Suffer a Witch

by Morgana Gallaway

  “Winnie,” cautioned Pippa. “You know he did.” She turned to look up at Hugh. “But we cannot give her up!”

  “There is nothing for it,” said Hugh. “The magistrate said that because of the impending battle, they’re hanging all those convicted, beginning at dawn tomorrow. There will be no delay, no special cases.” He paused. “Not even for ten guineas.”

  Winifred gasped at the outrageous amount.

  “He was unmoved,” said Hugh. “In fact, he had the gall to lecture me! He said that I couldn’t be hoping to marry every single accused witch from the Vale. He cared nothing for her innocence. ‘No room for exceptions,’ he said, not even blameless victims. I swear, I will find a way to end him …”

  “’Tis all right,” said Pippa, reaching forward and grasping Hugh’s elbow. “You did all you could.” Her hopes deflated and the future stretched awful and empty in front of her. If the hangings were at dawn, there was no army that could get here fast enough to stop it.

  “’Tis as though they want a sacrifice,” Winifred whispered. “Kill these witches, and perhaps God will save them from the King, from the dreadful war that they themselves created. They’re no better than heathens!”

  Pippa agreed, though for different reasons.

  As they walked together toward the Proctor home, Pippa felt her fighting spirit leak away. Her legs were rubbery and her mind confused. Most of all, she felt like laying her head upon a pillow, or perhaps upon Hugh’s strong chest, and sleeping for a very long time.

  The money in her purse jingled and she remembered that she needed to go to the market. Perhaps it would distract her from the dreadful news of Sybil.

  “Leave me at the market, I have an errand,” Pippa said. Hugh and Winifred looked at her with concern. She would have kept their company, but she was embarrassed about needing the ointment to kill the rest of the lice in her hair. “Please, I must do it alone. It won’t take but a short time.”

  Hugh warned that if she wasn’t returned by the top of the hour, he would come looking for her, and Pippa was glad for it. The city was full of darker men, the ones who hunted her, the ones she dreaded to see ever again.

  “Worry not,” Pippa said, as much to herself as to Hugh, and she stole into the crowded marketplace.

  THE PATHS OF GOOD AND EVIL intersected by accident at the corner of Northgate Street and Looms Lane. Matthew Hopkins was looking down at Elspeth and the brim of his hat blocked his view ahead, so he nearly collided with her.

  “Watch yourself!” he snapped at the slight figure who stopped short in front of him.

  Met with silence, he looked up and saw vigorous distress in a pair of hazel eyes.

  “You,” Philippa Wylde choked. Then she turned on her heel and fled down a narrow path between two leaning buildings.

  “Stop, witch!” he cried, unsure what he was doing, what terrible string tugged him to run after her. Elspeth growled and took off after Philippa. He called the dog to heel but the animal paid him no mind.

  Hopkins was winded after a few paces of running in the stuffy heat of the alleyway. Breathing hard, he placed his hands on his knees and paused. In the murky light he could hear Elspeth’s low growling. He edged past a scaffold and found his greyhound, bent in a guardian stance, and Philippa cornered.

  Her face was stark. He drank in her unveiled expression. This was what he’d always wanted, to make witches fear him, to make people fear and respect him, so that they might never guess his inner weakness. Perhaps now the balance was reversed: she feared him, and he had power over her. This was not like the other times in the forest, or the cottage, or the gaol, or at the trials. There was nothing to hold him back now. There was no one to protect her. I am the Witchfinder General, he told himself, and stepped towards Pippa.

  “Elspeth, heel,” he told his dog quietly.

  Elspeth retreated to stand next to Hopkins.

  “You dare to stay in Bury?” he said.

  Pippa shook her head.

  “I can accuse you again,” he said. “I can tell the court that you cursed me here, now. You give me the evil eye.”

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  He chuckled. “You beg me to hold your innocence?”

  “No,” she said, but her voice was unsure. “I mean, you cannot accuse me again.”

  Hopkins was startled. That man of hers must have told her that the assizes were over-full, that she was safe for the time being. How vexing. “You do not fool me, Philippa Wylde. Your name is on the Devil’s Register.”

  “What Register? Has he a list of us?”

  “Of your sisters in evil? Why, yes,” he said.

  There was a gleam of realization in her eye, although it was edged out by her dilated pupils and her obvious agitation. Her breath came in quick pants. The tips of her fingernails had turned white, so hard were they pressed against the wall behind her, and her head was tilted back to expose the curve of her neck. He took another step toward her. The heady rush of blood through his body told him that he was not afraid … that he was thrilled to feel no fear of her … that he had all the power.

  “Approach me not,” she said.

  Hopkins laughed. “Do you think I would touch you now? Pollute my soul with your trickery? No,” he sneered down at her, for he was much taller, “you are a hag, in the league of Satan, and I do disdain you.”

  “You’re wrong,” she breathed, “there never was any league of witches! You’re mad, deluded, seeing terrors all around. A-feared of your own shadow, you are!”

  “Your lies will not sway me,” he said. He took another step. Elspeth growled again.

  “A-feared of women you are!” Philippa said, triumphant despite the way her limbs trembled.

  Something dark and angry unraveled inside Hopkins. Philippa’s mocking voice merged with all the rest, the voices that haunted, the voices that whispered, Blackie, sackie, darkie, smite. I’ll suck your bones for the rest of the night! He licked his lips, staring, lost in the cauldron-holes that were Pippa’s eyes. Sator rotas, lime and own us. Feather and tar them all. He tried to cling to the slippery tendril that was his faith, his God … The abyss gazed back at him … The abyss had a voice. Garden snake, Evening snake. Take me, slake me.

  Satan was in her.

  Unknowing, out of control, he lunged forward and placed his hands on either side of Pippa’s face. His face was inches from hers; he could smell lavender on her skin. He wondered what she tasted like, her parted lips, the shadow of the tongue behind her teeth.

  His voice was demented, a stranger to his own self. “Nearest, dearest, take me, slake me. What I would do for you.”

  “Who are you?” She was a thin line of strength, of bone.

  She should know … Satan herself had taken hold of them … Hopkins saw the flames of Hell reflected in her eyes.

  With a finger he traced the line of her gaunt cheek, then pressed a hard knuckle into the hollow of her white throat. “My delicate firebrand-darling,” he whispered.

  “You’re insane,” she whispered back.

  “No …” He pressed his body against hers and clamped his mouth down upon her lips. He was pleased with what he found, thrusting his tongue inside her weak open mouth, feeling her struggle against him. He was equally trapped, drawn forward to explore her obscene softness, grazing her tongue with his own. He felt a special thrill when her breath shortened to animal gasps of terror.

  At the end of the alley, something crashed and clattered, and Hopkins turned to look. A cat slunk along the wall, having knocked over a bucket.

  Pippa took the broken moment and slid down the wall, ducking underneath his arms that entrapped her, and backed away from him. “You’re mad. Stay away from me. Stay away!” She was tense as a spooked horse and ready to bolt.

  Hopkins snapped-to, returned to himself. He gazed back at her. “You are a witch,” he breathed. “My Lord God.” His heart pounded from what had just happened. Satan had indwelled him. He had spoken in the voice of that imp, that
Devil, that dark thing who tried to capture him at every step of the way. I will not allow this curse, he thought. “Run,” he told Pippa. “Run, away from me, for I have God on my side! I will hunt you always! You will fear me forever!”

  She needed no further encouragement and turned, tearing down the alleyway and leaping over a pile of bricks to escape.

  He had wrestled with the Devil, that scritch scratch man, that firebrand woman, and won.

  Hopkins glanced down at Elspeth, who whined back at him. “Do you feel like supper?” he asked. They set off toward the Dog and Patridge, where he was meeting two local politicians for a meal. The pub was renowned for good sausages.

  THE FIRST TINGE OF a scarlet sun bloomed in the east, to match the soldiers’ coats, the blood, the anxiety in Bury St. Edmunds. Pippa stirred on the feather mattress. Next to her, Winifred snored softly. The window—real glass—was closed off by a wooden shutter, but Pippa could see the changing color of the sky through a crack. It gave the Proctors’ guest bedroom an unsettled light.

  It was time to get dressed. An early rooster called, and then came the clacking hooves of a horse passing by on the street, and then the clang of a pan in a kitchen somewhere. The noises of a large town were unusual to Pippa. She edged out from beneath the down-filled bedclothes. Peeking through the window, she shuddered at the sky, for bands of vermilion clouds blocked the eastern horizon.

  The deadly sun would follow close behind them.

  Pippa went to the washstand and brushed her teeth thoroughly, trying not to remember her encounter yesterday with the witch-finder. She rinsed and spat into the bowl, feeling her mouth would never be clean enough.

  She hadn’t told Hugh about Matthew Hopkins. Nor would she. It would infuriate him and he might set out for ill-advised revenge. She couldn’t risk him in a duel—not when he was all she had left. She swallowed the sick feeling aroused by the memory of Hopkins’s touch … and felt grateful to Hugh for having kissed her first.

  Glancing at Winifred still sleeping, Pippa’s mouth twisted at the thought of their powerlessness. They three young people had no defense against the sinister powers that held Bury St. Edmunds in thrall of witches and armies. For Sybil they had tried and that was all that could be said. And so, on that red Wednesday morning, Pippa tied her petticoats, buttoned her bodice, and fixed her collar with a difficult errand in front of her. Today she would watch her friend, her sister, die.

  With a gentle hand she shook Winifred awake. “’Tis dawn.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Winifred, pulling the blanket inward, and then sitting upright with tired, blinking eyes. “God Almighty be with us. I don’t want to watch, Pippa.”

  “Nor I.”

  “But we must,” said Winifred. “We must be strong for her. We must make certain that she sees us and knows we love her.” She unhooked her clothes from the wall peg and dressed for the event in somber black.

  As Pippa pulled her hair into a bun, it seemed that time itself was her enemy. Every moment was a tick closer to that moment. How could she have any thought at all, except for Sybil? She was on the lip of a cliff, staring down into a kind of grief that should be reserved for the old and careworn. For Lillibet, who had in her own way prepared Pippa for her own eventual death. Lillibet was good that way. She never did shy away from beginnings or endings.

  But Sybil was a child. It went against nature for her to die this way. There was no preparation for it except to tie the strings on her linen cap.

  To lace up her shoes.

  To straighten her collar.

  To reach into a pocket and feel the spiny, glossy edge of a feather.

  To walk out the door with Winifred.

  They met Hugh in the downstairs hallway. He too was dressed all in black except for the white of his shirt and the silver buckle on his rounded hat. His blue eyes were blackened too, for his pupils were dilated in the dim light before the dawn. “It’s set for the market square,” he said.

  Pippa knew that. She’d seen the gallows being readied yesterday, just before taking the wrong corner and running into Matthew Hopkins. She shivered and moved closer to Hugh. She dreaded the thought of going anywhere alone again. He might find her. He was the dark man.

  They were not the only ones to make an early start. Already the day had the air of a festival. Townspeople and country folk had arisen to watch and cheer the executions. Later the people would drink enough ale to forget about the heat and the approaching battle. Hugh, Pippa, and Winifred joined the steady stream of chattering spectators. As a river to the lowest point, the crowd converged on Cornhill Square and settled in with their breakfasts. The yeasty smell of fresh bread and beer hung in the air.

  Glancing about, Pippa asked, “From where will the cart come?”

  “I hear they’re kept in the barn that way,” said Hugh, pointing down a wide street.

  “Then let us choose a place near the cart’s path,” said Winifred. She whispered to Pippa, “Do you have it?”

  “Yes,” said Pippa. She took the feather from her pocket and showed Winifred.

  “Ursula?”

  She nodded.

  “It was good for Martha to leave her with Will Renshaw’s pigeons. He scarce noticed the addition.”

  Pippa’s stomach growled. It seemed wrong that she should be hungry when she might have been killed this morning. Hunger was for life, for vitality, and Pippa felt anything but.

  Winifred, however, had no such reservations and pulled out a cloth-wrapped loaf of fresh honey bread. Breaking off a piece, she offered it to Hugh, who murmured thanks.

  Pippa accepted a torn piece of bread in spite of herself. It was fluffy and white and sweet. Again it seemed wrong that it should taste so good.

  The square was congested with bystanders, spilling over into the streets nearby. Sellers of food, of drink, and of pamphlets spread amongst them. One woman with a cloak full of cheap pewter spoons and forks showed her wares to Winifred, who shook her head. Some yards away, a man preached and others formed a circle around him to listen. “The abomination be cast out of our midst and the witches sent to Hell! Pray, and in your hearts know the pure love of God. Follow Him in all ways and He will show you mercy …” In the other direction, a song-seller crooned, and not very well: “Now I remain in a world apart, but my heart remains in captivity …”

  Faces appeared at open windows and children climbed on stairs, ladders, railings, and roofs for a clear view. The gallows were built high and strong, well above the heads of the crowd. Constructed of solid fens oak, the simple structure was a long beam from which were suspended five lengths of rope. They were to be knotted at the last minute, for sometimes children dared to play on the gallows and could not be chanced to stick a head in.

  The two framed sides were the brace for the beam and also supported a platform with five trapdoors on which the doomed would stand. These had a rope mechanism that, when pulled, would release them. A steep stair-ladder led the way up to the high platform.

  Pippa could not keep her eyes off the ropes that dangled like dead snakes in the morning breeze.

  When the stained red of the sun first burned their faces from above the rooflines, there was movement on the gallows and an excited murmur grew in a thousand throats. It was the hangman, the supervisor of the proceedings. He wore a thin black veil over his face. Pippa wondered who he was, and whether he had children, or a mother. The man stopped at each rope and with expert quick motions, made nooses of all.

  After the hangman came a company of soldiers. When the hangings were done they would likely rendezvous at Cambridge. There was a rushed look to their young faces, as if they wanted to hurry this unsavory duty and rejoin their comrades to fight a clearer enemy in the King.

  The throng cheered them, the first proper roar of the day.

  In a triumvirate of silence, Pippa and Hugh and Winifred waited.

  From down the street, the distinct creaking of a cart could be heard, heralded by the shouts and taunts of a pack of feral ch
ildren. Pippa’s gut twisted, tight like the nooses. She wondered if Matthew Hopkins was in the crowd.

  “There!” shouted one of the mob. “The witches!” A mighty cheer arose that made the ground rumble.

  “God be with us now,” murmured Winifred. “God be with Sybil.”

  Pippa hoped so.

  There was a large number on the hanging roster, at least twenty souls according to a pamphlet Hugh held in his hand, including witches and a couple of thieves. There were two carts to hold them. Over a sea of heads Pippa could see the swaying vehicles, their wooden wheels turning and turning towards fate. She was on her tiptoes, waiting for the cart to come closer so she could find Sybil.

  “Is her father here?” Hugh asked.

  “The Reverend? Doubtful,” said Pippa. Her thoughts toward the village church and its minister burned like acid.

  The carts entered the square and the mass of people split apart to allow them through. Pippa and Winifred elbowed their way against the surge. Pippa did not bother to excuse herself as she pushed and shoved; there was nothing polite about this morning.

  “Soldiers,” said Winifred in her ear.

  “Oh, no.” There were indeed soldiers around the carts, as much to deter the passions of the crowd as to prevent the prisoners’ escape. “We have to get past them!”

  Stepping on toes, and getting stepped on themselves, Pippa and Winifred kept moving to intercept the path of the carts.

  “There! There!” Pippa said. She was taller than Winifred and could see the lank blond of Sybil’s hair. She was in the second cart.

  On sight of her dear friend, Pippa no longer cared about any old soldiers in her way. She yanked Winifred through a gap in the crowd and stumbled up to the cart. “Sybil! Sybil!”

  Sybil’s luminous eyes turned to her. “Pippa! And Winnie!” She smiled at them.

  Pippa’s heart cracked open to see her.

  “You there!” a soldier warned, menacing them with the end of his musket.

  “Give us one moment,” said Winifred to the soldier in the haughty voice reserved for servants. She turned to Sybil. “Oh, darling Sybil, we’re so sorry … I know not what to say … We tried everything, to bribe the magistrate, Hugh offered him ten guineas for you, and no one would relent … I would do anything …”