by Betsy Tobin
Finally she sleeps and I am free to end my recitation. The last words crackle in the silence of the room, then settle on the floor like dead leaves. I close the passage I am reading and shut my eyes. My head aches from the effort of reading and my throat is parched and rough. When I am certain she will not wake I slip silently from the room. I have heard nothing from the village and am anxious to learn news of the magistrate.
But first I go to see my mother, for the sense of duty weighs heavily upon me. When I arrive at Long Boy’s cottage I am surprised to see Anne Wycombe, the ironmonger’s wife, outside the door. She is bent over a washtub filled with bedclothes, and as I approach she pauses and rocks back on her heels, wiping a reddened forearm across her brow. Her hair is pulled severely back and covered by a kerchief, and the sleeves of her dark dress are rolled up to the elbows. She is a small, wiry woman of somewhat nervous disposition who has never borne children. Some years back it was rumored she would stop at nothing in the quest to end her barrenness, seeking out healers and soothsayers, quacksalvers and even white witches, all to no avail. There is something harsh and arid about her person, as if she herself was conceived and borne of desert dryness. And too, age and disappointment have curdled her expression.
She catches sight of me and races of alarm flash behind her eyes. She does not rise but nods to me nervously from her haunches.
“Good morrow, Anne. Is my mother within?” I ask. She shakes her head and eyes me suspiciously.
“She is with the magistrate. He sent for her this morning,” she says cautiously, as if I should already have heard this news.
“Do they accuse her?” I ask.
“I know not,” she says, averting her eyes. She picks up the soap mechanically and begins to scrub the bedclothes once again.
“What of the boy?” I ask. She stops and looks up at me.
“I am to tend him,” she says.
“Until she returns?” I ask. Anne shrugs, says nothing. Perhaps she is not expected to return. “Is he still with fever?”
“It has lessened,” she replies.
I stare at her. When I was thirteen she sought counsel from my mother. She came to us in a state of great agitation, twisting her apron nervously in her fingers. My mother took one look at her and sent me out to collect firewood, for I was too old to witness her despair. I remained some time away, knowing I would meet with my mother’s disapproval if I returned too soon. Finally, when my arms had grown numb from the weight of the kindling, I made my way back to the cottage. I knocked and entered and at once saw Anne Wycombe overcome with grief at the table. My mother sat immobile at her side, her lips pressed together in a thin line of concern. Shows of sympathy do not come easily to my mother, and I saw her shift uncomfortably in her chair. When Anne saw me she stopped and raised her head, and suddenly I felt implicated in her eyes: a bastard child, an accident. She stopped crying and watched as I stacked the kindling neatly by the fireplace. And then she rose silently, her eyes flooded with the bitterness of the barren, and took her leave without another word. When the door shut behind her my mother sighed. With one swift look she stilled my questions. We never spoke of Anne Wycombe again.
* * *
I am filled with dread as I make my way to the alehouse. I think to find Mary in the first instance, but when I enter through the kitchen it is empty, so I approach the door to the main room and peer within. I recognize the magistrate at once, having seen him on one other occasion, for his looks are such that one would not easily forget the sight of him. He is seated at the table and there is no sign of my mother, nor anyone else for that matter, and he is bent over several sheets of parchment, peering closely at them with the aid of a monocle. I enter the room silently and stand watching him for several moments, the only sound that of the repeated scratching of his quill upon the parchment. He writes slowly and precisely, pausing frequently to read what he has written. He wears a neatly powdered snow-white wig and a dark green velvet tunic fitted with a stylish white ruff, which only partly serves to conceal the folds of rosy skin beneath his chin, for he is corpulent in the extreme.
When he sees me he stops writing and lowers the monocle. With some effort he stands, pushing back his chair and nodding to me. I take a step forward into the room.
“If you please, sir, it is my mother who stands accused,” I say. He frowns, scrutinizes me for a long moment, then indicates the chair opposite him at the table.
“Be seated,” he says. “I should have sent for you this afternoon, but you have spared me the trouble.” I take the seat opposite him, and watch as he lowers his bulk into his own chair, causing the wood to creak loudly under the strain of his great weight. He pushes the papers in front of him to one side, then clears his throat and peers at me.
“The case against your mother is rather serious, I’m afraid, owing to the discovery made this morning.” He pauses then, notices my confusion.
“I assumed that you had heard,” he says, giving a little cough. “They found the fetus buried in the clearing behind her cottage.” He watches my reaction closely, but before I can speak he holds up a hand to silence me. “Now of course it is possible someone else put it there deliberately to implicate her, but taken with the weight of the other evidence against her . . .” He pauses then, heaves an enormous breath, as if the effort of speaking alone taxes him. “In particular, the fact that few persons other than herself knew of the infant’s existence, her case is very poor.”
I stare at him uncomprehending, and then I remember the bloody sack of cloth outside my mother’s door. The magistrate continues, his deep voice resonating off the tavern walls. “I am in the process of gathering statements from those who know her, and in this capacity am, of course, most anxious to speak with yourself.”
“Sir, my mother is no witch,” I say hurriedly. Once again he raises a hand to still me.
“Your faith in her innocence is laudable—no doubt I would wish the same from my own daughter. But I must remind you that it is a perjury and a sin to speak an untruth in this instance.”
“Sir, hear me out,” I say. “The baby they found was not the one you seek.”
“So said your mother,” he replies with a nod. “But she refused to tell me from whence it came.” He stares at me expectantly.
“It was a bastard child,” I explain. “Born still to a young girl across the river. My mother delivered the infant. The girl in question had concealed the pregnancy from her relations, and when it was born dead, she asked my mother to remove it and give it a proper burial.”
“You were there?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
“You know the whereabouts of the young woman in question?”
“No, sir.”
“Her name then?”
I sigh, and shake my head. “My mother did not tell me.” He gives another enormous sigh and shifts again in his chair; for a moment I am convinced it will collapse under his weight.
“That is more information than your mother gave us, though it is still insufficient to clear her of suspicion. Tell me this: why does she fail to speak in her own defense?”
“My mother does not break an oath lightly.”
He ponders this a moment, his fleshy face folded in a frown.
“She will have to do so if she wishes to clear her name,” he says finally.
“Sir, my mother is a God-fearing woman who has dedicated her life to helping women birth children. Surely the people of the village have told you this.”
“They have told me many things,” he says slowly.
“They have not spoken on her behalf?” I ask, incredulous. He pauses then.
“She appears to have few advocates,” he says finally.
“But surely she has even fewer enemies,” I counter. He shrugs.
“The practice of witchcraft is common among those of her trade. It is regrettable, but not unheard of.”
“But she has bewitched no one,” I protest. “A body has been taken, but aside from this, what harm
has befallen anyone?”
He looks at me sternly. “May I remind you that the theft of a grave and the desecration of a corpse is an extremely serious offense. But aside from this, there is the matter of the boy and his condition to consider.” I cannot believe my ears.
“My mother has tended him faithfully since his mother’s death,” I say slowly.
“And he has deteriorated steadily under her care,” he replies evenly.
“You suspect her of bewitching him?”
“It is indeed likely,” he answers.
“What motive could she possibly have? She had no quarrel with the dead woman,” I say.
“None that we are aware of,” he says slowly. “But the woman in question died under extremely mysterious conditions. It appears to me that her death was not the result of an accident, as had been originally supposed.”
I am silent for several moments. “What evidence do you have in support of this?” I ask cautiously.
“At this stage, none,” he replies. “But my instinct tells me there is more to learn about the circumstances of her death.”
I sit opposite him, my mind whirling. I cannot tell him that I share his intuition; neither can I divulge what I know without endangering my mother.
“Did you question my mother about her death?” I ask finally.
“No. But I intend to. In the meantime there are others in the village I must interview. I have ordered your mother to remain in her cottage for the present, until we have further need of her. She is not to go near the boy. Have you anything else you wish to say on her behalf?”
I look at him, and slowly shake my head.
“Then you are free to go,” he says.
The village seems deserted as I make my way toward her cottage, as if people have locked themselves away with their suspicions. The few people that I pass avert their eyes; it seems that news has traveled quickly. I wonder that I did not hear of it earlier, then decide that perhaps my ignorance was not an accident, for people are surprisingly quick to ally themselves with gossip of any kind. When I open the door to my mother’s cottage, I find her seated at the table, motionless. Her hands rest delicately on the table in front of her, as if she is about to play an instrument, and it strikes me that I have rarely, if ever, seen them idle.
I close the door and seat myself opposite her. Though she is not yet a prisoner, already she wears the look of one. “I’ve come from the magistrate,” I tell her. She looks up at me expectantly, and I realize I have nothing positive to offer her. “The case against you is serious. Do you realize this?” I lean forward, place my hands upon the table opposite her. Another daughter might have clasped her hands in reassurance, but though I urge myself to do so, I find that I cannot. She says nothing, continues staring at the table.
“You must tell them everything,” I say. “You must tell the truth.”
“The truth will be a weapon in their hands,” she says. I sigh and look at her. She is remarkably calm. Or perhaps she is resigned, just as my mistress is to death.
“Tell me where to find the girl. Surely she would not object if she knew you were in danger?” My slowly shakes her head. “You pay too great a price with your silence,” I say. “You do not owe her this.”
“She was a traveler. I do not know her whereabouts,” she says duly. I wonder if she tells the truth. Nonetheless, there must be some other means of proving her innocence.
“The baby you delivered. Did it come to term?” I ask.
“It was born early,” she says in a wooden voice.
“How early?” She shrugs.
“Some weeks,” she replies.
“How many? Three? Six?” I urge her to remember.
“Perhaps the latter. I did not know, as I had never met the mother during the course of her confinement.” The fact that the baby was not fully formed makes it harder to distinguish from the fetus taken from the great-bellied woman. My mother looks at me grimly, for she is well aware of this. I sit back in my chair, look around me at the simply furnished cottage.
“Then we must wait,” I say finally. “And see what they decide.”
That evening I take my food alone in my room, as I have no wish to confront the likes of Rafe and Alice in the great hall. When darkness is complete, I take my cloak and slip out the front door unseen, anxious to find Mary at the alehouse. When I enter through the rear door I am relieved to see her there, bent low over the kitchen fire. She straightens at once when she sees me, wiping her hands upon her apron.
“I’ve been at Chepton until this evening,” she says, her eyes filled with concern. “I only heard the news just now.” I tell her what I know about the infant they found, and she shakes her head in dismay. She forces me to sit and ladles some broth from a pot over the fire.
“You are pale,” she says, placing a wooden bowl in front of me. “This will do you good.” I sip the hot broth.
“Have you heard anything else?” I ask anxiously. She nods a head toward the other room.
“It is very full within. They lose their heads when they drink: men’s tongues are even looser than their wives’.”
“They speak of her?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “There is no one they do not speak of: every crooked woman is a witch, every stray animal harbors the devil, and every sick cow is a victim of enchantment.” She shakes her head. “It has gone too far.” She reads the fear in my eyes and lays a reassuring hand upon my arm. “It will come to naught,” she says.
“What if it doesn’t?” I reply.
Just then the door opens and the painter stands awkwardly in the doorway. Mary straightens and he nods to her.
“Forgive me,” he says. She motions him in, then picks up a tray and excuses herself, disappearing through the door behind him. He turns to me.
“I looked for you at the Great House,” he says. I do not offer a reply. What could he possibly want? He takes a step forward into the room. “I heard the news about your mother,” he continues.
Our eyes meet for a moment.
“She is innocent,” I say finally, looking away.
“I did not think otherwise,” he says. “But it is strange, this accusation, is it not?” He looks at me inquiringly. I sigh. He is an outsider, does not understand our ways, nor the damage that simple minds and idle talk can do.
“There has been much talk,” I say. “It will likely come to nothing.” I echo Mary’s words, unsure if I believe them. He is about to speak when Mary enters carrying several empty tankards. He watches her a moment, then turns to me once more.
“I am sorry,” he says quickly, then disappears behind the door.
Mary raises her eyebrows. “For what does he apologize?” she says.
I think of Dora and his revelation of their past. Is he sorry for his deception? Or his devotion?
“I do not know,” I say. She smiles grimly and shakes her head, begins to douse the tankards in a bucket.
“How goes the portrait?” she asks after a moment, wiping her hands on her apron.
“The dead do not sit still,” I say.
She looks at me and smiles.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning my mistress appears somewhat revived: her color has improved and the glassiness has gone from her eyes, though it is clear they are failing her. She agrees to take some breakfast and I prepare a tray for her under Cook’s supervision: nothing cold and nothing solid, she admonishes, only that which has been well-cooked and sieved. My mistress frowns when I set the tray in front of her, but she eats slowly and finishes most of it. At length she pushes the remainder aside.
“Edward came to see me this morning,” she says cautiously. “He told me of your mother’s predicament.” She regards me closely, and I sigh inwardly. Even in her sickbed she is not immune from gossip. “I urged him to intervene on her behalf,” she continues. “Though I know not what he can do.”
“They do not accuse her at present,” I say.
“No doubt they will, if no one
else is found,” she replies. She looks toward the window. “It does not bring honor upon the Great House,” she says at length. I turn to her. I thought her talk of marriage between Edward and me had been borne of her delirium, but apparently the notion remains planted firmly within her. With horror, I wonder whether she has spoken to him of it, and hope fervently that she has not.
“I am sorry, mum,” I say. She turns to me and nods beneficently.
“The Lord will steer us free from peril.”
I do not share her confidence.
* * *
Later, she sleeps, and I go to visit Long Boy, as I have promised my mother I will watch over him. When I arrive at the cottage Anne Wycombe admits me with a brief nod and scarcely a word, then carries on with her sewing in the corner of the room. Long Boy is sitting up in bed and is of good color, though his eyes are strangely bright.
“Where is your mother?” he asks at once. Anne raises her head at the question, but when I glance in her direction she lowers it quickly, as if I have caught her eavesdropping.
“She is resting at home,” I tell him.
“Is she ill?” he asks, uncomprehending.
“No. She is only tired,” I say. “But she’ll soon return.” Long Boy nods; this seems to satisfy him. Anne frowns but says nothing. “How do you feel?” I ask him.
“I am well,” he answers matter-of-factly. Perhaps he does not recall the fever of the past few days. He nods toward Anne. “Will this woman stay with me?” he asks.