But now I am far away, she thought.
She tried not to think of being hanged, or drowned, or even burned—had she not heard tales of witches being burned? She was not a creature of fancies and dreams like Kathryn; she was practical Nancy Ellis, who turned her hand to the task at hand, and did not fret about what might be.
But the matter at hand was life and death. And try as she might, alone in this dark, cramped space with no work to busy her hands, she could not but think on death.
What is a witch? A witch was a woman who sold her soul to the Devil. Could anyone do that, in truth?
Some said a witch was no more than a cunning woman who used her powers for evil instead of good. But I have no such powers.
Nancy thought of the herb-lore she had learned from Mistress Gale; there was no magic in that, only knowledge. She thought of Aunt Tibby’s charms. But those are nothing more than old prayers, and I hardly know them, or even believe that they work.
A witch is a woman who…a witch is a woman….
Her mind scurried like a frantic creature tethered to a stake, thinking it was running free but only going round and round.
A witch is a woman who is accused of being a witch.
At last her mind, exhausted, curled up inside her body and slept. When she woke, stiff and chilled on a pile of empty sacks, she thought of it as morning. Gray light crept under the door. Morning, or evening? Small wonder she was losing track of the days.
She had dreamed she was out of this room, out of Cupids Cove altogether, in some green open place where there were no accusers and no enemies. Ned was there, laughing at some foolishness, and when she woke she missed him fiercely. She thought of him often. If she had married him when he asked her, she might have been spared this. Safety was, perhaps, a good enough reason for a woman to marry. There were other good reasons—laughter, kindness, even love. But she had passed beyond all that now. Ned could not save her, even if he were here.
He was so much in her mind that when the door opened, she half-expected him to be there. But it was not him, nor was it Kathryn with a basket of food. Philip Guy opened the door wide and strode into the building.
She tensed, gathered her petticoat in her fists, darted towards the door. Master Guy caught her, iron hands gripping her upper arms. “Now, now, none of that,” he chided. “If you try to run, you will be kept in this same strait keeping, aye, and chained if need be.”
She wanted to scream, to spit in his face, but she gathered her wits as she had just gathered up her skirts. Bundled them together into something that could put on a calm face and say, “I beg pardon, Master Guy. I have been so frightened, alone in here, I know not what came over me.” Forced herself to look up into his face. He must see that she was a poor, pitiable young maid, and certainly no witch. And in truth, it took little craft to appear frightened and wretched.
It worked; his face softened. “Your good lady has convinced me that we are doing you harm by holding you thus. Your mistress swears on her own good faith that you can be trusted, if we keep you under a kindlier guard until your trial.”
“You will release me to the care of my mistress?”
Philip Guy shook his head. “No, for the master is not there to watch you. You will come to my house, but we will keep you in a chamber where you have light, and a bed to sleep in, and no door to bar you in, if you give your word not to flee. My wife has agreed to keep watch over you.”
So they did not trust Kathryn to guard her. Why release her at all, even to a limited degree? Perhaps, Nancy thought, the masters were afraid she would curse them if they left her in the little storeroom.
She was brought out of that dark building, four paces by three, and allowed to have light, and to move about, and sleep in something resembling comfort and warmth. She was given regular meals in a small chamber by herself—a closet where herbs hung drying in bunches. This room had a bed in it, and a curtain instead of a door barring it off. She was not allowed to visit or talk with anyone other than Elizabeth Guy, who gave her a large basket of mending to do and made as little conversation as possible. Mistress Guy’s littlest boy, Harry, poked his face around the curtain once or twice as if he would come in and talk to her, but he was quickly hustled away.
Sunday came around again, and Mistress Guy told Nancy she must stay alone in the chamber and could not attend the service. She heard everyone gathering out in the main room, heard the hymns and the prayers. She tensed for the sermon, lest the word “witch” rise above the drone of the minister’s voice.
She was more comfortable in Philip Guy’s house than she had been in the storeroom, and the comfort made her feel safer. But she was not safer, not really. They had given her food and light and a bed, but not her freedom. At any moment, they could still name her a witch and she would be swinging from a hangman’s noose.
Beneath the hum of voices in the outer room, Nancy said her own prayers. She recited, as she always had, the prayers she had been taught growing up in the Gale household. People were put to death for having too many opinions about religion, and Nancy had always contented herself with very few. God was in Heaven; church was on Sunday; she would worship in whatever form was dictated by the king. She did not say Aunt Tibby’s old charm-prayers; she repeated what everyone else said from the prayer book, and that would keep her safe.
Here in Cupids Cove religion had seemed a simple matter, for there was only one church and one minister, and no Catholics or Puritans among the handful of colonists—none, at least, who dared claim those names. Nancy’s own creed was to work hard and trust that God would save her immortal soul; otherwise, she gave little thought to such matters.
Now she stood accused of selling her soul to the Devil, a character to whom she had given even less thought than God. So she recited her childhood prayers and added her own petition: Almighty God, look with pity upon your servant, and get me out of this bloody mess.
Something had happened out in the main room. Nancy heard raised voices, a commotion, benches shoved back. Then, footsteps coming towards the chamber where she waited. Her fists clenched in her lap; she held her breath.
But this time, when the curtain pushed aside, it truly was Ned Perry. He crossed the tiny room in a single step, pulled her to her feet. “God’s teeth, Nancy, are you safe? What madness is this?”
Right behind Ned a half-dozen other people crowded into the doorway, Elizabeth Guy at their head. “Lay hands off her, Ned. No one is permitted to see or speak with her.”
Ned did not lay hands off her; he kept Nancy’s hands in his as he turned quickly, a retort forming on his lips. It was Master Nicholas Guy who stilled him with a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Peace, lad. We will comb through this coil quick enough now.” He turned to Nancy and said, “Do not fear—I will set this right.”
She pulled her hands from Ned’s, gave him a little push. “Go. I’ve no wish to make trouble for you, or anyone. Let the masters sort it out.” Kathryn was there too, now, edging past Ned to say, “All will be well, Nancy—you will see.”
Then everyone was herded out of the room, and Elizabeth Guy stood in the doorway, looking uncertain of her authority for the first time since she had become Nancy’s gaoler. “Your master has returned, all unexpected—so it seems you have a champion. But you will still remain here till you have a trial.”
In the event, Nancy remained there only until after dinner. Reverend Leat came to fetch her. “Master Nicholas Guy, Master Crout, and Master Willoughby have all insisted your trial be held at once,” he told her. He did not look pleased, but with the return of Master Nicholas as well as Master Crout and the men who had gone with him in the shallop, the balance of power in the colony had shifted.
And it had shifted in her favour, for reasons Nancy could not fully understand. She had hoped that if Master Nicholas returned in time he would support her, for Kathryn’s sake. She did not think Henry Crout even knew her name, and as for Thomas Willoughby, it was strange indeed for him to take on any role of authority
in the colony, though his father’s name certainly gave him the right to do so. The men sat arrayed at the front of the room: Philip Guy, Master Catchmaid, and Reverend Leat on one bench, with Nicholas Guy, Henry Crout, and Thomas Willoughby on the other, looking for all the world as if they were on two opposing sides. Nancy sat in a chair between them, facing the rows of benches on which the rest of the colony sat. Kathryn and the rest of their household sat on the front bench, joined now by Ned and the others who had returned. Nancy would not let her eyes meet either Kathryn’s or Ned’s; they were too filled with hope.
The minister played the role of witchfinder; he repeated last Sunday’s accusation and ordered George Whittington and Sal Butler to repeat their charges. The week had wrought some change in Mistress Butler: she spoke with less fire, though she still insisted Nancy had cursed Mistress Catchmaid’s unborn child. When asked about Nancy’s spectral appearance in her house at night, she hesitated a moment before repeating, “I am sure I saw her there.”
“Could it not have been a dream?” Henry Crout asked, speaking for the first time. “Have you never had a dream so vivid you thought a person was standing before you, when all the time you were fast asleep?”
Sal Butler raised her chin a fraction. “No, sir, I am a good Christian woman and I have no dreams of witches tormenting me. If I saw her, she was there, by means fair or foul.” But she sounded uncertain, and everyone had a moment to reflect upon vivid dreams.
Whittington, however, was as firm in his denunciation as he had been a week ago. “She put a hex on me,” he said staunchly. “I know her for a wicked woman and a witch.”
Nicholas Guy stood to question him. “You say she made improper advances to you, but my wife claims the opposite—that Nancy told her it was you who made the advances, and this wicked accusation is your revenge on her for rejecting you.”
“No indeed, sir. I am true to my wife, and I am a man of good faith. Even before I was wed, I was not one to go about forcing my attentions on unwilling maids.”
That was a misstep on Whittington’s part, for there was a flurry of whispers and even some nervous laughter from the women on the benches. Everyone knew he had hounded all the single maids from the time they had arrived in the cove. But Nancy sat still and uneasy. If Whittington were backed into a corner he might yet lash out by accusing Kathryn of adultery. At the moment, Nicholas Guy and Thomas Willoughby looked to be allies, but one word from Whittington could sever that tie and throw Kathryn into an even more dangerous position than Nancy herself was in.
The questioning continued. Jane Catchmaid would not support Sal Butler’s assertion that Nancy had cursed her child; she affirmed only that her infant had died in the womb, but she refused to speculate why this might be. The claim that no one in Nicholas Guy’s house had died during the winter sickness was easily disproved, and Nicholas Guy himself questioned why, if Nancy had such powers, she had not used them to save Molly More or Matt Grigg.
Kathryn testified that she had known Nancy all her life as a good and virtuous maid, which Nicholas Guy affirmed. Philip Guy briefly asked the other members of Nicholas Guy’s household if they knew aught against Nancy or had any reason to believe her a witch, but all assured the masters she was innocent. “Nancy is good Christian girl, and true, and I cannot credit that anyone would believe a word out of George Whittington’s lying mouth!” Ned burst out, rising from his place on the bench to speak out of turn, but Frank pulled him back down to sit and Nicholas Guy gestured him to silence.
Finally, Reverend Leat turned to Nancy. “It is time for the young woman herself to answer these charges. Stand before this assembly and tell us who you are.”
You all know me, Nancy thought, but she bit her tongue, vowing not to say a word that might sound impertinent or light. She had men, now, who were on her side, and with careful and sober replies she might pick her way through this mire.
“My name is Nancy Ellis, servant to Mistress Kathryn Guy. I was born in Bristol and I am in the twenty-first year of my age.”
“And what do you say to these accusations made against you?”
“They are false. I am no witch. I am a good Christian woman, sir.”
Now the minister was the one pacing, back and forth in front of her as he fired questions. She had always thought of Reverend Leat as an ineffectual man, well-meaning but hardly bold. This was his one great moment: if he could catch and punish a witch, he might make a name for himself.
His questions came like little pellets of hail. Was she true to the Church of England? Yes. Was she a secret Papist? No. Did she pray to the Virgin Mary or the saints? No. Was she a Puritan? No. Did she believe the king had authority over the church and the sacraments? Yes, so far as a serving maid could understand such matters. “I pray as my masters tell me to pray, sir,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the ground. “I try to do my work well and to be obedient.”
“Did you assist at the birth of your mistress’s child?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did you recite pagan charms to bless the birthing bed?”
“No, sir. My mistress asked me to pray for her, and I did, but I worked no magic, for I know none.”
“Was Mistress Butler there, and did you quarrel with her?”
“I believe we disputed, sir, in the matter of a posset to be given to the mother. It may be that I spoke out of turn. Mistress Butler has assisted at more births than I have, and no doubt she knows better.”
“What of her claim, that you cursed Mistress Catchmaid, so that her child would be stillborn?”
“Even if I knew how to place a curse, sir, I would not do such a thing to an innocent child.”
Question after question. The mundane: “Did you make potions and medicines for those sick with the scurvy?” next to the outlandish: “Does Satan visit you in the form of a kid goat?” She kept her replies as simple as possible. Let your yea be yea and your nay be nay.
“Did you curse George Whittington, to lame his foot?”
“No, sir. I saw him jump down off a fence rail, and I believe he twisted his ankle.” Another small ripple of laughter spread through the gathered congregation. She would not dare to smile.
“Did you consort with George Whittington in any improper manner?”
Nancy lifted her eyes at last, looked squarely at the minister. “The only improper consort I had with George Whittington was when he tried to force his attentions on me, and I am sure I am far from the only woman in this colony who could say the same. Does refusing him make me a witch, sir? I would say it makes me a good Christian maid.”
Plenty of talking, now, from the benches. The minister turned to the other men arrayed on the benches. “Is there anyone else who wishes to question the accused woman?”
Henry Crout stood up, but gestured to her with a wave. “Sit down, Nancy. I have no questions for you: this case seems to me as plain as it can be. A spiteful man and a bitter woman have made charges that no one can prove, against a girl who has offended no one. Her master and mistress have spoken for her, and her own testimony makes it clear she is no more a witch than I am. Master Guy,” he went on, addressing Philip Guy, “you may be acting as governor in your brother’s absence, but this whole bungled case shows clearly you have not the wisdom nor the judgement to rule a colony. This accusation should have been dismissed as the petty village gossip it is, rather than subjecting your cousin’s maid to imprisonment and terror simply because her master was away and could not defend her.”
Now Philip Guy was on his feet. “You dare to question my authority, Master Crout?”
“I dare indeed. I am in this colony as Sir Percival Willoughby’s representative, and I dare to say my master will sink no more money into a colony whose governor would listen to such malicious troublemakers!”
It was the reverend who shot back: “We have a charter from King James! Do you suggest the king would be pleased for us to ignore the threat of witchcraft, an attack by Satan on the very foundations of Christian civil
ization in this land?”
“Oh, very fine words.” That was a new voice that had not yet been heard: the high-born Nottinghamshire accent of Thomas Willoughby. He stood up lazily: all the masters were now on their feet, and there was no attempt to quell the babble of conversation on the benches. Nancy sat still, her hands clasped tight in her lap.
“Indeed, Reverend, you would be failing your duty to ignore a witch—if there were a real witch here,” young Willoughby went on. “But this is mere folly, and we all know it. There’s not a shred of evidence the girl’s a witch, only the idle tongues of folk who ought to know their places and be about their work. That is all she has done—keep to her proper place and do her work. All this coil has been caused because you have allowed troublemakers to rise above themselves.” His long-lashed eyes flickered about the room, resting with disdain on George Whittington, who was red-faced but silent.
“When I return to England at the end of the summer, I shall have many things to tell my father about how this colony is being managed.” Willoughby’s glance flickered ever so briefly to Henry Crout, who did not contradict the surprising claim that Thomas Willoughby was at long last returning home. Willoughby waved his hand in Nancy’s general direction. “In the meantime, let this girl go. You make fools of yourselves with this proceeding.”
There was a brief silence before Henry Crout added, “My young master speaks aright. I add my voice to his to say that this matter must be dropped and the maid set free.”
If the masters were to vote amongst themselves, it might go three against three, Nancy thought. William Catchmaid had been very silent, given that one of the crimes she was accused of was the murder his unborn child. He never believed it, she thought, looking at his pale, downcast face, nor did his wife. It was, indeed, all Sal Butler’s spite egged on by George Whittington’s malice. Even if she were freed, how could she go on living here, working alongside these people every day?
There was no vote. As it had done on the Sunday before, the assembly broke into little pockets of people talking, exclaiming, arguing, until Henry Crout silenced them. “We have had enough of gossip. Masters, do you agree with me that this matter is to be dismissed as idle mischief making, and the girl to go free?”
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