Suffer a Witch

by Morgana Gallaway

  The assizes were a time of gratification for Hopkins, strong in his renewed purpose. The first day had been spoiled by the acquittal of Philippa Wylde, but Hopkins tried not to think of that creature, to maintain a larger perspective. He could find a way to take care of her someday. The convictions were rolling in. This was his work. The size of these trials was all due to him. He’d suffered no further hiccups in his resolve. The witches were being named, the witches were being hanged.

  One by one, he was purging his soul of evil’s claim.

  Today the Reverend John Lowes, a notorious witch, had been convicted. Hopkins had given the damning testimony. Every day he was more feared, more respected. He’d spoken to an old friend high in Cromwell’s intelligence service who had hinted that when the liberator Cromwell won the war, Matthew Hopkins—once a clerk, once a humble fingerman for Parliament—might be awarded a higher post. If witches were an infestation here in Puritan East Anglia, he could but imagine the corruption in the rest of the country.

  Witchfinder General, by appointment of Parliament. None could doubt his piety or competence again. He would have the power of the State behind him, permission to destroy Philippa and then the rest of them.

  When he exited the courthouse and people moved out of the way for him, Hopkins’s chest filled with the sweet air of power. He wanted to submit, and so he must dominate. Control over the fates of others meant he was in control of his inner self. “Hopkins,” they whispered. “The Witchfinder General!” And they shrank away in respect for his deeds, just as they had in Chelmsford.

  “Here, boy, come back tomorrow,” he said to the youth he’d paid to watch Elspeth while he was in court. He had an income of over two hundred pounds from the summer’s witch-hunts. Luxuries were suddenly within reach.

  The boy handed over the rope on which Elspeth was tied and Hopkins patted her head. She waggled the stump of her tail in greeting.

  Bury St. Edmunds was closing up the day’s business. Curtains were being drawn across windows, merchandise packed away in the stalls. Already the pubs were overflowing with men, and the lewd women who frequented such places. Hopkins winced when he saw an aging barmaid with a large bobbling bosom. She giggled and swatted at a soldier who was as wiry as she was fat.

  If it were up to him, such behavior would be punishable, too.

  “Ho, Matt.”

  Rounding his thoughts away from the barmaid, he forced a smile. “John. A long day!”

  Stearne nodded energetically. “God’s work we’ve done today.”

  They walked together down a shadowed main street. The alleys were already in twilight, but the sky was still bright above them. Hopkins watched as two wives in humble dark dresses walked with their farmer husbands. Then he glanced through the latticed windows of a pub. “Tell me, Stearne,” he said. “What is it like to be married?”

  Stearne pondered for a split second. “’Tis a good thing, of course. When the woman is pious, the marriage is indeed blessed. Why, Hopkins? Are you thinking of taking a wife?”

  “I suppose,” said Hopkins. He knew that it was part of his Biblical duty to rule over a wife and children, but women were dangerously weak. He was proof of that. Besides … when he thought of marital duties … he knew that his tastes were so defiled by the witch’s womb, so immoral that no Christian woman could or would ever be able to rouse him.

  Helpless, hopeless, you have no choice. A woman hovers above him, and says, “What I would do to you!” He lays flat below her, and says,“What I would do for you!” The woman wears the witch’s face.

  Stop it! he thought. Biting the tender skin on the inside of his cheek, he tried to look as though contemplating philosophy. To Stearne he said, “Do you not worry about the lesser moral quality of women? In the generality, I mean, not your own wife.”

  “As long as she submits to your moral authority, and you take full responsibility for guiding her thoughts in the direction of Heaven, then I’ve found no trouble.”

  “And you have a child, as well.”

  “Yes, women are needed for that,” said Stearne, amusement playing at his lips. “Listen. Do not let our work taint your view of marriage. You see how godly wives have helped us—searched, and watched, and been the first to denounce their wayward sisters.”

  Hopkins nodded, but he could not muster any enthusiasm for the idea of a pious wife. “I suspect that God may have other plans for me.”

  “Ah, adventure!” said Stearne. “’Tis true you would be pinned down by a wife now. You know I cannot venture too far from home. Women are as dogs—discipline, and a husband’s presence, is an absolute necessity.” He paused to knuckle-rub Elspeth’s head. “You, Hopkins … you should wait until your situation in life is less movable.”

  “It would have been if I’d stayed at the Thorn Inn, stayed in Mistley,” said Hopkins. “But that would be to reject my calling. I would not do that.”

  “This is just the beginning for you,” said Stearne, gesturing up at the sky.

  “You give good advice, friend,” said Hopkins. He shook Stearne’s hand and they parted. Stearne was finished with his testimony and would wake early the next day to ride south toward home.

  Hopkins, however, would stay until the end of the executions. High level connections made here could benefit his work in the future.

  He turned a corner and walked toward his lodgings, fixing after a pint of ale. Elspeth trotted alongside him. The pub there was frequented by magistrates, gentry, and wealthy businessmen—a subdued drinking-hole without any fat wenches lolling about.

  Inside, however, there was an air of emergency. A group of patrons huddled around a piece of paper. The barkeep nodded and said, “Master Hopkins,” then turned back to the group.

  Removing his hat and keeping Elspeth at heel, he said, “What’s the word?”

  One of the men, a wealthy farmer, said, “The King’s army is very near to Cambridge!”

  Hopkins frowned and turned away. He had no fear of the war, but was irritated that the King might interrupt the course of justice. With armies moving so close, the trials might be suspended or dissolved, and Hopkins suddenly wondered what might happen if hundreds of known witches were loosed on the streets, all blaming him for their prison time.

  He coughed and shivered.

  “The army’s being called up, all able-bodied,” said another patron. “Muster’s being called tomorrow.”

  “Dear God! This is dreadful!”

  “You don’t suppose the King will succeed? What if Bury goes under siege?”

  “Lord bless the New Model Army, may they stave off this menace …”

  “This means they’ll have to hurry the assizes,” said the farmer. He looked unhappy; his case must not have been heard yet.

  Troubled, Hopkins retreated up the stairs with Elspeth and settled in for an early night. Tomorrow was the last day of the trials. After that, the hangings. Then he would be out of Bury and, he decided, back home to lay low at the Thorn Inn for awhile. He was too important to be caught up in the earthly battle as the armies clashed so near to him.

  When his head hit the soft down pillow, the tilted angle made him start to cough.

  “Hep the hackle,” said a voice, but he was too exhausted to listen.

  HOPKINS AWOKE TO THE sound of marching in the street. Pulling aside the curtain, he saw a company of soldiers in formation, on their way out of town to meet the rest of the army. There were never enough soldiers, especially not with hundreds of witches to guard. Most of the accused—the ones brought from the larger gaol at Ipswich—were locked in a tithe barn until they could be convicted and then hanged.

  When he emerged, his beard trimmed and his hat secure on his head, the streets were in a clamor of panic. The townspeople ran this way and that, some leaving, others arriving. A woman dragged her two children by the hands down the street, saying, “Say farewell to your papa, pray for ’im!” A minister hurried past clutching a Bible. Then came a cart loaded with prisoners—women, drab
and dirty. One or two spat words at him, but he paid no heed.

  They had no power here in the city of men.

  At the corner of a stone and timber-framed building, a boy held pamphlets, shouting out the news of the approaching army. The sheaf of papers were distributed quickly to the many people hungry for information. Hopkins picked one up, but it was nothing he didn’t know. The King was on his way. The army was called up. All good Parliamentarians should join the fight. Hopkins folded the paper and tucked it away in his pocket.

  “Praise God that the witches are being punished,” he overheard a man say to his wife. “God will see that we are faithful folk. He will have mercy on us and save us from a battle.”

  The eyes of the good people looked for something to blame, and Hopkins had found the root cause of this strife: witches. I ought to mention that witches often work as Catholics and Royalists, he thought. The more he did his work, the more of Satan’s footprints he found in the world.

  This is a war of the spirit, Hopkins thought, and the witches are casualties on the other side. Satan’s side. The harder he fought, the more leverage he would have to get into the Heaven that might otherwise turn him away. Chest puffed, he walked into the assizes.

  THE JOURNEY BACK TO Bury St. Edmunds was made with urgency and on horseback. Pippa and Winifred rode alongside Hugh, whose father had business interests in Bury, and they would be staying overnight at the home of a family called Proctor.

  “There are no public rooms to be had in Bury,” said Hugh as they cantered along the road northward. “And now the King approaches Cambridge … Roger is joining the Roundheads.”

  “Your brother?” Pippa asked. Roger Felton was a boy roughly her own age who liked to play football. The thought of him fighting in a battle made her nervous.

  “I would, as well,” Hugh said, “but that my father cannot risk the both of us dying. One must stay to help run the estate.” He sounded irked about this, but Pippa knew what truly bothered him: that it was politically expedient for his brother to fight for a cause that he didn’t much believe in. She, however, was glad Hugh would stay out it.

  “We shall pray for Roger,” said Winifred.

  Pippa wondered if Roger Felton and Thomas Radcliff, on opposite sides, would find each other. But no, she remembered, Tom was further west, defending the royal interests in Wiltshire. Sybil’s speaking of it seemed an age ago. War and politics and strife … all were miniscule in comparison to the very real danger in Suffolk. Matthew Hopkins. The imminent hangings.

  Pippa watched Hugh’s back as he rode ahead of her. His thighs gripped the horse in an easy seat—he was a fine horseman. Were it not for him, her betrothed, she would be in a grim cell with Sybil, awaiting her own death. She could still scarcely believe her escape had been real.

  Thank the Lord he came to his senses, she thought. The problem with Hugh was that he gave other people a greater benefit of the doubt than they deserved. He’d even considered himself friendly with the likes of Elizabeth Yates. The golden-edged life of the gentry had not prepared Hugh for the boldness of Matthew Hopkins.

  The journey that had taken so long in the lumbering prison cart was hours shorter this time. From a distance the abbey’s tower pierced the sky and the sun’s overhead angle created reflections off the shingled roofs and clocks. It looked almost idyllic, but Pippa’s stomach tightened as they grew closer. There were crowds and judges who’d wanted to hurt her.

  Their plan to save Sybil had to work. Winifred’s father had bribed the magistrate to secure her release … the same magistrate that Hugh would demand to see this afternoon. “What did your father say to get the court to release you?” Pippa asked Winifred.

  Hugh slowed his horse alongside to listen.

  “My father paid bail,” said Winifred, “and then … well … he knows someone who knows this magistrate, who had a gambling debt that was suddenly paid. I asked him to do the same for you and Sybil. But the debt wasn’t large enough, and we’re not rich enough.” She bit her lip. “He didn’t just bring money. He made heavy hints, promises even, about future donations to the man’s political campaigns. It was … difficult for Father to do.”

  Pippa could imagine Mr. Radcliff would have been hard-pressed to promise support to a Parliamentarian. But he’d been desperate, willing to do anything to get his daughter back and restore their good name.

  “How much was it?” Hugh asked. A large sum of money was tucked into his jacket’s secret inner pocket. Pippa prayed it was enough.

  “I think several pounds,” said Winifred. Their plan rested on details. “I feel terrible knowing that Father might have gotten us all out, but he knew not that I’d found friends in that dreadful place.”

  “Not your fault,” said Pippa, leaning over to squeeze Winnie’s arm.

  “We’ll restore Sybil to freedom,” said Hugh. His jaw was hard. Perhaps he felt guilty for not acting sooner. “I’ll be as forceful as I dare with the magistrate. I’ll try more than one. I don’t care. I’ll go to them all until I find one to listen. If they won’t release her immediately, perhaps I can bargain for a delay, give us some time.”

  “I just hope the assizes aren’t so busy that he won’t take your audience,” said Winifred.

  “He will,” said Hugh. “He’d better. You two, worry not. We’ll save her.”

  Traffic grew heavy. They were entering Bury St. Edmunds. Hugh led the way through the outskirts and then into the dense city center. The color red was everywhere—the red cross of St. George on flags, the crimson of uniforms, the deep russet of dried blood on the stones near a butcher’s shop.

  They emerged into a sector with houses that were old but spacious and made of stone. Hugh stopped at a blue door. “The Proctors,” he said. “Close to my family in business. Mr. Proctor is a tradesman in fine leathers and buys from our cattle stock on occasion.”

  A maid opened the door, dressed in the apron and cap for kitchen work. Bowing, she opened the door wide. Pippa was glad to be wearing her good black church dress.

  Mrs. Proctor was a city matron in very fine clothing, at least to Pippa’s country eye. She was fat, and wore a grey silk bodice and petticoat trimmed in black rope. Her lace collar was so large as to cover her shoulders down to her elbows. A ready smile made Pippa feel at ease.

  Pippa mimicked Winifred’s manners and dipped a greeting.

  “Here to watch the assizes, are you?” she asked Winifred and Pippa.

  Pippa realized that Hugh, in his message to them, had told the Proctors nothing about the circumstances … that she had been chained and under the boot of that very entertaining court. She was grateful that Hugh hadn’t advertised her shame.

  She and Winifred were shown up the stairwell to a spare bedroom with a thick down mattress—they would share. The sooner they went to sleep, the sooner the morning would come, and in the morning, Sybil was scheduled to hang.

  “Let us accompany Hugh to the magistrate,” Pippa said. “I don’t believe I can stand waiting here.”

  Winifred agreed.

  They walked with Hugh to the grand rectory where the magistrate—a minister—lived. As of this afternoon the assizes were finished, and the juries recessed. The swirling crowds had thinned on this street. There were no public spectacles of death to be had here.

  Hugh said, “Await me. I’ll not return until it’s settled.” He disappeared through the rectory’s gate and into the yard obscured by high hedges. Pippa and Winifred sank down onto a stone ledge, hands clasped. Pippa’s stomach did somersaults. Could they be about to get Sybil back? Would Hugh emerge with relief and victory on his face, the same expression he’d worn when Pippa had been released?

  Next to her, Winifred sighed. “With every thought, I’m praying for her.”

  “As am I.”

  Turning with a sudden eagerness, Winifred said, “The King’s army is moving this way.”

  Pippa looked into Winifred’s bright eyes. “Yes, I believe so … plenty of Roundhead soldiers running
about, worried over something.”

  “And my brother Tom is with the King’s army.” Winifred was breathless. “Pippa! What if we could get word to him somehow? What if the King chose to take Bury instead of Cambridge, and they put off the hangings? If the King had any idea what was happening here, he might do it! Tom could take Sybil far away, to someplace safe! I know he would!”

  Pippa’s hope was suddenly ignited. “Armies. The war. If it came here … with Tom … yes!”

  “We could send a rider with the message,” Winifred was saying. “Across the lines.”

  “Explain what’s happened with the trials. We should tell him that even his own sister was accused.”

  “That he must convince the King to come to Bury.”

  “This could work, Winnie!”

  “I’m quite certain they’ll delay the executions, what with the armies so close. They couldn’t possibly go on with this, not with a battle about to happen,” Winifred said, sounding quite sure of herself.

  “If Hugh can win a small delay …”

  “Enough to bring Tom and the cavalry behind him.”

  Pippa closed her eyes, imagining it. Dashing Thomas Radcliff in his royal cavalry uniform, riding in and rescuing Sybil, lifting her onto the back of his horse … the witch-finders and the crowds and the magistrates fleeing from Bury in a panic … herself chanting the rites of protection around Sybil and Tom as they escaped to the west.

  “Oh,” said Winifred, in an altered voice.

  Pippa opened her eyes to see Hugh emerging from the rectory. His face was full of bad news. No, said a meek voice in her head. Please, no.

  Hugh stood in front of them, silent for a few moments. Neither of the girls wanted to ask the question for fear of the answer. “I tried,” he said at last, hands limp at his sides. “I … tried, I begged, even, but he would not listen.”

  “This cannot be!” Winifred said, indignant. “He must listen! Did you offer him the bribe?”