Kirstie’s father dipped his head. ‘May God have mercy.’
But Ethel Murray hadn’t finished. ‘The Slaters are a hex on this village. Our crops have failed, the beasts have lamed, and we’ve gone from a prosperous farm to one withering. Once she’s gone, the curse will lift and our goodness will return. It’s not right that she stalks the town with a bellyful of imps when it’s clear that she should have swung and not my Arthur.’
Slater shook his head. ‘Widow Murray, your husband was found guilty and hanged accordingly.’
Ethel Murray pointed at Kirstie. ‘This spiteful slattern took my husband’s goodness, and with it, my happiness.’
Kirstie put her hand over her mouth as if she were the wronged party, when Ethel Murray’s man had swung for the sake of Kirstie’s fiendish desires.
But Slater was not done. ‘Sire, we must see sense. The country has been under deluge in years past, and crops have failed in successive summers. This tragedy may be due to God’s displeasure, plain misfortune, or the whim of the weather. But it’s not due to my daughter picking berries. Kirstie seeks only to help others.’
He paused and stared at Ethel Murray. ‘Widow Murray, did you not seek powders from Kirstie last spring? Didn’t Kirstie’s poultice draw the poison from your eye? Didn’t my girl save your sight? Without her ministrations, might you not be half-blind?’
Ethel put her hand to her left eye and her face reddened. People were nodding and murmuring. The justice knocked his gavel against the sounding block. The loud bang sobered the crowd and returned them to silence.
‘Slater makes a strong case, although it goes badly for him that he’s revealed the travails of the Widow Murray to do so. But his girl has still confessed to behaviour of a most suspicious nature–’
Slater interrupted the justice. ‘Sire, there’s no witching in Kirstie. She’s done only kind works in this village, providing remedies for those who can’t afford the barber-surgeon. All present must have short memories. Without Kirstie, those unable to pay MacBain would go without any help. How many would be sitting here today without the ministrations of Kirstie?’
He paused, putting his eye on various members of the courtroom.
‘How many of you have Kirstie or her late mother to thank for delivering your children, saving your lives and easing your pains when you lacked the coin to pay? Yes, you might well hang your heads. Findlay, you’ll recall your goodwife recently giving birth, when mother and child were both spared thanks to Kirstie’s intervention. Reid, was not your ague relieved by Kirstie? And you, Smith, when you turned yellow with your own bile, did Kirstie not set you back in your right humour?’
Was that a smile playing on the witch’s lips as she watched the grudging nods of agreement? Perhaps Slater possessed juicier ailments, which he’d reveal to save his daughter. For the first time, I worried that he might turn the justice’s mind.
Slater continued to eye the crowd. ‘It’s useful to jog the old memory, is it not? How many of you here today–?’
But the justice banged his gavel again. ‘Enough! That is enough, Slater. You’ve made your points and you’ve made them well. A case has been made that Kirstie Slater is no witch, but merely a cunning woman keeping her neighbours hale. But that can’t be an end to it. We must have proof absolute that she is no witch. Your testament will not suffice without physical evidence. We’ll fetch the barber-surgeon since he’s well versed in testing witches.’
Kirstie’s father frowned. ‘MacBain? In this weather? The big sawbones will not like being drawn from his fire. He’s as honest as a bereaved dog, but energetic he is not. If he’s not lying down, he’s hugging the fire and dreaming of lying down. Yet, my girl’s life hangs on the man’s abilities.’
‘Enough, man! MacBain is the best man for the job. We can trust his judgement. This hearing is adjourned until the barber-surgeon reaches us.’
* * *
At the reopening of the trial, Slater and a bailie were stationed at the door, peering through the window, waiting for the barbersurgeon. I was back in my seat, with Uncle James at my side.
The bailie grinned at Slater. ‘Here comes MacBain, picking his way down the path, as delicately as a thin-boned bride. Clearly, a man who doesn’t want to miss pricking a maid because of a snapped neck. And there’s his vast bag, no doubt filled with dreadful implements that even the devil would blush to use.’
Slater turned a grim stare on the man.
But still the bailie babbled. ‘No doubt the usual selection of pincers, clysters and flenching knives.’
Slater put his hand on the bailie’s shoulder and squeezed his bones until the man continued in a less excitable manner.
‘Although there’s no relish in MacBain for the job. It’s not a task he takes lightly, I hear, and that may go well for your Kirstie.’
Slater looked at his daughter. ‘I pray you’re right. For there are stories of wicked men who take pleasure in pricking maids and sending them to the flames.’
The bailie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. Though better that than a witch roaming free.’
Slater looked ready to strike the bailie, but a sergeant lifted his club, which settled him. The two men turned to watch MacBain’s progress down the slippery path.
Uncle James turned to whisper in my ear. ‘This pricking business is worrying, much more worrying than Slater’s words. MacBain is a just man. Misguided, of course, but just. Even though Slater paints him as a man who wouldn’t act unless there’s coin to be paid, I know he’s given poppy milk to many when they were weak with pain from canker – coin or no coin. Plenty here will take heed of him.’
Before I could reply, the door opened and a blast of rain entered the room, followed by MacBain stamping mud from his feet. Slater took his wet cloak. Kirstie looked at MacBain, but he didn’t smile at her. This cheered me. The barber-surgeon nodded to the justice and to Uncle James, and then crossed the room, leaving footprints in his wake. He placed his bag on the table before beckoning Kirstie and taking her hands.
‘Kirstie, lie on this table, and we’ll make this as swift as God permits.’
While MacBain blew onto his cold hands, Kirstie was lifted onto the table by two sergeants. The barber-surgeon turned Kirstie this way and that, gently lifting sections of her shift, moving the garment one way, then the other, before turning her onto her side and repeating the procedure. He was modest and shielded the girl with his own body, careful not to reveal her form to voracious onlookers since she must be naked as venison beneath her shift. After MacBain examined Kirstie, he straightened her shift and cleared his throat before addressing the bench.
‘Sire, after a thorough search, I conclude there is no third teat, or anything untoward on this maid that would give suck to the devil, or to his imps.’
A flicker of disappointment crossed the justice’s face. ‘If you’re certain, MacBain?
‘Quite certain, sire. The devil’s mark is well known to me.’
Uncle James spoke up then. ‘Continue with the pricking, MacBain. The devil may have left his stain invisible about her person.’
The justice flushed, but he was not about to argue with a man of God. ‘You heard the pastor, MacBain, he knows of what he speaks. You may continue.’
The barber-surgeon inhaled deeply and then he turned to his bag and removed a blade. He nodded to the sergeants, who held Kirstie down.
‘I’m sorry for this, lassie, but it’ll be over soon.’
She closed her eyes. MacBain raised Kirstie’s shift to her thigh at the side furthest away from the crowd and forced the blade into her. She screamed and a gout of blood spurted from her leg. This was a disaster. What trickery was afoot?
The barber-surgeon began to dress the wound he’d made. ‘Sire, this maid has no third teat. She screamed and bled copiously upon being pricked. Therefore, she can’t be a witch, or a consort of the devil.’
I was tempted to interject, but the justice stood up.
‘MacBain,
it is for the justice to pronounce guilt or not, it is not a job for a mere barber-surgeon.’
MacBain tightened the dressing. ‘Surely, sire, it is for the justice to consider all the available evidence before pronouncing guilt or not.’
‘Silence, MacBain! Do you hold my position in such contempt? Prick her again. Or I’ll find another who is willing and perhaps more capable.’
Kirstie was forced backward onto the table once more, her arms pinioned. Her leg still oozed the treacherous blood. She was pale in the face, no doubt hoping to fall into blackness at any second, so her dark master could save her. But no, she was staying with the light, and her eyes were wide open.
The barber-surgeon closed his eyes for a heartbeat – perhaps he was praying for her. He stuck Kirstie in her arm, but this time the blade didn’t go so deep. Even so, she made sure to jerk mightily and to shriek, and she’d surely prayed to Satan to make her blood run free again, as blood trickled from her arm and pooled on the table. There was not so much blood this time, but it was blood all the same. MacBain made to dress the wound on her arm, until the justice interrupted him.
‘Again, MacBain! Prick her again. She has four limbs, does she not?’
‘Sire, I’ve pricked this girl left and right, arm and leg, and she’s bled a great deal. I can’t find a spot on her that will not bleed. I’ll kill her if I continue.’
I leapt up. ‘Pure trickery! The witch has found a way to outwit MacBain.’
The justice sighed. ‘Sit down, John Sharpe. Pastor, control your charge, and we’ll get to him in turn.’
Uncle turned a cold eye on me. I had displeased him with my outburst, so I shrank down in my seat.
Slater stepped forward, still clutching the barber-surgeon’s cloak. ‘The sawbones has pricked Kirstie – she’s half dead through bleeding – and before witnesses. Plenty of witnesses, who can vouch that my girl bled red and true from two wounds on the opposite quarters of her body.’
The justice looked from Slater and then to MacBain. ‘Very well. We shall say no more. MacBain, continue dressing the girl’s wounds while I consider my verdict.’
MacBain bound her wounds tight. He’d cut her left arm. Was it because that was the devil’s own side? Or, did he spare her right arm so she could continue to work? It would pay to watch this man. When MacBain was finished, he helped Kirstie down from the table and held out his hand for his cloak. Slater helped him into it.
‘Get her home, Slater, and keep her warm, for the terror of the proceedings and the cold will be more likely to kill her than any knife, especially given her frail condition. And get her away from here. Ethel Murray, John Sharpe and the pastor will see your Kirstie burnt one way or another.’
MacBain’s comments made my uncle bristle. ‘The impertinent man. He cares not a whit whether I heard him or not! He is perhaps a man who warrants further investigation himself.’
The barber-surgeon left as the justice got to his feet. He tapped his gavel, and all eyes turned from Kirstie to the justice. My heart raced. Would the witch be cast from this world, or would she be set free to devour yet more souls?
‘I have reached a decision on whether Kirstie Slater is a witch and consorter of the devil.’ He paused and looked at me. ‘The case against Kirstie Slater is found not proven on both counts.’
I couldn’t take in this revelation. The justice claimed Kirstie Slater wasn’t guilty. By the looks of her, the witch’s humours were fully restored now that she’d cheated the flames. I dared not turn to look at Uncle James. But I’d see my day with her and her kindred, and then Uncle would be proud of me.
The justice stood up. ‘Let everyone here present note that questions remain about Kirstie Slater’s behaviour. It ill behoves her to come before me again, as she may face a less lenient judgment next time. But on this day, she may go free.’
Kirstie put her head down, no doubt fearing the justice would alter his decision.
Uncle clasped my shoulder. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, John, about how fickle people are, that they call for a girl’s neck one minute, and allow her freedom the next, their humour changed only by a few words uttered by one man or another.’
I nodded, weighing his words carefully. This is something he wanted me to watch out for in future trials – men with worthy intentions, but with too many clever words in their mouths.
Part Two
10
Jane
Time of the Moon
My first bleeding caused me to double up. Mam nodded and beckoned me away from the fire.
‘Oh, Jane. Come here, pet.’ She took a wooden box from behind the curtain and opened it. Inside were clean pieces of rag. ‘You’ve started to bleed, just like I told you. These rags’ll soak it up a bit. Change them once they fill. And once they’re soiled, soak them, scrub them and air them before they go back in the box, otherwise you’ll end up sore or have dogs following you.’
The pain sickened me, so I could only nod while I clutched my stomach.
Mam peered outside. ‘Nearly the full moon, so that’s your moon time, same as when you were born. You’re to let no lad or man near you. Especially at the dead moon. Do you mind me?’
‘Yes, Mam.’ She didn’t need to tell me as we’d both seen the end result too many times.
‘Men aren’t all polite and some will take what they want if they think they’ll get away with it. And some even if they know they’ll swing for it. Look, get away to bed with you. I’ll warm up a stone and fetch it to you. It doesn’t get any easier, but you’ll get more used to it as time wears on.’
I mutely accepted the wooden box and made my way to bed. This wasn’t the box Mam used – that came and went often enough as the moon grew fat and then died. Mam must have prepared this gift in readiness. She must have been watching me. I’d noted my own budding breasts, swelling hips and narrowing waist, the troubled complexion and a sharpening in both odour and temper. So Mam must have noticed the very same.
The rags were clean now, but they would soon stain and never be this clean again. Tears slid down my cheek in mourning for the childhood that must be put away. This was my entrance to the world of women. A mixed blessing of the magical, the mysterious and the meanness. This baptism in blood would only lead to more, as blood was begot by blood. So many girls and women died when birthing and soon after. It was cruel work being a woman. But still better than being a man, who could be sent to war.
* * *
I was at the window, watching Bill and Tom Verger carrying shrouded forms to the crypt door. It was grey outside and it was hard to tell whether it was day or night. There was just enough light to see them pick their way through the graveyard, but just enough darkness to make it hard to see exactly what they were doing.
‘Jane, get away from that window. You’re letting all the cold in. And put that curtain back down.’
‘Mam, what are Bill and Tom Verger doing out there?’
‘You know full well that they’re doing God’s work, Jane, so stop gawking and help me make supper.’
But my mind continued working, even as I peeled and chopped roots for the pot, hoping there would be bacon to add.
‘Shall I add split peas and barley, Mam?’
‘Yes, you do that, and I’ll go to the larder.’
My mouth watered. Split peas always meant ham. There was a hock in the larder, and I was already imagining a salty supper. Mam placed the hock on the table with a dull thud.
‘You’ll have no luck cutting that, Jane. It’s so cold, it’s near frozen. Let it soften before you try. Here, add some extra roots to the stew and we’ll get a few days out of it. And fetch some sage and onions from the pantry. No salt though, as there should be plenty on him already.’
‘Oh, Mam, don’t refer to our meat as “him”. I know where it’s come from, but I prefer to separate the poor soul who lived in the pen all year from the tasty meat this hock will make.’
But Mam only laughed. ‘Oh, Jane, you’d soon enough take a bite fr
om a living pig if you were to go without meat for more than your six weeks of Lent!’
Head hanging, I went to the pantry. Mam was right. My favourite day of the whole year was Easter Sunday, when we’d have crisp and fatty lamb, brushed all over with salt and rosemary. My mouth began to water anew at the imaginary smell of lamb and rosemary roasting over the fire, with the fat crackling and sizzling when it hit the flames.
In the pantry, I first cut a pair of onions from the string along the wall. Their fragile skins reminded me of Bible paper. Then I opened a crock and took out some sage. It was so dry that it would crumble easily between my fingers and it would most likely turn to dust on the journey back to the kitchen.
Back in the warmth of the kitchen, I crumbled the sage into the bubbling pot, then peeled and chopped the onions. My eyes stung and tears rolled down my face. Wiping them with my elbows only made them worse.
Mam pursed her lips. ‘How many times, Jane? Make sure the knife’s sharp, and try whistling while you work so you don’t cry.’
I smiled through my tears. ‘But I enjoy it, Mam, since a good keen makes me feel better, even if I’m not sad.’
‘You’re a queer girl sometimes, Jane. Now, if you can manage here, I’m going to see to the church for an hour or so.’
When Mam left, I threw the chopped onions and roots into the pot over the fire. Even though there was no meat in the stew, it gave off a savoury scent and my stomach rumbled. It was hard to look at the hock of ham without seeing it for the leg it was. When I pressed my fingers into the cold flesh, it was still stiff, with very little give. My fingers didn’t even leave an impression. It was tempting to move it nearer to the fire, but it could spoil and then there’d be no meat.
The stew could mind itself for a while and the hock wasn’t going anywhere anymore, so I crept back to the window to see if Bill and Tom were back. A little breath of cold air chilled me when I lifted the curtain, cold coming in waves from the glass. It was too cold even for snow. Through the murk, it was just possible to see Bill and Tom come out of the crypt door, closing it behind them. This was the only time Tom didn’t wear his big grin, when he was doing his duties for the departed. If he would only smile, though, and make the dimples wink in his cheeks and the crinkles appear around his green eyes.
Widdershins Page 8