by Lesley Lodge
‘Let me… let me tell it all through – and we can talk about it when I’ve done.’ Wayland said and he started to tell Alun about his first visit to the magistrate’s house.
‘Stane? That cocky bast….’ Alun began – but he shut up when he saw Wayland’s face and he let Wayland go on to describe his discovery of the body, his return visit to the magistrate and how they’d looked over the body together. He stopped short of mentioning the wounds.
‘Such a young lad, so untimely. Who’d do a thing like that?’ Wayland burst out.
‘Wait up, man,’ said Alun ‘I thought we were talking of some accident. A fall from a horse or somesuch. Are you telling me it was murder?’
Wayland reached for his jar and took a long swig. Neither man heard the slight scuffling sound from the inner room. ‘Murder and more than that,’ Wayland said, his words coming out in a rush now, ‘and the worst part was looking at that small body, the mutilations, the mess his killer made – and yet, somehow, the body so calm.’
‘Mutilations? How do mean?’
‘Just that. Not ordinary stabbings. There were signs gouged on his body. Some kind of cross–shaped signs.’
Alun was gasping for breath again, wheezing and sobbing. Wayland decided not to mention the slit that had disfigured the boy’s face. There was a low creak as the inner door opened behind Alun. Wayland’s son Jonathan walked in, slowly at first. All at once he flung himself at Wayland, sobbing and banging his head on Wayland’s chest. Then he fainted.
7.
June 1947 Essex
Jonathan was really tired now. He’d been searching for his mother for some four hours. As he neared the next town, though, he heard a great noise, a kind of crowd roar. He stopped short and with a hurried knot, he tied the mare to the nearest tree and peered through the gorse bushes in front of him.
He saw five women, clustered together on a platform by a pond. Skirts flapped forlornly in the slight breeze and the boy realised the women’s arms were tied. People swirled around the platform, some shouting, others laughing. Now and again, someone would lurch on to the platform, jab at a prisoner and a great yell would echo round the crowd.
Like most boys his age in those days, he had witnessed public punishments often enough before, of course, mostly the stocks. He’d seen pain enough too and not just during the wartime. But here he could see no one in authority and that puzzled him. He joined the crowd at its edge, trying to blend in, unnoticed. He watched as the first prisoner was pulled roughly down and flung onto the mud. A knife flashed in the sun. Instinctively, the boy clenched his fists and sweat trickled through the short, fair hairs on his arms until he saw with some relief that the man was cutting twine, not flesh. Some men dragged a dirty, grey sheet towards the woman. He realised then two things: first that it was a swimming, a trial by water for witches. And secondly, that meant that it was not a punishment – as such – but a test: the innocent would sink, the guilty would float. That’s what he’d heard. He strained to see better.
Then he felt rooted into the muddy ground, powerless to look away. Conflicting thoughts swirled round his mind. He couldn’t recognise anyone in the crowd. Young as he was, he could sense that some kind of mob fever had taken hold of them. It was drawing him in, too. He knew part of him wanted to leave but some other part of him had to look, to see it all.
Two men pulled up the woman’s feet. Her skirts slid back and ribald laughter burst from the crowd. Roughly, the men tied her thumbs with twine, then her toes, then ran a line between the two bindings. There was a fumbling with the sheet as they wrapped her. Without meaning to, the boy started praying, out loud though he didn’t realise it. Quick–fire, repetitive prayers. Lord, please stop this. Please God, help.
Three men waded into the pond, carrying their struggling bundle. As the water reached their shoulders, bubbles wheezed out of the billowing sheet. There was a shout. ‘See: if you sup wi’ the devil, you eat cabbage and fart!’
The coarse laughter spread through the crowd as the joke caught on. One man obligingly swatted the sheet again, provoking more bubbling. The men pushed her out, a struggling mass of cloth. For a moment her face was turned towards him, caught in a sudden streak of light from the sun. Then it was that the boy recognised her. Her desperate gasping reached his ears all too clearly. His prayers became incoherent now as slowly, so slowly, the bundle began to sink. Because that woman, the one covered in mud and being mauled about, was his mother, Rebecca.
8.
Essex, 1648
Wayland said nothing but picked up his son’s slight form and splashed his face with a little of the beer until he came to and his sobbing started to subside. Wayland held the boy close and stroked his head, flattening the short hair, as he would soothe a horse. Gradually the weeping stopped and Wayland motioned for the boy to go through to the living area, to bed. He went. Alun, who had brought his own emotions under control, stepped back to allow Wayland a moment then shuffled his chair closer again. ‘He do that often?’ he asked.
‘Happens,’ said Wayland, ‘from time to time. Since we lost Rebecca.’
‘Lost Rebecca? Is there no end to our losses? Damn the accursed war.’
‘Dead. Happened while I was away fighting in this – as you say – cursed war. I found the boy alone, living like some kind of hermit, scavenging food, venturing out of the house only at night. He’s not said a word since. Me, I’ve said plenty. Reckon I went a bit mad at first. Shouted, yelled, swore at him. How could he not tell me what he saw? What I needed so much to know. For weeks I went from door to door, asking – begging eventually – for someone to tell me how come it happened.’
‘And?’ asked Alun.
‘And I met with nothing but lies. From each and every soul I asked. No one saw anything – if you believe them all. Not a thing.’ Wayland paused, topped up their jars. ‘What I did discover was that some kind of witch trial took place…’
‘That so–called General, Hopkins, was it?’ interrupted Alun.
‘That’s the one. Called himself the Witchfinder General but that was no Government rank. Yes, him, some said. He was around, doing his accursed work in nearby villages, that much I did discover,’ said Wayland, ‘and of course he started the whole witch–hunt thing in our county from what I’ve heard. Found witches where there were none. But some said he wasn’t the one to blame. And – well, I’ve also heard he’s dead anyway…’
‘And good riddance,’ Alun butted in, keen to keep Wayland talking now that he’d begun to open up.
‘Yes. Well, I’ll come to that. Anyhow, this… this supposed trial, they tell me it was more like a mob, a rabble. There’s no proof that this Hopkins led this trial. No papers were shown; no person claimed any authority except that of God. And any man can claim that, it’s easy enough. Seems they tried five women, including Rebecca. Three had been dragged here from the next village so of course I went there too, looking for answers. No one there would talk to me either. The fourth was old Mistress Bland and she had no relatives left alive – so I drew a blank there too.’
‘How ended the trial?’
‘Two were judged guilty. None came out alive though,’ said Wayland.
‘It must be at least four years since I saw her,’ Alun said, ‘but Rebecca a witch? She was no witch and there’s no way that I can see why anyone might even think so.’
‘No, well the hell of these wars, families ripping themselves apart, turns minds, no effective justice, confusion over who does hold the power when it changes so. Clearly it was no Royalist thing, not at all. Hounding witches comes from the Puritans. And though they’re thick in with the Parliamentary lot, well, I had a year in their army. Cromwell’s men are better organized than most and Fairfax – I’d rate him the best of Parliament’s commanders. Fairfax would be their man around here, in Essex, at that time, if anyone was. I know him to be a man who keeps a tight rein on his men, a lid on their basest instinct
s so to speak and he is well recognised for it. But as I say, from what I’ve heard this was no army thing neither but a mob. And I’ve seen enough to know that men can – and generally do – change nature in a mob. They just don’t think right – or straight.’
Wayland paused, staring into his beer. Alun waited.
‘What cuts me to the quick is,’ Wayland continued, ‘is: where were our villagers in this? Did no one testify for her? Were they all rank cowards – or worse?’ Wayland slammed his beer jar hard on the table. The liquid sloshed onto his breeches but he took no notice.
‘Weren’t most men likely away, like yourself?’ asked Alun.
‘Aye. I suppose. But what about the lads? The women, then? All I got was sideways looks and silence. Alun, I loved Rebecca. If there was someone still alive, if I just had someone to hold responsible – or one who helped in any part of it, I’d have my revenge, so help me God I would!’
He paused. ‘Some days I think about nothing else,’ he added.
Neither man spoke for a while. Wayland shifted his weight on the wooden stool and rubbed his spine. His return from war back to the smithy and to work had, as he’d feared, brought with it the old back pains from bending over the furnace or horses’ hooves. ‘So, Rebecca – she was found innocent but drowned, then, was it?’ Alun asked.
‘Yes. Well, I suppose so. Pulled alive from the water but died anyway. That’s all I know.’ Wayland turned his back on Alun. His shoulders shook. Alun waited another moment.
‘This man Hopkins. Dead for sure, then, you say?’ he persisted.
‘Consumption, I heard. And I heard it time and again.’ Wayland turned around again and Alun saw that his face was white with rage. ‘He’s gone. The way I see it, whether he killed her or no – he did start this… this obsession for finding witches everywhere. That I do know. I would have made him pay. Oh, how I would have – or died in the process. His death has cheated me of my revenge. It stays, the vengeance, locked in my heart, devouring me slowly in my innards.’
There was a long silence this time. They both sipped some more.
‘At least you have your boy. Maybe, maybe you should think more on that,’ said Alun.
Wayland was silent. He knew Alun had no children and now it seemed possible his nephew was dead. Alun drew a deep breath before continuing, ‘there’s nothing wrong with your boy’s tongue, is there?’
‘No,’ Wayland said, ‘not anything that I nor anyone can see.’
‘Likely his speech will come back then, one day. Meanwhile, remember that revenge belongs to the Lord. Maybe you should leave it to him, look to your boy.’
‘Easily said. But understand this: that revenge is in my blood. Or… or it’s like a thirst. I cannot leave it alone. The only way I see to cool this anger is to make justice be done. But as you well know, with the country torn apart there’s little law left untouched by one side of the other.’
Both men drank some more. ‘About your sister’s boy Rees, then,’ said Wayland, finally, ‘where would be the places to look for either parent?’
‘I don’t know. It’s such a long while now since she ran off and left us. We tried then. I doubt we’ll find out now. And all for some foot soldier in the King’s army…’
Wayland interrupted him quickly. ‘You’d best ask around then. If the father’s to be found, magistrate will want to see him.’ he said, reaching for the musket and passing it over to Alun, handle first.
‘I suppose so,’ said Alun, doubtful, ‘but it might be easier to start looking for the bastard she ran off with. My wife will likely remember his name and regiment. Then maybe I should check in the alehouses.’
There seemed nothing more to say. After a moment Alun picked up his hat. ‘Right. Well, I’ll either send word or maybe see you tomorrow then?’
Wayland nodded and opened the door for him. He watched Alun step into the road before he began to heave closed the wooden door.
Alun turned. ‘Just a thought,’ he said, ‘the wounds on the boy’s body. Would they relate to religion? God knows religion has caused enough violence these past few years.’
Wayland paused long enough that he appeared to think about it. ‘We might look into that.’ he managed to say. But Alun had gone.
9.
The next day passed with no further news and Wayland struggled to control his impatience, telling himself the apparent return to a sort of normality should be welcomed. The day after, though, Stane showed up at the smithy, early in the morning, with a message from the magistrate summoning him ‘and whomsoever you believe may know any further facts concerning the recently discovered body of a boy’ to attend the coroner’s inquiry that afternoon. Wayland got ready, leaving the door to the smithy barred and gave Jonathan instructions not to open it to anyone. He rode straightaway to fetch Alun. As he feared, Alun had made no progress in his attempts to find his sister, his brother–in–law or the soldier who had lured his sister away. He did agree immediately, however, to accompany Wayland to the inquiry.
The few villagers in attendance at the little hall by the church moved aside without a word to let Wayland and Alun pass. A group of men, already selected by the coroner for the inquiry, stood at the front. The boy’s body lay on a table, covered by a grey cloth. Wayland was grateful for the unseasonably cold weather but still the stench betrayed the likelihood that corruption and decay of the body were indeed under way. The coroner gave a brief explanation of the facts, as he understood them to be, of the discovery of the boy’s body. Wayland was asked if he had any further information. He replied that he had not. The coroner stated that in his view the cause of death was clearly the wounds on the body with a loss of blood and – or – the consequent shock and damage to the vital organs. He added that the body seemed almost drained of blood and that in his view might account for the relatively slow decay of the body. He asked the chosen men to step forward and examine the body. They filed by, each man with a cloth pressed close to his nose. One of the men – they were all known to Wayland – had obviously been chosen to act as spokesman and he reported that they were all in agreement with the coroner’s remarks.
The coroner then announced his verdict: murder with gross cruelty by person or persons unknown. Wayland realised that there had been no mention of any possible religious element to the wounds. He thought that by now decay may have blurred the lines and he reflected that neither the coroner nor the men chosen for the inquiry were likely overly knowledgeable of religious matters or symbols. The coroner cleared his throat and signaled his clerk to be ready to write. ‘It remains only, now, to attempt to determine the boy’s identity and to set in train some way to bring the guilty to justice.’ he announced.
Alun stepped forward and asked permission to see the body in case he may be able to identify it as his missing nephew. The coroner agreed and raised the cover from the body for him. Alun stared at the small form. He shook his head.
‘No?’ asked the coroner.
Alun shook his head again.
‘No it’s not him?’ the coroner asked a little more loudly.
‘No, no I don’t know,’ Alun replied, ‘it’s too… I can’t tell. I can’t say.’
The coroner turned to the men beside him. ‘Show him the clothes.’ he said.
Alun picked at the bundle, tested the cloth between his finger and thumb and shook his head again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘it’s years since I saw him. I just don’t know.’
‘Well, if you cannot say, can you at least suggest who could?’ The coroner was waiting; the clerk’s hand hovered over the coroner’s large record book. Alun, however, could only stand, open–mouthed, rooted to the spot. Wayland stepped forward and explained the matter of the missing sister to the coroner.
‘This,’ said the coroner, ‘is not satisfactory. Even in these difficult times we must at the very least record if the corpse is from this place or a stranger to t
his place. If, as it seems, no–one knows for certain then I must record for now what steps are to be taken to establish such facts.’
There was a short silence. Magistrate Geddingly stepped forward. ‘Might I suggest,’ he said, ‘that as we have no other men available or –’ here he pointed to Alun ‘or it seems at least none capable – I say we appoint Wayland here, who found the body, to find the boy’s relatives – if it can be done.’
The coroner looked around, directing his gaze to each man in turn. Some shuffled, most looked away. No other suggestions were forthcoming. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘then so be it.’ Wayland knew that he was being offered little choice in the matter, but he could also see that Alun was in no state to respond. He nodded his acceptance to the magistrate. The clerk duly entered the decision into the record book. The coroner thought a while. ‘And,’ he said, looking at Geddingley, ‘I am also minded to direct that the task of enquiries shall be aimed at discovering the killer – if that can be done.’
Geddingley opened his mouth. He seemed about to say something but thought the better of it. The coroner then ordered the body to be buried and declared that the inquiry was done. Men began to drift away, their mood subdued.
Wayland took Alun’s arm and led him away. He paused for a moment outside then tightened his grip and steered them both towards the alehouse nearby. It was one thing to accept such a mission. Now they had to work out how to set about it.
10.
Wayland was standing beside a lake, watching thick grey clouds swirl over the seething water. At first he could hear only the waves slopping against the shoreline. Then a woman’s head broke through the surface of the lake, gasping, choking, panting. Wayland leapt forward, ran towards her, shouted to her to hold on, to wait for him. But her head sank down again. He could see only the black surging sea and some dirty white foam.