by Mary Hooper
“I have been out and looked myself, sir,” Mrs. Williams said. “’Tis stone dead right enough.”
Sir Thomas looked at me sternly. “How did it come to die, pray? What hand did you have to play in the poor unfortunate’s demise?”
I found my voice. “Please, sir, it was dead-born,” I said. “It didn’t draw breath at all.”
Lady Mary shuddered, and the dove-feather jacket shivered and trembled. “Such a thing,” she sighed. “Here. Here in my house.”
“Is this true?” Sir Thomas asked me. “Did you not have a hand in its death?”
I shook my head. “Of course not, sir. Oh, never!”
“But tell me who is the father of this child,” he went on, extending his arm around the room as he spoke. “Who is the lewd fellow you have been fornicating with?”
I know now that if I had named someone in the village or said it was a fellow I had met with but briefly, a passing pedlar, then things might have gone better for me; Sir Thomas might have believed that the child had been born dead and dealt with the matter privately. However, a strong urge within me made me want to tell him the truth. And, as I must be honest at this time for the sake of my soul, ’twas not just for truth’s sake that I spoke, but more that his grandson should be brought to answer for the part he’d played in my disgrace.
“Answer me, girl,” Sir Thomas repeated. “Who is the coarse fellow?”
“‘Twas your grandson,” I answered then, as brave as I could. “‘Twas Master Geoffrey who got me with child.”
Chapter ~ 14
As one, the room turned and stared at the black-hatted figure at the back of the room. “On whose authority do you speak, sir?” Dr. Petty asked him.
“On the highest authority, sir, for I am God’s deputy in this world,” replied the Puritan.
“He has many deputies,” Dr. Petty said mildly, his eyes still fixed on Anne Green, alert for any further movement.
“And you might say that I and my colleagues are also God’s deputies,” put in Dr. Willis, “for we heal, cure, and restore to health as the Lord did when he was upon Earth.”
“But only God Almighty can say whether someone should live or die.”
“Exactly!” Sir Thomas shouted with immense satisfaction, applauding the Puritan. “We must not go against God, or against the law of the land, for it has been cited that Anne Green should be hanged by the neck until dead.”
“Indeed,” said Dr. Willis. “A duty which has already been performed.”
“And once dead, she should stay dead.” As Sir Thomas addressed the doctors, his voice took on a patronizing tone. “It has not been cited that she should be resurrected, or that such a thing may ever be attempted.”
“I believe that my colleagues and I are working through the Almighty,” said Dr. Willis after a moment. “If he grants us the power to cause this woman to live, then it will be his will.”
“But I say that a doctor has already certified her dead!” cried Sir Thomas, and his voice was a bluster and a harrumph and a roar. “And I say again, sir, that you must get on with what you’re here for!”
The doctors took scant notice of him, but Mr. Clarke, aware that Sir Thomas had far-reaching powers and might take it upon himself to close his shop if he was so minded, glanced at him nervously.
Dr. Petty again took up the corpse’s hand. “Anne,” he said. “If you can hear me, squeeze my fingers.”
Everyone in the room looked keenly at Dr. Petty’s face, watching for any shade of change upon it. He repeated the question once more, before shaking his head and concluding quietly, “She does not respond.”
Robert felt his heart fall. He wanted her to be alive. He wanted a miracle.
“She does not respond because she is not there,” said the Puritan. He looked up piously toward the ceiling and beyond it. “She is already approaching the gates of heaven. You must let her go though. You must not try and restrain her.”
“You see!” said Sir Thomas. “This commendable fellow knows. This true and godly man knows one should not attempt such a thing. The woman does not respond because she is dead! This is clear to anyone but a fool.”
The doctors remained unmoved. “Get Ralph Bathurst!” Dr. Willis said abruptly. “Someone go for Doctor Bathurst. He should be here.”
The scholars shuffled their feet. Not one of them wanted to go to Brasenose College to find Dr. Bathurst, for they knew that if they did so, they might lose their position at the table and perhaps miss seeing something momentous, something marvelous and significant. The scholar closest to the door, however, was pushed outside and told to go and find him.
Robert stared intently at Anne’s corpse. What was it that made her so different from the other dead bodies whose deaths he’d attended? He thought of these: an ancient waterman who’d drowned in the Isis, his corpse bloated and swollen; a beggar so ingrained with dirt that his skin appeared as black as the rags he wore; a porter at college; an old woman killed when her carriage had overturned. None, to his mind, had been like Anne. Somehow her corpse still seemed to contain a spark . . . a kind of faint animation. Was that because her soul was still within her, or because she was still young and had died before her rightful time? Was it, perhaps, because she was innocent of the crime she was said to have committed?
And what of that other corpse—his mother? He longed for the leisure of a moment to think again of the journey down the stairs he’d made as a child, but Anne Green’s body lay before him and he knew that that time was not now.
Sir Thomas left his place and walked to the window, blowing in his hands to try and warm them. He looked briefly at the crowd outside, then seemed to check himself and edged back.
“He, you see,” Wilton said in a low voice, nodding toward Sir Thomas, “made quite sure that the girl was found guilty. You know why?”
Robert shook his head, trying to make up for his lack of speech by his interest and questioning expression.
“Why? Because he recently negotiated a fine marriage for his grandson—the one who is said to have got Anne with child.”
Robert looked at Wilton, startled. “Sh . . . sh . . . she . . . ?”
“Didn’t you know she bore a child?”
Robert shook his head.
“He wanted to make certain that Anne didn’t live to tell the world that his grandson was responsible,” Wilton continued. “Sir Thomas Reade is a powerful and wealthy man. What he seeks, he obtains. His word is law.”
Robert, desperate to know, dropped his voice to no more than a whisper. He also found it easier to speak that way. “Who . . . d . . . d . . . did . . . she . . .” he began, and then, not wanting to say the word murder, mimed someone being garrotted.
“‘Twas hardly murder!” Wilton burst out, rather louder than he had meant to. “‘Twas infanticide.”
“Infanticide?” Robert’s mouth formed the word as he stared at Wilton.
“Not even that! The midwife at the trial said the child was hardly formed and but nine inches long. The girl had miscarried. ‘Twas nothing but a stillbirth!”
“So the midwife said!” put in a scholar who stood close behind them, his face and tone declaring what he thought of the honesty of that band of women.
“There was no reason for her to lie,” said Wilton, for his mother was both a midwife and a purveyor of herbs and cures. “Hearken to this: do you know that infanticide stands alone as the only law where the accused is guilty until proven innocent?”
The scholar shrugged, uncaring, but Robert shook his head, intrigued.
“Infanticide is a cruel law that only applies to the lower classes,” Wilton continued. “When was one of the aristocracy last hanged for such a crime? Can you tell me that?”
Robert was about to attempt another question, but Sir Thomas resumed his place just in front of them, and he thought better of it. So she was hanged for infanticide, he thought, astonished. Why, if every woman whose premature child had died was found guilty of such a crime, then the gal
lows would be straining under the weight of them all.
If there was any justice in the world, this woman would live . . .
Chapter ~ 15
It was Lady Mary who fainted then, falling onto the floor in a flurry of doves’ feathers. Sir Thomas struck me hard around the face so that I rocked backward on the chair. “You wicked girl!” he cried. “May God forgive you for such a terrible lie!”
Some of the servants ran to help Lady Mary, and Mrs. Williams put a light to the charred bunch of rosemary and waved it under her nose. When she had come to somewhat, Mr. Peakes and Patience picked her up and carried her between them out of the kitchen.
No one said a word. My fellow servants, all of whom might well have suspected Master Geoffrey of being the father of the child, remained mute. (Although I own I mustn’t be too hard on them, for there is precious little other work in the village if they lose their positions at the manor house.)
“You must refute those words,” Sir Thomas said, trembling with anger. “And may God forgive you for saying such a thing about my boy.”
I didn’t speak, for I was shocked and dizzy from the blow, also half distracted by what had happened to me.
Sir Thomas came toward me saying he would make me tell the truth, and at this point Mrs. Williams stepped in and said that she wished to beg his pardon, but in her opinion quiet words might do more good than hard knocks. Sir Thomas backed off from me then, breathing hard, saying that he rued the day I ever came to work for him and that he’d known e’en then from my wanton looks that I was going to cause trouble within his house.
Mr. Peakes returned. “Now, Miss Anne,” he said with some semblance of concern (and indeed he has never been cruel to me), “you must tell us the truth about this child and how it came to die.”
“I swear that it didn’t die—for it never lived!” I looked around me, desperately seeking a kind face. “You must believe me! I would not ever kill a newborn babe—they are helpless, innocent things and least deserve to die of any of us.”
“Would you not even think to kill it if you wished to conceal its birth?” asked Mr. Peakes.
I shook my head. “Never, sir. On my mother’s life I promise you that it never drew breath. It was an early child and should not have been born. I birthed it, and it was very small and looked blue from the start.”
“Ask her again who is the father,” Sir Thomas said brusquely. “And tell her that she must speak the truth this time or suffer the consequences.”
Mr. Peakes asked the question, but I didn’t answer. I knew that my reward for the truth would be another blow, and I was not brave enough for that.
“You must tell us, Anne,” Mr. Peakes tried again. “It will be best for you in the end.”
“But I have told you the truth.” I shot a look at Sir Thomas and felt my mouth dry up with fear and my voice catch in my throat so that I stammered. “B . . . b . . . but I dare not say it again.”
“If you will not speak here,” Sir Thomas said, “then you must answer for your actions in court.”
In court. I didn’t really know what these words meant, what they might conceal, so he might as well have said that I should answer for my actions in a field or in the marketplace. Some of the servants, though, gave a gasp, and must have realized the seriousness of my situation.
“And there in court you shall answer truthfully and before God!”
There was another long silence before Mrs. Williams asked in a troubled voice, “Shall she be taken there tonight, sir?”
“No, but at first light in the morning,” Sir Thomas said. “And she must be locked in the icehouse overnight so that she doesn’t escape.”
“Locked in all night?” I asked, my voice shaking, for ‘tis cold as charity in the icehouse, and besides, I’ve always been afeard of the darkness and knew that there were no windows there—no, not even a crack where the moon might shine through.
“And in the icehouse, sir?” Mr. Peakes added after a moment.
Sir Thomas nodded. “For she cannot be trusted. None of you are safe in your beds while she is close by.”
Everyone continued staring at me, and I began to be very frightened. “But what will happen to me?”
“Tomorrow you will go to Oxford, to the prison,” Sir Thomas said with no little pleasure in his voice, “and in time you’ll stand trial at the assize court for your crime.”
“W . . . w . . . what crime?”
“Are you dull of wit as well as wicked? For the crime of murder.”
“But I never did murder!”
“That will be for the judge and jury to decide. And if you dare say again that your foul fornication was with the innocent boy who is the heir of this house, then I shall add slander to that charge.”
I began weeping, as did some of the other female servants. Mr. Peakes coughed and said in a low voice, “And what should we do with the dead child, sir?”
“It will be needed as evidence,” Sir Thomas answered. “I charge you with the task of taking a cloth and wrapping it ready to travel to Oxford with this . . . this murderess here.” He got out his pocket watch. “I shall send horses to the prison governor tonight and ask that the cart be here at first light. In the meantime you must see that she doesn’t escape.”
“Sir,” Mr. Peakes said, bowing a little, “the icehouse is very cold. She may perish out there.”
“It would be as well if she did,” came the reply. “Rather that a body should freeze to death than stand and answer to the foul charge of murder.”
“She . . . she may maliciously spoil the meat stuffs there,” Mr. Peakes said with a ghost of a glance at me not to speak. “I think, sir, if you will allow it . . . the cellars here may suffice. I shall see to it that she doesn’t escape.”
“Very well,” Sir Thomas said dismissively. “I leave it to you, Peakes.”
He went out and I curled myself up on the chair, my arms tight around my legs. I continued weeping and would not look at anyone even when they spoke to me, for I felt ill and wretched and bitterly ashamed of everything that had happened. Susan didn’t venture near, but Jacob and some of the women came close by and tried to say some comforting things, although none were able to give me any solace. After a while I was given soup and a bowl of hot potatoes, and after eating these I was led down into the cellars. The thought of being left in darkness terrified me, but a moment after Mr. Peakes locked the door it was opened again and someone—I didn’t see who—put in my warm cloak, also an undersmock and some clean petticoats, which I was pleased to change into. They also left a lit candle.
After I’d dressed myself, I sat on the floor and rocked backward and forward in an effort to warm and comfort myself. It was fearsome cold (although not as cold as it would have been in the icehouse), and I was unable to sleep, being too scared of the shapes and shadows, the faint noises from around the house, and the skittering and scattering of the rats to close my eyes. More than this, I had an ache in my belly and my heart and could not stop weeping, for I was in a deal of fright thinking of the morning and what it might bring, and how I could let my dear family know what had happened.
Very early the next morning Mr. Peakes unlocked the cellar door, and Susan came in with a bowl of hot oatmeal pottage and a glass of small beer on a tray. She didn’t speak and looked away from me, embarrassed, when she put it down, but I saw that the pottage had some plump raisins in it, and the thought came to me that she must have added these herself. I wanted to speak with her then, tell her everything that had happened, and explain how I’d come to such a fall, but of course it was much too late for me to try to make a friend of her. I pressed her hand by way of saying thank you, but could do no more.
“Now, Anne,” Mr. Peakes said when she had hurried away, “you must eat up quickly and make yourself ready for the cart that will take you to Oxford.”
I began trembling. “Am I really to go to court then, and to jail, as Sir Thomas said?” I asked, for I had been comforting myself with the idea that
this might have been an empty threat, something said in the heat of a moment—for my father has such a temper—that might be forgotten about in the morning.
“I fear that you are, Anne.”
“And what will happen to me?”
“You will go before the court and be tried, and they will decide whether or not you are guilty of killing your child.”
“But you have my word that I am not!” I said straight off.
“Then that’s what you must tell the jury.”
“But what if they decide that I have done such a thing?”
“Then . . . then you will have to answer for it. They will”—but he did not speak of the worst thing that could happen, although he must have known it all along— “they will perhaps brand you on the arm. Or put you in the stocks for a time. You must prepare yourself to be brave.”
I did not speak for a while, for I was fair famished and intent on eating every bit of the pottage.
“Sir Thomas is fearful angry,” Mr. Peakes said when I’d finished.
I nodded. “But ‘tis mostly because I said Master Geoffrey was the father of the child, is it not?”
Mr. Peakes cleared his throat, seeming to be uncomfortable. “If . . . you . . .” he began slowly. “If you were to name another man as the father of the child, then matters might improve. But if you persist with saying that the infant is of Master Geoffrey’s begetting, then things could go very bad. Sir Thomas is what’s known as a justice of the peace, which is a high office of the law.”
“Name another man as the father?” I asked. “But you’ve told me that I must speak the truth!”
He didn’t reply for some time, then said, “Think on this and know what’s on Sir Thomas’s mind. If the family of Miss de Willet hears of your accusation, then the marriage that has been negotiated between her and Master Geoffrey will be annulled and the Reade family disgraced. The liaison between two great families will fall asunder. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Then what are you saying?” I asked in disbelief. “That I should lie?”