by Ann Swinfen
‘Josiah!’ she called.
He was at the top of a ladder, hammering at something on the roof of the stable.
‘Mistress?’
‘You must go up to Goody Lea’s cottage on the moor, take Isaac with you, and one of the horses with a pack-saddle and baskets. She’s been carried off to Lichfield gaol. I want you to drive her stock down here, and fetch her possessions as well.’
She gave her instructions quickly, as Josiah climbed down the ladder.
‘Brendan is bringing down our flock today or tomorrow. Best if you work together. And tell Isaac to saddle Brandy for me before you leave. And don’t forget to bring the cat.’
Catching up her skirts, she ran inside. Finding Hester in the kitchen, she told her to make up a basket of food for Agnes Lea, then she ran upstairs to fetch her warmest cloak and a blanket from her bed.
‘Anne?’ said Bridget, coming to the door of her parents’ chamber. ‘What’s to-do? Is there news of John?’
‘No. Still nothing.’ Anne fastened her cloak about her neck and bundled up the blanket. ‘Agnes Lea is accused of witchcraft. I’m taking her some comforts in gaol. And I’m sending Josiah to bring her stock and belongings here.’
‘You must take care, and so must Josiah,’ said Bridget in alarm. ‘If there’s a crowd at Agnes’s cottage . . .’
‘You have the right of it. Where’s Richard? He must go as well, and they’ll fetch Brendan.’
‘I think I saw Richard go off towards the forest with his gun this morning.’
‘Why is that boy never here when he’s needed?’ Anne stormed. ‘He’s more trouble than all the children together.’
Bridget smiled.
‘He’s not so different from John, I think, when he was that age.’
‘John has always been responsible,’ Anne said, angrily and somewhat inaccurately.
Back in the kitchen, she peered into the basket Hester had laid ready.
‘There’s little enough here, Hester,’ she said sharply. ‘Put in some cold meat and more cheese. And heaven knows, we’ve more than enough apples.’
Hester glanced at her sideways and took up a knife, reluctantly it seemed, to cut slices from the ham on the dresser.
‘She’m a witch, that Lea woman. You’d best have naught to do with ’un, mistress. ’Twill stain this household and all of us.’
Anne whirled about and stared at her.
‘You cannot believe that, Hester. You’ve known Goody Lea all your life. She’s nothing but a harmless old woman.’
Hester paused and pointed at Anne with the knife.
‘Aye, I know ’un. ’Tis her that cursed my uncle’s fields with the blight, over to Hints.’
Anne had forgotten that Hester had family at Hints. She drew a deep breath and spoke quietly.
‘Hester, I’m truly sorry your uncle’s wheat has been blighted, but you cannot lay it at Agnes’s door. What has she to do with your uncle? There must be some other cause. Last year many of the crops were lost. There was no talk of witchcraft then, was there?’
‘Last year, all suffered alike,’ said Hester stubbornly. ‘This blight, it has only touched some, and ’tis well known Agnes has a quarrel with the folk of Hints.’
‘Only with the lads who come stealing her chickens,’ said Anne. It was a long-standing battle.
Hester turned back to the ham.
‘You should not meddle, mistress. No good will come to us if you do.’
When Anne reached Lichfield she left the horse as usual at the Black Swan in the Market Square, and made her way on foot to the gaol in Bore Street. It was a small but dreadful place, the thick walls squat and malevolent, the mean apertures, hardly windows, admitting cold slivers of grey light. The very air stank of despair and death. There, by conducting herself with unaccustomed arrogance and slipping some coins into the gaoler’s hand, she gained access to Agnes’s cell.
The old woman was alone in a cold, windowless room, and she looked very frightened. To Anne’s eyes, she seemed much smaller and more bowed than she had up on the moor amongst her goats. For all her defiant talk, the reality of being accused of witchcraft was fearful. There was nothing at all in the cell, no bed, no chair, not even straw upon the floor. The only light came from the gaps around the ill-fitting door. The hearth, on this bitterly cold day, was unlit. Anne knelt down beside Agnes, where she crouched upon the uneven stones of the floor, and wrapped the blanket around her.
‘See, I’ve brought you some food. When did you last eat?’
Agnes looked at her vaguely.
‘I cannot call to mind.’
‘You must eat now. You must keep up your strength, and we shall soon have you out of this.’
Obedient as a child, Agnes began to chew her way through the food, as though she had no idea what she was putting in her mouth.
‘I’ve sent my men to drive your goats and ewes down to Swinfen, so we can care for them. They’ve taken baskets for the chickens and panniers to fetch away your goods, so no thieving lads can steal them while you’re away.’
Agnes shook her head.
‘I shall never leave this place alive.’
‘Nay, do not talk so. You must keep up your spirits as well as your strength. A few spiteful villagers shall not have their way in this.’
‘Peterkin!’ said Agnes. ‘What of my poor cat?’
‘They’ll bring him away too, if they can catch him. If they can’t, I shall go up to the moor tomorrow and I shall not leave until I catch him, even if I must stay all day.’
Agnes smiled weakly.
‘Cats are difficult creatures. They have strong wills and they like to stay in their own place.’ She gave a suppressed sob. ‘They said that Peterkin was my familiar, that he was the devil disguised. I’ve had him from a kitten—’twas Master Pegg the curate that gave him to me, to keep the mice away from my store of corn. My lovely Peterkin—they will kill him, and he nothing but a poor innocent creature.’
Tears began to seep from the corners of her tired eyes and trickle slowly down the furrows in her face.
‘Of course he’s not the devil,’ said Anne. ‘What fools these people are!’
‘I’m no witch, child, though it may be true that some folk be. Old King James believed in witches.’
‘I grant you,’ said Anne, ‘there may be people who meddle in things they should not. But as for the devil made manifest and working through those who are usually accused—why, if the devil is so powerful and evil, why doesn’t he choose more potent instruments? People of wealth and power, instead of the poor and defenceless? I cannot believe it.’ It was her reason speaking, though creeping, fearful doubts still nibbled at her mind. What if Agnes were indeed a witch?
Anne had spoken stoutly, to give Agnes courage, but she knew that the nameless terror that gripped people in a witch hunt was incapable of responding to reason. When she was sure Agnes had eaten her fill, she left the rest of the basket of food with her and went in search of the gaoler to demand a bed and a chair and a fire and another blanket. He was surly and reluctant, but another bribe persuaded him. In such cases as these, Anne knew that if the prisoner was seen to have powerful friends, it could influence not only the treatment meted out in the gaol but also the eventual conduct of the trial.
When she reached home again, the men were just coming in, driving before them the Swinfen flock of sheep as well as Agnes’s stock. The chickens were making a mighty racket, taking exception to being stuffed into hampers and bounced about on a horse’s back all the way down from the moor. Biddy took charge of Agnes’s small store of possessions: a few clothes, some cookpots, her churn and cheese-making equipment, and her bedding, which included the one object of beauty, a pieced quilt she had made as her only marriage portion.
‘Where is the cat?’ Anne demanded of Josiah.
‘He ran off when he saw us, mistress. We tried all we could think of, tried to tempt ’un with food, but he sat under a gorse bush and growled at us. Brendan thru
st in his hands and would have grabbed ’un, but the beast lashed out and scratched ’un to the bone. Perhaps ’tis true what they say, that he’s the devil.’
Anne turned on him.
‘Never let me hear you speak such folly again! He’s nothing but a poor frightened cat who has seen his mistress carried off by the constable and a gaggle of strange men seeming to tear apart his very home. What would you expect? It’s near dark now, but I shall go up there myself directly after breakfast tomorrow.’
The sun had not yet risen above the trees beyond the lake when Anne was on her way to Agnes’s cottage. She carried with her a basket for Peterkin, if she could catch him, some tempting bits of rabbit and fish, and one of Agnes’s shawls, which she hoped would smell to the cat of his mistress and safety. Peterkin was sitting in the open doorway of the cottage, and glared at her balefully, but he did not immediately run away. Anne sat down at a short distance and began talking to him soothingly, telling him about Agnes. She did not believe the cat could understand her, but hoped that the sound of her voice would calm him.
After a while, she laid out a few pieces of food and stared away over the moor as if ignoring him, but she was aware when the cat crept forward and began to nibble daintily at the furthest piece of rabbit. Even when a cat is starving, it will not demean itself to admit it. It took the best part of an hour to tempt Peterkin to her. At last she had him sitting on Agnes’s shawl on her lap, washing his hind leg with a casual and careless air, but as she stroked him she could hear a purr rumbling deep within. As gently as possible, she wrapped him in the shawl and stowed him in the basket. He gave one protesting yowl, but then resigned himself to being carried down to Swinfen Hall. Anne did not trust him not to run away again to the cottage, so she shut him in one of the attics, with Agnes’s belongings all around him, so that he could grow accustomed to the idea. In the afternoon she rode off again to Lichfield.
In town she ascertained that Agnes was to come before the magistrates in a few days’ time, the senior magistrate being Mathew Moreton, an old man of near sixty. Moreton had been one of John’s colleagues on the bench, and Anne had some hopes of persuading him to drop the case against Agnes. The other two magistrates were a greater danger: Richard Floyer, himself a man of Hints, who might take the part of his tenants, and William Jolley, who lived at Leek, but of whom she knew little else, except that he was engaged in the wool trade. That it should be necessary to call in a magistrate all the way from Leek was a fair measure of the confusion of the times. Both Henry Stone and John had been magistrates sitting in Lichfield, whose services were now lost. Michael Noble, another of John’s friends, town clerk and Member of Parliament for Lichfield, had died last year. The other Member for Lichfield, Michael Biddulph, was secluded. Edward Leigh had been seized by the army, and she did not know if he was freed.
She had prepared herself for her visit to Mathew Moreton with some care, donning one of her London gowns, choosing one that was clearly of the highest quality, but not gaudy, in keeping with the sober times, and telling Patience to lace her stays as tightly as could be managed. For the first time she regretted the loss of her jewels, for an appearance of wealth and standing would help her cause. She had persuaded Bridget to dress her hair. It was one of Patience’s duties, but Bridget would take more care over teasing out the tangles Anne had allowed to accumulate. When she was shown into Moreton’s parlour, she was glad she had taken the trouble, for this was an elegant townhouse, far divorced from the manor of a working country estate.
She was shown at once into the parlour by a neat serving maid, while her host was fetched from his office. The room opened with wide sash windows on to a garden extensive for a house in the centre of the town, and was decorated with costly hand-tinted wallpaper. The furniture was French, and gilded, the carpets plushy underfoot, and two dozen fine wax candles in sconces around the walls were already lit, although it was still daylight outside and no one was in the room.
Mathew Moreton received her with great courtesy, expressed genuine regrets at John’s continued imprisonment and his hopes that Henry Stone would succeed in his mission.
‘For Stone seems quite to have disappeared,’ he said. ‘Some of us who are friends to both him and to John have been talking of sending out men to search for him, but we must tread very warily in these times. It must not be taken as some kind of private army.’
‘I would be grateful for your help,’ Anne said, at this unexpected turn in the conversation. Since Henry Stone had ridden off to Stafford, she had thought herself alone in trying to discover what had happened, uncertain whether those old friends of John’s were still his friends, or whether they had accommodated themselves to the new men in power.
‘Now, Mistress Swynfen,’ said Moreton, ‘I would like to offer you some of this new drink that is quite à la mode amongst the fashionable in London, I am told, brought in by some of the orient merchants. I was sent some by my cousin there, who tells me ’tis a sovereign drink in cold weather. It is made from a herb grown in China, and they call it tay or chaw.’
He poured the hot liquid from a kind of lidded jug into a deep saucer. It was the colour of amber.
‘You may take it like this, or add milk and sugar. I find it best with a little milk.’
Anne let him add some milk to her saucer, then tasted it gingerly. It was not unpleasant, like a warm herbal drink, though weak. It seemed strange to put milk to it.
‘What is your opinion?’ Moreton asked, passing her a plate of marzipan sweetmeats.
‘Quite pleasant,’ said Anne, ‘but I expect it will be one of these passing fashions that seize the people in London. Why should we import herbs from China, when we can grow our own?’
They talked for a time about Anne’s years in London before she led him round to the subject of the charges against Agnes Lea.
‘Goody Agnes has lived on our property on Packington Moor since the time of John’s grandfather,’ said Anne. ‘I regard her as one of our people, and I know she’s no witch. The complaint is foolish, and I hope you will dismiss the case out of hand.’
Moreton immediately looked serious, and slightly displeased.
‘These are matters of law that are of no concern to a woman,’ he said.
‘I am afraid I must disagree, Master Moreton. In the absence of my husband, the incapacity of my father-in-law, and the minority of my eldest son, I am, of necessity, seigneur of the Swinfen estate. Whether I have also rights in law is another matter, which we might dispute, but whatever the rights, I have responsibilities towards my people. I cannot allow you to put Agnes Lea on trial without speaking on her behalf, and enquiring as to the nature of the complaint.’
‘There is more than one,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Some are trivial and will not concern the court. Those of substance are, first, that she did blight the wheat crop generally at Hints, and, second, that she did cause the death of a milch cow belonging to one William Slater of Hints. These are the instances of maleficium. She is under examination now as to whether she did covenant with or consort with the devil. It is alleged that the devil came to her in the form of a large cat.’
‘Master Moreton, I have known that cat for seventeen years. He is no more the devil than the cats we have about Swinfen to keep down the rats.’
She decided for the moment to say nothing of the fact that the cat had been the gift of the Weeford curate. If Agnes came to trial, it might be as well to have a few surprises in reserve. She did not like the sound of that word ‘examination’.
‘Why,’ she added, ‘I know that you’re a lover of cats yourself. That does not make you a witch, I trust!’
Moreton flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment she could not be sure.
‘Mistress Swynfen, I’m obliged by my position as justice of the peace here in Lichfield to take account of any complaints about witchcraft, and to proceed to trial if there be sufficient evidence. The preliminary hearing will be held as soon as the examination of the accused is completed.
If there is held to be a case, it will proceed to a full trial shortly thereafter.’
‘What do you mean by “completing the examination”? Surely you must know how long this will last?’
‘There can be great variation, depending on how the accused behaves under examination.’
Anne gripped the arms of her chair as a wave of sickness came over her. She understood now what he was telling her, hidden within his legal language. Agnes was being subjected to torture. What might a weak, tired old woman not say under torture? She stood up.
‘I thank you for your time, Master Moreton. I think I must visit Agnes Lea now, to see how she fares.’ She saw a flash of comprehension come and go in Moreton’s eyes, as he realised that she intended to investigate what was being done to Agnes.
‘It is my understanding,’ she said, ‘that the accused may not speak to defend herself at the trial, but only to plead, guilty or not guilty. Is that right?’
‘It is.’
‘But her friends may speak for her? Bear witness to her good character? I may give evidence?’
‘You may, but I beg you not to interfere in this matter, Mistress Swynfen. I like this business no better than you, whatever you may think. Public trials for witchcraft are very unpleasant affairs, and I would spare a lady from ever witnessing one. The evidence is likely to be obscene and fearful, and the behaviour of the common people who come to observe the trial will be gross and unseemly, for it is generally the idle sort who attend.’
‘I thank you for your concern,’ said Anne carefully, ‘but surely these are reasons enough why I should speak for a harmless old woman who has no family left in the neighbourhood, and who must look to her landlord for support and succour?’
Anne walked directly from Mathew Moreton’s house to the gaol, where her arrival caused some concern and confusion. The prisoner, it seemed, was not there. Anne refused to move from the chair where she had seated herself on arriving, and after about half an hour Agnes appeared, stumbling along between two constables. Her condition appeared to be very much worse than it had on the previous day. As soon as they were alone in the cell, Agnes sank down upon the narrow cot with a groan.