by Ann Swinfen
The accusations against Agnes Lea were read out by the clerk of the court, and Anne was relieved that they were confined to the two she knew of, for she was afraid that some other complaint might have been made. While the clerk was speaking, the magistrate Mathew Moreton caught her eye briefly, and seemed disconcerted that she had carried out her intention of coming to the trial. It was clear that she was the only woman of any standing here. The courtroom was filled almost entirely with men, apart from a few rough women from the worst parts of the town. A group of the town’s whores lingered near the door, not so much for the sake of the trial, but rather to tout for business when the men came away afterwards in a high state of excitement, for there was nothing like the prospect of a hanging or burning to whet men’s appetites for the pleasures of the flesh.
The first charge, of blighting the crops at Hints, took a deal of time to read out, with its list of complainants and details of the fields affected and the damage done. When the clerk resumed his seat, Mathew Moreton called on the complainants of the first charge to enlarge on their grievances. Although seven had been named in the charge, it was discovered that only three of them were present, the others having failed to appear in court. Moreton therefore ordered that those other four sections of the complaint should be struck out.
Of the three men who were then called upon to speak, the first was a big red-faced man with a blustering manner, by name Edward Goodens, who launched upon a long tirade of grievances—against the bad harvests of the last ten years, against the damage the troops had done to his land, against the taxes imposed first by the king’s government and now by the republican government, against the incessant rains and floods of the spring, which had near drowned his best fields. At this, Thomas smiled at Anne. He was busy writing notes in a small pocket-book. Finally Moreton raised his hand to stay the flow of recriminations.
‘I am sure many of those present have every sympathy with you, Edward Goodens, but these are the misfortunes that have afflicted us all. What is your complaint against the accused, Agnes Lea?’
The man looked confused for a moment at thus having his river of words halted.
‘Well, as to that, your honour, it must have been the witch blighted my wheat, because she blighted everyone else’s wheat.’
‘But do you have any evidence that she did so?’ said Richard Floyer.
‘Well, last spring she said as how one of my boys had stole a hen of hers, and she come seeking ’un back. I soon sent ’un packing. But stands to reason she’d try to get her revenge on me, don’t it?’
‘And had your boy stolen her hen?’
The man shuffled his feet.
‘He may have done. How am I to know? I can’t be counting my fowl every day, now, can I?’
‘Was she heard to utter a curse against you or your wheat?’ said Moreton.
‘She said as how I should take my belt to the boy for his own good.’
There was a ripple of laughter in the court. And from somewhere came a shout: ‘Aye, and so ye should. They boys o’ yourn bin robbing my orchard these five years past!’
‘Edward Goodens,’ said Moreton patiently, ‘this is no evidence of maleficium by the accused. You may stand down.’
The other two villagers from Hints who had come to complain about their wheat were both small, nervous-looking men. When they saw their leader dismissed from the field, they took fright. Both mumbled vague accusations against Agnes, but could not, on oath, recall any specific instance of her ill-wishing them, or being seen to prepare magical charms against them. The three magistrates listened with a mixture of contempt and boredom. Finally Moreton asked whether anyone else in court wished to speak on the matter of the wheat. Thomas Pott rose, and a ripple of expectancy ran over the court. A shaft of sunlight falling through a high window lit upon his grey hair, turning it a glinting silver.
‘Master Thomas Pott, of Weeford Hall. Gentleman,’ the clerk announced, and then administered the oath.
Thomas read aloud the item from the London newspaper on the causes of the blight. He then produced a letter from a friend in Northamptonshire about problems in that county, where fields had been flooded in spring. He explained how his own field had suffered the beginnings of the blight, and the measures he had taken to prevent its spreading. He then read out the list of fields mentioned by the men from Hints, and pointed out that every one of them was low-lying, and had been flooded for several weeks in the spring of the year.
Moreton, Floyer, and Jolley all looked much relieved at this logical explanation of the blight, presented by a gentleman landowner like themselves who had personal experience of the problem. When Thomas had finished his testimony, Moreton consulted the other two magistrates, then turned to the clerk.
‘The accusation of blighting the crops should be struck from the register. We find no case to answer here.’
‘Before I resume my seat,’ said Thomas mildly, ‘I should like to say something further about the prisoner, Agnes Lea.’
Moreton nodded to him to continue.
‘Agnes Lea,’ said Thomas, ‘has been a resident in the parish of Weeford since her birth in the year of our Lord, 1576. She came from a poor but respectable family in the village, her father being apprentice and then assistant to the blacksmith, later becoming blacksmith in the village himself. Agnes married Nick Lea in 1596, and they went to live on Packington Moor, where Nick built a one-roomed cottage and established a small-holding, also hiring himself out as a day labourer to various farms in the area. Nick Lea was in dispute with my wife’s grandfather about possession of the land, but after Nick’s death at a young age, leaving his wife to fend for herself as best she could, the family dropped the case, and ever since have regarded Agnes Lea as one of their people. She bore nine children, five of whom lived past childhood, but these have all moved away in search of work, so that she no longer enjoys the protection of a family.’
The court had grown quiet. Most probably knew Agnes’s story, but set out thus in Thomas’s calm, level voice, it had a grim familiarity about it—the loss of the husband, the dead children, the desperate struggle to scrape sustenance from poor soil, the bitter poverty.
‘In all those years, Agnes Lea has never, to my knowledge, or that of any other respectable citizen of the parish, done any harm to any person. She is known as a woman of a sharp tongue but a kind heart. Gentlemen, I would ask you to take this into consideration when reaching your verdict.’
Thomas stepped down, and returned to his seat next to Anne.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘I spoke naught but the truth. There is still the other charge, however. I thought it best to speak for her character before that was considered.’
The clerk now read out in full the second charge, that Agnes Lea did charm, enchant or bewitch a valuable milch cow belonging to William Slater and, in connivance with the devil, did cause it to swell up grossly until it died most horribly. Anne watched William Slater closely as he stepped forward to take the oath and state his case. He looked a cunning man, a far greater threat than the bumbling Edward Goodens. His manner towards the magistrates was a nice blend of obsequiousness and candour. He had sought the help of Agnes Lea, when his cow fell sick, but she had refused to help him and the cow had died. He had always believed her to be a good woman, a wise woman, until that moment, just as Master Pott had said.
Dangerous, thought Anne. He twists Thomas’s words, insinuating that he said Agnes is a wise woman, with the clear inference that she is a witch. Nor does he mention that he struck her.
‘And did the prisoner offer you no help?’ asked Richard Floyer.
This too, was a dangerous question, for if Agnes had given Slater some potion for the cow, and it had then died, it could be argued that she had poisoned it. Now that she saw what kind of man Slater was, Anne understood why Agnes might have been reluctant to help him. He looked like a man who would be ready to lash out at others, a man whose malice would be quickly aroused and slowly, i
f ever, appeased.
Slater hesitated before answering the question.
‘Remember,’ said Moreton, ‘that you are under oath.’
Perhaps Slater feared divine retribution if he committed perjury even more than he desired to harm Agnes. He muttered something under his breath. Jolley, who was even more advanced in years than Moreton, cupped his hand behind his ear.
‘What was that?’
‘She told me some foolishness about walking the cow, and that otherwise it would die.’
Walking the cow, thought Anne in triumph. Now, surely, all will be well, for he has admitted it!
This seemed to be the whole of Slater’s case. The magistrates dismissed him and conferred amongst themselves, then Moreton turned to the people filling the room and asked if anyone had anything to add. People looked one to another. Anne sensed that there was not much sympathy for Slater. Thomas had told her that he was disliked by his neighbours for his meanness and his neglect of his beasts, but he had thought it unwise to mention this in his own statement, for it was no more than hearsay.
Anne gripped the book she was holding on her lap and fought a rising sense of panic. When she had learned from Thomas how Slater’s cow had died, she had consulted her beloved Compleat Husbandrie. She thought she knew the cause of the cow’s death. But dare she, a gentlewoman, stand up and speak in court? Mathew Moreton’s glance brushed lightly across her as he looked about to see if anyone would speak, but it did not linger. Perhaps it was that careless dismissal that propelled her to her feet.
‘I wish to say something,’ she said.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd, and an angry murmuring. Aware that her hands were shaking, she stepped forward to the clerk and reached out her right hand for the Bible, still holding the Compleat Husbandrie in her left. The clerk, dismayed, went to the bench for directions.
‘Administer the oath,’ said Moreton coldly.
When she had sworn, Anne took her place before the magistrates.
‘I have two things to say,’ Anne began, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. ‘First, I know Agnes Lea to be a good, God-fearing woman. And I would ask you to consider this. If she be, as accused, in league with the devil and possessed of great powers, why does she not call upon him to relieve her from her state of poverty and wretchedness? If she can transform herself into other creatures, as witches are said to do, why does she not become a bird, and fly away from this place? But I see only a poor old woman, half fainting, injured, and so tired she may barely stand, for this court is too cruel even to provide her with a chair. As I would hope they would do for any other old woman. For their own grandmothers, perhaps.’
The magistrates all three regarded her with expressions in which astonishment at her audacity was mingled with a certain amount of shame.
‘But I am sure the folly of this trial will soon be done with,’ said Anne, ‘and then Agnes Lea will be acquitted and may receive the kindness she deserves.’
She drew a deep breath.
‘My second point is this. It is well known that William Slater has had illness and death amongst his kine before. It is also well known that the meadow where they are set to graze contains a great deal of clover. Gentlemen, I do not believe William Slater’s cow was bewitched. I believe it was merely suffering from the bloat, which, had he been a more careful farmer, he could have avoided. And which, had he followed Agnes Lea’s advice, he could have cured without the need for any magic potions or enchantments. He would thereby have saved himself the loss of a good milch cow, and would have saved this court the loss of much time and the people of Lichfield the loss of a working day.’
There was a low laugh from somewhere at the back of the courtroom, but it was quickly drowned in angry mutters. Moreton signed to one of the constables to suppress the disturbance.
I must be careful, Anne thought. I am becoming too sharp with them.
‘I would like to read to you a receipt from a well-known manual on farming, which we use in Swinfen, and which treats of this condition in cows, as follows.’
She opened the place she had marked in the book with a length of ribbon, and read aloud.
‘A reciept for a Cow that is hov’d or
swell’d by eating Clover.
Take a quart of Milk from a sound Cow & give the disorder’d Beast one quart of it warm; walk her about slowly at first & by degrees bring her to a pretty quick trot. This easy remedy generally perfects a cure & has been seldom known to fail. NB. The Cow must not be fed with Clover again soon. Three pints of Milk may be given to a Bullock.’
There was a rustle of interest from the crowd. Perhaps this trial would do some good, if a few more people learned how to treat the bloat. Anne could hear from behind her a general whispering, but could not make out what was being said. She kept her eyes on the magistrates.
‘I have tried this remedy myself,’ she said, ‘when one of our cows strayed into the hay meadow where there was an area of clover. The remedy does indeed effect a cure. I suppose this must relate to the cow’s four-chambered stomach, and the gradual movement of the milk within the stomachs in dispelling the wind. You must ask William Slater whether Agnes Lea also recommended that he give his cow milk, as well as walking her, but perhaps he felt he could not spare it.’
Someone snickered again in the crowd, but was silenced when Moreton frowned at him.
‘Is that all, Mistress Swynfen?’
‘Aye, Master Moreton.’ Anne paused. Should she try to put the case for reason? ‘I believe we see here a matter where the new science provides solutions to problems which foolish people in the past attributed to black enchantments. For the blight on the wheat is a phenomenon noticed all over England, a disease provoked by the bad floods of this last spring and preventable with proper husbandry, while the cow was not the first to have died of the bloat, which can be cured with a small amount of care, and perhaps a rather larger amount of effort, for the farmer may need to devote some time to his beast to make her well again. Neither of these sad occurrences, neither the blight nor the death of the cow, it is clear, are in any way due to Agnes Lea.’
Anne walked back to her seat with her heart pounding and her knees shaking. She had gambled her reputation to save Agnes Lea. Please God, those three men tricked out in their robes would recognise common sense when it was laid before them.
‘William Slater,’ said Moreton, ‘did Agnes Lea bid you give the cow milk to drink before walking her, and after a time to take her to a pretty quick trot?’
Slater twisted his hat in his hand as one of the constables pushed him before the bench. He mumbled something, his eyes upon the floor.
‘What was that?’ said Floyer. ‘You must speak so all may hear. Remember that you are still under oath.’
‘I said, she may have said some such, but any man could tell ’twas nothing but foolishness. What man ever heard tell of milk being medicine for a dying cow?’
‘So indeed,’ said Moreton slowly, ‘she gave you the very remedy that Mistress Swynfen has read aloud to this court. A remedy taken from a printed work of animal husbandry.’
The magistrates withdrew to consider their verdict. Thomas gave Anne a curious look.
‘I remember you as a headstrong child,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d reformed long since and become a good, biddable wife. I fear John may find you much changed when he returns.’
‘When John returns,’ said Anne, ‘I shall be happy to be a good, biddable wife again, like many women who have been obliged to do men’s work in these tumultuous times.’ Though as she spoke, she wondered if she lied.
The magistrates returned in a short while. Indeed, Anne suspected they had only stayed away long enough to maintain their reputation for careful consideration of the evidence, and perhaps to take a sup of wine. When the clerk had called the courtroom to order, Mathew Moreton, as presiding magistrate, gave their verdict.
‘The complaints are held to be without substance. The accused is acquitted.’<
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The verdict was greeted with a sudden burst of sound, but it was not clear whether the crowd was pleased or disappointed. On the one hand, there had not been much support for the complainants from Hints, but on the other they had been robbed both of the thrill of seeing a witch executed and of the sense of righteousness felt by good citizens when evil was rooted out.
Anne and Thomas rushed immediately to Agnes, but she had already collapsed and would have fallen to the floor save for the quick action of one of the town constables, who caught her in a clumsy embrace. He was glad enough to hand her over, as though the accusation of witchcraft alone was enough to contaminate her.
Before they left, Mathew Moreton approached them. Anne thought he was going to chide her for speaking openly in court, but instead he ignored her and thanked Thomas for helping the magistrates avoid an unjust outcome in the case.
‘I also have news for you,’ he said, looking pointedly over Anne’s shoulder and speaking solely to Thomas. ‘We have heard at last what is become of Henry Stone. He was attacked on his journey and left for dead, but fortunately rescued by a good Samaritan, who carried him to an inn, where he has been making a slow recovery from an injury to the head. After some considerable time he was able to send the document for Swynfen’s release on its way to Denbigh, and has been informed in return that Swynfen is to make his own way home.’
‘And John himself?’ Anne burst out, flushed at his rudeness, but unable to contain her anxiety. ‘Is there any news of John?’
Moreton continued to turn his face from her, but answered her question. ‘Not directly. Stone received word that Swynfen was to be released, but no one has heard of him since. Stone himself was too badly hurt to go after him and is travelling back slowly by coach, having sent this letter ahead. I’m sure all will be well. Swynfen is out of their filthy prison, and will journey home as quickly as he may.’