In the hush of enclosed stone, Pippa heard another noise, a trickling of water. She glanced around and saw a ribbon of water in a crack in the wall. It gathered in a natural rock basin on the floor. There was not enough water to sustain more than one adult, but it looked pure. Crawling over for a closer look, she gasped.
Beneath the surface of the water was a rainbow of color, glimmering in the refracted candlelight. Stones, polished … crystals, raw and sparkling … even, Pippa could see, a small faceted ruby. She only knew what a ruby looked like because Sybil had seen one on a court lady in Cambridge and told them how it was like a drop of blood. The one at the bottom of the pool must be valuable.
“Offerings to the cave,” said Lillibet. “By giving to her, she gives back to us.”
Pippa bit her tongue—she was about to suggest they sell the ruby. As she gazed into the pool she knew that would have been a sin. This cave was beyond the mundane. She wondered which of her ancestors had offered the ruby, and what they’d received in return. A Bible verse from the book of Job ran through her head, that “the price of wisdom is above rubies.” And then she understood what might be gained here. Excited, she turned to Lillibet.
“This is where you learnt so much of what you know!”
“When I was ready,” Lillibet corrected her. “But, yes, it’s true. Me mother taught me when I was grown, as I would teach you. There is a book where we keep our records, and the knowledge of every result of every magical action.” Lillibet reached to the shelf and pulled off a large, rough book bound in blue leather. “You may read this sometime. Not tonight. But sometime.” With a loving hand she caressed its spine, and then as though remembering something less pleasant, her head snapped up. “Do you understand why I brought you here? That I show you only in case … in case something happens to me? Do you know what would happen if it was discovered?”
“I know,” said Pippa, thinking of how Reverend Yates had insisted the Green Man Inn be renamed to remove its pagan-ness, and how the witch-finders were, at this moment, sniffing out what they considered ungodly ways in the Vale. Imagine if they knew of this!
“’Tis unusual to write down the knowledge of we cunning-women, but we have this hidey-hole. For a long time nothing was written. For a long time, no one knew how to write.”
A different world existed beneath the surface of the routine world Pippa had known. There was more magic than she’d dreamt, and yet she was still cut off from it. Lillibet would give her a taste, just for the sake of passing it along, but Pippa could not read the books. She didn’t even know how to use the power of the cave.
So, she sat in silence with Lillibet’s worry as company, watching the candles.
THE NEXT MORNING WAS overcast with clouds that were pale and rainless. Pippa was sweeping the yard with eyes closed, memorizing what she’d seen in the cave. Lillibet said she would not be allowed to return there for a long time.
The sound of boots at the gate, squelching in the drying mud, interrupted her, and her eyes opened. “God bless,” she blurted.
It was the two witch-finders, Hopkins and Stearne, along with the constable and Goodman Brewer. At first Pippa thought they were here to consult Lillibet about the many curses and hexes she’d removed for the villagers over the years. But something on their hard faces made her stop sweeping and clutch onto the broom handle. The cave hovered at the forefront of her mind and it was dangerous. What if they had been followed last night, after all?
“May I help?” she asked.
“This is the cottage of Elizabeth Wylde the cunning-woman and her daughter Philippa?” The question was from Stearne. It was a silly question, considering their closest neighbor stood with him.
“I’m Pippa, as you well know.”
The lawyer, Hopkins, stared at her with those beady dark eyes. She met his gaze and was discomfited by it. He choked as though holding back a cough.
Pippa wondered if she should offer him a chest poultice.
“Is Lillibet here?” the constable asked.
“She’s inside … why? Have you need of her?”
Stearne produced a piece of paper. “You, Philippa Wylde, and your mother, the Widow Wylde, are to come with us to the village common.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be difficult, girl,” Hopkins spoke up. “Fetch your mother.”
But Lillibet had appeared at the door. “Harass us not, we have no business with you!”
“Ah,” said Stearne, “but we have business with you. Constable?”
The constable took Pippa by the elbow.
“Unhand me! Don’t you touch me!” She tried to shake him off but his bruising grip was relentless.
Something in Lillibet’s posture collapsed as she stepped forward. Goodman Brewer shoved her from behind. “Get moving,” he said.
“Tom Brewer, I’ve know you since we was children. What are you thinking?” But her tone was surrendered.
They were frog-marched down the lane—Pippa cried out to shut the gate, lest the chickens escape—and to her surprise, Hopkins closed it behind him. She felt humiliated and annoyed. To be paraded down the street like this, like a criminal, just to visit the village common! But as she rounded the bend at the crossroads she saw a crowd on the green, and her stomach seemed to fall through her knees at the sight of raw wood: newly-built stocks. It began to dawn on Pippa that she and Lillibet were not meant as witnesses against witchcraft … that someone must have pointed the finger at them.
“Lillibet!” she whispered, and pried her arm away from the constable to reach for her mother. The first tears blurred her eyes.
Lillibet was too far away to touch Pippa’s fingers.
The constable wrenched Pippa’s hand behind her back.
Also set up on the green was a wooden platform where a row of search-women waited—the foreigners and the locals.
“Alice!” cried Pippa, for her friend was also held by the elbows by two farm laborers.
Alice, however, was so frightened that her stuttering could not form a complete word in response.
Pippa stood up straight. This was too ridiculous. She had been worried at first, for to the uninitiated the cunning-folk might be considered witches, but seeing Alice standing under the same suspicion made her feel better. Alice was no witch. There was nothing to prove any such involvement, unless walking through a forest was a crime. All of this would be cleared up.
Hopkins stepped up to the wooden platform. His boots made clunking sounds on the fresh lumber. “To all the assembled of this village,” he said, reading from the same piece of paper that Stearne had waved at the cottage, “the following are hereby accused of the most evil crime of witchcraft: Joan Buckett. Anne Buckett. Alice Baxter. Philippa Wylde. Elizabeth Wylde. Sybil Yates. Ashley Potter.”
Pippa’s first thought was, absurdly, who’s Ashley Potter? But then she saw Old Man Ash, tottering on his feet, his arm held behind him by Goodman Powell.
Then the full import of it was like a slap in the face. Her breath grew shallow, squeezed. She was named as a witch. So was her mother, and Alice, and Sybil! Of all things! This was no joke, no mere annoyance or misunderstanding. The witch-finders and the search-women were serious about the charge. Sybil was not present; Pippa wondered where she was. Being kept at her house? A few hours ago, in the routine strength of her friendships and daily chores, aware of the secret cave in the forest, Pippa had felt infallible, an audience to this sideshow of witch-finding in her village.
A spark of indignation flared. It was like being wrongfully accused of lying—it was impossible to prove a negative. Fear of her was written on the faces of her neighbors. She wanted to shake them by the shoulders, and scream, It’s me! It’s Pippa! I’ve done you no wrong!
“There are tests to show a witch, and means of extracting confession,” Hopkins told the assembled. “In three days we will have conclusive results. Any other accusations should be made now, for Master Stearne must leave on business in three days, and myself in five.”
Business, thought Pippa, more villages to harass, like this one?
John Stearne was on the platform too. “On the matter of fees, it has been decided that as a village matter, this will be a parish cost. The burden will be deflected amongst all, and from each according to their ability to pay.”
“Say now! What’s going on here?”
Pippa almost fell over with relief. It was Sir John Felton, with Hugh and his brother. All three looked baffled by the proceedings.
“The witches, your lordship!” said Goodman Ford, pointing. “They be witches!”
“Now, now,” said Hopkins, “no one is convicted yet. These are accusations only.” But he had satisfaction about him nonetheless. He was expecting proof of guilt in every case, and he would receive his fee for the searching whether there was a conviction in the end or not. “But,” Hopkins said with horrible slowness, “There’s no cause to give them opportunity to run away. Put them in the stocks!”
There was a cry of agreement from the villagers. Someone spat on Anne Buckett’s tattered shoes as she was dragged, cursing, toward the wooden slats. Alice was catatonic with terror and Pippa tried to hold her gaze, to reassure her, but then she heard her mother’s rancor at Goodman Brewer.
“Get your hands off me! You’re me neighbor, don’t do this, don’t do this!”
Brewer kicked Lillibet’s knees and made her stumble, then dragged her by the armpits toward the stocks.
“Lillibet! Let her go! Oh—” Pippa paused to swat at the constable, who attempted to push her forward.
“Stop struggling,” he hissed in her ear, and then she cried out as he bent her arm backwards and a sharp, twisting pain lanced her shoulder. “Hugh!” she cried. “Hugh! Stop them! Tell them!”
“Pippa!” Hugh was elbowing his way through. “What—how—why —”
“Tell them.” Her whisper carried through the commotion. “Tell them I’ve done nothing!”
Hugh flushed. He looked as though he could not quite believe what he saw. “Now see here,” he said, turning on his heel to approach Hopkins on the platform.
“Nothing I can do but perform the ordeals,” Hopkins said. “Worry not, they are a fair measure of witchcraft or innocence.”
“There’s nothing fair about it!” Pippa cried. “He lies!”
“Attack not the Witchfinder General,” Stearne interrupted, “or you will prove thyself guilty in this very moment! He does God’s work, you ignorant child.”
“Speak not to her that way,” Hugh protested, but it was feeble, as though he couldn’t be certain of Pippa’s guiltlessness.
“The law is on our side,” said Stearne. “Trust the law to find the truth, young man.”
The constable released Pippa only to draw her arms forward and thrust her head into the hole in the stocks. The wood clamped down around her neck and wrists and she stooped there, bent over, disgraced. Tears dampened her face. “Lillibet,” she whispered to her mother, trapped on her left.
“Fear not, child,” Lillibet choked. “Pray to God. Just pray.”
For awhile the people milled around, watching their neighbors. Several of the young boys threw poison-apples, tomatoes, at the Buckett women. They were objects of universal scorn and accustomed to such treatment. Old Man Ashley moaned in pain as he struggled out of his morning intoxication. Alice was crying softly. Her brother Ralph approached with a ladle of water and then crept back away as though her condition was contagious.
Hugh bent down on one knee to speak with Pippa. “Fear not, Pippa, ’tis as the man said. The law will clear this up. I hate to see you like this, I say … I’ll demand you recompense for this indignity. Fear not.”
Pippa was speechless, but Lillibet rasped, “You are but a boy, Hugh Felton. You’ve not seen what this is. You not know what the ordeals of a witch be.”
“Well,” said Hugh, brow knitted, “is it not a questioning, and a search for evidence—Pippa, like how you discovered that … Anne Buckett …” his voice dropped to a whisper, “bewitched Francis Pye?”
Lillibet gasped out a bitter laugh. “No,” she said. “I hear rumors of what they call swimming. And I know a tale of a woman being made to think she would drown, until she gave a confession. ’Twas a false one, of course.”
“Surely not,” said Hugh. “These men are acting on the law. This Hopkins is a lawyer!”
“Just because it be a law of man,” said Lillibet, “it don’t follow to be a godly law.”
Hugh shook his head, as though a persistent gnat flew around inside. Pippa could tell he had trouble grasping the idea that the authorities of church and state might act in a way completely contrary to God’s will. A surge of irritation overtook her tender feelings for him. What good was he if he would not act to help her?
“I’ll ask my father what to do,” said Hugh, further enraging Pippa.
She could say nothing, though, for she didn’t want to antagonize him and drive him away.
“Pray for strength,” said Hugh. “I won’t give up on you when you’re innocent.”
As she watched his retreating back Pippa had to wonder what he meant. Did he think her innocent already? Or would he help her only if she was found blameless of witchcraft?
The angle of her body was so awkward that no matter how she moved, something was being pressed upon or tugged or pulled. If she stood, her back and neck were sore; if she tried to kneel, the wood dug into the base of her spine and neck. Poor Lillibet … and with the prospect of hours of this, it seemed impossible to imagine what would become of them.
THE WALLS OF SYBIL’S BOWER seemed to be pulsing again. She’d thought they only did that when she was ill. Then again, the room was full of people, and that made everything seem askew. On the edges of Sybil’s vision, panic crept in waves, but she held it away. In her core she was calm. Something told her it was that peaceful inner space that would survive all of this. The rest might be stripped away.
The witch-finder, Hopkins, filled her vision. No man had ever set foot in her bedroom except her father. Sybil was suddenly sorry that she hadn’t let Thomas Radcliff kiss her more before joining the army. She didn’t want this dark man to shape her bedroom thoughts.
At Hopkins’s shoulders stood one of the search-women he’d brought with him from Essex. Sybil thought her name was Mary Phillips. Also in the room were her sister Elizabeth, the fat Widow Moore, and pious Mary Ford. They had come to question her. The night was fresh and the candles burned high and bright, making all their eyes a-glitter.
Sybil sat on her chair, waiting.
Hopkins spoke first. “Have you a pact with Satan?”
What a silly question, thought Sybil. “Why would Satan bother with me?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, no Devil would bother with me. I’m a Reverend’s daughter.”
The search-woman huffed and Hopkins gestured at her to be quiet. There was something about him that was very patient. He reminded Sybil of the cat waiting for the mouse to make a mistake, knowing that sooner or later, it would. The way he held his shoulders was stiff and self-disciplined. Closing her eyes, she imagined him bound up by ropes of his own making. For a moment she almost felt pity. Almost.
His questions assaulted her, so fast she was dizzied, and the room spun and her throat closed up.
“Are you a witch? Have you made a pact with Satan? Have you entertained him? Are you a witch? Do you have knowledge of Satan?”
“No. No.”
“Who are your imps? What are their names? Have you copulated with the Devil? In the night, does he come to you? Do you lay with him? Do you allow him into the house of the Reverend, betraying your earthly father, your Holy Father?”
“No!”
Hopkins clenched his fist. “You will say for us the Lord’s Prayer.”
“I can say that forwards and backwards. I’m a Reverend’s daughter.” In fact, Sybil tended to think backwards.
“You say the Lord’s Prayer in reverse?” whispered Mary
Ford, aghast.
“I—”
“’Tis the sign of a true witch,” said the search-woman, Mary Phillips.
“Say the Lord’s Prayer for us, Sybil Yates,” Hopkins interrupted. “Say it now. The correct way.” He stepped closer.
A tremor of fear shook her into stammering out the first line. “Our F-Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day …” Sybil continued the prayer, the words coming in a rush of remembrance. As she spoke she thought of Alice and her stutter. She would never pass this test. She prayed Alice wouldn’t have to endure it. “For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.” Her breath came in quick gasps.
Hopkins was still as a statue in front of her.
“Are you in league with Satan?”
Sybil turned her face away, but could not help the hysterical bubble of laughter that escaped. Sybil knew that Hopkins was ignorant of his deeds. He thought he did God’s work. What a dreadful God you must know, she thought, swinging her eyes back upon him.
“She laughs,” said Hopkins. “She laughs.” He snapped his gloves across his hand. “Watch her.” He swept out of the room, his short cape flapping behind him.
The women acted fast under the orders of Mary Phillips. It was Elizabeth who brought the plain wooden chair from downstairs and placed it in the middle of the floor. It was Mary Ford who had the rope. It was Widow Moore who said, “Take off your clothes, girl.”
Sybil shook her head and crossed her arms. “That’s not modest.”
“Ye should have thought of it before consorting with the Devil,” said Mary Ford.
The women held her by the arms and stripped her bare. It was summer, so there was no bother of cold, but Sybil shivered anyway.
“Sit,” said Mary Phillips, pointing.
She sat and her arms were tied backward to her ankles so that her back was bent at a hard upright angle.
Suffer a Witch Page 17