chase.”

  “Another accursed Faulkner. You people breed like rabbits.”

  “Mind your manners!” Nicholas stepped forward. Sleights on his person were nothing compared to those on his family. Your reputation proceeds you, old woman. I want none of your tricks whilst you’re here.”

  Due to the voluminous sleeves of her costume, nobody saw Nancy give her grandmother’s arm a warning squeeze. “She has come to watch the festivities and to collect a particular lichen that grows near the old stones. She uses it in a brew to relieve her rheumatism.”

  Nicholas snorted. “Huh, more likely a brew to invoke a malady.”

  “Out of my way ye pestilent fool!” Fanny raised her stick as though to strike but Nicholas grabbed her arm. “Let me go or cramps and aches will rack thy bones!”

  Nicholas released his grip and stepped back, not because of the threat, but because of the conviction in her voice. Richard however, had no such qualms.

  “Mistress Craddock,” he said sharply, “you carry your malignity too far. A woman of your age should know how to respect her betters.”

  Sensing an argument that she knew could only end in disaster, Nancy tried to pull her away. The old woman stood her ground as though made of solid iron. “So, you think to teach me manners? Perhaps I should teach thee not to cross my path again,” and so saying, pointed a gnarled finger between Richard’s eyes. “Sorrow and shame to the next woman who loves you!”

  Richard was momentarily stunned. Then, breathing hard, he spat out, “You contemptible hag!”

  “Ha! You fear me now,” she screeched as Nancy, giving Richard a look of deepest apology, succeeded in dragging her away.

  “Do you believe me now?” asked Nicholas, still seething at her blatant disrespect.

  “She actually cursed me,” said Richard, in a stupefied voice.

  “And that is grounds for arrest,” said Nicholas. “Keep an eye on her while I find Simon Smithers, the constable. I’ll recommend that she be locked in a pigsty for the night. I’ll teach the old hag not to cross my path.”

  He stalked away and presently approached a big burly man dressed in the colours of the Earl of Leeds - scarlet and gold tunic and a brimmed black hat. He was also carrying a long silver-tipped staff, which he banged on the ground after being told the particulars.

  “A curse?” he roared. “Mistress Craddock?”

  Those within earshot exchanged excited glances. A curse? Fanny Craddock had cursed Nicholas Faulkner? Did this mean, as many had suspected for a long time, that she would finally be proven a witch? The prospect proved too much for some.

  “Where is she?” yelled several voices. “We’ll catch her!”

  “Use the maypole as a stake and burn the bitch!”

  “Aye, an’ she can take the other hag with her.”

  Nicholas had to shout to be heard above the hubbub. “Can anybody see them or my cousin, Richard Faulkner?”

  Heads swivelled en masse, and then a young girl who was sitting on her father’s shoulders, cried out lustily, “There they are! Just outside the abbey!”

  ***

  Two burly farmers were holding Nancy by the arms. Nicholas tried to look around, but the crowd was now so thick that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

  “Dick, where the devil is the old woman?”

  “I don’t know. One minute she was with Nancy, and the next she was gone.”

  “Leave her to me,” said Smithers authoritively. “I’ll ring the truth out of her.”

  “And make a clumsy job of it too,” said Twissleton, pushing through the crowd. “She must be examined…” he threw an arrogant glance at the constable, “…by an expert.”

  Nancy looked at the constable pleadingly. “Let me go, Simon. You know me well. You know I’m not a witch.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” he responded imperiously, now regretting that they had copulated two nights earlier.

  Nancy struggled against her captors. “Help! Someone save me!” but the crowd, seemingly smelling blood, began to chant ‘Make her swim! Make her swim!’

  “Quite right my friends,” shouted Twissleton, goading the mob. “The King’s justice must be done!”

  Nicholas turned to the terrified girl. “For pity’s sake, Nancy, you must tell us what happened to Mistress Craddock,” but Nancy’s lips were pressed tight shut. Either she could not, or would not, say a word.

  “Mistress Craddock?” cried Twissleton in gleeful surprise. “That settles the matter. Either she talks or she’ll be put to trial.”

  Davy Ashmore, who had been competing in the sporting contests on the green, formed part of the watching crowd. He was well aware of the bitterness between his grandmother and Fanny Craddock, and though he bore no personal animosity towards Nancy, when he saw a large black rat running along the top of a wall, the opportunity for brinkmanship was too good to miss.

  “Look! Up there! There she is! The old witch is the rat!”

  It was soon caught and its neck rung, but it did not change into an old woman. Incensed, the crowd gave vent by a renewed and more vigorous chant of ‘Make her swim!’ Davy added more fuel to the fire by yelling, “She did something. I saw her twitch her fingers.”

  He hurled the rat in Nancy’s direction, but it missed its mark and hit Twissleton in the face. The solicitor shrieked and jumped backwards. Then, furious at his own stupidity, he stomped on the rat until it was nothing but gore.

  “Listen to me, my dear,” he said, approaching Nancy, his portly body quivering with power lust, ”if you will tell us what has become of your grandmother and undertake to bear witness against her, you shall be set free.”

  “Ha! I no more believe that than the sky will fall tomorrow. You will not make me speak.”

  Twissleton turned and addressed the crowd, his face exultant. “You all heard her. I offer her liberty and she refuses. What is she hiding?”

  ‘Make her swim! Make her swim!’

  Richard now approached and spoke in a kind tone. “You had better tell him, Nancy. The mood the crowd is in, they’re likely to tear you apart.”

  “I can’t, I have nothing to tell.”

  Richard sighed and turned to Nicholas. “It is useless to reason with her.”

  “She does not deserve your compassion,” said Nicholas forcibly. “Smithers has just told me that she is adept at making clay figures.”

  “That be true,” said the constable earnestly. “I recently had occasion to visit her cottage, and saw a clay figure as big as a six month babe in the corner. The head was missing and it was stuck with pins. To me, it looked like Farmer Trimble’s new bairn.”

  “Liar!” Nancy regarded him furiously. “How could you see anything when your face was buried between my legs!”

  There was an outburst of laughter and bawdy jibes. Nicholas ignored it. He had discerned a flaw in the constable’s statement. “If the head was missing, Simon, then how did you recognise the child?”

  This made too much sense for Twissleton’s liking. “What does it matter?” he snapped. “She is an accused witch and must be put to tria
l. And have you noticed that with all her supposed fright, she has not shed a tear? Not a single tear!”

  Nancy spit in his face. “That’s all the water you’ll get out of my body.”

  “Water… yes, that’s it. To the river!” Twissleton had no idea how to get there and nor did he care. He had caught his first witch!

  “I’ll get the ropes,” cried Davy, and ran to a nearby stable. He knew exactly what to do, and what was coming. He had once seen a woman put to the same trial in Leeds. She was declared innocent, but by the time she had been raised from the bottom of a deep pond, she was dead.

  Twissleton wiped the spittle off his cheek and transferred it to Nancy’s dress, brushing her breasts in the process. “I’ll soon break you,” he hissed in a dangerous voice. “And make no mistake, madam, not even your whoring ways can get you out of it.” He turned back to the crowd and shouted, “To the river!”

  There was an almighty roar of approval. Then, amidst the maelstrom of excitement, Nancy broke free and ran down the hill. Davy Ashmore, who was approaching from the opposite direction with two coils of rope around his shoulders, set off in pursuit and caught her.

  “Oh - no - you - don’t,” he yelled, slapping her face between words.

  Nancy felt blood under her nose but ignored it. “Release me, an I’ll do you a good turn when you need it.” His only response was to slap her face again. Nancy winced but did not cry out. “Take heed, Davy Ashmore. If you do this, my grandmother will break thy bones and thy family, and you know she can do it.”

  Still silent, Davy marched her back to Twissleton, whose broad grin resembled that of a toad. “Well done, Master Ashmore. That is thy name is it not?”

  “At your service,” he said with a bow. “I know what is to be done. Shall I bind her?”

  Twissleton was revelling in the fact that he was the centre of attention. However, he thought it wise to treat the young man with some civility. After all, he had a direct connection to a much bigger prize. “Yes, but not tightly. Justice must be seen to be done. Can you recommend a suitable area?”

  “I know the perfect spot,” said Davy, and pied-piper fashion, began leading the crowd down the hill to an area known as Hadrian’s Folly, where the river cascaded into a narrow gorge, thus forming a deep and turbulent pool.

  Chapter Five

  Early Afternoon

  In spite of Twissleton’s instructions, Nancy’s hands and feet were bound so tightly that Davy was soon compelled to carry her. “Here,” he said, handing the second rope to his sister.

  He slung Nancy over his shoulder as though she weighed no more than a sack of feathers, and neither her undignified position, youth, nor cries for help, had any effect on the crowd. Indeed, the pitch was increased when Catherine, walking a pace behind her brother, pointed to a mole on Nancy’s exposed shoulders and yelled, “A mark! Look, she has the devil’s mark.”

  “And who might you be?” asked Twissleton, drinking-in her slender figure and the tops of her small rounded breasts.

  “Catherine Ashmore.” She pointed to Davy. “My brother.”

  “Another Ashmore, eh?” Twissleton touched her flaming red hair. “A most becoming colour. Is it enhanced?”

  “Of course not, it’s the same colour as…” She broke off and giggled coquettishly, but Twissleton knew to what she was referring. Lust, and not witchcraft, tried to dominate his mind. It was therefore with regret that he repelled the thought of a fiery ‘heaven’.

  “Do you, perchance, have a pin on you?”

  “I do,” and as Catherine bent over to reach under her skirts, she exposed even more of her dainty breasts. Twissleton saw the virginal nipples and momentarily closed his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said, recovering his composure. “I shall now test the mark with the pin,” and without warning, plunged it into the mole. Nancy, having heard the conversation, had braced herself for the pain. “See?” said Twissleton in satisfaction, roughly withdrawing the pin. “She felt nothing.”

  “Felt nothing?” retorted Nancy, unable to keep silent. “May you feel a pain as sharp in your black heart.”

  The crowd, now convinced of Nancy's guilt, even though many of them had known her for years, called to friends and neighbours as they marched towards the river. Meanwhile, the constable and several men, after relieving Catherine of the second rope, crossed a footbridge and made their way along the opposite bank.

  Due to the somewhat undulating terrain and the course of the river, the procession had to take a slightly longer way around to reach the appointed spot. Nobody seemed to mind though, especially Catherine, who not only shared the family’s hatred of Fanny Craddock, but had not forgotten Nancy’s sharp words that morning.

  “If you were Queen, Nancy,” she taunted, “what would you wish for now?”

  “Shut up you little slut! You shouldn’t jeer me seeing you were born a witch yourself.”

  “She lies,” said Catherine, noticing that the solicitor’s expression had changed from amorous to speculative. “She’ll say anything to save her neck.”

  “Ha! The entire Dymock family is steeped in witchcraft.” Nancy suddenly caught her breath. Still slumped over Davy’s shoulder, he had slipped a hand up her skirt and pinched the flesh at the top of her thighs.

  “Hold your tongue,” he hissed in a menacing tone.

  “No,” said Catherine diffidently. “Let her talk. Her words will be nothing but ashes when she’s burnt.”

  Nancy managed to raise her head and saw an opportunity, if not for escape, then at least to instil further doubt. “Master Twissleton, I advise you to look at her arm. See how the rope has disturbed her gown? She has her own mark.”

  “That's where my cat scratched me this morning!”

  Catherine tried to readjust her sleeve but Twissleton grabbed her arm. “Let me see that. Hmm, it certainly looks like a scratch,” he observed calmly, trying to suppress the shudder he felt as he touched her skin.

  The procession reached what was ostensibly a waterfall. “We’re here,” said Davy, throwing Nancy onto the damp and slippery grass.

  Twissleton began shouting instructions to Smithers on the opposite bank. He tied a rock to the end of his rope and hurled it across the river. It landed with a ‘thud’ at Davy’s feet. Nancy watched in horror as he fastened it around her right arm. She began to take deep breaths, feverishly hoping that her healthy constitution would be her salvation.

  Davy shouted to Smithers to ‘take the strain’. Then, guiding Nancy to the edge of the water, he pushed her in. Nancy’s right arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket as Smithers pulled her to the centre of the pool. The water was freezing and she could barely breathe, and yet she did not sink. And then she realised why. The voluminous sleeves of her gown were filled with air. She took several deep painful breaths, twisted her hands so that she could grasp the hem of each sleeve, and pulled them down.

  Apart from the sound of the gently splashing waterfall, there was dead silence. Even the birds and insects seemed to have stopped. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. And then…

  “Enough!” Richard’s voice cut through the stillness. He could not endure the barbarity any longer.

  “I think not,” said Twissleton slowly, his piggy eyes glued to the centre of the pool. “According to the statute…”

  “Damn the statute! She has passed the test, so either bring her up or I’ll have you charged with murder.”

  “Well… I’m not sure…” Twissleton vacillated, but Richard discerned the delaying tactic at once.

  “Now!” he screamed, grabbing the solicitor’s collar. “Bring her up or by God you’ll go in after her!”

  Twissleton signalled to Smithers who released his rope. A groan, as much of disappointment as sympathy, emanated from the crowd when Nancy broke the surface. Nicholas plunged into the water and dragged the half-drowned woman to the bank. Richard produced a knife and carefully cut her free. Barely sensible, Nancy fixed a look of inexpressible gratitude
upon her preservers, and then burst into tears.

  A rustic offered Nicholas a cloak. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, though he did not mean to sound ungracious. He was angry that he had allowed himself to be swept-up in the hysteria, and his temper now being on a very short string, advanced on the solicitor. “Master Twissleton, what was it you said earlier about a witch only crying three tears? Look at her face! While I agree her grandmother is still suspect, Nancy has proven by your own standards that she’s not a witch. I think an apology and reparation are called for.”

  “Nonsense. I was only doing my duty and adhering to the law.”

  “The law?” cried Nicholas furiously, and unable to restrain himself, grabbed the solicitor by the throat. “Good God, man, you’ve just made a complete ass out of it. Any good you might have done by setting an example has been destroyed by your zeal.”

  Twissleton clawed at the hands around his neck. “My very good sir,” he said in a choking whisper, “this is a breach of the peace, punishable by fine and imprisonment. I call on the people here present to witness your assault!”

  “Assault? Why you mangy dog…” and seizing him by collar and doublet, Nicholas cast him into the river. There was a tremendous splash then he sank like a stone.

  Richard could not resist yelling, “Well, at least we know he’s not a wizard!”

  The solicitor, his face puce from holding his breath, rose to the surface and bobbed like a cork. As with Nancy, his air-filled clothes were keeping him afloat. Davy threw him a rope and pulled him to safety, and as Twissleton climbed up the slippery bank, he was greeted with catcalls and denunciations, and a smirking though still angry Nicholas.

  “How like you the water ordeal, Master Solicitor? No need for a second trial I think.”

  Twissleton ignored the jibe and spoke to Davy. “Take me to my lodging at the White Swan. Rest assured, lad, I will recompense thee for thy pains and the service just rendered me.” He let out a groan as he rammed his soggy hat onto his equally soggy head. “Oh, I can feel the rheumatics already.”

  Nicholas glanced at Nancy, who was being attended by Richard and several women. “Perhaps you should ask Mistress Craddock to brew a potion for your comfort,” he said sardonically. “After what you’ve just done to her granddaughter, I’m certain she’ll be more than happy to oblige.”