The Witchfinder's Sister

by Beth Underdown

  I heard the splash as the girl entered the water, but Matthew was not looking. He was turned towards me, his face ablaze with bitter triumph as though he could see only me, as though he cared only that I was watching while he showed me what he could make these people do.

  I think now of how he lamed me at the start of our journey, and how he kept me always beside him, and what I think is that for the work he was doing, my brother wanted an audience: and from the very start, the audience he wanted was me.

  †

  That day of the swimming was hot, as hot as the day upon which Matthew caught Joseph and me together. My brother had left in the morning for Ipswich, and later Joseph had come to mend the outhouse door. I had watched him work, hugging my knees, sitting on the scullery step amid the fresh smell of drying washing. I knew I should go in and see if Mother needed anything – she had kept to her bed that day – but instead I had brought Joseph a bucket of water, in which he had washed his hands, then met my eyes, lifted the bucket and tipped it over his head. I screamed and jumped backwards, and he chased me into the entry, laughing, and that was how I ended up with my back to the doorframe, the stone through my dress as hot as blood and the white sheets like a steaming tent around us. Joseph was hesitant, at first, until I pulled him into me.

  I cannot think what Matthew would have seen, from his chamber window above, but he must have seen enough: it was pure chance that he had come back for some forgotten papers, and pure chance that I looked up at last to see him turning away. I got rid of Joseph quickly, made some excuse about hearing Mother call me, but I did not stop to tidy my hair or fasten the top of my dress where it had come loose. I ran into the house and up the stairs, and was brought up short by his chamber door, closed against me.

  ‘Matthew,’ I hissed through the wood, fearful of waking Mother. He opened the door straight away and I stepped back: I thought he was going to strike me. But he did not touch me. He stood, clutching the doorframe, as though it were keeping him from falling.

  ‘I am going to marry him,’ I said. ‘So there is no blame.’

  ‘You will not,’ he said. His knuckles showed white where he gripped the wood.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  He kept his voice even. ‘You are mistaken if you think I will let you marry him.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ I said. Suddenly his calm angered me. ‘He’s got his arms and legs, hasn’t he? He’s learning a trade. You’re apprenticed to a merchant. What are you going to do? Clerk us up to a great fortune? You’ll be lucky to marry yourself, let alone support our mother and me. Besides,’ I said, and even now I could not swear that I did not wish to taunt him as I said it, ‘we’ll have to be married now, for we have gone too far to go back on it.’

  His face darkened, and he seemed almost to sway. Then he leaned nearer me. ‘You ought to be shut away till you learn to keep your skirts down,’ he said, in a screaming whisper. I felt flecks of spittle hit my face. ‘I have long suspected you, though I wished to think better. But now you whore yourself –’ At that word he stopped, almost panting.

  ‘Whore myself?’ I was near speechless. ‘You might not be so fastidious,’ I said, ‘if any girl looked twice at you.’

  I was beyond caring how I spoke: I was furious, humiliated, as he answered that he could have found me a husband, if I was in so much of a rush to let a man – to let a man –

  In anger, I laughed at him. ‘Let a man – let a man,’ I mimicked. ‘Maybe Jane Witham might have let you, if you weren’t such a jealous peeping child.’

  I saw something break a little in his face before he slammed the door. And he did not open it again, however many times I whispered that I was sorry through the wood. For I was frightened, suddenly, though why, I could not have said.

  That afternoon Matthew rode off to Ipswich, not speaking a word to me before he left, and I went to Joseph. By that evening we were promised, and married in weeks. Matthew had not come to the wedding, and I had not seen him again. Returning to Manningtree, I had hoped to find myself forgiven. But that day, the day of the swimming, I saw that I was not. That I would never be.

  †

  The man had shoved the girl out into the deepest part of the pond. He shed bright beads of water as he splashed onto the bank again, taking an offered hand. When the girl came up, she was face down. Through her wet shift you could see the separate bones of her spine. The men on the banks hung onto the life-ropes as the weight of the water in her clothing tried to pull her down; the ropes went taut. I could see the girl struggling, struggling to get under, to where innocence was, as her dark hair spread out in the water.

  ‘Let her sink,’ a woman shouted. ‘Jog the ropes – you’re not giving her a chance.’

  The crowd cheered, and I turned to see whether the girl’s family were there yet, whether they would not come even now, and I did not see what happened next, but there was a shout. In the effort of jerking the ropes to try to sink the girl, the man on the further bank had dropped his end. He scrambled down the bank to retrieve it, but the rope slipped and rolled into the water; as it did, the girl went under. ‘She’s sunk!’ someone shouted. ‘That’s it, get her up!’

  But the combined weight of girl and rope and the heaviness of the water was too much for the man on the near bank, and he could not get purchase. There was confusion as others went to help him, and another perhaps half-minute passed before they managed to get her out. There was quiet, suddenly, in the crowd. ‘Does she live?’ someone shouted.

  A man knelt to cut her ties, but the girl’s limbs did not slacken out of how they were curled like a sleeping child’s. The heavy wet linen of her shifts was stained with silt and weed, and the others averted their eyes from where it clung to her body.

  A woman had come pushing through the crowd and dimly I heard her screaming. In the scramble she knelt and pushed the sodden hair off the girl’s face. Folk were turning away and walking, running, back towards Capel St Mary. The girl looked in a deeper sleep than sleep, as if she had been in the water for days and dreaming. I found myself going closer, horrified, to where the mother knelt in the muddy grass. Wildly she turned about, said to me, ‘Can’t you fetch someone? Can’t somebody do something?’

  I turned to my brother, but Matthew’s face showed no distress, only consternation, as though some minor plan had gone awry, and now he was inconvenienced. He took hold of my arm, and as he led me away, faintly I heard the woman screaming his name, and telling him he would pay, she would make certain, he would be paid out for this.

  But Matthew kept his calm. We rode from Little Wenham to Capel St Mary, and I watched him eat a long meal at the inn there. One of the town constables came in before he had finished, but my brother dismissed him with mention of Grimston, showing his safe conduct; doubtful, the constable went away.

  I watched him chew and swallow, trying to make my plans. As he ate, Matthew mentioned evenly that it would fall to me to come to Chelmsford for the trials, to mind Rebecca West; he took a draught of ale, and reminded me that only if she conducted herself perfectly could he vouch for her safety. I kept my eyes down, but I felt a surge of excitement and fear. For Chelmsford would be the perfect place for me to escape my brother, if only I could find the chance. From there, I could walk south, to some large place, like Romford; Rebecca, too, if she would come. Two nights there, in case Matthew came after us, then into London. We would stop a night or so at Ellen’s, and move on. Though I did not know how I could get a message to Bridget, or how I would arrange for Grace to come. For certain I did not know how we would pay our way. But I knew that I must manage it all, somehow.

  I still think now of the girl we swam. It is strange, but I think of her most when I get a rare chance to wash my hair. As I lower the mass of it into the basin, feel it grow heavy and dark with water, I think of her, and the guilt is enough to choke me. As we rode back to the Thorn that day, I prayed for her, and those I feared would follow her; I prayed for Bridget and Grace and Rebecca West. Along the lan
es the hedges were laden with fruit. Hired men leaned idle on gates, watching us along the road to Manningtree. In the fields the harvest stood high and still, ready to be cut down.

  37

  Witchcraft begins in Exodus, a cold shock in a chapter of bland rules. If your cow strays to another’s field, Exodus says, you must give that man the best of your own crop; if you hire an ox and it dies in your keeping, pay the owner, but if it was ox and man you hired, there is no blame on you if the beast should fail in the task. Bland rules, and even-handed; and then it comes, like a cup of water to the face – Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Harvests, and oxen, and the small arbitrations of a quiet farming life. But in the midst of it, bad knowledge. Death.

  I have had many hours to read the Bible, here where I am kept. I have read in Deuteronomy how idolaters must be stoned: even if your wife, even if your sister, reverence anything but God, she must be stoned to death. A witch is supposed to be a kind of idolator, though my brother, to my knowledge, has never proposed stoning. For who could have the appetite for that? Pitted head wounds, crushing, the spreading of black blood trapped under the skin. But perhaps folk had stronger stomachs then. The ones who wrote the Bible down. Perhaps their land was dusty and poor, and trees too rare for the building of scaffolds. Perhaps all they had were stones, and the light work that many hands make.

  I think of that night, the night of the swimming, and I think of other parts of the Bible. I think of the Book of Matthew, and Jesus in his dying calling out to God, Why hast thou forsaken me? For that night, riding back to the Thorn as the dark drew down, for the first time I felt that God was not there. Or if He was there, then He was vengeful and cruel, and I wanted none of Him.

  I think of that night, riding through the lanes with their blind folds and corners, watching my brother ahead of me, running over and over all that I had seen him do. All that I had done at his behest. Remembering how Father had said to me once that the most fearful thing you could meet down a dark lane was another person. But it is not so, I thought, as we rode towards the Thorn: what you meet in the dark is yourself. And that is truly a thing to be feared.

  Transcript of the assize court at Chelmsford, convened by Robert Rich, the Earl of Warwick, on the seventeenth day of July in this year of our Lord 1645.

  M.H. Now, Rebecca West, do you mark how you have been enjoined to give us the truth. Now tell the court how you are acquainted with these women. [He points to the dock, where stand Anne West, Elizabeth Clarke, Elizabeth Gooding, Nan Leech and Helen Leech.]

  R.W. Sir, Anne West is my mother. The others I did meet at Bess Clarke’s house, where my mother took me in the evening sometimes, and where I did hear their talk.

  M.H. And what was the nature of their talk, Rebecca? Was it open talk, or was it secret?

  R.W. Sir, they told me that I was to keep close and secret about any thing said or done there.

  M.H. So on these evenings, they would not only talk.

  R.W. No, sir. They would read from a great book. They made me kiss it. They brought imps to them, and they made me kiss those, too.

  M.H. How did the imps appear?

  R.W. Like dogs. Sometimes like kittlings.

  M.H. Very well. So, then: you did go more than once with your mother to Elizabeth Clarke’s house, and you saw these other women there.

  H.L. This is folly! This is folly, masters. I never went to Bess Clarke’s house in my life.

  R.R. Hush, woman. I will not have interruptions in this court.

  M.H. No, Your Honour, but – if you will permit me? I would wish to put the jury out of doubt.

  R.R. As you will, then.

  M.H. [to H.L.] You say, Helen Leech, that you were never at Bess Clarke’s house.

  H.L. I never went there. And if Elizabeth Gooding did, then it will have been to do Bess Clarke some charity, nothing more.

  M.H. And your mother?

  H.L. Pardon?

  M.H. And did your mother ever go to Bess Clarke’s house?

  H.L. I cannot say, sir.

  M.H. Why cannot you say?

  H.L. [Here H.L. does hesitate.] My mother and I, we have not spoken these three years.

  M.H. Very well, then. My thanks, for settling this matter. Your turn will come to give some further evidence. Now, [to R.W.] you say that your mother did bid you go with her to Bess Clarke’s house one night in February of this year, and there you saw these women.

  R.W. Aye.

  M.H. And that on that night they did read from a book, and after the imps came, as they had done before.

  R.W. Aye.

  M.H. And you do say that each of these women did ask her imp that same night to do her some particular service.

  R.W. Aye, sir.

  H.L. Your Honour, a parrot set upon its perch could give fuller testimony than this be.

  R.R. You will get your turn, madam. Till then you do yourself no favour.

  M.H. Mistress West, can you tell the court now to your own recollection, what evils each of these women did ask her imp to perform?

  R.W. That one there, Nan Leech, she did ask for a cow to be lamed, I do not remember whose. Then Liz Gooding she did ask the same, for Robert Taylor’s horse. Then Bess Clarke, she desired her imp to make Richard Edwards’s horse to throw him, on the middle bridge when he should next be coming home from East Bergholt –

  M.H. Your honour has heard from the gentleman himself how that did come to pass.

  R.W. Then that one there, Helen Leech, she did desire that two hogs might die, the Parsleys’ hogs, but that they might die some weeks apart, to avoid drawing notice. [Here R.W. does hesitate.]

  R.R. And your mother, Anne West. What did she ask of her imp?

  R.W. I do not remember, sir. But I myself, I did ask mine for vengeance on Thomas Hart’s wife. I wished heartily for Prudence Hart to be lamed down her right side.

  [There are gasps from the courtroom.]

  M.H. Now, Rebecca. We will come to that presently. But first you must say what your mother did desire of her imp.

  R.W. She did desire … She did only desire that she might be freed of all her enemies, and have no more trouble or sorrow in this life.

  M.H. Remember, child, how you have sworn yourself to tell the whole truth here.

  R.W. I do, sir, I do only speak the truth now, I promise you. I’ll have no more of Satan.

  38

  It was Mary Phillips who was up to let us in that evening when we reached the Thorn, the rest of the house having gone to bed, but the next morning it was Rebecca West who brought me up my hot water. She looked unlike herself: paler, fatter.

  ‘Rebecca,’ I said, and went behind her to shut the door. ‘How do you?’

  She looked at the floor. ‘Mary Phillips went to see my mother,’ she said. ‘She took her a pie.’ She glanced up. ‘Mary says she has not enough to eat there. And the damp has got on her chest.’

  I touched her arm. ‘Where is Grace?’

  Rebecca turned to pick up my empty cup and plate from the night before. ‘She is dismissed,’ she said. ‘And two of the scullery maids with her. Mary Phillips said we had no need of them, that your brother has changed his mind and will not keep this place beyond his marriage. I do not know where Grace has gone.’

  I felt a pang. But though I had grown fond of her, I thought, for certain, Grace would be better off away.

  I saw Rebecca watching me. ‘Take heart,’ I said. ‘I am to come with you to Chelmsford. So you may sit with me, before you testify.’ I stopped. ‘I hope Mary Phillips has not been harsh with you.’

  Rebecca turned her eyes up to me. They were dull. ‘She has not,’ she said. ‘She has not been cruel. Mostly, she does not say two words to me together.’

  I watched for an opportunity, that afternoon, to send a message to Bridget somehow. But Mary Phillips, all day she was up and down the stairs. Night came, and I heard her lock up early. I would have to find a way to get a note to Bridget when I reached Chelmsford instead.

  We se
t off the next day in the white, chilly dawn, Rebecca West in her green dress and a travelling cape I recognized as the one that had been bought for Grace. It gave me a pang, and made me wonder again where Grace was: what cape she was wearing. We rode unseen out of Manningtree, Matthew in front, and I following next beside Rebecca, Mary Phillips after. My brother looked back at us so seldom that it felt almost as if we happened to be riding behind a stranger.

  We went in silence, back along the roads that had brought me that way not four months before. It all looked different, with the hedges in their fullest weight of leaf. As we rode on, the day warmed: soon, the sun was finding the spaces where the necks of our gowns did not meet our caps, where our cuffs did not meet our gloves. We went through Colchester, past the empty gaol where Rebecca’s mother had spent these last months; where, on the steps, Bridget had found Joseph. His letter to her, though it was soft and ragged by then, I was still keeping in my sleeve.

  Though I had plenty of opportunity to whisper to Rebecca, she seemed too dull and stunned for me to mention leaving. I thought perhaps our ways must part, but I decided to watch my chance and stay with her as long as I could, before asking her to make her choice. Since the girl, since the swimming, it seemed impossible to leave and save no one but myself.

  †

  It was noon before we passed the accused women on the road. The only warning of it was Matthew calling out a greeting, and then I saw the laden cart pull to the side to let us pass. There were thirty of them, in the cart, and only room to stand. Their hands had been tied together, so that they could not save themselves when the cart laboured in the ruts. Most were crowding away from one among them who had soiled herself. I will not forget their eyes, as we pulled up our horses behind Matthew while he spoke with the gaoler.

  I recognized Helen Leech, who looked darkly back at us. Then I saw Anne West. Her face had got so thin, I almost did not know her. Someone had blacked her eye. She was near the back of the crowd of tightly packed women, but as soon as we stopped a murmur passed among them, almost a shiver, and they seemed to part away from Anne as she met her daughter’s gaze. I saw Rebecca’s hands falter as she gathered her reins. She said, ‘What happened to your eye?’ Her voice trembled.