‘By the way, how’s your mother keeping, Andrew?’
‘She’s back to her old self. As soon as she started cuffing us all again, we knew she was better.’ His smile slipped. ‘She nearly wasn’t, though, was she?’
I frowned, not really knowing what to say, and not wanting to mention the baby girl who’d died, so I contented myself with a small nod. Andrew touched my forearm and peered closely into my eyes.
‘It’s true, mind, if it wasn’t for you Chandlers, we’d have no mother. Your mother is a blessing to have around the doors. And you.’
I scuffed my clog on the ground, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my face, and stooped to gather the rest of the turnips.
‘Sorry to make you blush. Such a modest maid, eh? So, how’s that old vicar of yours keeping?’
I gave a nervous laugh. ‘You mean the Reverend? He’s not mine and he’s not old. He’s not much older than Mam, really.’
A smile lit Andrew’s eyes. ‘Is that a fact? And you with no da–’
‘I have got a da, Andrew Driver!’ My eyes brimmed with tears, but I didn’t want him to see them. ‘My da was killed in the war. So he’s dead. Right? He’s dead. I wish I’d never bothered picking up your rotten turnips now.’
Andrew smirked. ‘Oh, I see. And there was me and everyone else always thinking your mother was nothing more than the Reverend’s common hearth woman and you no better than–’
At this, I let go of my pinny and the remaining turnips fell at his feet. I willed words to come to my mouth to deny this terrible slight. Mam told me my father died in the war and the Reverend took us in – my mother as his housekeeper and me as his charge. But I didn’t know. I truly didn’t know. And I couldn’t ask anyone such a terrible question, because what if Andrew Driver was right? What then?
Before Andrew could speak again, I fled to the other side of the market, tears stinging my eyes. I kept my face down, but there was no need to hide as Mam and the woman were still going strong, voices lowered and heads close. Mam removed a small vial from her shawl and the pregnant woman tucked it into her own shawl before moving off. It happened in the winking of an eye and I wondered what the vial contained. Mam often gave these vials to women with big bellies. She’d always taught me everything she knew, but she’d never taught me the contents of these vials, or their properties.
Before I could ask the question, Mam hastened towards the haberdasher’s barrow, which was my favourite stall, even if we rarely bought anything. I tucked my hands under my shawl, not so much to keep them warm as to stop myself tapping my mother’s arm and asking her about my father or about the vial. When we reached the haberdasher’s stall, he was busy serving a well-dressed lady. He pulled out the tiny drawers of his wooden travelling cabinet, which twinkled with shiny needles, pins, hooks, buckles, buttons, ribbons, lace and yarns. Normally, I would be entranced by these treasures, but I found myself staring into the distance. Andrew Driver had made me feel unhappy, and he’d tarnished my trip to the market.
‘Come, Jane, you’ll turn blue standing there. The haberdasher will be back again, and we might need to buy some bonny silks for Christmas.’
As we made our way home, my legs burnt on the steep hill, but it was a welcome pain as it warmed me a little and gave me courage. ‘Mam, what did you give that woman with all the little bairns?’
‘Nothing. I gave her nothing.’
‘But, Ma-am.’
‘But, nothing. Keep your eyes and your questions to yourself, or you’ll cause heaven only knows what grief.’
Now Mam was rattled, so it was best not to push my luck. But what was in that vial?
* * *
The pantry got the afternoon light from the south-west, which made it perfect for drying herbs. There was a big mortar and pestle that we used to pound dry plants to dust and a wooden table that was scrubbed to within an inch of its life. An old chest held dozens of bottles, pots and jars. The brown bottles all looked the same, and it was a miracle that we could tell them apart. From the ceiling hung an airer, and from the airer hung bundles of drying herbs. Their smells fused together, and it was impossible to pull apart the different strands of scent to make out the individual plants. I looked up, checking that all were present. It was easy to identify them by sight because I’d been harvesting these plants from early childhood. There was feathery fennel for mother’s milk. There was spiky rosemary for remembrance. There was hairy comfrey for knitting bones. There was heavenly lemon balm for bringing good cheer. There was silvery mugwort for the womb in all its phases. There was lavender for bringing sweet dreams to children and soothing mothers’ tempers. It was used to clean and freshen, and it was the best herb of all, after fennel.
After I’d lowered the airer, removed the driest bunches and hoisted it back up, I rubbed the dry leaves and touched my fingers to my tongue. It always amazed me how the fragrance and flavour of each herb were so much intensified once they were in this dry and fragile state. Despite the fact that wet herbs came here to dry ten moons a year, it was a warm and dry room, heavily scented with a smell that always seemed the same, but which, in reality, turned with the seasons. The fresh smells of spring, of rising sap and delicate floral fragrances. Then summer, with its glut of bright colours and strong perfumes to entice the bees and other winged insects. Next, autumn, ripe with fruit, seeds and berries, bringing the warming and pungent smell of plenty. And finally, the produce from the astringent white months, when the sap fell in the trees and turned leaves brown, when nature went within herself, and we endured the time of bitter barks, hardened stalks and withered husks.
And so the great clock of the year wound itself throughout the seasons. Now that autumn was well under way, it was time to store the last sprigs of dried comfrey. The crock wasn’t yet halfway full and we really needed more, for the villagers would find themselves in need of knitbone once the treacherous ice came. The next job was to strip the dried fennel flowers – this was the best plant and I inhaled the heavenly smell. Mothers’ delight, since fennel tea could help bring on a late baby and it helped milk to flow. I ground the young willow leaves to the palest of green powder before pouring it into crocks and sealing them with wax. This was most valuable to the local women as it helped with the pains of childbirth and monthly menses, and it brought down milk fever. Even Reverend Foster would take a pinch or two when he’d been in his cups for too long.
When gathering willow leaves, I felt safe and protected under the rustling fronds. No matter how great these trees grew, they always made the effort to dip down to me. They were my favourite trees for dreaming under, and I was often found fast asleep beneath a willow. But one autumn, when I was smaller and without wit, Meg Wetherby found me underneath an elder tree. She woke me by digging her sharp fingers into the flesh of my arm, her face red with anger as she shook me awake.
‘Lass, wake up! Wake up!’
‘Ow! I’m awake, I’m awake.’
‘Jane Chandler, promise me never to sleep beneath the elder tree again.’
I’d sat up, rubbing my eyes and yawning. ‘Why on earth not, Meg?’
‘Because the little folk will snatch you away. Oh, it’ll look to all the world as though you’re asleep, but really, you’ll be away dancing yourself to death in the hall of the faerie queen.’
‘Oh, but that sounds quite lovely, Meg.’
‘It might seem lovely at first, dining on rose petals and dewdrops, but once the dance starts, it can never stop, for the faerie queen is an angry queen and it doesn’t do to displease her. And you’d never see your Mam, nor Cuthbert, nor Tom again.’
At this, I bit my lip. The treasures of the faerie queen sounded like hollow and brittle fancies compared to the warm smells and sounds of home.
‘I promise, Meg. From now on, I’ll only sleep under the willow.’
‘Hinny, you can have your pick of the trees, just leave the elder to her own devices and she’ll leave you to yours. They call her the witch tree because only something wick
ed inside could spawn such dark berries.’
I smiled then, my terror forgotten. ‘Oh, Meg, how can you say that when your own mouth is stained by elderberry juice?’
‘I never said the fruit wasn’t delicious. But stick to picking berries from the hedgerows. Leave these old trees to Meg.’
But even back then, I knew that the wilder and older the trees, the better the berries, so they were still my favourite picking trees.
9
John
Under Oath
The justice leaned over his bench. ‘Is this true, Kirstie Slater? Did you walk three times widdershins around the graveyard on All Hallows’ Eve?’
Kirstie opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
‘Answer me, girl, for it is a simple question. But let me make it easier. On All Hallows’ Eve, were you near the kirk?’
Kirstie swallowed. ‘Yes, sire.’
The clerk scribbled a long time for someone recording only two words.
The justice continued. ‘And might you have walked around the kirkyard?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘A simple yes will suffice. How many times did you walk around the kirkyard?’
Kirstie shut her eyes and counted on her fingers. Perhaps the numbers wouldn’t stand still in her head long enough to be counted, requiring the use of her digits also.
‘Well, Kirstie?’
She peeped at Ethel Murray. ‘I don’t know, sire.’
The justice frowned at the mendacious maid. ‘Was it more than once? For instance, did you pass the kirk door?’
‘Sire, I’m trying to recall walking around the kirkyard. Being under oath, I don’t want to err and risk my immortal soul.’
Kirstie glanced at her father, who nodded. No doubt, the miraculously recovered man had counselled his daughter to be chary with her answers. Chary so that the justice couldn’t give her words another meaning and chary so that she didn’t imperil her soul. But justice would be served – of that, I was certain.
‘How many times, Kirstie Slater, how many times?’
‘More than once, sire.’
‘More than once.’ The justice held out a finger and then thrust out a second. ‘So, at least twice.’ He thrust out a third finger and tapped each finger in turn. ‘Perhaps thrice? Think carefully, Kirstie Slater, for you are under oath. Did you pass around a third time?’
Kirstie pressed her hands over her eyes. ‘Really, I … I can’t be certain, sire.’
‘You’re certain that it was twice. Yet, you can’t be certain that it wasn’t thrice.’ The justice consulted a scroll. ‘Fortunately for us, John Sharpe watched you make three turns around the kirkyard. When he made himself known to you, he said that you “jumped a foot in the air”. Do you recollect this?’
Kirstie blinked. ‘I was surprised by little John Sharpe, but …’
Little John Sharpe, indeed. I opened my mouth to object, but Uncle James pressed his hand on my knee and gave me a stern look, which closed it.
‘And did you jump in the air, Kirstie?’
‘Well, not a foot in the air, sire, but he gave me a start, leaping out from the tree.’
‘The reason John Sharpe was able to surprise you is that you were passing the wrong side of the oak. I put it to you, Kirstie Slater, that you were walking widdershins around the graveyard – on hallowed land. How say you to that charge?’
‘No! I was only gathering elderberries.’
The justice smiled. ‘Really? But your whole village is thick with elderberries, so why venture to the graveyard?’
Kirstie’s chin quivered. Her own words were tying her in knots. It might go better for her if she remained silent. But she kept her eyes on her father, took a faltering breath and continued.
‘Because those berries are the biggest.’
‘So, you went hunting for berries from the witch tree? Not just any berries, but those growing lush in the graveyard, made fat by the flesh of innocent souls resting in sanctified ground. Not content with this macabre harvest, you walked widdershins three times around the kirkyard. To what end?’
Kirstie’s shoulders heaved. ‘J … just that I wanted the juiciest berries for cough bottles. There’s a hard winter coming that will clog many chests.’
‘You were gathering witch berries to make a curative linctus? Not content to accept God’s will, you determine to interfere with His intent by creating and administering your foul brew to innocents?’
Kirstie’s father closed his eyes and moved his lips. Was he praying for her? Or making a charm against me?
The justice glared at the accused. ‘Girl, attend when I speak!’
She flinched and then murmured her apologies.
‘Kirstie, how are you so certain that a bad winter is coming?’
‘Well, sire, because I read the signs and they tell me what to expect.’
‘You “read the signs”. What signs are these? Might anyone read them?’
‘Yes, sire, anyone with a mind to.’
‘I see. Please furnish me with instances of these signs.’
I sat up. So many examples to give. Which might save and which condemn?
Kirstie pleated her shift between her fingers. ‘Well, sire, the holly trees are bending under the weight of berries, the onions have put on their warm coats, the squirrels are nesting low and the cows’ necks have thickened. All these are sure signs of a hard winter coming.’
Kirstie tried to catch the eye of her neighbouring farmers. If she hoped one would nod in recognition, she was sorely mistaken, as none would meet her eye. Findlay examined the toe of his boot and Reid gazed past her. Uncle James shifted in his seat, and I heard him utter a soft prayer.
‘So, you look to flora and fauna for signs to predict something that only God should know?’ The red in the justice’s eye had swallowed much of the blue and his eyes blazed. ‘So that you can interfere with His mighty plan?’
Despite the cold room and Kirstie’s scant shift, sweat trickled down her face. A definite indication of guilt.
‘No, please, sire! You make it sound worse than it is. Everyone keeps an eye out for signs to prepare for what’s coming. Just as dandelion seeds aflying when there’s no wind is a sure sign of rain coming.’
Kirstie looked to the women. She could expect nothing from Ethel Murray, but Goodwives Findlay and Reid should be grateful to her. Would they come to her aid? Would she remind them of help given and gratefully received? These weak and foolish women had fallen prey to Kirstie’s interference in God’s will, but she was on trial, not them.
‘Kirstie Slater, I put it to you that you were picking bewitched fruits made gross by the blood of the dead in an effort to commune with the devil, there to gain illicit knowledge to concoct your foul wares.’
The justice pointed at Kirstie, and she trembled before his unwavering stare.
‘I put it to you that you are a diabolical dabbler, interfering in God’s great work. I put it to you that by walking widdershins three times around the kirkyard, you were opening up a hole into hell, so that the evil one might make his approach and lie with you, to fill your belly with imps.’
At this, the justice slammed his hand on the bench, making Kirstie flinch. It even made Uncle James sit up, and he had God on his side.
‘I put it to you that you are both witch and willing servant to Satan. That you give him suck and in return he gives you arcane knowledge.’
A smile crept across Ethel Murray’s face, though she’d little to smile about.
The justice looked around. ‘We’ve heard the charges, so will anyone now speak for the accused?’
The room was full of people Kirstie had grown up with. But none would look at her. There were only blank eyes. Perhaps the imps in her stomach were turning since she started panting as if to keep them down. Eventually, her breathing slowed and she stole another glance at Ethel Murray. There was an expression on the older woman’s face, but what was it? Satisfaction. She looked satisfied.
Kirs
tie’s father pushed his way forward. ‘Sire! I’ll speak for Kirstie.’
‘What? You will speak for your own progeny?’ The justice sniffed. ‘You may have bias, but since none other will speak, pray continue.’
Kirstie’s father straightened his jerkin. ‘My daughter is no witch. What has passed today is madness.’
The justice frowned. ‘Beware, man, of slandering these decent people.’
Slater continued in a voice so low that even the justice was forced to lean forward to catch his words. This surely wasn’t his everyday speaking voice. Perhaps he was also a witch and this was the voice he kept for voicing his private incantations. I would raise this question with Uncle James later and seek his opinion.
‘Kirstie was gathering berries to prepare syrups, something she’s done every autumn since she could walk. These syrups restore the humours of sickly children, and keep men working and feeding their families throughout winter. Is there anyone here who has not sought help from Kirstie or her late mother, God rest her?’
He looked at Findlay, Reid and Smith. After considerable shuffling and mumbling, there were a few nods. Then Slater turned to Ethel Murray.
‘You there, Goodwife Murray. Have you not sought help from Kirstie?’
‘I am Widow Murray, thanks to your haggish daughter. I’ve sought nothing from her. And you’ll not use your clever words to despoil this court’s purpose. Your young vixen bewitched my Arthur out of his wits, so she could steal him.’
Kirstie drained of colour, and she pressed her hands to her belly.
Slater continued. ‘But Widow Murray, Kirstie is but a maid, and a wronged maid at that.’
‘A maid who bewitched my Arthur into coupling–’
Slater’s voice rose. ‘And now she carries that terrible man’s child!’
Ethel threw up her arms. ‘As I am a devout and healthy Christian woman who did my wifely duty as often as God required it, were there to be any issue from my husband, I should have been the one to bear it. Your she-devil carries the demon’s seed and not my Arthur’s child!’
Widdershins Page 7