Theodora and Elizabeth eyed him with suspicion, their faces somewhat softened yet still doubting. ‘Mind if we send some of our men in to inspect the premises, sir,’ spoke Theodora. ‘Simply to clarify your words, me lord.’
Mr Bennet was quick to answer. ‘No, you shall not, Mrs Blackwell. Even if you do search the premises, you shall think I am hiding the girl where you cannot find her. No, you cannot march through my house to stick your noses into all my private nooks and crannies.’
‘We ain’t goin’ anywhere till we see the girl, sir,’ threatened Elizabeth Seymour.
‘Take it up with the sheriff.’ Mr Bennet concluded. ‘He can clarify the girl is there. I want you off my property now before I take serious action.’ His cue encouraged his men to put their guns to their sights.
His warning succeeded to rattle the crowd’s nerves, but it was necessary for Mrs Blackwell to pretend she was still in control. ‘We will check with the sheriff then,’ she said. ‘Be warned, sir, if you’re leadin’ us astray, we shall be back.’
The Squire looked her square in the face. The stare he gave her almost made her regret daring to cross him. She held her stance though, hoping she was successful at hiding the nerves.
‘That will be the first and last time you ever threaten me, Mrs Blackwell.’ His tone reminded her who had authority. ‘Never step out of line again.’ He pierced through her with his steely eyes. Theodora was stubborn, but she submitted only enough to release herself of his wrath. She knew he could ruin her.
After stamping down on their leader, he wasted no time in addressing the rest of the crowd. ‘Go home,’ was the last thing Mr Bennet said before he and his men marched back into his house.
Mrs Blackwell walked back to her chair and took a seat. ‘Let’s go, folks.’ She sat up straight like a royal empress while the bearers lifted her chair and carted her off. Her grandiose figure slightly overshadowed her equal partner, Mrs Seymour.
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Cordelia crumpled to the floor. Her face scrunched up and silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
The crowd stood outside the sheriff’s reformatory.
‘We have been informed Beatrice Clarke is in your custody,’ spoke Theodora. ‘Is that true, sir?’
‘Indeed it is, Mrs Blackwell,’ answered the sheriff. ‘What of it?’
‘We want proof of it, sir. We would like to see her in person.’
The sheriff contemplated this as he stood before the crowd. He thought about bringing the girl out to showcase, but there was no judging how the crowd would respond. He wanted to keep the crowd settled. They seemed to have reached a climax of hyped aggravation. It was not an uncommon scene to him. Crowds have a way of banding together and working themselves up to a riotous state.
After a long pause, he came up with a solution he hoped would suit both parties. ‘There are too many of you to enter my building and I shall not bring her out here to be offered up to you. I suggest a few of you come with me to verify her presence. No more than six people. Otherwise, go home or you’re all under arrest.’
After conversing among the crowd, it was decided the two matriarchs and four others would act as witnesses. Two of the witnesses were from either side of the matriarch bloodlines and the remaining two were unaffiliated townspeople.
The sheriff escorted them inside while the rest of the crowd remained guarded. Those gathered were silent as they awaited the outcome. A good twenty minutes passed before the sheriff came out with the witnesses. The crowd looked upon Theodora, as she was always allocated the leader.
‘’Tis true,’ she spoke. ‘The girl is behind bars.’
The crowd broke out in good cheer.
‘Now go home,’ ordered the sheriff. ‘There will be no taking the law into your own hands. Leave it to the lawmen.’
Everyone was ready to disperse, but Theodora Blackwell put a stop to it. ‘Before we go, sheriff, there’s one more thing,’ she hollered over the noise of excitement.
‘And what might that be, Mrs Blackwell?’
She gathered her thoughts before speaking. ‘I don’t believe Beatty Clarke acted alone. Her mother, Cordelia Clarke has always been an accomplice with everything that Beatty does.’
‘I see,’ remarked the sheriff. ‘I’ll need some evidence before I arrest Beatty’s mother. What have you got?’
‘We’ll get back to you,’ answered Theodora. This called for another communal meeting.
‘Come back to me when you have something.’ He was not an admirer of the Seymour or Blackwell clans. He was least of all fond of their matriarchs. The feuding families had always been a thorn in his back. They were always trying to manipulate him into bringing somebody down. At this pivotal moment, he was not about to be their puppet on a string. He expected to see some genuine evidence.
He had disregarded the rumoured accusations against Beatty until the Squire came into his office with a request to arrest the girl. He considered the Squire to be a responsible witness. ‘Now get! All of you.’ He was done.
Thirteen
Beatty was arrested in July 1536.
During her absence from Quarrendon, George reverted back to his former self again. Nonetheless, the misfortune was received with open arms. The Bennet family were glad to have their imperfect little child back. He was real. By the same token, they were equally delighted to have their girls back. Antonia and Freya were talking again and putting on weight. Things appeared to be returning to normal.
In two days, they would be putting the abbey behind them and settling into the old Bennet House. The staff was in turmoil from the packing and moving.
A whole month had passed since Beatty was taken away in a caged wagon.
Beatty’s mother had been brought in for questioning three days after Beatty’s arrest, but no hard evidence was found against her. Her customers could not incriminate her without incriminating themselves, so stories were made up. The matriarchs tried their hardest to condemn her, yet their lies and schemes were seen through by the intelligent cross-examiners.
Cordelia was released two days before Beatty was to be heard. Beatty’s father had also been accused as an accomplice. He had been questioned and was released in a day. Beatty was the only one found guilty.
On Beatty’s final day in Quarrendon, Cordelia chose to sit in on the cross-examination trial. She knew it would be Beatty’s last day in Quarrendon. She wanted to pretend they were spending their last day together. She had begged her husband to come, but strangely he was not taking the ordeal well. He did love his only daughter. Before the alcohol claimed him, he was a good father. As a little girl she had been the apple of his eye. He was now realising what a hopeless father he had become.
Cordelia sat right at the front where she had perfect view of her only child. Cordelia was the first spectator to walk into the hearing. She wanted to ensure she had the closest seat.
What she didn’t know was the closest seats were reserved for the matriarchs and their entourage—or rather, she ignored it. She did see the women sitting in those seats while she was in the trial box. She assumed first in best served.
The time arrived for the prisoner to be brought in, so everyone else started herding in. The matriarchs once again led the crowd. No one dared to upset the routine apart from Cordelia.
The matriarchs walked up to Cordelia, glaring. Theodora stood right in front of Cordelia. ‘You’re in my seat. Move.’
Cordelia showed no fear. ‘You move, Mrs Blackwell. Today I wish to be close to my daughter. It may be her last time here in Quarrendon. Surely you can grant my wish this day.’ Cordelia’s stay in gaol was in a separate cell from her daughter. They were kept apart all the time they had both been incarcerated. When Cordelia was released, she was denied visitations.
No compassion for Cordelia’s plea was hailed from the old lady. ‘If you don’t move, you wench, I shall have you moved.’ Her eyes were sharp daggers piercing into Cordelia’s thick skin.
Elizabeth Seymour dropped her ga
ze. Where Theodora was without sentiment, Elizabeth still had a bit of heart. Rarely did it come out for anyone other than her family members, but this day it did. She sensed Cordelia’s aching desire to be near her daughter. Mrs Seymour remembered when she had lost one of her daughters to the noose. Her deceased child was perhaps the only offspring that truly had the gift, which had cost little Annie her life.
‘Boys,’ said Theodora, looking at two of her burly menfolk. ‘Get this vermin out of my seat.’ The men were about to step in, but a booming voice spoke behind them.
‘Are you bullyin’ Cordelia for her seat, Mrs Blackwell?’ said the sheriff.
The mighty force brigade flinched like naughty little children caught out and afraid they were going to get a whipping. They backed off and pretended they were doing nothing wrong. They left Theodora to her own demise.
‘You can see she is sittin’ in my seat, Sheriff,’ Theodora said in her defence. ‘You know it’s my seat. You’ve seen me sittin’ there for the whole trial.’
‘And today I see Cordelia take claim of that seat,’ he replied. ‘She was there first. Go find another seat, Mrs Blackwell. I’ll not have you running the show here.’
Theodora stood in defiance.
The sheriff turned to a couple of his men, trying the same tactics she had with Cordelia. ‘Guards, arrest this woman. She is in contempt of court.’ He too had two strong men to move any so-called vermin on.
As the guards stepped forward, Elizabeth Seymour came to the rescue. ‘Theodora,’ she said. ‘Take my seat. I’ll move one down.’
Theodora studied the options. The guards or Elizabeth’s seat, which was next to what was supposed to be her own seat. She steadily made a move and sat down. She didn’t look too happy, but she had made a resolution. Elizabeth sat next to her. Theodora was now wedged between two women who were at separate times her two biggest adversaries. How did this come to be?
Before leaving, the sheriff gave her a sharp warning. ‘If I see you or any of your members giving Cordelia a hard time, Mrs Blackwell, you will have me to deal with.’ His stance warned her.
She didn’t answer, but neither did she retaliate. The sheriff knew that was as good a settlement as he’d ever get from the old lady. He walked away.
When Beatty was brought into the court and put in the trial box, she spotted her mother and gave her a warm smile. For a second, no one else existed but mother and daughter.
The final proceedings began. At the end, Theodora couldn’t help but snigger and leave a remark as she left the courtroom. ‘Bet you thought she’d get away with it?’ She tried to look inconspicuous so that the sheriff would not notice. ‘Justice is served,’ she said under her breath as she prepared to walk away.
From where he stood, the sheriff saw the old lady moving her lips and directing her comment at Cordelia. Until then, she had behaved herself throughout the trial so he let it slide.
He watched the matriarchs lead their entourage from the court before taking Beatty back to her cell. He wanted to ensure Cordelia was safe. Cordelia didn’t move from her seat. She and Beatty were staring each other in the eyes. When there was some distance between Cordelia and the old ladies, the sheriff walked over to the trial box. He had his men lead Beatty out of the courtroom.
‘Bye ma,’ Beatty said as she was coaxed from her box.
‘Bye, sweetie. I’ll try and pay you a special visit.’
The tears streamed down her face as she watched her daughter being led away.
Based on all the evidence gathered, Beatty had been sent to the Buckinghamshire gaol to be tried for causing harm by witchcraft.
On 21 July 1536, she was tried for the murder of Mrs Margot Cornwall and the attempted murders of Freya and Antonia Bennet.
Matriarchs Mrs Theodora Blackwell and Mrs Elizabeth Seymour walked out of the trial, arm in arm, with their entourages following. The two families had previously taken up most of the front audience.
Beatty’s own comments were used against her during her trial. A witness reported hearing Beatty say she wished Mrs Cornwall dead, cursing her to hell. Through the eyes of the jury, she had indisputably cursed the old woman and delivered her to her deathbed.
Beatty had been found guilty, yet for some unknown reason a sentence was not passed.
She was entangled with an unusual case. A local dispute, or rather a long-endured feud, had brought thirty accused to the Buckinghamshire Assizes. All but one of the accused was found guilty. Being such a ridiculous mass, the judges refused to pass the death sentence so Beatty, along with the others, was referred to the king. They were all detained in the Tower of London. Beatty had her own cell, which dispelled the illusion they were mistaking her as part of the unusual case.
Her case was singled out by the king, though she was yet to discover the reason for his personal interest.
She was subjected to a two-day cross examination led by Chancellor Sir James Edmund and three other officers. Their tactics in retracting information were severe.
‘Come,’ said the appointed interrogator one day, the Lord Chancellor James Edmund. ‘I have something to show you.’
He led her out of her cell and along a narrow corridor going down into the dungeon. She walked between two guards, leaving barely any room to breathe. All she could hear were their footsteps as they descended. The walls were lit sparingly with torches. When it became too dark, the interrogator grabbed a torch from the wall.
Beatty did not like what she saw in the dungeon: devices of all sorts used to torture people. She nearly passed out at the sight of some of the evil contraptions. She wondered how anybody could survive them.
The interrogator took great delight in slowly walking her around, letting her observe each apparatus.
‘This machine here is used to stretch our suspects,’ he said. ‘It’s called the rack. Suspects are spread across the plank and tied up by the legs and arms.’ He looked casually at Beatty. ‘Don’t be fooled by its appearance. It may look tame compared to most of these other devices, but it can rip people apart.’ He had a gleam in his eye that Beatty found disconcerting. ‘Just a little bit of pulling and most people are ready to confess.’
Next to the rack was a bare space on the floor where people could lie flat and be chained by the legs and arms. ‘Here is where we like to perform what we call “pressing”. It’s quite a simple method. We place a large plank over the prisoner and steadily add weight until they can no longer breathe. They can literally be crushed to death.’ He smirked, satisfied with the haunted look on Beatty’s face.
He moved on to a post that had iron handcuffs attached. ‘The Manacles,’ he said. ‘This is where we hang people by the wrists. It’s thought to be less cruel than the rack, but one should ask the people who have to endure it.’
He moved onto the next item.
‘This here, we in the Tower are very proud of. It was designed by our very own Lieutenant, the late Leonard Skeffington, who died in December of last year. We call it the Scavenger’s Daughter or Skeffington’s Irons. It has the opposite effect to the rack. It compresses rather than stretches people.’
Beatty stared at the iron hoop, wondering how it was used to crush people. It looked harmless, just a hoop and nothing else. It had a hinge that no doubt was used to loosen or tighten the hoop. Beatty couldn’t work out how it was fitted on a person. It looked too big to go around her waist.
‘The person has to crouch and the hoop is then circled around them.’ The chancellor informed her, catching her puzzlement. ‘Their chest is folded into their knees. We keep tightening until their bones feel crushed. Oftentimes they come out with a broken back and can never walk again.’ His imagery had certainly disturbed the girl.
To deepen her disturbance, the chancellor led her to the blood-curdling machines.
‘These devices have been collected from all over,’ he said. ‘Let me show you around.’
As he displayed each item, he took delight in describing their methods. ‘Here we have th
e Judas Cradle, which is used as a seat.’
Hardly, thought Beatty. The cradle looked more like a spear, a small pyramid-shaped block of iron steel supported on a stand. Nothing about it implied it was a seat to sit upon.
‘The prisoner is tied at the wrists and made to sit on it,’ said the chancellor. ‘The tip of the seat enters their vagina or anus.’ He walked off.
‘Next we have the Catherine Wheel or the Breaking Wheel. The prisoner is tied to the wheel and we beat them with an iron cudgel. The gaps in the wheel allow the bones to give way and break.’
‘No doubt you are familiar with the Pillory?’ he said as he passed the next item. ‘Who isn’t?’
He was right. Beatty was familiar with the Pillory, a board that held your head and wrists in place. The Pillory was a plank with a large hole in the centre to seal a person’s head with two smaller holes on either side. They were used to seal the person’s wrists.
The Pillory was often used in public as a means to humiliate the one being punished. While the person was contained in the Pillory, the crowd would often taunt them and throw rotten food. The prisoner would also have to endure the sun or the rain, depending on the day. Most times they had to go without water.
Her eyes were drawn to a gruesome-looking chair nearby. Hundreds of sharp spikes covered the exterior.
‘Do you like my Iron Chair? Would you like to try it out?’
‘No thanks, sir.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘This torture can go on for hours. The spikes do not penetrate vital organs and there is minimal blood loss. At least until the person is released. Oftentimes death follows.’ He turned to face the wall. A display of gadgets hung from hooks. ‘Let’s examine what we have on the walls, shall we?’ He walked over to the wall and retrieved a set of clawed tongs. Beatty was distracted by another item. Situated above where the tongs originally hung was the longest saw Beatty had ever seen.
‘Oh that,’ said the chancellor, following her gaze. ‘That is used to saw people in half. Either longitudinally or crossways.’ His attention drew back to the device in his hand. ‘This here is my favourite—the breast ripper—also known as the Iron Spider. These claws are used to latch onto the breast and rip it off.’ He stared at her chest. ‘It would be a shame to lose those nice perky breasts of yours, Miss Beatrice.’
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