by A D Swanston
‘God’s purpose is very often obscure to me, as it is to you, Sarah. I find it more profitable to concentrate on earthly matters than to ponder on that which I will never understand.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I know that you are not a pious man, doctor. Isaac would wish me to help you but I am not sure that I can. I do not know to whom he speaks each day. He is a goldsmith, a trader who has contact with dozens, scores of others.’ She paused. ‘However, if there is one person to whom Isaac might have spoken it is my cousin Aaron. Aaron Lopes. He is a merchant dealing in precious stones. He and Isaac are like brothers.’
‘Where will I find your cousin, Sarah?’
‘He left for Antwerp the day before the attack. I do not know when he will return.’
‘Has he a family?’
‘Aaron is unmarried.’
If Aaron Lopes did not leave until the day before the attack, there would have been time for Isaac to have spoken to him. ‘I must speak to him as soon as he returns.’
‘So you shall, but remember, it is only a thought. Aaron may know nothing. Leave now, please, doctor. I must return to Isaac.’
With half his mind still on Isaac, he was playing idly on the lute when Katherine arrived again at Ludgate Hill and let herself in. He glanced up. ‘I had not expected to see you again today. Is there news?’
‘Not news of the kind we would wish for. Joan Willys is in Newgate.’
‘What? Of what is she accused?’
‘Of witchcraft.’
‘God in heaven, what next? It will soon be dark. We will go first thing tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER 9
Newgate. Home to pickpockets, cutpurses, thieves, murderers and felons of every hue awaiting death by gaol fever or their turn in court. There could not be a darker, more noxious, verminous place in London nor one so devoid of hope. The last time Christopher had been inside its walls he had sensed the cold stone closing in and felt his breath being squeezed from his lungs. For nearly four hundred years it had been a place of misery, pain and despair. Over the centuries it had been rebuilt and enlarged but it was as close to hell now as it had ever been.
They were admitted by the guards and escorted down to the cells. It was here in the depths of the common side that the poorest prisoners were kept, those who had not the means to buy their way to the master’s side above ground. For all the good intentions and ordinances of the Court of Aldermen, London prison wardens seldom thought further than their own pockets. To recover the outlay necessary to secure the wardenship, they extracted from the prisoners and their families every penny they could for food, bedding and the most basic of comforts and spent not a farthing more than they had to. And Newgate wardens were the most notorious of all.
Katherine held tightly to his arm as they followed a gaoler down a flight of stone steps to a narrow passageway, dimly lit by rush lanterns fastened to the walls. Barred cells, each crammed with prisoners, lined the passage on either side. Christopher put a hand on a wall to steady himself and pulled it back at once. The stone ran with slime. The air was thick with the stench of excrement and disease.
Ignoring the pleas of the prisoners – some feeble, others loud and threatening – and being careful not to slip on the flagstones, they reached a small cell at the end of the passage. The gaoler chose a key from a number on a ring attached to his belt, and unlocked the door. ‘There she is,’ he growled. ‘Alone for her own safety. Witches don’t last long in here, except those that can fly. There’s a guard at the steps so if she’s not here when I return, we’ll know for certain she’s a witch without the trouble of trying her.’ He clattered off, chuckling to himself.
Their eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the lack of light to make out a shape in one corner of the cell. ‘Joan?’ whispered Katherine. ‘Is that you?’
The shape moved and Joan pushed herself up until she was sitting with her back to the wall. ‘Mistress Allington,’ she mumbled, ‘I feared you would not come.’
Katherine carried a cloth bag from which she took a round loaf and a small block of cheese. She squatted down beside Joan and handed her the food. ‘Here, Joan, eat this. It will help you keep up your strength.’
Joan took the bread and bit into it; then she took a mouthful of cheese. She swallowed them with difficulty. ‘My mouth is dry, mistress. I need water.’
Christopher produced a bottle from under his gown. ‘The water here will be foul, Joan. Do not drink it. I hope this will suffice instead.’ He pulled the cork and gave her the bottle.
She tipped wine into her mouth, spluttered and managed a weak smile. ‘It will, sir. Thank you.’
Katherine took her hand. ‘Joan, can you tell us what happened? Your cousin told me that you had been arrested for witchcraft. Is it true?’
Joan rubbed her eyes with a sleeve and sniffed. ‘I have done harm to no one.’
‘I am sure of it,’ replied Katherine gently. ‘But who is saying that you have?’
‘My neighbour, Alice Scrope. She told the magistrate that I had caused her to suffer pain in her stomach after the birth of her baby. Said you only had to look at me to know I was a witch.’ Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. Katherine handed her a napkin.
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Christopher.
‘She’s a thief. I know it and I’ve told her so but I’ve no proof, only what my own eyes have seen.’
‘So she wants to be rid of you?’
‘She does.’
It was not an uncommon story. One person suffers illness or misfortune and takes the opportunity to accuse another, against whom he or she holds a grudge, of causing it by supernatural means. When faced with such an accusation a magistrate would examine the accuser and the accused, take depositions from them and from witnesses and either dismiss the case or refer it to a grand jury who would declare a billa vera or ignoramus. If the former, the accused would appear at the next sessions. It was unusual, however, for the accused in such a case to be held in gaol before the examination.
Joan was shivering. Katherine took off her cloak and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders. ‘You must prepare yourself to be examined by the magistrate, Joan. The law requires it. But Dr Radcliff will speak for you and the case will be dismissed. Take courage from prayer. We will soon have you home.’
Joan nodded. ‘When will the examination be?’ she asked.
‘In a few days, I expect, when witnesses have been summoned,’ replied Christopher. ‘I will find out from the magistrate. And Mistress Allington is right. You won’t be alone, I promise you. I will be there.’
She looked at Katherine. ‘And you, mistress?’
‘I too will be there. And we will arrange for you to be moved from this place immediately. Are you warm enough?’
‘It will be cold tonight.’
‘Then keep the cloak – that should help. Try not to be afraid. God will watch over you.’
Just as he watched over the woman at Smithfield, thought Christopher. I wish I believed it. ‘From what you have said the accusation is malicious and it should not be difficult to persuade a judge to dismiss it.’
‘I will come tomorrow, Joan,’ said Katherine, patting her shoulder. ‘Be sure to remember your prayers.’
The gaoler was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Christopher took a crown from his purse and held it up. ‘Joan Willys is to be moved at once to a clean cell on the master’s side and given food and drink. Not just bread but meat, and good ale to drink. No foul water. Is that clear?’
The gaoler grunted, took the crown and peered at it by the light of his torch. ‘There’s funny money about, they say, but this looks right. Meat and ale it shall be, sir.’
‘And a cell on the master’s side. We will return tomorrow.’
Joan lived with her crippled mother in a lane not far from Wood Street. There was no purpose in knocking as the old woman would not be able to reach the door unaided. The door, however, was unlocked and they let themselves in.
�
�Goodwife Willys,’ called out Katherine, ‘it is Katherine Allington and Dr Radcliff.’ When there was no reply she called again. This time they heard a weak voice and pushed open a squeaky door. Inside, Joan’s mother lay on a narrow cot against one wall, huddled under bed covers, with only her head visible. A black cat was curled up at the end of the cot. The fire had gone out and the room was icy. Katherine pushed the cat off. ‘Have you fuel?’ she asked.
There was a nod of the head. ‘A little wood in the kitchen.’
‘Are you hungry?’
Another nod. ‘Where is Joan?’
‘Joan is safe. I will fetch food while Dr Radcliff sets a new fire.’ At least there was good food in the house. They waited until the fire had warmed the room and she had taken a few mouthfuls of soup. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ asked Katherine.
‘The magistrate came with two constables. I did not hear what they said but they took Joan away. Where is she?’ Her voice was a little firmer now.
Katherine nodded to Christopher. ‘I am Christopher Radcliff,’ he said. ‘I am a lawyer in the service of the Earl of Leicester.’
‘Joan has spoken of you.’
‘Your neighbour, Alice Scrope, has made an accusation against Joan. Do you know anything of it?’
Suddenly the old woman’s eyes blazed and her voice took on new strength. ‘That doxy. A liar and a thief. Spread her legs for a dog, she would, if she was offered a shilling or two. And three babies dead – no wonder her man ran off. What lies has she told about Joan?’
‘She has accused Joan of practising witchcraft.’
‘Joan, a witch? A foul lie. No mother could have a better daughter. Where is she?’ Katherine and Christopher exchanged a look. ‘Joan is in Newgate. We have seen her. She has food and is safe there for now.’
‘Newgate.’ It was a sob. ‘In the name of God, my Joan in Newgate. I cannot believe it.’
Katherine took her hand. ‘Do not alarm yourself. I will see that she is well cared for and Dr Radcliff will speak for her. Joan will be released and will be home soon.’
The old eyes turned to Christopher. ‘Will she, doctor?’
‘I will do everything in my power to ensure that it is so.’
Tears ran down the wrinkled cheeks. ‘Joan a witch. A foul lie. It is that whore who’s a witch. Did the magistrate’s bidding, I expect, and turned him against Joan.’
‘If that is so,’ replied Katherine gently, ‘we will soon discover it. Now, I shall ask your niece Margaret who serves my aunt to stay with you until Joan returns. She will come within the hour.’
‘Thank you, mistress.’
‘I will lock the door and give Margaret the key. You will be safe.’
‘Which is the house of Alice Scrope?’ asked Christopher.
‘Three houses down towards Wood Street, but take care, sir, she is a rough woman.’
Christopher smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I shall be careful.’
Once outside, Katherine’s anger boiled over. ‘An accusation as plainly false as any could be, yet the magistrate leaves a crippled old woman alone and unprotected. It is he who should be in Newgate.’
‘It is. I will hear what the man has to say when I have spoken to Alice Scrope. Go now and find Margaret.’
‘I will find Margaret and when I have done so I will pray for the magistrate to reap just reward for what he has done.’
Alice Scrope might once have been pretty. Her narrow face might once have lit up in a smile, her grey eyes might have been clear and her mean lips might not have turned down so markedly that they dragged the skin of her sallow cheeks with them. As it was, however, she was an ugly creature, battered by a miserable life and old beyond her years. When she answered his knock, Christopher was tempted to walk away. But he could not. Joan Willys was his housekeeper and he carried a responsibility for her, just as he did to see that justice was served, which it would not be if she were sent to the assizes on the word of this slattern.
‘Goodwife Scrope,’ he began, speaking slowly, ‘I am Dr Christopher Radcliff, in the service of Her gracious Majesty’s adviser, the noble Earl of Leicester.’ When the unlovely face did not move, Christopher tried again. ‘The earl is anxious that all the facts pertaining to accusations of witchcraft are investigated and brought to the attention of the authorities.’ Not true, but entirely plausible. The red eyes narrowed a little. ‘I understand that you have made such an accusation against Joan Willys. Is this correct?’
‘The woman’s a witch, as anyone can see. She caused me much pain after my child was born. I only did what’s right for the sake of others.’ She spoke in a voice shrill with indignation.
‘Then you would be wise to answer my questions. What evidence have you of witchcraft?’
‘Hemlock and belladonna and henbane. The magistrate found them all in the devil woman’s house. She mixes them at night.’ Katherine had mentioned that Joan had a knowledge of plants and their properties. ‘And her face. It is the face of a witch.’
‘Allow me to enter, goodwife, so that we may speak in private.’
‘There is no fire.’
‘That is no matter.’ Christopher took half a step forward, forcing the woman to step back. He slipped past her into the hovel. ‘Thank you.’
Inside it was as foul as its occupant – cold, dirty, unloved, empty but for a few sticks of furniture. Without asking, Christopher found a small room and stood with his back to the unlit fire in the vain hope that there might be a little heat left in the ashes.
‘Where do you work, goodwife?’ he asked.
‘The Fox in Bishopsgate. I serve the customers.’
‘And your child?’
‘She comes with me.’
‘Have you other children?’
She looked up sharply. ‘They were taken from me. Three of them. I will answer no more of your questions.’
‘Then you will be made to answer them in court before the magistrate. It will go easier for you if you do so now. How did your children die?’
She shrugged. ‘Same way most children die. They were sick.’
‘Your pain. Is it still strong?’
‘It comes and goes, according to the witch’s thoughts.’
‘Has she ever accused you of thieving?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘What about thieving from the market?’
‘Ha. I paid no mind to that. There are thieves in any market, cutpurses and rogues and queer-birds too. She mistook me for one of them. Or lied, more likely, just to cause me trouble. And she knows things.’ From another room came the cry of a child. Alice Scrope ignored it.
Christopher kept his face impassive. ‘What manner of things does she know?’
‘She knows how to cure ailments.’
‘You will have to swear to all of this to the magistrate. Will you be willing to do so?’
‘The magistrate will believe me. He knows me to be an honest woman.’
‘Think hard, goodwife. The penalties for making a false accusation can be severe. Tell an untruth in court and you may find yourself in Newgate.’
Alice Scrope screeched, ‘Then fuck off. Leave my house or I’ll call for a constable. Try to stop me and I’ll cry rape. Go and comfort the witch. Tell her to ask for the devil’s help. It’s all she’ll get.’
‘Joan Willys will suffer no punishment. If you are lying, you will be the one to suffer.’ Christopher slammed the door behind him, half hoping that the hovel would collapse on top of the worthless whore.
If found guilty, Joan would spend twelve months in prison and four days in the stocks. He doubted she would survive that.
The magistrate’s house stood in Gresham Street, on the corner of Gutter Lane. Christopher had last seen the man at the witch-burning at Smithfield. It was he who had read out the proclamation condemning the poor woman to die in the fire. He knew the man well enough and that he was ready and willing to profit from others’ misfortunes and as industrious as a fat sow reluctant to heave herself
off her bed of straw. Most magistrates were honest, hard-working men, trying to do their best for their community. Not this one.
Gilbert Knoyll did not rise when Christopher entered but put aside his plate and nodded a greeting. ‘Dr Radcliff, you find me at leisure. Can the matter not wait until tomorrow?’
‘It cannot, sir.’
Knoyll poured wine into his glass. ‘Then will you take a glass of wine?’
Christopher waved a hand in refusal. ‘I have come about the false accusation made against my housekeeper, Joan Willys.’
‘False, doctor? Is it false?’ He pursed his lips in distaste. ‘Why do you think so?’
‘Of course it is false,’ snapped Christopher. ‘Joan Willys’s accuser is no more than a slovenly whore intent upon revenge for being called a thief, which she undoubtedly is. Her claim to have suffered pain is a fabrication and her accusation should be dismissed at once.’
Knoyll steepled his hands in front of his bloated face and peered over the spectacles perched on his snub nose. ‘That is not for you to say, doctor. An accusation has been made and there must be due process of law. I will summon witnesses and will hear depositions and examine the accused. Then, and only then, shall I decide if the case should be referred to a grand jury. That is the law, as you well know.’
‘And I know that it is within your power to dismiss the case now and prosecute the woman Scrope for a monstrously false accusation.’
Knoyll shook his head. ‘That is not something I am prepared to do without a proper examination. I believe that the accusation has been made in good faith. If the accused’s innocence is plain, she will be released. If not, the case will be presented to a grand jury. If the jury finds the case to be true, they will send it to the next sessions. You are a Doctor of Law, sir. You are aware of the procedure. Now, good day.’ He adjusted his spectacles and returned to his food.
‘When will you carry out the examination?’
‘On Friday next at midday.’