“Do we have that confession, Mr. Lowes?!” Hopkins asked from the pier.
There was no confession. Only muffled gurgling as he fought to keep water out of his mouth. A moment later, his body was lowered even more, and more, until he felt a moment of terror so extreme that he would have blurted out anything to escape from drowning: “I confess!”
“What’s that?” Hopkins cupped his hand over his ear.
“I confess!” shouted Lowes. “I confess!”
Hopkins gave a knowing glance to the magistrate. “I believe that should suffice.”
“Right.” The magistrate looked back toward his three fellow men of the court. They all nodded. “Mr. Lowes,” the magistrate said, “you are hereby found guilty of the crime of communing with the Devil and will be sentenced to death.”
A t the gallows stood 18 souls. John Godbolt, a portly man who ran the local court and had ordered the witch trials, paced back and forth along a stage, reading out the names of those sentenced to death by hanging. He was nearing the end of the list. “Mary Clowes. Mary Fuller. Anne Alderman. Anne Leech. And finally, John Lowes.”
The 80-year-old man, still dripping wet from his dunking, stood at the end of the line of the condemned, which consisted mostly of crying middle-aged women, begging to be spared, their pleas falling on deaf ears who had already decided, in their own minds, that their lives would be better without these people around.
“We will begin with you, Mr. Lowes. Out of respect for your years of service to the church, we will spare you the pain of watching your partners in evil be punished.” Godbolt nodded to an executioner, who started toward the old priest.
“Wait!” a voice rang up from the crowd. Godbolt looked down to see a man in his late 30s rushing toward the stage, followed by a young woman who couldn’t have been half his age. “Wait! Just one moment!”
Gaule climbed to the stage and addressed the confused crowd of onlookers. “You’re making a terrible mistake. This is a man of God!” He gestured to Lowes. “I know this because I am one myself. I am John Gaule, vicar of Great Staughton.”
“And I’m Rebecca West!” Rebecca climbed onto the stage and stood next to him. “I…um…I…I also do things. Sometimes.”
Boos erupted from the audience.
“Good people, listen!” Gaule stepped forward. “This has gone too far! This man has appeared out of nowhere and suddenly you’re executing priests? On his word?”
“John Lowes despised my husband,” a woman from the crowd yelled up. “He had him killed. I cannot let this pass.”
“So, it’s vengeance you want?” Gaule asked. “Vengeance is a blinding poison. Please. I am asking you to use reason. Do not harm these innocent people. Their lives should not be forfeit over coincidence.”
It was no use. The crowd shouted curses toward the stage. They wanted blood and they wanted it now.
“Son,” Lowes said. Gaule turned. He was surprised that the old man was able to speak. “You will only throw suspicion onto yourself. Please. Let it go.”
“I cannot let it go,” Gaule boiled. “I cannot.”
“You must. You can do no good here,” Lowes said. “Live to fight another day.”
Before he could answer, Gaule was picked up by the gigantic executioner and thrown into the crowd, who dispersed while his body was in the air and let him land in the muck, facedown in mud. He sat up and spat out dirt.
The executioner moved toward Rebecca.
“Uh, no need,” she said, stepping off the stage of her own free will. “I’ll go ahead and volunteer…”
From the ground, Gaule watched as Lowes was kicked off the stage. He was lucky. His life ended with but a single snap. A few twitches later, he was gone.
“Dammit.” Gaule grabbed the cross around his neck and closed his eyes tight. They’d gone too far. When he looked up, he met the gaze of Matthew Hopkins, who’d been standing at the back of the crowd. He was flipping some coins up and down in his palm and smiling.
In that instant, something changed in Gaule. Perhaps he had reached his limit. But in that moment, he was no longer a man, but a beast. He leapt to his feet and chased after Hopkins, who suddenly found himself afraid of the animalistic bloodlust in his enemy’s eyes.
Gaule, who was never much of a fighter, threw himself at Matthew Hopkins, knocking him into the mud. There, the two fought. Punches were thrown…and some even landed. Gaule eventually got the better of Hopkins, who appeared to be an even worse fighter than the clergyman, and pinned him on his back as villagers looked on.
“Why are you doing this?!” Gaule shouted.
Hopkins, half-choking, laughed. “Just to piss you off, John.”
“You’re nothing but a murderer!”
“I am doing what is necessary to defeat evil!”
Gaule, in an even rarer moment of white hot rage, picked a rock off the ground and raised it over Matthew’s head. “So am I.”
Wham!
Gaule felt his body go limp as the massive form of John Stearne smashed into him. After coming to his senses, Gaule suddenly found himself being arrested by one of the local magistrates.
“He attacked me,” Hopkins said, picking himself off the ground and brushing off the dirt. “Attacked me without cause.”
“I had cause,” Gaule squabbled. “I have dozens of causes. One of them just had his neck snapped so you could put a coin in your pocket!”
“I apologize, sir,” the magistrate told Hopkins. “Would you like to press charges, sir?”
Gaule stared Hopkins down.
Hopkins smiled. “No, I would not. We wouldn’t want to punish a man of God now, would we? Do me a favor, though, and hold him until I take my leave. I would like to pack my things without the threat of danger.”
“Of course. Come on.” The magistrate dragged John Gaule to the local prison, where he would sit for several hours. Gaule was not feeling gracious for Hopkins declining to press charges. No, it wasn’t some gesture of good faith toward a clergyman; clearly, Hopkins had no qualms about killing men of God.
It was because, as Gaule knew, the sentence for assault was but a few weeks in prison.
But the sentence for witchcraft could be death.
H opkins arrived at his carriage to find John Stearne waiting for him. “Let’s go,” Hopkins said. “There’s always another witch to hang.”
“Actually, uh, Mr. Hopkins,” John said shakily. “I do not wish to go any farther with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“The priest, sir. John Lowes. I…I think it was too far. And some of the villagers, I believe they feel the same, sir. It was a mistake. We may have angered God.”
Hopkins stepped toward the significantly taller man, craning his neck to meet his eye line. His lack of height, however, did not make him any less menacing. “The only one you are angering is me.”
“I’m sorry.” Stearne shook his head. “I’m just…I’m sorry. I’m going back to my family.”
“Your family, huh?” Hopkins smirked. “Well enjoy the money you made from your few months of exploiting God. Perhaps I shall pay Manningtree a visit soon.”
Stearne glared. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Ah, the famous last words of many who have crossed my path,” Hopkins replied. “Get out of here, John. Go back to your family. You are not worthy of being an arm of God.”
“I think,” Stearne said, “there’s only one person standing here not worthy of anything. Goodbye, Matthew. Good luck with whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“I don’t need your luck,” Matthew said as Stearne walked away. “I have God on my side.”
R ebecca smiled the widest smile she’d ever smiled in her entire life as the gate to John Gaule’s prison cell was opened by the magistrate.
“Did you have fun?” she beamed.
Gaule rolled his eyes. “I did. Lots of time to think. And unfortunately lost time on capturing Hopkins. We’ll have to ask around and figure out where he’s heading next.
One of the councilmen should be able to tell us. Albeit probably for most of the coin I have in my pocket…”
“Already taken care of.”
“What?” Gaule looked surprised. “Really?”
Rebecca kissed one of her index fingers, then another, then touched them together seductively.
“Oh,” Gaule said sheepishly. “I see…”
“Just consider it,” Rebecca said, “my way of taking back control by using the few resources that society hasn’t stripped of me.”
-14-
Ipswich Witch
SEPTEMBER 1645
H enry Reade was in agony. Red sores covered his body, which glistened with sweat. The sores burned and itched. Some grew so massive on his throat that he could barely breathe. The young man of 22 was living in the embodiment of Hell’s fire.
“How long has this been afflicting him?” a physician asked Henry’s father, Edward Reade. The two were standing by the boy’s bedside as he writhed in pain.
“It started last night, as soon as we got home from the tavern,” answered Edward Reade. “Maybe something he drank?”
“I find that doubtful,” said the physician. “If that were a factor, I fear we’d have many more than just this one case.” The physician noticed a mark beneath the boy’s neck, right at the spot where it met his chest. It was a raised, red mark the shape of a six-pointed star. “What in the Devil?”
Something clicked in Edward Reade’s brain. “The Devil…”
“Did something…occur recently, Edward?”
“Yes…Henry, my boy…yesterday he…he broke off his engagement with Elizabeth Lakeland. Her grandmother was…very upset. She said…that not marrying her granddaughter had essentially put a pox on our family.”
“Mary Lakeland?” the physician knew the name. The old woman was generally adored in the community and taught at the local church. Her reputation was spotless.
“Yes…” Edward Reade began to grow red with anger. “It was her! She did this to my son!”
“Let’s calm down a second,” the physician gently put his hands on Edward’s shoulders. “That’s a dangerous accusation to throw around, Edward. Especially without any evidence. Now, let’s be gentlemen and we will go speak to Mary Lakeland ourselves, alright?”
Edward Reade took a deep breath and nodded. The two left Henry Reade in the care of his mother while they made the short trek across the village to the home of Mary Lakeland. Ipswich was a port town, and the sounds of bells and sailors in the harbor were ever-present. Seagulls cawed in the air and occasionally swooped down to steal the day’s catch of fish. The homes and roads here were of better construction than most small cities thanks to the population’s wealth.
Mary Lakeland was married to the local barber-surgeon, William Lakeland. Both were well-known figures in Ipswich. The physician knew that accusing Mary Lakeland of a crime was going to take tact and finesse. As they approached the home, which also served as the barber shop, the physician rehearsed lines in his head, hoping to make what they were going to suggest less insulting and more digestible. They were going to need a lot more evidence, that’s for sure. Ipswich was a civilized town with civilized magistrates who required strict proof, and proof was always hard to find.
Or at least that’s what he thought before he opened the door to the Lakeland barber shop that morning.
Mary Lakeland was on her knees, crying over the body of her husband. He lied on his back, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.
The physician gulped, “Mrs. Lakeland…what happened!”
“I don’t know!” Mary Lakeland cried. “I just found him like this! He’s gone! He’s gone!” On the back of her hand, both men noticed a large, bleeding cut. It was a clean cut, as if made by a blade.
Or a claw of the Devil.
Edward Reade and the physician gave each other looks of certainty. There was no such thing as coincidence.
Within an hour, Mary Lakeland was in jail, accused by Edward Reade of witchcraft; making a deal with the Devil to afflict the young Henry Reade with painful sores and tumors for the crime of ending his engagement to her granddaughter. The magistrates had also been convinced that her husband was going to turn her in for these crimes, so she killed him to keep him quiet.
Of course, she denied everything.
Meanwhile, Henry Reade continued to suffer.
Not knowing exactly what to do with Mary Lakeland, the magistrates discussed what their legal options were; could they execute without a confession? Without proof?
Then, like some twisted angel of blackness, Matthew Hopkins came stumbling into the magistrate’s offices.
“Can we help you?” one of the magistrates asked, clearly annoyed by the intrusion.
“I understand you have apprehended a witch,” Hopkins said. He was short of breath. His hair was messy. His beard dirty. He also reeked of alcohol and stumbled with a drunken gait.
“A suspected witch,” the magistrate clarified. “Are you drunk, sir?”
“Drunk with experience. My name is Matthew Hopkins.”
The magistrates recognized his name immediately. It had been floated to nearly all the villages of East Anglia. He was a man whose services were always in demand and greatly respected.
“I apologize, Mr. Hopkins,” the magistrate said. “Of course, we’d love to have your expertise.”
After agreeing to a price, one of the magistrates led Matthew Hopkins to the prison cell where Mary Lakeland was being held. In the same cell was another woman. She was much younger, not much older than Rebecca.
“Ah, two, I see,” Hopkins said.
“Who are you?” Mary Lakeland asked from the other side of the bars. “What do you want with us?”
“I am here to help, ma’am,” Hopkins said. “Who is this charming young lady?”
The younger blonde sniffled. “Alice Denham.”
“Alice,” Hopkins smiled, “such a pretty name. Give me your hand, dear.”
The girl hesitated.
Matthew calmly placed his hand through the bars. The girl finally took it. She was shaking.
“My job, young lady, is to get you off the proverbial hook, so to speak,” Hopkins said. “It is my belief, of course, that you are innocent. And so, what I am going to do, is put you through some paces that will allow you both, undeniably, to prove your innocence.” He opened the gate and stepped into their cell. Then, he opened his bag with a smile. “Are we ready to begin?”
Both women beamed with relief. This was a man, they thought, that truly cared for them. Both Alice Denham and Mary Lakeland were good people. Both were well-liked in their community and dedicated their lives to helping others.
It was a pity then, that in a few days, both would succumb to Hopkins’ torture of sleep deprivation. Both would sign confessions for crimes they didn’t commit. And both would experience the absolute worst punishment ever to befall an accused witch.
J ohn Gaule and Rebecca West had arrived in Ipswich one day too late to interfere with Hopkins’ interrogation and prevent the two accused from confessing. Word had come from the magistrates that the two had finally confessed and their fate would be decided by vote in the morning. Gaule and West were too late to stop the confession, but they weren’t too late to get what they really came for.
After hearing from locals that Hopkins was renting a room at the Windward Inn, Rebecca used her powers of seduction to book the room right next to it. It was here that they waited for Hopkins to come home, then inevitably make his way down to the bar.
“Alright,” Gaule said, opening the door. He looked over the balcony railing and down into the tavern. Hopkins was sitting alone at the bar. Gaule looked to Rebecca. “You know what to do?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
“You think this is the first room I’ve ever broken into?”
“I was kind of hoping it would be.” Gaule sighed. “No matter.” He turned and looked back down at Hopkins again. This time, however, Hopkin
s was looking like he was getting ready to leave the bar and come back upstairs. Possibly for the rest of the night. Which would ruin their chances of getting what they needed. “Shit!” Gaule cursed. “Go, now! I’ll keep Hopkins distracted!”
Gaule made his way downstairs while Rebecca picked the lock on Hopkins’ room door and slipped inside.
“Mr. Hopkins!” Gaule beamed, rushing down the stairs and meeting Hopkins on his way up. “Another successful confession, I hear?”
Hopkins stared. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. His face looked tired. His eyes looked sunken. “What do you want, Gaule?”
“To apologize.”
“For?”
“Everything. Socking you in the eye, for starters.”
“It’ll heal.” Hopkins tried to move past him and up the stairs to his room.
“Wait, look, Matthew,” Gaule sighed. “I wanted to come to a truce. Lately I have realized that you and I both want the same thing. The world to be free of sin. You have your way and I have mine. And tonight I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“And what would that be?”
“Convince me,” Gaule said.
“Of?”
“To help you.”
U pstairs, Rebecca carried a lit candle around Matthew Hopkins’ room at the inn. It was messier than she imagined. Hopkins had always carried himself with an air of nobility. He spoke and dressed like a gentleman, and Rebecca imagined he’d be impossibly charming if not for his penchant for mass murder.
Clothes lay strewn about. Feathers from pillows that had been slammed against the wall were scattered everywhere. And liquor bottles. Piles of empty liquor bottles could be found in every corner.
Someone had been quite angry.
Getting her mind back on her quest, she started shuffling around the desk. It was a mess of papers. Some had been torn apart. Perhaps broken contracts? She took a closer look. They weren’t contracts. Many of the torn letters were letters from religious officials condemning the actions of Matthew Hopkins. There was even one that looked like it was formally stamped from parliament! Rebecca scanned the letter.
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