by Ann Swinfen
The captain let go of John so suddenly that he stumbled backwards as the man began to roam the cell.
‘Any other dirty little sectaries hiding in here? Or maybe you keep a whore under the bed, eh?’
He got down on all fours to look under John’s bed. John, raising his eyes, saw two of the guards standing just outside the open door. As they caught his eye, they blanked out all expression from their faces, but not quite quickly enough. He had caught there a mixture of embarrassment, amusement, and fear. Did the governor know that the captain of the guard had fallen into this state? And what would it mean for those ‘details’ of his release, with which the governor refused to concern himself?
After this performance, the captain staggered to his feet and headed towards the door. He would be gone in a moment, with John left waiting still to hear when he would be released.
‘Captain,’ he said, with as much politeness as he could muster, ‘I understand from the governor that you are to arrange my release.’
The captain stopped in the doorway and rotated slowly, as though he was standing in the crow’s nest of a ship in a high gale.
‘Released? Aye, he’s going to release you, you filthy scum. Be ready this evening.’
With that he slammed the door, and John heard the key turn in the lock. The man was going mad with the drink, that much was clear, or perhaps he was simply going mad. But if John were released from the castle and sent out in the evening, with a winter’s night coming on, it would be an ill-omened start to his journey. He paced about the cell, along the same path he felt he had worn into the very stones of the floor. When he lifted the canvas and looked out of the window, he could see more snow clouds building up over the mountains.
They came for him at last as it was growing dusk. He had eaten every scrap of food they had brought him, although it tasted like sawdust in his mouth. His heart was beating painfully as he slung his pack on his back with a kind of harness he had contrived out of a length of cord he had persuaded the young guard to bring him. At the last minute he snatched up one of the blankets off his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like an extra cloak.
Three guards, commanded by Sergeant Conway, led him from the prison tower and out to the great gate of the castle. The soldiers of the watch drew back the huge bolts and swung open the gate. An icy wind rushed in, carrying flurries of snow with it. John looked around. Neither within the gatehouse, nor outside, nor in the vast central court of the castle, was there any sign of a horse. He turned to the sergeant.
‘Where is my mount?’ he asked.
The sergeant shifted his feet uncomfortably and avoided his eye.
‘The captain said you were not to be given a horse. There are none to be spared.’
John drew a deep breath.
‘The governor wishes me to be given a mount and supplies of food. Look out yonder!’ He gestured towards the desolate landscape of snow-covered mountains, looming against the darkening sky.
‘If you drive me out into that, on foot and without food, you are driving me to certain death. The governor has received authorisation for my release, not for my death by starvation or freezing on a mountainside. Where is my supply of food?’
Gone was any submissiveness. John knew that if he did not act with authority now, he would be conniving in his own destruction.
‘I received no orders about a supply of food,’ said the sergeant, but he said it with uncertainty.
‘I will not move from here—nay, I will go now and report you to the governor if you do not give the order for it yourself. You know that the captain is as mad as the fools in Bedlam.’
The sergeant muttered something to one of the soldiers, who ran off in the direction of the kitchens. It would mean an even greater delay and an even later start to his journey, but John knew he must contain himself in patience. When the man returned, with a saddlebag containing food, he examined it.
‘Not sufficient,’ he said grimly. ‘I need dried fruit and more cheese. And salted bacon and another loaf and butter sealed in a wooden box.’
And he would not stir until these things were brought. John realised that he could not force the sergeant to give him a horse, if he had received a definite order from the captain forbidding it. Somehow he must make his way on foot at first. He would see what fate would bring. Perhaps he could steal a horse.
What kind of man am I become, that I should think of taking to horse-stealing? he thought. A man who will die, driven out to walk through these mountains in winter, that is what I am become.
Finally they brought him the food he demanded and—somewhat sheepish now—they contrived to fasten the saddlebag to the pack he wore already on his back. The weight bore down on his weakened frame, not yet recovered from the effects of his illness, but he hitched it up with a shrug of his shoulders and found, if he leaned forward against the weight, he could balance it better.
‘I thank you for this much at least,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘And I hope that sending me forth without horse or protection into a winter night amongst these Welsh mountains does not trouble your sleep or your conscience.’
The sergeant reddened.
‘God go with you, sir. It’s not my wish that you should be driven out thus.’
John turned away and started down the steep descent to the little town. Behind him he heard the castle gate crash shut, and then the sound of the bolts drawn into place on the far side. Now he was no longer a prisoner shut in, but a man shut out of all human habitation, at the mercy of whatever God and nature might inflict on him.
Chapter Thirty
‘Thomas,’ said Anne, ‘I would ask a favour of you.’
It was the Sunday following her visit to Mathew Moreton, and as usual she had conducted all the able-bodied members of her household to church in Weeford. They sat through a grim sermon from the new minister, whose chief delight lay in predicting the horrible end of all those not of the Elect.
‘And what sort of choice is that,’ Anne had said once to Bridget, ‘in the moral life? If you are one of the Elect, then surely you may live your life in the delightful knowledge that heavenly bliss awaits you at the end of it, whatever you do. Whereas, if you are not of these soi disant Saints, nothing you can do on this earth will save you, so you might as well sin as much as you choose.’
Bridget had been appalled, protesting about obedience and faith, but Anne, who had been moved more by a mischievous impulse to shock than by any expectation of a theological disputation, had patted her hand absently and changed the subject.
Today she had scarcely listened to the sermon, having more urgent matters on her mind, which must be dealt with here and now, if one of the innocent were not to suffer a terrible death at the hands of the wicked. Yet even distracted as she was, she sensed some disturbance in the air, an awareness that eyes were directed at her. Hostility breathed around her. The pews for Swinfen Hall and Weeford Hall occupied the two foremost positions in the church, so that she was directly under the gaze of the minister, but she was more conscious of an intensity of attention which gathered about her from further back in the church, where the yeomen sat with their families, and beyond, where servants and lesser folk had their appointed place. As the Swinfen party emerged from church, her neighbours turned their steps away from her. When Anne spoke to John Digby’s wet nurse, admiring how rosy and plump he had grown, the woman avoided her eyes and stood tongue-tied.
After the service, Anne and Bridget sent the rest of the family home and stayed on at Weeford Hall, where they partook of a cold dinner with Mary and Thomas Pott (for none must cook on the Sabbath). Pride had prevented her asking for Thomas’s help for herself, but she was not too proud to ask for it when Agnes Lea’s life was at stake.
‘I’ll gladly help you in any way I can, Anne,’ said Thomas, doubtless thinking that she needed his assistance with the estate accounts or the marketing of some stock. He drew happily on his pipe, which he had lit with some difficulty, for the tobacco was damp. Fort
unate, Anne thought, that the minister could not see him, for surely a pleasure such as a pipe of tobacco must be banned on Sundays.
‘It’s the matter of Agnes Lea.’
‘Oh,’ said Thomas, his countenance grave. ‘I’ve heard,’ he said slowly, ‘that you have been interfering with the examination of the supposed witch.’
Mary was staring first at Thomas, then at Anne, a look of horror on her usually placid face. ‘Anne, you must not think of it! How could you shame us so? Witchcraft! You must give over this dangerous folly at once! It’s embarrassment enough since you came home, the way you have pretended to a man’s place, but this . . .’
It was there again, that naked resentment in Mary’s eyes, which she had not glimpsed for weeks now. Perhaps it had merely slumbered.
‘Thomas!’ Anne cried in exasperation, ‘Agnes Lea is no witch! How can you think it? You’re an educated man of good sense. Surely you don’t believe these foolish villagers at Hints who are trying to blame her for the disease in their wheat?’
‘It seems unfounded,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve been sent one of the London newspapers which makes room in its pages to report the state of the countryside, as well as the achievements of the army in Ireland. It appears the blight has been widespread this year, and has afflicted particularly those lands that were flooded so badly in the spring. For myself, I found a patch of it in one corner of a field which dips low. And, certainly, that corner was flooded.’
‘It didn’t spread to the rest of the field?’
‘Nay, because I took care to have that part of the crop dug up and carried off to be burnt. A man who keeps a close watch on his crops can sometimes forestall such trouble.’
‘That’s excellent news! I don’t mean merely for your own crop, though I congratulate you on your swift action. Rather, it shows that the cause of the blight was the weather, and its spread was due to bad husbandry.’
‘What was the favour you wanted to ask?’ Thomas said cautiously.
‘In part, you’ve conferred it already, for you’ve shown that one of the charges against Agnes is certainly groundless. The favour is this: will you accompany me to the trial, and stand with me in her defence?’
Thomas exchanged a glance with Mary, and both looked worried.
‘It’s better to leave these matters to the magistrates, Anne,’ said Thomas. ‘They know their business. They can weigh the evidence and decide if the case is good.’
Mary was more passionate.
‘You must not interfere, Anne! It’s far too dangerous. You know well how the taint of one witch can infect all those who have to do with her.’
Bridget kept silence. She had already warned Anne of the dangers, but knew she could not be persuaded.
‘But if they don’t have all the evidence?’ Anne cried. ‘Surely it’s God’s will that we should defend the innocent? You’re a just man, Thomas. You could not stand by and allow an old woman to burn or hang just because you did not tell what you know. I ask you to do no more than support me and tell the truth, not to perjure yourself.’
Her brother-in-law looked uncomfortable, but she would not spare him. Eventually, when they were about to leave, he agreed to escort her to the trial, and to stand up in court and say what he knew about the causes of the blight.
‘I hope also,’ said Anne cunningly, once she had secured his agreement, ‘that you will let it be known widely throughout Weeford and Hints and Shenstone that you intend to speak in Agnes’s defence. The folk hereabouts will take little account of the fact that I intend to speak for her, but once it’s known that Thomas Pott of Weeford Hall refutes this charge of witchcraft, I think the crowd that’s baying after her like a pack of hounds may begin to dwindle away. That was the favour I came to ask. Your news about the blight is additional proof of their willingness to blame another for the result of their own neglect.’
‘What is the other charge? You said the blight was only part of the charge.’
‘Some fellow called William Slater complains that he sought her help to cure his sick cow. She said she couldn’t help, that the cow would die unless he himself did certain things—I don’t know what. He struck her, and the cow died. He swears she cursed his cow. But she had already said that the cow was dying, before he struck her—’
‘Aye, aye. I take your drift. I don’t know this Slater, but I’ll make enquiries.’
‘Thomas, you’re a true friend!
Anne was delighted, despite Thomas’s reluctance. Her own somewhat dubious position, in daring to intervene in the trial, would be entirely altered if Thomas were at her side.
‘Surely . . .’ said Bridget quietly.
‘Aye, Bridget?’ Thomas said.
‘Well, surely, the character of the accused must count for something? Agnes Lea has never hurt anyone, and she’s helped many with her cures and good counsel.’
‘The danger is,’ said Thomas, ‘that her very knowledge of cures condemns her in some people’s eyes. Nor will they like that she lives alone up in that strange wild place, where no one else would choose to dwell, save a few shepherds with their flocks in summer. Have you not observed? Those who are accused of witchcraft are usually old, poor, friendless women, with no one to defend them. Their very existence, alone and uncared for, and their poverty, are a reproach to us all, that we do not show more concern for them. So our guilt becomes twisted into accusation, in order that we may rid ourselves of this mote in our eye.’
Anne looked at him thoughtfully.
‘That’s a wise observation, Thomas.’
The time until Agnes’s preliminary trial passed all too swiftly, for now that Thomas was prepared to stand beside her, Anne wanted news of his support to spread as widely as possible. Had there been more time, more people would have heard of Master Pott’s intervention, and that would have benefited her plans. Yet for Agnes’s sake, the trial could not come soon enough, that she might be set free from her wretched prison. Early in the morning of the twentieth of December, Thomas rode to Swinfen, and then joined Anne in the carriage to drive on to Lichfield. Anne had chosen to travel by carriage for several reasons. The winter had truly descended upon the land in the last few days, and the journey would be more comfortable by carriage. Then, if Agnes were freed, she could be carried home more easily, for she was too old and frail to ride pillion. Above all, Anne was well aware how much more valuable their defence of the old woman would be if they were to drive up to the court in the grandeur of a carriage and four. The whole of the previous day had been devoted by Josiah and Isaac to grooming the horses, washing down the carriage, and polishing all the leather and brass. Josiah now drove them to Lichfield smartly clad in the livery which used to adorn the Swynfens’ young coachman, who had been impressed for army service four years before.
The bitter weather had brought an additional benefit: the crowd of the curious and the idle hanging about the court was smaller than it would have been on a fine summer’s day. Word of Thomas’s support had also affected the composition of the crowd. Most were townspeople from Lichfield, very few were the villagers from Hints who had first stirred up the trouble. William Slater was there, with a group of his friends about him, but Anne recognised only a dozen or so others from Hints village as she entered the court on Thomas’s arm, with her head held high, bestowing gracious smiles on those who were known to her. Inwardly, she mocked herself, for she thought she must resemble Queen Henrietta Maria, parading through the state rooms at Whitehall, condescendingly acknowledging the obsequious bows of courtiers. There were no obsequious bows here, however. Her smiles were returned with unfriendly stares and she was followed into the courtroom by audible jeers. For the first time since she had taken up Agnes’s cause, Anne began to be afraid.
She had never attended a law court before, and found it intimidating, even though she was not here as a prisoner. How much more frightening it would be for the accused, standing in the dock, a little bent old woman, with all this malice and venom, and
the full rigour of the law, directed against her.
From her discussion with Thomas as they rode to Lichfield in the carriage, Anne understood that all legal process in the country was currently in a state of confusion since the execution of the king. Many who had held office were now turned out, some had not been replaced, some new men’s appointments were not recognised. Since the overthrow of the bishops, there had been disputes about who should hear the cases which formerly had come before the bishops’ courts. Witchcraft, as a form of blasphemy and heresy, would once have been tried before the bishop of Lichfield. Uncertain of the correct course of action to take in this case, the three magistrates had called an assize. They entered now in the sombre majesty of their robes, and took their seats at the raised bench.
The crowd fell silent in awe of the magistrates, then a faint hum rose up amongst them, like a swarm of bees clustering about the branch of a tree, hot and angry. Anne strained to see what was afoot. From a door at the back of the courtroom, near the platform where the magistrates were shuffling their papers and murmuring together, two constables led in the tiny figure of Agnes Lea. Her wrists were bound together and her feet, still bloodied and bereft of shoes, were shackled with heavy iron chains, so that with each step she must jerk the weight of chain forward. It made her movements curiously unnatural, puppet-like. Her sparse grey hair hung over her face and shoulders in a tangled mat, through which she peered with the terrified eyes of a trapped animal. To any who did not know her, she was the very image of a loathed and outcast witch.
Some in the crowd furtively crossed themselves, with the unconscious response of the old religion. With an instinct even older, some gave the sign of the horned fingers to ward off evil spirits. Some had carried into court twigs of rowan or hazel, which they pointed towards Agnes. On all the faces in that crowd, Anne could read nothing but horror and disgust, which seemed to throb in the very air of the room. How could she turn the minds of this fevered mob with her cool evidence and rational arguments? When already the mob was hostile to Anne herself? In the minds of these people there needed no trial to decide the fate of Agnes Lea. Their desire was already wholly bent on seeing her hang.