“What’s funny?” he asked, and gave her a quick smile.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just can’t believe tomorrow we’ll be married.”
“The village can’t stop reminding me,” said Hugh. “My mother, going on, and the lads all teasing me, and my father—he gave me an excruciating speech.”
“About what?”
“About my duties as a husband.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“Oh!” Pippa laughed. She found it rather embarrassing that the whole world—at least, the whole of the Vale—knew and would be speculating on her initiation into the ranks of wifedom. If one thing bothered Pippa anymore, it was the imposition of others onto her free will. She didn’t want to follow other people’s rules. She wanted mischievous secrets to fill up her smile.
She looked up at Hugh, at his strong profile, and at the thin curve of a moon that glowed in the sky beyond. It was a growing moon. She had used her books in the cave to discover the best astrological alignment for a marriage and it happened to coincide with tonight, May Eve. The most fertile time of the year.
Poor man next to her. There were many things he would never know. Some things, she could show him.
“Hugh,” she said, and her voice had changed. The night was in her breath. She reached out and with a bold hand that darted forward, she touched the tips of his fingers with her own. They laced together for an instant, for an invitation. She stepped away and headed toward the forest.
Hugh was so good, so virtuous, and she was unsure if he would follow her on this primitive errand. But when she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw that he was near behind her.
Along the way, she flung off her shoes and left them near a blooming hawthorn bush. Wild blood hummed in her veins and, laughing, she began to run away from him.
His low chuckle echoed and he was chasing her.
Pippa felt her mouth go dry. There was no going back now. She was falling forward into a hot, dark place, and a few paces later the forest embraced her in thick shadows. The ground was springy and warm beneath her bare feet. Winding through, she passed near the brook, close to the marked tree and the cave, and beyond to the grove of apple trees.
Hugh moved through the forest in pursuit, his footsteps swift and sure. He did not conceal from the trees his presence, his intention.
The muscles in Pippa’s legs grew weak when she saw the hanging blossoms of the apple trees. They were the color of silver roses in the deep twilight and they beckoned her into their circle. The grass in the grove was a soft carpet. When she felt Hugh step behind her, when his strong arms encircled her at the waist, she almost collapsed. His hands moved across her abdomen, feeling through the cotton of her bodice, and then to the apex of her thighs. Pippa laughed through her closed smile, a sultry and ancient invocation.
“This is wrong,” Hugh whispered in the darkness. “We’re not married yet.”
A flash of anger arose. “This is our marriage,” she said. “This is the way of things.”
“But the ceremony, the church …”
“This is the church of trees and God’s creatures,” she said. “This is our church.” Her voice was low and commanding, for she wanted to wait no longer.
It was not Hugh’s fault that he succumbed without further concessions to morality or society. It was the oldest of celebrations and they were outside of themselves. Cast aside, lost in the night, Hugh leaned over and kissed Pippa on the neck, moving his lips to her collarbone and pushing aside the fabric.
They sank to the ground as one, shedding laces and cloth, hands flashing and finding each other. Pippa was spinning with the new sensations that shimmered across her skin and then, a few moments later, deep inside her. Hugh kissed her on the mouth when they were joined and she sighed against his lips. The trees and the wind seemed to sigh, too.
All was put to rights in the apple grove in the forest. She married him that night and was happy.
LAST MONTH, MATTHEW HOPKINS had been told that he did not have long to live. “Consumption,” said the old doctor in Colchester. “You must rest if you hope to recover. I can bleed you with—”
“No,” Hopkins had told him. It was enough of a compromise to see the doctor at all. For a long time he had felt his lungs shiver but had not wanted to believe he was seriously ill. Then, in early July, he had awakened to coughing and when he placed his white handkerchief over his mouth, there were spots of bright red blood that spelled his doom.
It was now August. It had been over two years since Hopkins had begun his quest and he was no closer to finishing it. Two years ago, he mused, I was in Bury St. Edmunds, giving evidence against all those witches. He had been quite the success. He’d refurbished the interior of the Thorn Inn and hired new help that baked bread every morning. He wore the finest imported silks and leathers, donated money to the parish, and still had more money than he knew how to spend.
On the bedroom wall of his cottage, the beams were decorated with hundreds of tiny etched crosses. They marched in rows outward from the original two … pale against the stain of the wood, each one proudly scratched, tiny figures with arms outstretched, a necropolis of tribute to his work.
Satan, however, was always there. Where one witch was named and hanged, another one sprang up to take her place, like the many-headed Hydra, and Hopkins felt fevered with the effort of finding them all. He felt a battle raging for his very soul. He was terrified that he had not done well enough … that he would go straight to Hell when he died because he had not punished all of the witches. The lure of their choke-hold had not vanished … if anything, it had gotten worse. Meanwhile John Stearne was fighting the good fight north of here, edging the prosecutions closer to Cambridge. Hopkins thought of his friend with fondness and some envy of his better health. He buttoned his waistcoat.
He was preparing to go to St. Mary’s church, his own parish, because of a mysterious letter.
“Dear Friend, Master Hopkins,
I fear to give my name to you, for I am also a-feared of the witches’ curse. I write to you from a most grievous position. A supernatural plague is rotting here in Manningtree yet again. Whether this be nature or witchcraft I know not. I call upon you to investigate, and choke it out where it be found. If you do not, I fear that God himself will punish us for such wickedness in our midst.”
There had been no signature, but instead a verse from the Psalms: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.”
Hopkins had been nursing his pleuristic cough, but had jumped out of bed at the word. This, he was convinced, could cure him. Clearly Satan had turned more women to his malefic cause.
Lord God Almighty, he’d prayed, if You return me my health, I would do Your holy work in this land, and remit to find more witchcraft in Manningtree, and then beyond. I want to smell them. Oh, God, I did doubt Your plan, and for that I am most humbly sorry … Make me well and I will do well … in lust was I born, my sorry self … she touched me, and I liked it … ripple of flesh, sinful in Death … Lord, Heavenly Father, in You I do pray … slay … scry, die … Jesus, please …
This had been followed by an unusual burst of energy and a respite from the worst of the coughing. It was a sign. He still felt overheated and faint around the edges, but he figured that was from the weather. It was an ill month, August, for it bred the worst of disease. If Hopkins could survive August, then he was sure he would live for much longer.
The previous January, the very esteemed astrologer William Lilly had visited the Thorn Inn, much to Hopkins’s thrill. Over mugs of spiced ale, Lilly—a thin man with intense, deep-set blue eyes—had given horary predictions to Hopkins about his life and work. He replayed the astrologer’s words in his mind. “So will there be lasting impact of your work upon the world, and stories written about you, from the way that Mercury aspects Saturn. Beware the danger of Leo’s sun, for Mars and Venus are joined against you here. I foresee a problem with your breathing.”
Frowning, Hopkins recalled that Lilly had not given advice as to how he might improve his breathing. But then, the astrologer had not told him he would die. He would have said so, if that were meant to be.
No, no, work to be done, thought Hopkins. He readied his things in the main room of the inn, sparing a moment to admire the glassware he’d imported from Italy.
A cloud of flies attacked a loaf of honeyed bread on the table.
On the bar, a stack of printed manuscripts was bound with twine. The top sheet read The Discovery of Witches, and below that, by Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder. It was his book, shorter than he would have liked, but he’d been under pressure to answer his critics. He already had a more detailed work in mind and hoped that a reputable publisher would bank on him.
The way to the church was not far. He and Elspeth passed fields and trees and scattered homes. To his right, the River Stour was a flat brown expanse edged with mudflats.
As he arrived at the church he started to cough again and his anxiety grew. He must find the witches, begin the trials, so that the Lord would see his dedication and take away his cough.
The landscape spun once, then twice. The church’s tower seemed dizzying in its height. Elspeth was panting, her tongue dry and hot. “Water for the hound,” he ordered a small boy standing nearby. He tossed a coin in the boy’s direction.
“Yes, Master Hopkins,” said the child.
It was hot and he was covered in a film of dust. Even over such a short distance the summer’s grime managed to cling. He dipped his handkerchief—spotted with rust bloodstains—into Elspeth’s water bowl and dabbed his neck and brow.
A farmer with a magnificent beard approached and asked him, “Master Hopkins?”
“Yes.”
“There be a gathering at the church. They’re waiting for you. More talk of witches ’round here.” The man shuddered. “A gallows has already been built.”
“Really!” Hopkins was impressed.
He walked toward the church and saw a small gallows set up across the field, near Mistley Pond. That made sense. It was easier and cheaper to hang a witch on the spot than to bother with the gaol. Hopkins had learned that villagers were less likely to become annoyed with him if their problem could be disposed of in the heat of the moment. He fingered the empty velvet satchel in his pocket. It was large enough to hold his fee even if it were given in many small coins.
A stream of people was on the approach to St. Mary’s. Many of them Hopkins recognized, for they were his own neighbors. They held a familiar look: fear, curiosity, suspicion, ready to be incited on this slow summer’s day; they were ready to convict. He wondered who had been dabbling in the dark arts this time.
He tossed the boy another penny and ordered him to watch Elspeth while he was inside.
The church was packed from aisle to aisle. Hopkins had the sort of fame by now that drew crowds. The people whispered amongst themselves. In times of such distress, it was the quiet sanctity of their parish church to which they turned. It was one of the few places where a public accusation might be made without fear of immediate supernatural reprisal from the witch herself.
In all, thought Hopkins, a fine idea to have the inquest here today. Someone in this congregation had sent him the mysterious plea. He straightened his Dutch collar and marched up the center aisle. It would be better if Mary Phillips were here to assist me, he thought, but I must meet the Devil on my own today, it would seem. He wondered why she had not come, for she lived in neighboring Manningtree.
A cough rose from his liquid lungs and tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.
Parishioners were still filing into the church. It was a tall, cool cavern against the midday’s beating sun. It was also dim inside, which Hopkins appreciated. Too much light made him sneeze.
In the congested center aisle on the way to the altar, Hopkins almost collided with a solid man dressed in clothes finer than his. “Pardon,” said the man, turning.
“Ah!” said Hopkins, for he recognized him. It was the Honorable Robert Spring, of Lavenham, who had studied at Cambridge with his own brother Thomas Hopkins. The Spring family was wealthy and prominent from the wool trade and were deep into Suffolk politics. He wondered what Robert Spring was doing here in Mistley. It seemed odd.
At Spring’s side was a chestnut-haired young lady with a clean, attractive face. Hopkins knew her from somewhere. She looked at him for a frank moment and then lowered her eyes. On her arm she carried a closed wooden basket. This, too, was an unusual detail … it was not the sort of day for a picnic and they were of the class who had servants to carry their personal effects. Where do I know you? Hopkins searched his memory and finally decided that the young woman may have lived in a village where he’d hunted witches. It was disturbing how they all ran together over time … names and faces a blur of guilt or innocence. This one had likely given testimony against a neighbor. She had the look of a solid citizen.
“My betrothed,” said Spring, without offering her name.
Hopkins noticed that Spring held in his hand a copy of The Discovery of Witches. “You have read my work!” he said, flattered.
“Indeed I have.”
“What brings you to humble Mistley, sir?” Hopkins asked.
Spring gave a tight smile, almost condescending. “Business.”
“Ah,” said Hopkins. Why was he so unsettled? Bowing, he shrugged off the whiff of danger that accompanied Spring’s presence. It must be that Sir William Spring, Robert’s elder brother, was the High Sheriff of Suffolk and recently elected Member of Parliament. It always put Hopkins on edge to be around men with powerful connections.
Perhaps Robert Spring is here to observe my skill, report back to his brother in Parliament, and they will offer me a high office! Yes, that made sense. He smiled and bowed once more and continued up the aisle.
When Hopkins stepped up to the altar, the congregation quieted, and he did not need to shout in a voice weakened by fever.
He raised both hands. “Godly people, my own neighbors,” he said. “A terrible ill does afflict you. I have on good authority that Satan is working amongst you. Witchcraft has returned here. If there are any who know of such activity, speak now, for you are safe within these walls!”
There was a muffled silence. A few coughs, the clearing of throats, but no one spoke.
“Fear not reprisal! I will find any malfeasance and identify the witches responsible.”
A man raised a timid hand. “Er, um … eh …”
“Stand, sir, fear not.” Wearied already, Hopkins pressed his handkerchief to his mouth.
“Me cow fell with a seizure,” the man said. “I believe it to be witchcraft.”
“Do you have a neighbor with a grudge against you? Remember, they are likely to be women of the lewd variety, and do have imps, creatures under their command.”
The man scratched his head. “Well … I suppose me third cousin always had ’er eye on that particular cow.”
“Ah,” said Hopkins. His energy was draining away. Desperate, he scrambled for something to say … perhaps he was bewitched himself! He must find her … find it … He scanned the restless crowd. There was a key here. There was someone in this church that stuck in his mind like a thorn. The staring faces were like a long paragraph, and he was skimming for that one important word amongst them.
That word was witch.
The recognition hit him like a hammer, like the very malleus maleficarum, and his left knee weakened.
Robert Spring. Next to him was his betrothed—Winifred Radcliff, his memory finally reminded him—and next to her was the witch.
Philippa was more beautiful than ever and dressed in the distinguished cloth of a well-married woman. Her skin was luminous and healthy. Her face had regained its strong lines after her incarceration. Most of her hair was properly set beneath an expensive diadem cap, but there was one wild tendril that had escaped. It twisted like a dark serpent behind her ear and grazed the top of her shoulder
. A pair of rose lips curved an evil smile. Her eyes pinned him.
“Witch!” he screamed, pointing at Philippa. “That woman is a witch!”
The crowd gasped and heads swiveled to see where he pointed.
“She dares to defile God’s church,” Hopkins shouted.
But no one shouted agreement. Instead they stared at him with vague, stupid puzzlement.
Can’t you see, she has bewitched you all …
He heard her voice in his mind.
Philippa the witch stood up. Hopkins noticed a man sitting to her left, the same nobleman who had spoken at her trial. He must be her husband now.
All eyes were on her.
“Matthew Hopkins,” said Pippa, and her voice rang clear and strong through the church. “I, Lady Philippa Felton, am an upright woman and I will answer your charge with the voice of truth.”
“You speak naught but lies!” he hissed.
She shook her head. That wild tendril of hair dangled and danced. Most in the audience were captivated by her, Hopkins could see. She gave the illusion of loveliness, the glamour of health. Hag.
“How is it that you, Matthew Hopkins, are so well able to find a witch?” she asked. “Who has given you this knowledge?”
“God!” he said.
“Nay, I say that it is Satan who has told you. You have enriched yourself. You bear the manner of a cursed man, one who has sold himself for worldly possession.”
Hopkins suddenly regretted the fine thin silk waistcoat and breeches he wore. “No,” he gasped. The cough was returning. His voice was clogged with the pleurisy. On his own tongue he could smell onions.
“Oh, yes. Torture innocent women no more with your ordeals! How could any man claim to know the ways of the Devil, unless he himself be devoted to Satan? How could you, with such effect, find so many witches in a mere two years? I say you are the evil influence that menaces our towns and villages. Good people, see how misfortune follows where Matthew Hopkins goes!’
Suffer a Witch Page 34