A Roll of the Bones

by Trudy J. Morgan-Cole

  In bed with Nancy that night, the baby settled between them, Kathryn longed to confide in her oldest and only friend. But it was Nancy who spoke first.

  “I looked for you today, after I saw you on the path. Where did you go?”

  “Down to the brewhouse, to help with the ale making.”

  “Ah.” Silence, for a few moments. The others all slept in the upstairs room now, so the room outside their curtained bed felt empty.

  “What means that—ah? You know if there’s aught you wish to say, Nan, you can’t keep it secret from me.” Though I can keep secrets from you, it seems.

  “Nothing, only—be careful. You did not see Master Willoughby, did you—nor meet with him alone?”

  “Stop harping on this matter! You warned me before, and I told you I am no such fool.” Kathryn tried to make her voice sound now just as it had sounded when they spoke of Willoughby before: like the voice of an innocent woman. She could still feel every place his hands had touched her.

  “Even if you be no fool, he might be a braggart. I think—I believe he has said things. To other men.”

  “What? When did you hear this?”

  “It was months ago,” Nancy said, and Kathryn let out the breath she had been holding. “Something Whittington said, is all.”

  “George Whittington? But you know him for a fool and a liar.”

  “Yes, but that is not to say Thomas Willoughby might not be a fool and a liar as well.”

  But I am neither, Kathryn wanted to say, only it was not true. She was both, and there would be a price to pay. “My husband knows nothing of this slander,” she said. “If ’twas months ago, and anyone meant him to hear of it, he would have heard by now.”

  “And if he does hear?”

  “I will tell him it is all lies, that I have never been untrue to him.”

  Nancy laughed. “As every woman accused of being faithless has said since time began. And no doubt every man believes her.”

  After Nancy fell asleep, Kathryn lay awake beside her sleeping maid and her sleeping child. Why would Nancy bring this up again, after so long? Could she have seen something, or did she only suspect? Her eyes and her mind were as sharp as her tongue. But none of them, Kathryn thought, as keen as her loyalty to me. And then she remembered she had just lied to Nancy, a bold-faced lie she could not untell.

  A lie to her friend; a betrayal of her husband; a mortal sin averted only by the maids coming near to the brewhouse. But none of those were on her mind when she finally slipped into sleep. Only Thomas Willoughby, his lips and hands and the hard young body covered with its fine sheen of sweat, that moved seamlessly from her memory into her dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An Accusation Is Made

  These are strong Arms to buckle with the Devil,

  Fasting, Faith, Prayer, bearing, forbearing evil:

  If with these weapons God do us assist,

  Satan will ne’er stand to it, nor resist.

  CUPIDS COVE

  JUNE 1613

  IT RAINED ALL THAT NIGHT. RAIN LEAKED IN AROUND THE windows and through tiny cracks in the roof and walls. In the morning, Nancy got up and mopped the floor while Bess built up the fire. The young master whimpered, a thin reedy cry, and within the bed curtains Nancy heard Kathryn rousing to feed him. It was Sunday morning, and after breaking the fast they would go down to the main dwelling-house for the morning service.

  The residents of Cupids Cove huddled on benches around the fire, their damp clothes still drying in the chilly morning air. When the women had first come to Cupids Cove last summer, all the colonists sat together cheek-by-jowl for Sunday services. But over the course of the winter they had sorted themselves by class as they might do in a parish church back in England: masters and mistresses at the front, with servants and labouring men together on the back benches. Nancy remembered speaking of such things with Kathryn long before they had come to the New World, and all had come true as Kathryn had said. The divisions between master and man, mistress and maid, continued as sharp as ever on this side of the ocean.

  So it was that on the centre benches Kathryn sat with her baby on her lap and her husband’s place empty beside her; in front of them sat Philip and Elizabeth Guy and their little boys, and behind them William and Jane Catchmaid. Nancy sat towards the back with Daisy, Bess, and Frank; the other servants and apprentices also clustered onto the back benches. Sam and Sal Butler, George and Nell Whittington, and a few others whose status was less clear, occupied a middle area in between.

  At the end of one of the front benches sat Thomas Willoughby alone, handsome and disdainful. Nancy watched to see if his eyes sought out her mistress’s. She did not entirely trust Kathryn’s protestations of innocence: while Kathryn would surely not be such a fool as to betray her husband, she might not be above carrying on a dalliance through soft words and sweet looks. As for young Willoughby himself, Nancy trusted him not one whit.

  Reverend Leat rose and began the service. He prayed for the safe return of the men who had sailed up the coast with Master Crout, that they might meet the natives, and treat peacefully with them, and soon return home. He prayed also for the safety of “others” who were away from the cove, but did not mention Nicholas Guy by name. Philip Guy read the Gospel and led them in a psalm tune, and the minister read the rest of the morning service and then launched into his sermon. He tended to lengthy sermons, so much so that Nancy wondered if he might incline towards Puritanism. She shifted on the bench, wishing it were a more comfortable seat.

  She was drowsy and already could not remember what the text had been, but the minister had veered off into one of those terrible bloody Old Testament stories, this one about the Israelite man who had stolen something that was meant to be destroyed, and lots had to be cast till the guilty party was discovered and then stoned to death. “For where there is sin in the camp,” he droned, “there can be no blessing. And indeed, can the Lord bless our camp here, our colony in this New World, if we cherish sin in our camp? If we do not name it and drive it out from our midst, then we shall see what we are seeing: disease, dissention, discouragement, and death.”

  Murmurs from the worshippers on the benches. Nancy, pulled from her reverie, focused on the minister’s words. Likely he was only going to give a general exhortation on the subject of sin, but there was something in his tone that hinted at the particular. Sin in the camp.

  Then she saw the fair head of George Whittington, from where he sat on the bench next to his meek little bride, turn right around and look at her. His big, flat, smug face locked on hers so that there could be no mistaking; his broad mouth quirked in an unpleasant smile.

  Sin in the camp.

  If you tell tales, I’ll tell some of my own.

  I said you’d someday regret refusing me.

  Sin in the camp.

  Sin in the camp.

  Whittington turned back to the preacher, just as Reverend Leat said, “If there is sin in the camp, we must name it, we must condemn it, we must cleanse it from our midst. It weighs heavy on my heart today, that I have heard tell of a woman in our midst who has committed the gravest of sins, who has offended against the Lord our God and against this whole community. Brethren and sisters, we must not let this pass.”

  Nancy was alert enough now, staring at the backs of all those in front of her, staring at Kathryn. George Whittington had made good on his threat: he had carried the slanderous tale of Kathryn and Thomas Willoughby to the minister. And no doubt to Philip Guy, too, for Reverend Leat was too much of a mouse to make such an accusation without Guy’s approval. I hope you are as innocent as you swear you are, dear heart, Nancy thought at Kathryn’s back.

  “Yet we will harbour no accusations without a proper hearing to determine the truth,” the reverend said. “I call upon the man who brings this accusation to stand and tell us what he knows. George Whittington?”

  Whittington stood up. Nancy took some pleasure in the fact that he favoured his foot as he rose. But
she had never imagined he would do this in public; the worst she had thought was that Whittington might put a private word in Nicholas Guy’s ear. Was this her fault? If she had given in to Whittington’s embraces, could she have saved Kathryn this public shame?

  “It gives me no joy to say this,” Whittington said, looking like it gave him great joy indeed. “’Tis a shameful thing to have in our midst, but there is a woman in this congregation who has sold herself to the Devil, and uses her powers to the ruin of our whole colony. If Cupids Cove has not prospered, this last year, ’tis because of one woman who has taken up the darkest of arts. Though it pains me to say it, Nancy Ellis is…a witch.”

  The room was silent as a grave. Nancy felt breathless, as though someone’s heavy boot had stepped on her chest and driven all the air from her lungs. She had been braced for Kathryn’s name, for words like adulteress, harlot, whore. But to hear her own name, and the word witch.... It was as if Whittington had spoken in Spanish or in French: she knew the words had meaning but could make no sense of them.

  And every person in the congregation was staring, no longer at him, but at her.

  Kathryn’s voice broke the silence. “What? This is madness!” she cried, but the minister raised his hand.

  “It is indeed a grave accusation,” he said. “And as such it must be heard. Silence, Mistress Guy. Whittington, tell us your evidence against Nancy Ellis.”

  Whittington limped to the front of the room, took Reverend Leat’s place at the pulpit. What would he say? Nancy Ellis refused to marry me, or even to lie with me, and therefore she must be a witch?

  Never did a man look more out of place than George Whittington in a pulpit. He settled his big meaty hands on either side of the desk and cleared his throat. “Masters, I came before you in private,” he said, addressing himself to Philip Guy and the minister, “when I happened to find out what wickedness this girl, this Nancy, was doing. I made her acquaintance, all of us being thrown into each other’s company so much as we are here, working side by side, and she made, sirs, she made some most improper suggestions. She tempted me, as only an evil woman can tempt a man. This was before I was married to my Nell, but still, sirs, I knew it weren’t right. I told her, if you wants that kind of carrying on, we ought to get married proper in front of the minister. But she said no, no marrying for her, she would take lovers but she wouldn’t have a husband, because she—er, she were already promised. To the Devil. She’d made a vow to the Devil, she had, and he’d given her a power to charm any man she pleased.”

  The silence was shattered now: all around on the benches were gasps and whispers as Whittington went on. “She has used the Devil’s power to sow troubles in our midst, and to curse our colony with disease. She has her familiar—you all have seen it, this kid-goat she carries about with her—and a goat, as we all well know, is a symbol of the Devil himself.” Nancy clapped a hand over her mouth, for she was seized by a sudden wild desire to laugh aloud. Her familiar? Poor little Petal that she had rescued and fed and nursed, was a demon in goat’s form?

  Whittington was still talking. “She has placed curses on them that have crossed her—just yesterday, I had words with her, and she cursed me so that I near to broke my ankle, and you see before you how I am lamed. And ’tis not my word alone, for there are others can speak to the truth of these words.”

  “Who is that?” the minister prompted. “Who has anything more to say about these accusations?”

  Sal Butler got to her feet. “Masters, forgive me, I know ’tis not a woman’s place to speak in meeting. But when young Master Whittington spoke to me of this matter, I had to unburden myself, and he said I must speak before you all, to tell what I know.”

  She, too, was enjoying this: even in the midst of her terror Nancy could see the wicked glint of enjoyment in Sal’s eyes—much like the pleasure in Whittington’s eyes when Sal gave him the undeserved title of Master. Sal Butler liked being the centre of attention: what woman would not, when men so rarely listened to what they had to say?

  “Masters, ye knows, we all knows, how hard the times were here last winter, when so many fell sick. And ’twas no natural sickness, but I believed all along ’twas brought about by some curse. And my lady, good Mistress Catchmaid, was with child, and so was the wife of Nicholas Guy. When the sickness struck, my mistress’s child was taken from her before it ever even drew breath, while Mistress Guy bore a hale and hearty child.”

  Jonathan Guy, as if knowing he was being spoken of, stirred in his mother’s arms and let out a little whimper, and again all the heads of the congregation turned, as if they were drawn on so many strings, towards the baby and his mother. Kathryn was still sputtering, choking back words she was not permitted to speak.

  “Masters, this wicked wench Nancy placed a curse on my mistress, so she should lose her child, and so Mistress Guy would be the only one to bear a healthy child. When I attended her mistress’s lying in, Nancy was never far from her side, and she was muttering incantations and papistical prayers, casting a charm to see the child born safe. And — and even before that, as I lay in my bed one night last winter, sleeping sound, I woke and saw Nancy Ellis in my room, though the doors were barred and there was no way for her to get in, and she laughed and said the Devil had come to her and told her only one child might live, my mistress’s or her mistress’s child. And then she pricked me with a pin, and vanished from my sight, and when I woke in the morning, sure, that was the day Mistress Catchmaid lost her child.”

  “A fine story!” Kathryn burst out. Nancy was surprised to hear Thomas Willoughby speak up from the far bench as well. “Why did you say nothing of this at the time?”

  Sal Butler hesitated only a moment, then said, “She threatened me, when she came to me in her spirit form—she said if I told anyone, the curse would fall not only on my mistress but on me as well.” She looked about to finish, but then, as if the thought had just struck her, added, “And she were riding upon a goat, when she came to me in that form. Riding upon a goat, indeed.”

  Shouts and clamour now rose from all the benches. Amid the noise Nancy could hear the word “Witch!” as well as the word “Nonsense!” and a good deal more, including an ear-piercing howl from little Harry Guy who was surely excited by all the adults shouting in church. His mother quickly silenced him as George Whittington stepped back to the pulpit.

  “’Tis passing strange, indeed,” Whittington said, “that we lost so many good souls this winter, but no plague fell upon Nicholas Guy’s house—they were all spared.”

  “How dare you say so, Whittington, you great daft fool!” Now it was, of all people, the gentle Frank Tipton who rose to his feet. “I live in Nicholas Guy’s household, along with Nancy and all of us here.” He gestured along their bench. “My own wife’s sister Molly died in the plague, and so did our Daisy’s husband, Matt Grigg.” And, adding her voice to his, Daisy cried, “How dare you say we lost no one?”

  “Oh, and ’tis mighty convenient, is it not,” Sal Butler shot back, “that it was those two poor souls who died, Matt and Molly?” She pointed her finger at Daisy. “You got Nancy to put a curse on your poor husband and your sister too, for everyone could see you and Tom Taylor was sweet on each other and wanted those two out of the way. Sure they were hardly cold in their graves before you two was going at it!”

  Daisy howled as if she had been slapped, and Bess gathered her sister into her arms. Kathryn got to her feet and shouted above the din, “I demand to speak! I demand to defend my maid!” Just as she did so, the baby in her arms began to howl in earnest, a great blood-curdling shriek that drowned out all the arguments and protests. That set his young cousin Harry off again, with another volley of hoots and howls. And amid all the chaos sat Nancy, like a rock in a whirling stream.

  I must say something. I must defend myself, she thought, but then What can I say? And who would listen? She had known that George Whittington desired and despised her, that Sal Butler resented and disliked her. But she had never i
magined either of them capable of this.

  Amid the chaos, Philip Guy strode to the pulpit. Everyone except the crying baby stilled, and the three people standing at the front of the room—Sal Butler, George Whittington, and the minister—stepped away as Guy took his position.

  “I heard this accusation for the first time last night,” Philip Guy said. “Seeing it brought forward today, I know not what madness has taken hold of this congregation—whether ’tis that of witchcraft, or only the spirit of petty spite that brings false accusations against neighbours. I will say it sounds more like the latter than the former. We have long months of short rations, bad weather, and close quarters, not to mention the loss of eight good men. Tempers are short, and in such times folk may turn on one another.” A murmur rose, and he put up his hand to still it. “But this is a grave accusation to bring into a Christian congregation, and such an accusation can never be taken lightly. We must withdraw, and consider this matter. Then we shall hold a proper trial to determine the guilt or innocence of Nancy Ellis, who stands accused of the vile crime of witchcraft.”

  “You know ’tis false!” Kathryn cried, trying to shush the infant in her arms.

  Her husband’s cousin turned a stern face to her. “None of us knows that. We only know that she is accused, and that we must have a proper hearing. If your husband were at home, I would release Nancy into your custody, but with no master in the household, I cannot lay that burden upon you. Therefore I will keep Nancy close guarded until such time as we can hear the charges properly, and weigh them. And may God have mercy on each and every one of us.”

  He walked from the pulpit down between the benches, through the room that had grown suddenly silent again, until he reached the bench where Nancy sat. He gestured for her to stand, and when she did, he put a hand heavy as iron upon her shoulder.