Suffer a Witch

by Morgana Gallaway

  “Anything else? Anything about the Radcliff family?” he asked, his shallow breath eager. He’d remembered what innkeeper Renshaw had said about them, the rumors of their politics, that they seemed like Catholics even though they attended church.

  “R-Radcliff?” Alice pleaded. “T-Tom?”

  “Tom? Would that be Thomas, the son? What about him, is he a witch?”

  “N-No, no! He be … away.”

  “Away where?” Hopkins hissed. He could see the light of knowledge in Alice’s eyes and he hunted it, stalked it to the end, eager for what she held back. “Tell me …”

  “In the army,” she blurted.

  “Which army?” Hopkins said, gleeful.

  A tear squeezed out of the corner of Alice’s eye. “The K-King’s army, sir.”

  Royalists. Beautiful. Hopkins scrawled the name in his book. If the boy was away fighting against the righteous cause, then perhaps Hopkins could accuse someone else in that family of witchcraft, someone to draw them out … it could net him an even greater confession, one of treason against Parliament. Licking his lips, he put his notebook away. How he would be rewarded for this! And how he could taste sweet relief!

  At the end of Alice Baxter’s confession, Hopkins allowed her a cup of milk and heel of bread, and then brought out his pen and a small jar of ink.

  “Sign here,” he said, pointing at the bottom of his ledger.

  With unsteady fingers she gripped the feather and made an “X” next to her name.

  It was helpful when the accused witches didn’t know how to read.

  Hopkins, recovering from the terrors of the night that Alice had stammered out loud, left her with a few parting words. “You are now beholden by law to come to the trials and testify in public. Do this not, and you will be hanged. Do you understand, Alice Baxter?”

  She hung her head in shame and said, “Y-Yes.”

  Clicking his fingers for Elspeth to follow, he turned his nose toward the Radcliff residence.

  WHEN PIPPA AWOKE, THE first thing she remembered was the cave in the woods. She wanted to run away, to hide there, to ride out the storm. It was an island beyond the world and there she would be made safe. That was impossible, though, for she was curled up with Lillibet on the mattress, and her arms were tied. The end of a broomstick was poking her in the ribs.

  They had been allowed two inadequate hours of sleep, watched over by the Brewers. Goodman Brewer was sipping on a cup of herbal tea made from Lillibet’s own kitchen, and his wife was the one doing the broomstick-prodding. “Get up, you both,” she said.

  “Goody Brewer, please, let us rest,” murmured Pippa. The firm hand of sleep was on her shoulder and she wanted to fall back into it.

  “No. ’Tis time for your ordeal.”

  Lillibet muttered to herself. She looked fragile and dried out as an old leaf, her eyes empty and fluttering. There seemed to be more white hairs on her head.

  Satisfied that they were awake, Goody Brewer nodded and marched outside. “I’ll inform Master Hopkins,” she told her husband. “Keep watch, man!”

  “Please, Goodman Brewer,” Pippa said once the other was out of earshot. “A small cup of tea for Lillibet? Just to help her waken. Please, it’s only fair.”

  Goodman Brewer hesitated and glanced toward the door. His salt-and-pepper mustache obscured the tilt of his mouth, but there was some sympathy in his eyes. He held out his cup of tea.

  Pippa helped Lillibet to sit up and brought the hot liquid to her lips. She swallowed in tiny gulps. It was peppermint—good for energy. The moisture of the steam in Pippa’s nose was enough to rejuvenate her. “That’s better,” she whispered to her mother. “Much better.”

  Goodman Brewer allowed most of the tea to be drunk and then he leapt forward, seizing the cup. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Goody Brewer was back with the constable. “The Witchfinder General says to bring them to the common.”

  Out the front door was a different world, a hostile world. The weather had grown cooler, the summer’s heat tempered by a wind and the underside of a cloudy brew. Eli the pig looked forlorn as he watched Pippa and Lillibet being led out the front gate. Pippa supposed someone would steal him while they were away, unknowing that he was supposed to be an imp.

  Pippa’s head was woolly from exhaustion. She tried to think of what might be coming next but all of the witch-finder’s methods were nonsensical. She knew witchcraft better than he did. That Master Hopkins couldn’t lift a curse if his life depended upon it. They passed the Green Man, and time peeled forward when Pippa saw that it said “Charter Inn.”

  The day is July 8, the year is 1645, she thought, fairly certain she was correct. I was accused on July 5. It has been three days. Who could have known that forever was the same thing as three days? The day is July 8.

  A buzzing crowd had gathered on the common. Pippa sleep-walked toward the crowd of friends, neighbors, and old enemies. She didn’t see Hugh Felton.

  Matthew Hopkins stood on the wooden platform that had been specially built by the carpenter. Pippa noticed a large cart in the road next to the common—it was covered with a wooden cage, the sort used to transport prisoners. A stranger sat at the top, scratching his unshaven jaw, and seemed disinterested in the activity around him.

  Glancing about, Pippa also saw Hopkins’s horse saddled. One of the village boys was holding its reins. Did that mean the witch-finder would leave them alone at last?

  Pippa and Lillibet joined a small group of the accused at the base of the platform. Pippa was shocked to see elegant Winifred Radcliff amongst them, looking bedraggled, her brown eyes brimming with confusion. This must be a joke, Pippa thought. Who would ever accuse prim and proper Winifred of such a thing? Pippa would have guessed that Winifred would be the first to point the finger, bosom friends as she was with Elizabeth Yates.

  Then again, Winifred’s father was away from home, on business in Holland. Her cousin Jonas Martin had ended his visit. Her brother was in the army. Without a man to defend her honor, it was no wonder she was vulnerable to accusation.

  There was no joy in Winifred’s sudden fall, however. Pippa was too worried for herself.

  Clinging near Winifred was Sybil, her face white as a sheet, her arms limp at her sides. Pippa had never quite realized how very young Sybil looked for her age. With those large blue eyes, that fair hair, and the small mouth, she might have been a girl of twelve instead of seventeen.

  “Alice?” Sybil said, turning around. “Come stand with us.”

  But Alice just stood several feet away, shook her head, and looked to the grass at her feet.

  They must have given Alice a hard time … with despair Pippa remembered one of the tests—the Lord’s Prayer. Oh, Alice, she thought. Who accused you? Who accused any of us? But perhaps Alice had passed their absurd tests, after all. Pippa could only pray.

  “These are the seven accused witches of this village,” Hopkins’s voice rang out over the heads of the crowd. “They have been watched and tested. Some have confessed. But others …” he glared down at Pippa, “. . . have refused to admit to their crimes, in spite of evidence of imps and of Devil’s marks upon their skin. So there is a final ordeal to which they must submit, and for which I need your help as witnesses.” Hopkins nodded at the constable. “They will be swum in the pond. This recreates the process of baptism. If they sink, they be innocent of the crime of witchcraft, and be freed. If the water rejects them, and they float, guilt is thus proven.”

  Pippa turned with slow eyes toward the duck pond. How pretty it was, how gentle the ripples on its surface … but it was deep. Deep enough to drown in, for the Renshaws’ oldest boy had drowned there many years ago. The parents of the Vale always took care to watch their children around that pond’s waters and, in the winter when it froze over, to test the ice before the children were allowed to play.

  But most people float in water, her mind protested. She did not know how to swim, and she supposed they would not untie her
arms. Sink, and be innocent, and drown today. Float, and be guilty, and be hanged later.

  She searched for Hugh among the eyes of her neighbors turned against her, but she could not see him. He was perhaps at the back of the crowd, unwilling to speak out against it. If you love me, help me, she implored. But he was not there.

  What if Hugh had decided that Pippa had unfairly bewitched him all those years ago? What if he had run from her in fear, like her other neighbors?

  Then she saw him, standing straight and tall. Her eyes tunneled on the feminine hand on his elbow. Elizabeth Yates, she thought, locking eyes with Sybil’s sister and reading their haughty victory. Elizabeth stood as if she owned Hugh, and now she did, for Pippa had been dropped, damaged. She could almost hear Elizabeth’s whispers into Hugh’s ear, the poisonous tendrils of suspicion, the suggestion of “Are you sure you’re not bewitched? Is there not something very strange about that Pippa Wylde?”

  Pippa’s heart turned to stone, cold at the knowledge that Hugh, her love, her enchanted childhood husband, had turned against her and gone into the arms of a scheming other.

  Winifred muttered a prayer, Lillibet mouthed a charm, Sybil hummed to herself, Ashley teetered on unsteady feet, the Buckett women whispered filthy words and curses. They were all strung along the same rope like cattle, dragged up the embankment along the grassy edge of the pond. Pippa saw that Alice hung back, held at the elbows by the constable. It did not look like she would be swum and Pippa wondered why.

  “Untie them,” ordered Hopkins, “so that if one be innocent, they affect not the outcomes of the others’ ordeals!”

  Two men seized Joan Buckett by the legs and heaved her into the pond.

  She shrieked like a bird, twisting and turning about in a terrible melee. Her great splashing flung water droplets into the crowd, edged up as they were to the pond to watch, and Pippa felt a few sprinkles on her own nose. The sky too was getting ready to rain down on them—several chillier drops hit her uncovered head from above.

  For all her fussing, Joan Buckett did not sink, and the men hauled her out of the water. The villagers cheered and jeered and old Joan was led to the caged cart. Pippa felt sick. She wondered if this was divine retribution upon her for misusing the power of magic. If only Joan had the money to defend herself …

  Next came Anne Buckett, and the evidence against her was so heavy to begin with that Pippa wondered why they bothered. She was as much a spectacle as her mother, screeching and hollering and floating.

  Then it was Sybil’s turn, and Pippa bit back a cry as the rough hands of two men took hold of Sybil’s fragile frame. She was so light that she flew through the air, far out into the middle of the pond, and twisted and turned, her hair and her petticoats flashing pale beneath the surface … but her head remained above water.

  “She floats!” came the cry. “A witch, a witch!”

  There was something so vicious in the sea of familiar voices. From the way they looked at Sybil, she was no longer the daughter of their minister, but a stranger. Something had turned in their minds and the ranks were closed.

  The Reverend did not acknowledge his daughter, and Catherine and Elizabeth stared ahead, calm as though this were a matter of simple justice.

  Sybil was an abandoned child as she was led, shivering, to the cart.

  Winifred was next. She remained dignified even when tossed into the pond, and although she could not help her natural reaction of trying to swim, she did so with a certain grace. It did not change the evidence: she floated, and lived, and was declared guilty. Several families cheered on, for the Radcliffs had money, and that was always a source of jealousy for some. Again Pippa wondered who had planted the accusation.

  Elizabeth Yates had shunned Winifred, it seemed. Winifred’s former friend stood without pity, and her hard features even held a trace of anger.

  Winifred’s mother and sister looked on, stony-faced.

  They too had closed ranks.

  Old Man Ash, bawling at the injustice, floated. No surprise, for he was light as a feather and drank more than he ate.

  As she watched, and as the fear grew inside of her, Pippa started to think of how she might make herself sink, and wondered how long a person could hold their breath if they tried.

  “Lillibet,” she whimpered, as her tired, abused mother was yanked away from her, and thrown into the water by a man she’d healed of pleurisy, and another for whom she’d fixed a broken leg, and delivered as a baby.

  A diminutive cry was silenced as Lillibet’s head was dunked under the water. She struggled with the bindings on her hands and feet, bending over and then stretching out again, trying to keep her mouth above the rippling waves. Pippa’s heart seized when she heard Lillibet’s choking and gasping as water crept down her airway.

  How long should it last? At what point was floating or sinking determined? It seemed to be up to the discretion of Hopkins, whose eyes were not on Lillibet in the water, but on Pippa’s face to see her reaction.

  Hatred rose in her throat like bile.

  “She floats,” he said with a casual flick of his hand. “Take her away.”

  Lillibet could hardly walk and her silver hair was plastered to her head. Water ran down the aged cracks of her face … wrinkles that had not been noticeable the previous week.

  “Think of the rocks in the brook,” Lillibet whispered on her way past Pippa.

  Rocks in the brook. Pippa was breathing hard, afraid to go into the water hog-tied, afraid she would drown. But then you’ll go straight to Heaven! said a mocking voice in her head.

  Hands grabbed her and before she had time to even cry out, her petticoats were flapping around her legs and with a deafening splash, she was immersed. Rocks in the brook.

  Insight struck her. She must be the rock. Taking one last, deep breath, filling her lungs, she did not struggle against the water or the ropes but curled herself into a tight ball.

  She sank.

  The noise, the insults, even the sprinkles of rain … all fell away as she went down. The weight of her clothing helped. She opened her eyes to see the flashing skin of a fish, and the waving tentacles of pond grass, and a few glittering things in the mud at the bottom—coins for luck, or long-lost trinkets. Slowly she let her breath escape in a column of bubbles. She sank further still. Her toes touched bottom and she wriggled them in the slime.

  Glancing up, she could see the wavering figure of Hopkins peering in, his cape and hat and boots forming a distinct silhouette. He was waiting.

  And she was out of breath.

  Hold, she thought, hold. The rush of energy was seeping away. Her muscles and mind screamed for air. Darkness edged at her vision. A burning pain exploded outward from her chest. Breathe! The water that had been a sanctuary for a few seconds was now the enemy. She tried to relax herself and unbend her legs so she would rise up, but still she hovered far below the surface. They must see that she had sunk. They must pull her up soon … but the rope was left slack.

  It was no good.

  She bent her knees and with all the force of her growing panic, she sprung upwards off the bottom of the pond. Up, up, and with a tremendous splash Pippa was flung almost entirely out of the water like a leaping fish. She gasped and the air was sweet nectar, filling her with red life, and she fell back into the water.

  The rope tightened and she was dragged out of the water.

  “How interesting,” said Hopkins.

  The crowd was silent, avid with the drama.

  Hopkins’s eyes wandered over her as she stood wet and dripping in front of him. For a few beats he looked lost in some private memory. Then he spoke. “She attempted to sink … but see how the water ejected her very body!” He shook a finger. “Attempt not to trick God! He has spurned you and cast you out of the water!”

  Winded, Pippa shook her head, for there was not yet enough breath in her lungs to speak her piece.

  “Yes! Yes! Guilty!” screamed the mob.

  She did not know their face
s.

  As she was led toward the cart, Pippa thought she heard someone cry “No!” over the din … it was lost in the chaos. She also saw Hopkins accept a large bag of coinage from the Reverend. The witch-finder did not look back at the condemned as he walked toward his horse with the grey imp heeling at his boots.

  “Oh, Pippa,” said Lillibet when they were in the cage together, and leaned her head on Pippa’s shoulder.

  “Alice?” Sybil said, leaning over.

  But Alice was still next to the constable, staring at the ground, tears rolling down her face. The cart was locked without her.

  “Get on!” said the driver, and with a lurch, the Vale rolled away behind them.

  THE JOURNEY NORTHWARD WAS full of bumps and bruises. The cart did not stop except for the driver to relieve himself on the side of the road. He drank constantly from a jug of ale that rested on the seat next to him and so it was no wonder that he needed to stop every half of an hour.

  It was a miserable group held captive in the back. Pippa took tiny naps, overcome by exhaustion and soaking wet from the pond, and then from the rain that unleashed upon them. She was with her friend and her mother and that was enough for now. Perhaps they were a coven after all, although missing one member.

  On the other side of the cage, Anne and Joan Buckett huddled together, staring with bloodshot eyes at the others. Winifred sat curled into a forlorn ball. Old Man Ash was passed out on the bed of the cart, his bones seeming to rattle with every rock beneath the wheels. For all that, he looked comfortable and Pippa envied his ability to sleep through it.

  She was so famished that she’d forgotten what normal hunger was like. Her appetite had descended into a hard lump at the base of her stomach. At least her thirst was quenched by the sky—she tilted her head up and caught the rain on her tongue.

  “How long did they watch you?” she asked Winifred. She was curious how Winifred, so refined, so upstanding, so well-dressed, had been degraded to her level.

  “One night,” Winifred said. “Until my imp came along in the morning. A field mouse,” she added with derision.