by Emma Carroll
‘Thank you.’ My voice wobbled; I couldn’t help crying when they’d been kind to me.
Mad Meg pinched my cheek.
‘Go well, Little Miss Neptune,’ said Twelve-toed Tess.
The cell door opened. Irons were clamped on my wrists. Mr Nelson led me away, and as I glanced behind, they blew me a kiss.
*
The next faces I saw were considerably less friendly. Approaching Glastonbury we had our first view of the crowds. At this distance they were little more than ant-like specks covering the hillside and running along the edge of the floodwater. As we got closer the specks became people-shaped, with hats, bonnets, shawls, collars, and eyes that eagerly followed the cart’s progress to the foot of the hill. There were hundreds here, possibly more.
I clung to the side of the cart, shivering. It was best not to look. Best to keep my head down and remember to breathe. But I was desperate for a glimpse of my family or Susannah, and so for better or worse, scanned the crowds.
‘Brought the pamphleteers flocking, you have.’ Mr Nelson pointed out a group of men in smart town clothes, who were already writing things down. ‘They’ll be reading all about you in London by tomorrow.’
I gulped. ‘So soon?’
The thought of strangers hearing my pack-of-lies story made me long for Jem or Mother or Susannah even more. But I couldn’t find them in the sea of people. Everything had become a blur of hostile faces. I didn’t trust myself to focus on anyone again until the cart came to a halt at the very front of the crowds.
Someone had brought out a parlour table and set it on the grass. Behind it, on straight-backed chairs, sat three gentlemen. Two of these men I knew all too well – Dr Blood in black, with his plump beetle body, and Mr Hopkins, who kept his scar turned away from the crowd. I felt bile creeping up my throat: how I hated them both.
The third man was rather small, with a sandy-coloured beard. To be honest, but for the huge froth of lace at his collar he looked quite ordinary, though my cell mates’ eyes, I bet, would’ve stood out of their heads. And even I, in my wretched state, had to stare. For this was King James of the British Isles, the greatest witch hunter of them all.
‘Bring the prisoner forward for her test,’ Dr Blood instructed.
‘Test? What test?’ I asked as Mr Nelson handed me down from the cart.
Knowingly, he tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s just say you’ll be having another wash very soon.’
I’d no idea what he meant, or why my wrist irons were now being unlocked, only to be replaced with rope, which was looped around my waist. More guards surrounded me.
I was bewildered. Why wasn’t anyone asking me questions? Wouldn’t I at least get a chance to speak?
Someone was tugging at the rope around my waist. A sudden jolt and I was dragged backwards across the grass towards the water till I was in it up to my ankles.
‘What are you doing?’ I cried.
‘Quieten her!’ said a stern voice. On his feet, and holding another coil of rope, was Mr Hopkins.
‘Sir, what’s happening?’ I begged. ‘You said I was to be put to trial at the Assizes. Why am I in the water?’
‘Tie her,’ Mr Hopkins instructed the guards.
Someone grabbed my right arm. Another guard wound rope round my hand. It all happened so fast – the pushing, pulling, pinching. And then the same guard grabbed my left foot.
‘Let go of me!’ I shrieked.
He was far stronger than me, and yanked my foot so hard I lost my balance and fell. I hit the shallow water with an almighty smack. In panic, I tried to get up again, but there were guards all around me. My mouth was full of mud. Someone was pulling me again, forcing my upper body down towards my feet.
I fought hard. I screamed. Yet in a moment it was done. The guards stood back, breathless, admiring their work. Like a lamb going to market, they’d bound me, hand to foot, right to left. I prayed my family and Susannah weren’t here, after all. I couldn’t bear for them to see me like this.
A bell rang to quieten the crowd, before Mr Hopkins addressed them.
‘Fortune Sharpe will be tested today in the very floods she is accused of luring here from the coast.’
I lay on my side in the water, terrified.
‘We must protect our souls from the threat of dark magic that is infecting our people,’ he went on.
A savage cheer went up from the crowd. Just like yesterday in Bridgwater, they were hungry for revenge or justice, or I didn’t know what, their noise a confusing rumble in my head.
Why me? What had I done to make them hate me so much? I was a plain, ordinary child from a hamlet by the sea. These people didn’t know one true thing about who I was.
‘The accused will be ducked under the water,’ Mr Hopkins explained. His voice was calm and clear. ‘If she sinks and drowns, she is innocent. But if she floats, then that is proof of her being a witch, a crime which is punishable by death.’
The guards moved in. One pulled the rope. Another seized my shoulders. They pulled me away from the edge, away from Mr Hopkins. The water grew colder and deeper. The ground beneath me fell away. The guards were holding me up so I was bobbing, floating.
Above me the sky was softest grey. Water lapped around my head, my ears, over my face. I let my fear go: I had no use for it any more. Instead, I pictured Bea’s pink-gummed smile, and wondered whether the Songbird had yet hit the open seas. And if what Maira told me about the caul could really, possibly, be true.
The guards pushed me under.
31
Beneath the water I couldn’t hear the crowd. It was almost peaceful. No more shouting, no more chanting of ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’ The cold was brutal, squeezing my head, pressing my lungs. Yet I felt overwhelmingly calm, as if the water was protecting me, somehow, and down here I was safe.
Dark spots flickered before my eyes. My mind, like it did right on the edge of sleep, began to drift away. This, I supposed, was drowning. All that fuss about the caul had been for nothing, because no amount of good luck was going to save me now.
And yet, with a jolt, I was suddenly alert. The dark spots were mud. Something was moving through the water. Everything turned cloudy as a pair of feet kicked their way towards me. It couldn’t be Jem because he was a weak swimmer. But I didn’t know anyone else with such long spindly legs, such grubby breeches.
Two arms hooked themselves under my armpits, and I was lifted up towards the light. We broke the surface together, coughing and heaving for breath.
‘Hold still,’ Jem spluttered as he worked free the knot binding my right thumb to my left toe.
Once I was no longer bent double, I could float. And then it was me helping Jem, who was shaking like fury.
‘Lord, how I hate deep water,’ he gasped.
I couldn’t believe he’d got past the guards, let alone swum in to rescue me.
‘But you’re here!’ I cried. ‘You saved me!’ And he’d be joking about it for years to come if we got out of here alive.
‘You’re n-nnot saved y-yyyet, not with them there,’ Jem stuttered through chattering teeth.
He meant the crowd. The chanting had turned to yelling. I couldn’t tell what the words were, only that they sounded ready to rip us to shreds. What’s more, they’d come closer, spilling down the hillside to stand right at the water’s edge. They were spread all along it, arms linked in a menacing wall.
We had to do something – and fast – because if the crowd didn’t finish us off, then this freezing water would. Even behind us, the rowing boat was still approaching. We were surrounded. Jem looked as terrified as I was. Our only choice – and it wasn’t really one at all – was to face our accusers.
‘We’ll stick together,’ I decided. ‘Two of us will be harder to deal with.’
We swam slowly, knowing every stroke brought us closer to the shore. About twenty yards out, the guards waded in to meet us. There were four of them. Two seized me, the other two took Jem. They were rough, clearly e
xpecting a struggle, though we’d barely strength to stand.
At the front of the crowd was Dr Blood.
‘Take them both to stand before the king! At once!’ he roared.
The crowd parted sullenly. We were hauled across to the table where King James was seated. Mr Hopkins was already on his feet.
‘How DARE you interrupt justice!’ His voice was hushed and deadlier for it. He glared over the top of my head at Jem. ‘YOU, boy, shall be punished for this.’
‘Sir,’ Jem spoke with all the dignity he could muster. ‘I only did what any brother would. My sister is innocent of all charges.’
In that moment, I loved Jem so much it hurt. Yet his words slid over the men like butter in a hot pan.
‘I get results, Master Sharpe, that’s what people pay me for,’ Mr Hopkins replied coldly. ‘Your sister didn’t drown, therefore she is guilty as charged.’
‘And thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ Dr Blood added.
I knew the line, all right. It was from the new King James Bible, and the way Dr Blood glanced at the king – fawning, desperate – wasn’t a good sign. We’d made him look bad in front of royalty. He wasn’t about to forget it, either.
‘You’re not … I mean, you can’t …’ I protested.
Jem kept on trying to reason. ‘Gentlemen, I beg you, Fortune might be a bit of an oddity with her short hair and boys’ garments, but she’s no witch.’
‘Get the boy out of my sight,’ Mr Hopkins snarled.
Dr Blood twisted round to beckon more guards. But they were distracted by someone jostling at the front of the crowd.
‘Take your hands off me!’ the woman cried. ‘I can stand by myself. I don’t need assistance.’
I blinked. It couldn’t be.
Maira was supposed to be miles away at sea. Yet it was her, no question, standing a head taller than the guards, and quicker too, sidestepping them with ease. Shoulders back, chin raised, she marched straight up to the king’s table.
‘Those friends at Withy Cove I told you about?’ I muttered to Jem. ‘She’s the boat’s captain.’
‘I know,’ Jem muttered back. ‘I fetched her.’
A rush of pride came over me – at my brother, and at Maira, who was standing before the three men, arms folded, feet apart.
‘What interruption can we possibly have now?’ Mr Hopkins was beginning to lose his cool. ‘Resolve it, Blood, for heaven’s sake!’
Dr Blood took his frustration out on the guards. ‘What are you waiting for? Get rid of this … this … woman! And the boy! They’re interrupting justice—’
‘Justice? Pah!’ Maira spat at his feet.
For the first time King James looked mildly interested. ‘Pray, who is this disorderly wench?’
‘A friend of the accused, clearly,’ Mr Hopkins replied. ‘And therefore a witch by association.’
A look passed between him and Dr Blood. A nod. An agreement. They both turned to me, hard-eyed as ever. I felt my legs go weak. The guards who were holding me tightened their grip.
‘What the …?’ I realised what was happening. Me and Maira? They couldn’t accuse both of us.
More guards started closing in on Maira. Again, she sidestepped them, to jab a finger at Dr Blood. ‘He knows who I am.’
I couldn’t imagine how. Yet they clearly had met before, their dislike for each other very obvious.
‘The woman is mistaken.’ Dr Blood tried to brush it off. ‘She’s in league with Fortune Sharpe. We do not need to hear any more from either of them.’
After all, who were we but two worthless females, whereas he was a man with status. He had wealth and a voice. Well, he’d seriously underestimated Maira.
‘Oh, I’m mistaken, am I?’ She raised an eyebrow – and what power there was in that look. ‘You don’t even know the person you and your business partner hired to bring your sugar cargo to this country? I’d say that was careless, wouldn’t you?’
Sugar.
The white devil, Mistress Bagwell used to call it. It made people rich and tasted like heaven on a plate, yet what it did to teeth and morals left a lot to be desired. So even Maira was part of the trade that bound Dr Blood and Mr Spicer together. I didn’t know what I’d expected her ship to carry, but it hadn’t occurred to me it might be sugar.
I remembered then what Mr Spicer had said on Twelfth Night, about the captain with too many opinions who’d refused to take a certain cargo.
Maira.
It all tied in with her disappearance at the hiring fair. Susannah was probably right: something had spooked her, and that something, for whatever reason, was Mr Spicer.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here, gentlemen,’ Maira said, still unbelievably calm. ‘To tell you the true nature of this trial, which has nothing to do with witchcraft, and everything to do with the sugar trade.’
The men looked unconvinced by this, which spurred me on to speak up. It was now or never.
‘What she says is true,’ I insisted. ‘I too once worked for Mr Thomas Spicer, of Berrow Hall, Somersetshire.’
‘Indeed, where you lied as to your sex, and were employed as a male servant to Mr Spicer’s son,’ Dr Blood retorted, recovering his stride.
The crowd tittered. King James rolled his eyes. He was starting to look bored.
‘And so we have on trial, a liar and a ship’s captain who goes back on her word. Hardly two of our most upstanding citizens, are they?’ Dr Blood said, so smugly I had to grit my teeth.
Maira didn’t flinch. ‘Mr Spicer – and Dr Blood – wanted my ship and crew to carry a different type of cargo across the Atlantic. We refused.’
‘Really, I hardly think—’ Mr Hopkins tried to interrupt, but the king silenced him with a glare.
‘To keep up with the world’s demand for sugar, huge plantations are needed, worked by huge numbers of people. White men – very rich white men – are taking men, women and children from Africa,’ Maira continued. ‘From the jungle, to work their crops like animals. If you’re dark of skin you’re not human, that’s how they see it.’
Whether the king agreed with her or not, I couldn’t tell, but he was listening. So was the entire crowd.
‘Mr Spicer and Dr Blood,’ Maira went on. ‘They no longer wanted just sugar to be shipped. They asked me to sail by West Africa and pick up a very different type of cargo; one that’s living. Slaves.’
I knew in my gut that this wasn’t good. The hiring fair had been grim enough with its prodding and poking; this was a hundred times worse. I glanced at Jem, who looked as horrified as I was.
‘And you said no?’ the king asked Maira.
‘I did.’
The king sat back in his seat as he thought over what Maira had said. We watched. Waited. You could feel the whole crowd holding their breath.
Yet when he did speak, it was almost a whine. ‘Please don’t tell me I’ve come all this way to hear an argument about sugar.’
‘It’s not just about sugar.’ Maira raised her voice. ‘It’s because I was a woman saying no!’
‘And you’re also a witch,’ Dr Blood reminded her.
‘Ah yes, the witch trial,’ King James interrupted. ‘Shall we resume proceedings?’
A roar went up. Someone shouted, ‘Witch!’ The chanting began all over again.
32
New ropes appeared. The guards on either side of me tied my arms. More men were brought in to do the same to Maira, who fought with all her might until she was overwhelmed. The moment had turned with bewildering speed.
‘Drown the witches!’
‘Cast them out!’
‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’
The guards dragged us back to the floodwater. Somewhere in the confusion was Jem, fighting to stay with me, trying to pull me back.
‘Stop! You can’t duck me again!’ I screamed at the guards.
‘This isn’t justice!’ Maira yelled.
At the water’s edge, Dr Blood, who was leading the way, came to a sudden stop.
‘You cannot come ashore here!’ he cried.
Something was wrong. There were raised voices. Gesturing arms. The fuss seemed to be about the little rowing boat that had just pulled in to the shallows, and the group climbing ashore from its prow. Under arms, between shoulders, I glimpsed curly brown hair, a baby in a sling, two sets of yellow plaits.
A huge wave of love came over me. Then total, absolute panic that my family and Susannah had walked straight into this dreadful situation. It was Susannah’s well-bred voice that carried above the crowd.
‘If you truly believe that magic controls the sea,’ she was saying, ‘then I’m the one you should be blaming, not Fortune Sharpe or Maira.’
‘Stop your mouth!’ I cried to her. ‘Go, quickly! Be safe!’
The crowd shrank back, a space opening around the new arrivals. Susannah was standing on the grass, very small, very composed. Bea was in her arms, rubbing her eyes as if she’d just woken up. Mother and Abigail were behind them, leaving the water.
Mr Hopkins elbowed his way through, muttering about charging extra for his time if things didn’t hurry up. But suddenly all of us were herded back towards the king. I felt weak with relief, though all this stopping and starting was doing nothing to steady my nerves.
‘If this is a proper trial, then the defendants must be allowed to speak,’ Mother declared in the same tone she used when handling difficult cows.
Mr Hopkins shook his head.
It was the king himself who seemed to agree with her. ‘Indeed, it has been most unsatisfactory so far. And who are you?’
Mother raised her gaze to look at him directly. ‘Mistress Sharpe. Fortune is my daughter and she’s no witch.’
I should have been surprised at her courage, but I wasn’t. Mother had chased after Old Margaret’s cart with a milking stool, so she wasn’t going to let her own daughter be drowned without putting up a fight. Standing there, fierce-faced, she looked like a Viking warrior. Abigail was a smaller version of the same. I tried not to sob with gratitude.
‘And you are?’ The king’s beringed finger pointed at Susannah. Bea, spotting the glinting emerald on it, reached out with glee.