To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Farewell, Master,’ said Benjamin, bowing.

  They were not to meet again until the day of the trial itself.

  *

  In the darkness just before dawn the gaoler’s key rattled ominously in the lock of the crowded cell shared by so many wretched people and, by the light of a guttering candle, he began to read names from a list that he held in his hand.

  ‘Richard Moyse, Andrew Waters, Thomas Doggett, Margaret Langridge, John Langridge, Agnes Swift, Jenna Mist, John Valentyne, Elizabeth Valentyne ...’ The voice droned on.

  Those prisoners who were not already awake were shaken by the others and Jenna came suddenly to consciousness, aroused by a hand on her shoulder, to see Elizabeth Valentyne leaning over her.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, fearfully.

  ‘The call to trial. Come on. The assizes begin tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it June already? I’ve lost count of time now that Benjamin has returned home.’

  ‘It must be. Hurry up.’

  They began to file out, a thin line of dirty humanity, their clothes sticking to them, their hair hanging in filthy locks about their ears.

  ‘God help me,’ said Jenna, ‘that I should go anywhere looking like this.’

  But once outside the prison wall she forgot her appearance and sniffed the morning air, the first freshness she had smelt for three months. The scent of roses from the gaoler’s garden made her want to weep. Already, despite the fact that a mere finger of crimson was in the sky, the air was warm and she knew for certain that it was a fine summer. Something only assumed till now from the stifling atmosphere in the cells and the flies buzzing constantly about the heaps of human excrement.

  Jenna’s heart leapt. She was outdoors again and her eyes, unstrained by the kind dawn light, were taking in her surroundings — even the outline of the grim prison — with a kind of love. Everything, the grass of Gaol Green, the wisp of smoke climbing up from the chimney of the George, seemed new and beautiful. She felt then that she could never bear further incarceration, that if she was found guilty of bewitching Benjamin she could not tolerate another term of imprisonment, that it would be almost preferable to hang and let her soul fly free than bear the filth and indignity of a cell any further.

  The rumble of wheels brought her thoughts back to the present and she saw that two big carts, each pulled by a hefty carthorse, were making their way towards the group. The journey was about to begin. It was time for the Judge of the Assizes to clear the prison of felons — as he did twice a year — by hanging, burning or pressing them to death, or even setting a few of them free.

  ‘Hands behind backs,’ shouted the gaoler and manacles were put on so that there was no chance of escape during the day-long journey. Then they were climbing up, nine prisoners and two warders to each cart. There was a crack of whips, the gaoler’s shout of farewell, and they were off to meet their fate.

  *

  In the first golden flush of dawn Sir Thomas Walmsley, Judge of the Common Pleas, woke in the lavender-sweet sheets of his bed, situated in the finest inn in Sevenoaks, and stretched his long arms above his head, yawning. He had been dreaming; a strange haunting dream in which he rode in the centre of a huge cavalcade of monks, part of a crowd and yet quite alone. A feeling constantly familiar to him in waking life.

  He had left London early on the previous morning, travelling with his fellow lawyer, Serjeant John Dodderidge, in the relative comfort of a coach drawn by two fast horses, and boasting a well padded interior to minimise the agonising process of bumping over the evil tracks of southern England. Stopping regularly for relief and refreshment and to change horses, they had still arrived at the village of Sevenoaks, with its comfortable inn, in good time to dine both well and leisurely. It was little wonder that both Dodderidge and Judge Walmsley preferred the assizes at East Grinstead to those held at Lewes.

  After dinner, Serjeant Dodderidge had yawned his way to bed, leaving Sir Thomas sitting alone, gazing into the flames, his light eyes reflecting the glow and his long fingers twirling the stem of a wineglass. He had been none too pleased when a noise in the doorway announced the arrival of a traveller, spoiling his solitary contemplation, and had frowned when the man had said, ‘Sir, there is no room to sit elsewhere. May I join you?’

  Sir Thomas would have refused had the person not bowed his way in and immediately taken a chair, calling for a good wine to be served. Then they had stared at one another, the frosty-faced judge and the intruder, until finally the newcomer had looked away, his gaze falling beneath Sir Thomas’s light, unblinking eyes.

  After a long silent pause, during which the stranger had consumed several glasses of vintage Gascony, he had plucked up the courage to speak once more and asked politely, ‘What brings you to Kent, Sir? I imagine from the fine cut of your clothes that you must have journeyed from London.’

  ‘Business,’ Sir Thomas had replied shortly, but the other had persisted.

  ‘I too, travel on business, Sir. My home being in Sussex. At Maighfield to be precise. Do you know Maighfield, Sir? It is not far from Lewes.’

  As Sir Thomas knew all the villages and towns on the home circuit extremely well, he nodded his head in assent.

  The other went on, ‘Pray allow me to introduce myself, Sir. I am Tom May, a student at Cambridge and son of Sir Thomas May.’

  Sir Thomas had thawed visibly. ‘Thomas May? Why, I know him well. An estimable man and an excellent Justice of the Peace. Pray remember me to him.’

  ‘Indeed I will, Sir. May I know your name?’

  ‘Thomas Walmsley.’

  Not Sir Thomas Walmsley, the famous judge?’ Sir Thomas nodded assent and the younger man rose to his feet and bowed deeply.

  ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Sir Thomas. Your reputation precedes you. How well I remember reports of the Essex Assizes last year, and the one before that too, when you sentenced four witches to death.’

  Sir Thomas’s face did not change nor did his eyes alter expression as he answered, ‘One pleaded pregnancy, you know. But she was turned off as soon as the child was born. A strange business that, for no man would admit to having known her. I wonder if Satan himself was the infant’s father.’

  Tom shivered violently. ‘What a terrible thought.’ He paused, then drank deeply, his dark eyes suddenly intense. ‘But surely you must occasionally come across people who are innocent? Against whom there is some kind of plot?’

  Sir Thomas smiled thinly, his pale eyes unblinking as he regarded Tom coldly. ‘It has been known, of course. But such things are a rarity. Remember that the women who come to the Assize Court have already been examined by a Justice of the Peace such as your father, and found guilty enough to be sent for trial. It is not very likely that we would all be fooled.’

  ‘But it must happen,’ Tom persisted. ‘To a victim of a whispering campaign for example.’

  Sir Thomas sipped his wine. ‘I think it is a far cry from whispers to open accusations.’ He paused. ‘You are interested in the subject, obviously.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For any particular reason?’

  Tom longed to beg help for Jenna Mist but quailed before the cold, grey gaze regarding him, sure that at any moment his speech impediment would become noticeable. It struck him that Judge Walmsley believed himself an avenging angel, a force for stamping out evil, and seeing that right prevailed. The man had the air of an fanatic.

  Changing his ploy, Tom said somewhat incoherently, ‘A girl from the village is accused of causing deaths by witchery. But she is innocent of the crime, I am sure.’

  ‘Is she coming up before me for, if so, I am not at liberty to discuss the case with you?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t believe so,’ mumbled Tom, lying in his teeth. ‘No, I am sure that her trial is set for the Lent Assizes.’

  ‘In that case I would be interested to know why you think her innocent.’

  ‘Because I believe her a victim of circumstance. Her great aunt was indicted fo
r witchcraft and died while serving sentence. Then, by her own confession, Jenna admitted giving a potion, that her love might wed her and not another. But now it is said that she sent her familiar to start a fire in which people died.’

  ‘People of whom she was not fond?’

  ‘One of them, yes.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sir Thomas, leaning back in his chair and putting his fingertips together. ‘It seems to me to be an obvious case, Master May.’

  ‘On the face of it, perhaps. But the husband of the dead woman bears a grudge against the girl.’

  ‘I am hardly surprised in view of his wife’s death.’

  ‘But ...’ started Tom and then stopped, his stammer suddenly so pronounced that he found himself unable to speak at all. The judge stared at him politely, waiting for him to say something but the poet could do no more than utter a series of sounds, his heart shrinking beneath the gaze of the merciless being who sat staring at him. Of all ill luck, Jenna was to appear before the famous Hanging Judge, the scourge of the assizes, the destroyer of four Essex women convicted of witchcraft and sorcery.

  Tom’s plans began to fall apart. Knowing full well the corruption that existed in every strata of society, he had intended to offer a bribe. But face to face with this ice-cold man, whose eyes seemed to be seeing into his secret thoughts, Tom knew surely that to do so would be to put the death sentence on Jenna Mist, that Sir Thomas would turn on her in a fury of righteous indignation and send her to hang.

  As he sat there, still silent, Tom May had the strangest sensation. He imagined himself sitting in a great hall, at a wedding feast, a bride and groom on a raised platform above him. With them sat Judge Walmsley, dressed in a gorgeous mantle, his hair close cropped beneath an archbishop’s mitre. He was looking at Tom in the very way he was looking at him now, thinking him effeminate and barely tolerating his presence.

  The daydream faded and the poet shook his head. He realised that Sir Thomas was speaking.

  ‘... be assured that justice is always done. Master May?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tom mouthed, recovering himself.

  ‘I said that your village girl will be treated fairly when her case finally comes to court.’

  Unable to make a reply, Tom merely rolled his beautiful eyes, turning away his head and realising finally that his plan to help Jenna Mist had totally failed.

  *

  Jenna was taken from the cage in which she sat with her fellow prisoners until, one by one, they were led into the Sessions House to face trial, and brought into a courtroom. On the bench above her, wigged and gowned, sat a man with light piercing eyes who stared at her unblinkingly. At the back of the court in the public seats, amongst that ocean of gawping faces, Jenna saw — in a blur — Benjamin and Agnes, and Robert Morley too. She was put to face the jury, who looked at her sullenly, and a clerk of the court rose to read the indictment. As he spoke, Jenna could smell hot, stale breath.

  ‘The Jurors for the King,’ he said, ‘do present that Jenna Mist, late of Maighfield, in the County of Sussex aforesaid, wife of Benjamin Mist, not having God before her eyes, but seduced by the instigation of the Devil, being a common witch and enchantress, on 15 March, 8 James, did exercise magic and enchantment by which means a house belonging to Thomas Steven, the house adjoining, another house and a barn valued at £30 did with fire and flame then become kindled and burned from within, and that a certain Debora Maynard, wife of Richard Maynard, did die in the blaze of the aforesaid enchantment and witchcraft.’

  There was more but Jenna no longer listened. She knew that her cause was hopeless, that her confession to Sir Thomas May that she had indeed enchanted Benjamin to unlawful love, had finished her. She ceased to care, gazing at the ceiling, letting her thoughts soar free.

  She thought of the eternal beauty of the magic valley. Of how the great hills and sparkling river, the woods and fields and incomparable views, would be there long after she had gone; she thought of the continuity of life and of how everything would go on as before even though she had been removed from the world.

  Without meaning to, Jenna began to cry. Not because she was afraid, but because she was going to be separated from Benjamin and Agnes; because she must take flight before they did; because she would no longer be able to smile on their dear familiar faces.

  A black cap was being placed on the judge’s head and Jenna, at last, looked up into those cold, crystal eyes. All in the court drew breath as the dark-haired girl who had just heard she was to be hanged by the neck until she was dead, gave the judge a strange, fierce smile before she was taken below, while Sir Thomas Walmsley, looking strangely shaken, rose to dismiss the court.

  It was over. A self-confessed witch was to die. The world would be a safer place for those left behind to live out their lives.

  *

  He had done it! With one stroke Richard Maynard had rid himself of the two women he hated most. He had triumphed over both the bitches who had rejected him and ultimately shown them who was true master.

  He sat before the hearth at Baynden, not lit on this warm June night, and thought back over recent events. How much he had enjoyed forcing himself on Debora, the memory of it making him tremble with delight even now. He had left her almost dead of course, but that did not matter in itself, the only important thing that he should silence her before she recovered consciousness and spoke the name of her attacker.

  Richard grinned with pleasure and reached for the bottle. It had been so easy to light the fire. Almost too easy! In fact he could never remember Maighfield being quite so dark and deserted. But then, when it was blazing and he had been sent for, had come his most brilliant stroke. He had not originally planned to accuse Jenna but standing there, staring at the carpenter, full of drink and with his brain working all the better for it, the idea had come in a flash. And then what luck that the silly whore’s cat should walk up. She had been as good as dead then.

  Richard drained his glass and refilled it, laughing at the thought of it all. This morning he had given evidence at the assizes, followed by Maud and some of the other villagers, and had had to struggle to stop himself jeering openly at Jenna. She would never know what she had missed in refusing him. If only he could have told her what a powerful lover he was and that in passing over such pleasure she had brought about her downfall. But, obviously, it was not possible and the annoying thing had been that on the one occasion he had caught her eye she seemed in a trance, as if she no longer cared what happened to her and had ceased to listen to the court’s proceedings. He could have hit her smug face for that!

  The yeoman stood up, picking up another bottle to take to bed. He could lie warm in there, drinking and planning whom he should marry next. Then he shivered again, realising that the house had grown cold while he sat so still.

  ‘Curse you, Dark Lady,’ he called out. ‘I’m in no mood for you tonight. Leave me alone.’

  Almost defiantly he began to climb the stairway, the one on which he had first encountered her when he had newly become the tenant of Baynden.

  ‘To hell with you,’ he called again.

  Without warning she was suddenly standing before him, one lock of dark hair escaping from her wimple and he noticed, yet again, her beauty and her terrible sadness.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ he mumbled.

  She did not move and Richard felt the first prickle of fear attack his spine.

  ‘Be gone,’ he shouted, more loudly.

  Without taking her mournful eyes from his face the ghost raised its arm, and it seemed to Richard that she held a sickle in her hand. He knew that she could not harm him, that she was not of the mortal world as he was, but he was irrationally and immensely afraid. He turned to run from her and his unsteady legs gave way.

  With a cry Richard fell the entire length of the stairs, landing on his head with a tremendous impact. There was a sickening crunch as his neck broke, and after that nothing but silence as the Dark Lady glided down the stairs weeping, then went away from B
aynden for ever.

  Thirty-two

  Morning, the mist lifting slowly from behind Horsham Gaol to burnish it with garish sunlight, so at odds with the scene that must shortly be enacted. Already a huge gaping crowd, jostling and scuffling, and in high good humour at the day’s sport. Pedlars selling their wares, children playing and women sucking sweetmeats, the sight and smell of them filling Benjamin’s nostrils with disgust. The occasion as merry as a May Fair, in fact someone had even brought a performing monkey on a silver chain, and one stall was busy selling rag dolls labelled ‘The Witch’ complete with long black hair and a rope around the neck. Benjamin would gladly have killed them all had he had the means to do so.

  Unable to bear being part of such a mob he had hurried into the George to dull his senses with drink, and was not actually outside when the ‘Ooh!’ of the crowd told him that the gates of the gaol were opening. So he was at the back of the throng as Jenna came out and was forced, quite literally, to fight his way to the front, where he stood, breathing fast and bleeding, as the cart bearing the prisoners passed slowly through the waiting people.

  There were four of them, Jenna and three men — Thomas Gerney of Henfield, found guilty of taking a hat, a purse and two silver rings; and Richard Moyse and Andrew Waters of Buxted, guilty of stealing a sorrel horse, two cheeses, a crock of butter, a petticoat, a carpet and two flitches of bacon. All four of them sat on the floor of the cart, their hands manacled behind them, and Benjamin saw that Jenna’s dark hair had been swept up into a grey cap so that the rope could be put around her neck. He called her name but she would not look at him, frightened, he supposed, that she might weep and publicly shame herself.

  The cart rumbled past and on towards the common beyond the town, the crowd starting to follow in a jeering, pushing procession, some shouting out obscenities and others calling, ‘Whore of Satan’. Then the noise changed to another cheer as the plodding old horse rounded a bend in the track and the public gibbet loomed in the distance, a long beam with four nooses already attached to it, a ladder leaning against one of the two upright poles. Standing beside the gibbet, talking to the hangman, the carpenter saw Sir Edward Bellingham, Sheriff of Sussex, with his escort of javelin men, ready to keep public order by force should it be necessary to do so.