Suffer a Witch

by Morgana Gallaway

  “Proof, you are saying, of Satan’s direct influence?”

  “Yes, your honor,” said Elizabeth. “Sybil is not normal, not human. She knows too much—as though she can read a mind. One dreadful night, she claimed to speak to the ghost of my dear departed mother. From the start was she corrupted, and she has showed us power not given by God!”

  “Thank you, Miss Yates.”

  Elizabeth stood down, looking pleased with herself.

  “Are there any other witnesses to offer proof?” called Godbold.

  “Yes, sir, one,” said Hopkins. He nodded at the girl who stared at him with the eyes of a terrified doe in the forest. “Go,” he mouthed at her.

  Alice Baxter stood and approached the witness stand.

  Pippa felt the blood drain from her face. No. She was unable to believe who was standing against them. Alice was like a stranger and refused to look in the direction of her or Sybil. Her hands shook and clutched onto a tattered handkerchief, the epitome of a country girl—unfashionable, terrified, and humble in her brown wool. But she’s me sister. Then a wild hope took hold of Pippa—perhaps Alice would tell them there were no witches in the Vale!

  Sybil reached over for Pippa’s hand.

  “Let the court be aware, the girl has a speech impediment,” said Matthew Hopkins, speaking to the man in purple. “Patience is needed, but her testimony is both sound and full.”

  “Very well,” said the man in purple, who sounded anything but patient.

  Alice began to speak. “I h-have s-s-sinned,” she said. “Th-th-there be w-witches in the Vale, and I w-w-was … I was … part of them.”

  “You must be more specific,” said a magistrate. “You will not be prosecuted, but only if you tell the truth, Alice Baxter. Tell us everything that you said and did, and who the witches are.”

  Alice nodded and stared at the wooden floor in front of her. “W-We went into the w-w-woods. There the D-D-Devil himself took m-me stutter away. I c-could speak as all you here t-today. ’Twas s-s-sometimes at night, s-sometimes in the day, and w-w-we lit fires. D-Danced about them, ch-ch-chanting old things.”

  At first the court had been disorderly, having not the patience to decipher Alice’s stuttering. But they had grown silent, aware of this precious peek into the lives of witches. Pippa could not believe her ears. Alice had never done evil magic! None of them had. Tell them, please, Alice. He has poisoned your mind. She dared a look at Hopkins, who was intent on his witness as though willing her to say damning things.

  “The w-w-witches were as accused,” said Alice. “Lillibet Wylde. She w-was the elder wh-wh-wh-who brought us in. Pippa Wylde. W-Winnie Radcliff. And S-S-Sybil Yates.” A lone tear dropped from Alice’s left eye.

  “Radcliff?” asked the man in purple, rummaging through a stack of papers.

  “Winifred Radcliff. Dropped charges, not enough physical evidence,” called a clerk.

  “Fine,” said a magistrate, “it seems this is the nest of them.” He gestured at the young women in the dock.

  It was as though the floor had fallen out from beneath Pippa’s feet. There would be no recovering from this treachery. Everything she’d ever told her friends to keep quiet … there was quiet Alice, airing it against her. This was the end. There was no point trying to rise in a world so determined to snuff her out. If the witch-finders had turned Alice’s kind heart, then no one was safe.

  Alice’s painfully slow speech told the court further things—about how the girls, mainly Pippa and Sybil, had cast spells, and called out incantations, and kept imps, and observed the old sabbats, and worshipped Satan in the forest. That she, Alice, had been dragged into it as an unwilling participant and how she’d never cast a spell herself. False witness, thought Pippa, recollecting Alice’s full participation in their games, and the time she’d crafted herself a charm to sweeten cow’s milk.

  “I be very s-s-s-sorry,” Alice said. “I knew n-not wh-wh-what I did. Every day I pray to God th-that He forgives me.”

  “You have done your duty here today,” said a magistrate gently. “Is there anything else you can tell us about these witches?”

  Alice held her handkerchief over her mouth. Not once had she raised her eyes to Pippa. “I-I’ve told you all I w-witnessed.”

  “You may return to your seat.”

  Alice was led by a clerk away from the stand.

  “If there be no more witnesses against Sybil Yates, the court will move to the case of Philippa Wylde,” said the man in purple. “Since they are related in deed and Satanic pact, the court will consider all testimony as thus related. Finally, does Sybil Yates have anything to say for herself?” He swiveled toward the dock.

  Sybil, still holding Pippa’s hand, managed to stand up. “I have only to say that I am no witch, and have no pact with Satan. My confession was forced from me, and I say now it was false. I have committed no crime that God Himself would condemn.”

  “Do not presume to speak for God!” a magistrate thundered at her.

  Sybil’s lips quivered and she sat down.

  “She holds to her original plea,” said the purple-robed sergeant with a sigh. “Next! Philippa Wylde. Stand up.”

  Pippa stood. Her knees wobbled.

  “How do you plead?”

  For one lunatic moment Pippa considered screaming her guilt, cursing the chamber, going unrepentant to a death already carved in stone. Lillibet had warned her that the world might consider them witches. If knowledge was evil, then she was evil, and let the rest of them be damned. Her eyes scanned the crowd. Their faces were leering, hostile … But she felt a squeeze of pressure from Sybil’s hand and held true. “Not guilty,” she said, and sat.

  “Very well,” again sighed the man in purple. “You have already been found out by Alice Baxter, and accused by association by Elizabeth Yates. Let the next witness come forward.”

  Pippa sneered at Goodman Charles Ford, wife of Mary, father of wayward Sarah. He sat down, holding his hat in his hands, and was sworn to tell the truth.

  “She cursed me daughter,” said Ford, pointing at Pippa. “I have proof of her witchery. She and her mother be conspirators. Me daughter went to them for a headache, for Lillibet Wylde was known for her remedies as a midwife. But instead, they cursed me Sarah, and gave her a poisoned tea.”

  “What happened when your daughter drank this tea?”

  Ford glared at Pippa. “Sarah could not move for many days. She fell into fits, vomiting, and became so weak she could not work. Also, me wife tells me that she … bled, as a female bleeds … for two weeks.”

  The court gasped as one.

  Pippa was helpless to say what had really happened. If she told the truth about Sarah Ford, and told ignorant Charles how his own daughter had fallen with child and then asked for a miscarriage, Pippa herself—and possibly Sarah—could be charged with murder. That sort of knowledge of life’s secrets would be the highest proof of witchcraft. Boxed in to silence, Pippa slumped in her chair.

  “Do you deny that you gave Sarah Ford a poisoned tea?” she was asked.

  “No, I do not deny it,” she whispered.

  Charles Ford took a seat. Pippa did not look up at who was next. She was already damned. She didn’t care who else wanted to perjure themselves on her account.

  “The court calls Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General.”

  Her head snapped up.

  “Thank you, your honors,” said Hopkins. His voice was practiced as brushed velvet. “It was under my observation that the witch Philippa Wylde was watched, and my search-women pricked her. She has been a difficult case, for the Devil has given her unusual strength, and she refused to admit her guilt up until the last.” Hopkins turned to look at Pippa. His black eyes locked on hers.

  Like a flint on stone, a spark flared in Pippa’s core. Her back straightened and her head was level. She stared straight back at Hopkins. Hatred for him was a living creature inside her, flooding her with new life.

  Hopkins looked away first
. He said, a slight waver in his voice, “She never confessed, but the ordeals showed guilt nonetheless. A most dramatic incident occurred when she was swum in the common pond.”

  “Hopkins, I’m warning you,” said one of the magistrates. “This swimming business is too harsh. Witches should be brought to confess out of spiritual fear, not mortal fear.”

  “I agree!” said Hopkins. “But in this case, the swimming ordeal was a true test of a woman who defied all goodness. Any of the witnesses would tell you.”

  “Noted. Go on.”

  “There was nothing to make her sink or swim,” said Hopkins, “only her own conscience. At first, she pulled a trick. She had weighted herself down to sink. And down she went, into the pond.” He paused, allowing the jury to imagine the scene for themselves. “And then, with a supernatural force, as though God Himself were pushing her out, she was launched full out of the water! Into the air she did fly, for the pure waters of baptism had rejected her.”

  A shocked murmur rippled through the jury and the watching crowd alike.

  “I never seen the likes of that!”

  “Proof was had,” added the distinctive whine of John Stearne. “I saw it with my very eyes!”

  “That is compelling evidence,” said a magistrate.

  Hopkins bowed. “There is also the matter of her birth. I have on good authority that Philippa Wylde, like Sybil Yates, was born unnatural. The mother, Elizabeth Wylde, was in her old age when she conceived and carried Philippa. A woman who yearned for a child, and had been denied by God, did turn to Satan to grant her wish. And so she lay with the Devil and he did give her this spawn, and to this she admitted. She signed a confession, and described in detail the names of their imps ‘Eli Pilly’ and ‘Yewberry,’ and was found to have the Devil’s teats … it creates a clear picture of the evil pact in this family.”

  “He lies!” Pippa called out. She glanced at the magistrate who’d reprimanded Hopkins for the swimming ordeal. “It is as you say, your honor. He tortures and brings forth false confessions. And I never confessed, for I am not guilty!”

  This created a storm of shouting and jeering from the chamber. Many people grinned, enjoying the spectacle of debate.

  Hopkins took a threatening step toward her. “You cannot hide behind words,” he hissed. “There are a hundred witnesses to see you cast forth from the pond.” He turned to the jury. “She disrespects this very court!”

  “Enough,” said the sergeant. “A clerk informs me there is a witness who wishes to speak.”

  To Pippa’s utter surprise, the farmer Robert Pye stepped up again. He’d spoken out once against Anne Buckett. Would he tell the jury how Pippa had used magic to try to undo the curse? White magic was black magic in the eyes of this court.

  Pye was quiet and had to speak louder to be heard over the excited crowd. “Anne Buckett cursed me boy, Francis.” This reminded everyone who he was; in the stream of witnesses and accusations, it was easy to grow confused. “But it was Pippa Wylde and her mother Lillibet who helped Francis recover. Lillibet made health tonics for the boy, and she attended the birth of me own daughter, a healthy girl,” he smiled, “and Pippa, too, was being trained in the healing use of plants.”

  The man in purple narrowed his eyes. “But you say she used magic to cure magic?”

  Pye paused. Pippa stared at him in a silent plea to make something up. He said, “No … she gave him a concoction of herbs to soothe his mind. It was simple, really, no magic. Just tender care from God’s own creation. That be all I have to say.” Pye stood down without being asked to leave.

  “One character witness does not erase the overwhelming evidence!” said Hopkins, spitting.

  “There is one more character witness,” said a familiar voice that made Pippa’s heart stop.

  An impossible voice.

  Hugh Felton stood on the edge of the crowd, holding his hat in hand. He wore his finest coat and breeches and boots befitting a baronet’s son. His gold-brown hair shone, and his clear blue eyes were like the freedom of a summer’s day. Pippa blinked. He was there, she didn’t imagine him.

  “Who are you?” Hopkins sneered.

  “I would like to speak as a witness. My name is already recorded by the clerk,” said Hugh. He walked forward and glanced at Pippa. It was a splinter of a second, but it was full of promise. Something lifted in her chest. She supposed it was hope. Yet, she was ashamed for her bedraggled appearance in front of Hugh. She couldn’t bear to think this would be his last impression of her—dull, dirty, starving. I’m not bright for you anymore, she thought, and almost cried. Her pulse hammered as she waited for what Hugh would say about her. Would he tell the court that she, a wicked child, had cast spells on him to make him love her?

  She felt the comforting squeeze of Sybil’s hand on hers.

  Hugh was sworn-in by the clerk and took a seat. “I come to testify that Philippa Wylde is no witch, but a trained healer and midwife. I expect she will receive her license, if her mother has indeed died. There is no doctor or apothecary in the Vale,” he addressed the jury, “for we are too small a place for that. Furthermore, I testify as to her character, and the character of her late parents. Miss Wylde’s father, John Wylde, was a close friend of my father Sir John Felton, and an honorable yeoman. He married a midwife, not a witch. It is likewise impossible that his daughter Philippa is one.”

  “What is your relationship to her?” Hopkins asked.

  “Master Hopkins,” said a magistrate, “you are not asking the questions, we are.” He turned to Hugh. “Sir?”

  Pippa couldn’t breathe.

  “She is my betrothed,” said Hugh. His eyes were steady on Pippa, holding her up, erasing her fears with those four simple words.

  Her mind fell back to their first and last kiss, when he’d said he wanted her. Was that what he’d meant? Had Hugh considered them betrothed this entire time? Daft, thought Pippa, insufferable, silent, presumptuous man!

  Hugh’s back was straight as a sword as he continued. “I am a pious man, son of Sir John Felton who is both a baronet … and a generous patron to our parish and to the parish here in Bury.” Hugh’s mouth quirked and he glanced at the magistrate who was dressed in the cloth of a minister.

  “Noted,” said the sergeant.

  “She is no witch,” Hugh repeated, and stood down.

  “I have more to say!” said Hopkins.

  “We have no more time,” said the sergeant. “We must deliberate now, there are scores more of your accused to get through, Hopkins.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the jury and the crowd. They had grown impatient and were salivating for the next group. Pippa felt something tug at her chains—“Stand up, move!” she was told—and they were led out of the room and into a small antechamber off to the side. It was bare of all furniture and had whitewashed walls. Two soldiers with mean-looking guns stood at attention on either side of the door.

  When the wooden door slammed shut, they could not hear what was happening in the big chamber, and all five women huddled over. Pippa was shaking. Now that Hugh had spoken for her, she could love him without reserve. Even if she died, she would take his love with her … but she wanted to live, wanted it with every sinew and fiber in her body, wanted to cling on with her crumbling fingernails and never let go. It made her dizzy with fear to think she might lose that life.

  “I don’t know why they bother to talk about it,” grumbled Joan Buckett. “We’re to the gallows.”

  Katherine Tooly sobbed into her skirt.

  Their waiting time stretched into an eternity. Life was paused here, in this antechamber, this limbo. Pippa’s mind seesawed between hope and despair, between confidence and crisis. All-powerful Matthew Hopkins had ripped her life away from her, so it was probable the court would listen to him.

  “Everything’s all right,” Sybil whispered, a film of tears clouding her pale eyes. “We will shed these chains somehow.”

  She was right. Hanging would be preferable to
the gaol. Pippa tried not to think of the gallows that had been constructed for them—high, sturdy, made of oak. She tried not to think of what it would be like to die blindfolded.

  They waited.

  On the other side of the door, the grand jury discussed among themselves the testimony they’d heard. Pippa wondered about those who held her life in their hands. Men, powerful, educated, religious. She was none of those things.

  They would convict her.

  So what if they do? A small voice was in her head. It sounded a great deal like Lillibet. You know death is not the end.

  “But it is!” she said in a whisper that did not escape her throat.

  You will be all right. This will pass, as all things do.

  Pippa couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in the throes of a terrible dream. It had to end sometime. She looked at Sybil and felt admiration for her friend’s calm. Sybil’s eyes were closed and her mouth was a sweet arc that showed no sign of pain. Always in her own Heavenly world, Sybil was.

  A fist pounded on the door and Pippa’s stomach lurched.

  The door to the courtroom opened and they were led back into the fray. The jury was a line of solemn faces, expressionless, pitiless. The public audience was hushed and eager to hear the verdicts. The man in purple robes filled the room with his official stance and by the paper in his hands. On that paper was written their fate.

  He spoke. “The jury has deliberated and the verdicts are returned.”

  Lightning crackled through Pippa’s veins. Her nerves were in shreds. It was difficult to breathe.

  “Katherine Tooly: guilty.”

  The audience crowed with delight.

  “Anne Buckett: guilty.”

  A louder cheer.

  “Joan Buckett: guilty.”

  This was no surprise. Joan spat on the floor and shook her fierce head of hair.

  Pippa was so tense that she could not move to see the faces down the row.