Indicator of a Curse

by Lesley A Meldrum

  She did not answer. He had turned her stomach in so many ways.

  He put the tongs away. ‘The reason I brought you here, Miss Beatrice, is to warn you that should you refuse to co-operate, you shall end up here.’

  Beatty really did pale at this point. The ground was spinning. She fought the urge to faint. She was not going to let him intimidate her. After a moment, she managed to shift her train of thought from fear to readiness.

  The chancellor showed her around some more. Whatever was presented to her, she remained steady in the truth of her innocence. If she were to die, she proclaimed she had had enough of living anyway.

  After the chancellor had shown her every item there was, he took her back to her cell, leaving her to her own thoughts.

  Days passed but the chancellor did not come for Beatty. She knew he was doing it to unnerve her. She was not to know what to expect from one day to the next.

  His strategy was working. Her courage ebbed as more time passed. She dreamed of the tortures to come. She would prepare herself mentally for anything, only for her imagination to run wild again.

  Beatty had started to talk to her neighbouring gaol companions, or rather they had started talking to her. The grapevine gossip turned out to be just as effective inside as out. Inside the prison walls, she discovered she was to be a scapegoat for treason. Given the confinements of the gaol cells, the news had travelled with no difficulty.

  Beatty was trying to sleep one afternoon when Nelly from the next cell attempted to get her attention.

  ‘Psst,’ Nelly hissed. ‘Beatty, wake up.’

  Beatty was dead to the world.

  ‘Beatty,’ she said louder. ‘Wake up.’

  When no noise came, Nelly sent her pet mouse into the next cell to wake Beatty. Nelly had her mouse trained like a homing pigeon.

  Beatty felt something crawling on her face. When she roused from her sleep and realised it was a mouse she jumped up. ‘Go away. Get. Shoo.’

  ‘Don’t hurt it,’ begged Nelly. ‘That’s my Mousie. She’s my pet. Mousie, come here, little girl.’

  Beatty watched the little mouse scurry home through a crack at the bottom of the door. ‘What’s she doin’ in my chamber, Nelly?’

  ‘I’ve somethin’ to tell you. My master paid me a visit today.’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ commented Beatty. ‘That’s why I went to sleep.’

  Nelly’s master was a prison guard who paid her a visit from time to time for some fun. Beatty distracted herself from the noises by holding a pillow over her head and going to sleep.

  ‘Master Harry told me you are to be the king’s scapegoat for treason,’ blurted Nelly.

  Beatty was stunned for a moment. ‘What are you talkin’ about, Nelly? I haven’t committed any treason toward the king.’

  ‘Well, apparently you were in cahoots with that wife of his.’ Beatty noted the eagerness in Nelly’s voice.

  ‘You mean Queen Anne? Didn’t he persecute her for adultery?’

  ‘It’s come to pass that the king believed his queen was plottin’ against him.’

  ‘How?’ asked Beatty. ‘And how would I be involved?’

  ‘Aren’t you involved in potions and spells, or even poisons and that kind?’

  ‘I read tarot cards and I use healin’ potions only. I received a visit from the queen twice. It was many years ago, before she was the queen. She simply wanted her cards read. I didn’t pass on to her any potions or spells, Nelly. I don’t do that.’

  ‘Well beware, Beatty,’ was Nelly’s final warning. ‘Prudence, three chambers down, says the king has already petitioned the officials to condemn you. I don’t think there’s any gettin’ out of it.’

  ‘Where did Prudence get such information? How was it passed onto you?’

  ‘Well, you see, Master Harry pays Prudence visits too, and Prudence still gets a visit from her outside lover from time to time. He’s amongst the king’s court. He’s truly in love with Prudence and is tryin’ to get her released. He’ll do anythin’ to favour the king, includin’ actin’ as a false witness to ensure your demise.’

  Beatty could not believe what she had just heard. ‘Thanks for the warnin’, Nelly. Let me know what else you hear.’

  ‘Oh, I will dear. Take care now.’

  ‘I will. You too.’

  The pieces of the puzzle finally fitted together when Beatty was allowed a visit from her mother. Cordelia explained how the king had accused Anne Boleyn of bewitching him. A witness confirmed Anne visited a witch in 1526 for help to seduce the king. As soon as she had paid the mysterious lady a visit, the king became enchanted with her. He immediately sought after Anne and funded her every desire.

  In 1533, Anne again paid the same witch a visit. Next thing the populace knew, the king was rushing Anne down the aisle.

  Beatty shuddered at the findings her mother revealed. Thinking back, on both occasions Anne Boleyn did secretly visit Beatty, but for readings only. There was no bewitchment of any sort. Beatty wasn’t interested in spells or potions and the like. She could only see things through the cards.

  Anne had asked her simple questions such as, ‘Does the king love me? Is there a future? Will the king marry me?’

  During Anne’s visits, Beatty was living in London with her late husband. She had conducted readings in the tavern where she and her husband were staying. Her vocation had been progressing quite well. Her talent had sparked enough attention to draw the likes of the rich and powerful.

  Beatty had thought it strange the officials were rushing her through the trials before anyone else. Suddenly, it made sense. She remembered hearing mention of Queen Anne being beheaded only days before Beatty was brought to the tower.

  She had noticed the cross-examiners slyly turning the questions away from the abbey case to the times she met with the former queen.

  Her trial quickly turned into a heresy, a treason in which she had no part. Again, she was blamed for something she hadn’t done and so she refused to make her confession.

  Beatty was quick to learn the examiners were not to be riled. These were not fair men, tolerant of defiance, who were interested in uncovering the truth. The king had delivered them a task, which they were set on accomplishing.

  The chief examiner, Lord Chancellor James Edmund, was persistent, repeating the same questions over and over again. ‘Why did you hurt these poor people, Miss Clarke? What harm did they do to you?’

  ‘They didn’t do anythin’ to me, Your Honour, and nor I to them.’

  ‘Why did you do such atrocious things to these poor Bennet children and to the late Lady Cornwall?’

  ‘Your Honour, I didn’t do anythin’.’

  ‘Did the devil tell you to hurt them?’

  ‘Your Honour, I don’t talk to any devil.’

  ‘Do you say you have nothing at all to do with the devil, Miss Clarke? You have no familiarity of any kind with him? Nothing at all? You must tell the truth, Miss Clarke. Why is it that he is hurting these people on your behalf?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Your Honour. It puzzles me too that these people who upset me had come to their plights. I swear, Your Honour, I have had nothin’ to do with it. I made no plans with the devil to harm them. There is no contract, Your Honour. I speak the truth.’

  Beatty was sounding desperate. Her stomach churned every time she pleaded her innocence and the examiner responded with disbelief. ‘I know, sir, that the events look as if they’re far too related to be coincidental, but that is just what they are, sir. Coincidental.’

  ‘Miss Clarke, will you repeat the last words you spoke to the late Lady Margot Cornwall.’

  Beatty was wrapped in silence for a moment. ‘I wish you dead or somethin’ along those lines.’

  ‘And what happened next, Miss Clarke?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘And was that a mere coincidence?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I had nothin’ to do with her dyin’. She died of a fever.’

  ‘Admit it
, girl,’ the examiner thundered. ‘You consort with the devil. What appearance does he take when he hurts your offenders?’

  ‘How should I know? It’s got nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘Sarah Beatrice Clarke, do you have familiars working for you? Did they hurt these people at your behest? Speak up now or forever hold your tongue.’

  ‘I have no familiars.’

  ‘Do you not have a rooster you call Big Red? The Bennet sisters say this rooster speaks to them in their dreams on your behalf.’

  ‘He’s just a rooster and nothin’ more. He cannot speak.’

  ‘What other familiars have you contracted with to hurt these people?’

  ‘I have no contracts with any familiars.’

  ‘For what other reason would the familiars hurt these individuals? The only affronts these people had was with you, Miss Clarke.’

  ‘I am innocent.’

  Beatty was true to her convictions. Her spirit was unbreakable, but the prosecutor was equally untiring.

  ‘Do you ever see anything appear in shape? The devil, demons, strange creatures? Your familiars?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen anythin’ other than the ordinary.’

  By this point, Beatty wanted to get up and throw things around. How frustrating it was to defend her innocence time and time again with the examiner looking her square in the eyes and falsely accusing her.

  She knew the examiner was trying to break her. The mental strain was almost too much, but being denied her innocence allowed her to keep her stride.

  The Lord Chancellor went over his questions again. Drawing to the end, it was obvious to Beatty the chancellor was just as frustrated as she.

  ‘Confess your guilt,’ he roared.

  ‘I am innocent,’ she retaliated.

  The ruling came to an end without a confession from Beatty. She was dragged away to her cell.

  The examiners ordered her torture.

  The torturers, Lord Chancellor James Edmund and Richard Worthington, used the rack that Chancellor Edmund had familiarised her with days before. Beatty was asked to remove all her clothing, except for her shift. She climbed onto the rack where her wrists and ankles were fastened. Again, she was asked for a confession, but she said nothing.

  The wheel of the rack turned, pulling her until her ankles and wrists were tightly stretched. Again, she was asked for a confession, but she said nothing. Beatty was lifted inches above the bed of the rack before she fainted from the pain. She was lowered and revived with a bucket of water the men threw over her.

  The procedure was repeated.

  The examiners were enthusiastic, but the constable of the tower refused to carry on torturing her. They were exceeding their boundaries. Ruthlessly, they demanded another try, knowing Beatty’s body could not take another round. The constable walked out in protest.

  Edmund and Worthington carried on with the work. They ordered the warders to proceed. The warders obeyed, turning the handles so hard Beatty’s wrists, elbows, and shoulders were pulled from their sockets. Her ankles, knees, and hips dislocated.

  Her cries were heard outside the walls. Her wailings were haunting. They pierced ears and turned stomachs with their curdling tones.

  She gave no confession.

  The Lord Chancellor ordered her to be returned to her cell.

  The rest of the trial was rushed. There had been no more talk of Lady Cornwall or the Bennet sisters. They only quizzed her on her meetings with Anne Boleyn. Beatty was sentenced without a confession. They penalised her on circumstantial evidence.

  Sarah Beatrice Clarke was to be burned at the stake at Smithfield, London, aged twenty-six on 27 August 1536. Her sentence was treason by witchcraft.

  Beatty was carried to her execution by the bailiff. She was too badly injured to stand. The town centre where the stake was prepared for the execution was filled with onlookers, eager to see her final moments. Barely any daylight could be seen, yet every man and his dog had managed to make an appearance.

  The stake had a small chair attached to it where Beatty was placed. She was secured at the ankles, wrists, waist, and neck. Every movement caused her pain.

  She was burned alive slowly. Though she had pledged not to scream or cry, when the pain overtook her she gave in. Those who witnessed the execution were impressed by how long she held out. Even the two matriarchs were captivated by her strength. Again, they had attended her plight arriving to the scene arm in arm. At this final event, every offshoot of Mrs Blackwell and Mrs Seymour was in attendance, down to the newest of babies.

  The execution lasted almost an hour, but Beatty was dead within fifteen minutes.

  The only absentees to the execution was the Bennet family and Beatty’s parents. Nevertheless, Elizabeth Seymour and Theodora Blackwell had kindly made their way to Cordelia’s doorstep as soon as they arrived back to their humble town. They had with them an entourage of too many to count.

  Theodora banged on the door. Cordelia met them with red-rimmed eyes, but her stare was steely. She had chosen not to avoid them, but rather stand before them like a strong woman who could not be intimidated or beaten down.

  ‘’Tis done,’ said Theodora. ‘The witch is dead. We have done away with the first of you. You’re next.’

  Theodora and Elizabeth looked at her with both a sense of achievement and an air of threat. Cordelia saw not one ounce of compassion or empathy in their eyes. The little bit of mercy that Elizabeth Seymour had once momentarily shown her was nowhere to be seen.

  Their body language oozed pride and victory. Their faces smirked while their chests puffed out like proud peacocks. Arrogance, haughtiness, egotism, superiority, overconfidence, self-importance; Cordelia saw it all. She so wanted to wipe the smugness from their faces.

  ‘You had better clear out of town, if I were you,’ said Elizabeth Seymour. ‘That’s the only warnin’ you’re goin’ to get. You should know by now we’re not to be messed with.’

  Theodora was smiling at Elizabeth like her pet was becoming well trained.

  Cordelia slammed the door in their faces. Elizabeth yelled some slang words that were not apt for repeating.

  ‘Come on,’ Cordelia heard Theodora say. ‘She’s been given her warnin’. Let’s go.’ As they turned to march off, it was a man’s wailing they heard. Thomas Clarke had kept everything inside until his wife had officially been given the news of their daughter’s death. Even if it had been given by way of the old cronies of the town, it was still confirmation. The finality.

  The news brought no relief to the Bennets. Their ordeal was not over.

  Before leaving the abbey, Lady Bennet fell ill. She became bedridden and within days she passed away. Her last words to Mr Bennet were, ‘Tear this place down.’

  The family’s removal from the abbey had been deferred until after the funeral. Mr Bennet arranged for his wife to be buried on the Bennet estate with his ancestors, where he planned to be buried beside her.

  Mr Bennet kept his promise. He knocked the old abbey down, hiring a hundred men for the job. As a result, it was done in a day. He stayed on site and supervised the whole event. Every brick was thrown into a fire pit and burnt to dust. The fire was so hot the bricks dissolved into a powdery lime residue. When the last brick burnt to cinders, he was satisfied he had honoured his wife’s and his father’s last wishes. Mr Bennet left the premises, never to return.

  From afar, Cordelia sat on her outdoor bench, watching the show. When the last brick was destroyed, she cried.

  Later, in the quiet of the night, a wavering light was seen on the empty premises. The scent of burning sage wafted for miles. Cordelia was cleansing the land of its evil forces. The forces desperately fought back, but her protective shield was impenetrable—the reason being she had her daughter from the other side helping her. They closed every open portal. They had managed to send the entities on, all bar one. It had found another home until Beatty was to return to fulfil her next earthly incarnation, knowing exactly where and wh
en Beatty would return.

  Mr Bennet slept well for the first time in a long time that night. He dreamt peacefully and vividly of his beautiful wife. His parents were there too. They each smiled at him and faded out.

  He was surprised when Beatty’s face appeared. She too smiled and slowly disappeared. He hoped she was sending him a message that all was forgiven.

  Mr Bennet rolled onto his other side and slept the rest of the night with a smile on his face. Nothing could disturb him for he was out like a light.

  Fourteen

  The Present

  Weeks had passed since Sarah started her sessions with Dr Kerry Bell.

  Sarah made it past her twenty-sixth birthday with no hiccups. Her birthday had fallen in the month of March. When June came, she finally accepted she was healed.

  Feeling confident for the first time, Sarah started making plans of owning a house and someday filling it with a family of her own. Furthermore, she made steps to advance her career. She was a bank teller with high potential. She was competent, good with figures, and understood the world of high finance.

  It helped that her father Greg was the bank manager where she worked. Growing up, he had seen her potential throughout her years of schooling. He had kept a close eye on his genius daughter, who had inherited his genes as a gifted mathematician. She was an absolute wiz with numbers, perhaps even more so than he.

  With this belief in mind, he had encouraged her at every opportunity to develop her natural abilities. He had assisted with her maths homework, going so far as to add extra study to her curriculum. She had not considered this a burden though, as she thrived on challenges. Growing up, their study time had been their special time together.

  When Greg welcomed Sarah into his work environment, he was impressed with the work ethic she set for herself. His disgruntled staff soon learned she was there to accomplish the whole nine yards. She pulled her own weight and didn’t rest on the fact that her daddy was the boss. When it came to understanding the harder complexities of the job, she surpassed them all.