Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  As the procession slowed before a line of wooden gallows, rage swelled in my chest. I bit hard on the insides of my cheeks and only the pain and the taste of blood stopped me from screaming. Each gallows had a noose, which swayed gently in the summer breeze. Joiners’ lads scampered up and down long ladders and perched on top of the newly hewn gallows. The smell of freshly sawn wood hung in the air, its sweet sap a terrible scent on such a day.

  So many people to be murdered. It was unbearable looking at the terrifying contraptions, one of which would be used to force my mother from this world. Great shame washed through me for allowing Mam to take my place at the trial. In the hour of her greatest need, I’d give anything to change places. Instead, all I could do was hold up my aching head so that I might be the last sight Mam saw: someone who loved her and who would pray for her soul. Word would have spread to Reverend Foster and he must be here somewhere, praying for Mam.

  Having done its scorching work on the long walk through Newcastle, the sun had now taken its leave and dark clouds moved across the moor. The sky pressed down, flat and heavy, its dull pewter filled with the promise of rain. It was an ominous portent. I prayed that the executioner would be merciful. Even so, I was mindful not to move my lips, lest anyone accuse me of making a charm against them.

  A bell began to sound, followed by distant drums and horses’ hooves. Behind the cart bearing the bell ringer and the drummer trailed over a dozen carts, each bearing one shorn and chained prisoner. On the final cart was my mother. These wretched people were being borne towards their end. At the sight of the gallows, they began sobbing, shrinking away from their chains and upsetting the horses, causing them to whinny and show the whites of their eyes, until the horses were rewarded with further whippings.

  My mother looked insensible with fear. I stared, willing her to look up. But she seemed locked inside herself, unaware of what was going on and barely able to remain upright. Each cart was driven beneath a gallows and I looked at the dreadful row. Seventeen nooses. Seventeen carts. Seventeen prisoners. One of them my mother. She had the same hollow-eyed look as a beast to the slaughter, except Mam knew her fate and saw no point in scrambling for freedom or pawing at her restraints. My insides contracted as I realised that there was no hope of intervention. Nothing could save her. This would also be my fate and Rose would grow up motherless.

  The drummer took up a solemn beat while the aldermen took their places close to the gallows so they could witness the hangings at close quarters. Once they were seated, a Puritan minister passed along the gallows, careful to keep his back to the condemned, almost stumbling in his haste. So my innocent mother would suffer for all eternity, unblessed and unshriven. The minister paused to deliver a short blessing on the executioner, a large man hidden by a hood, with only slashes for eyes. I quickly sent up a prayer for my mother, hoping it would travel on the back of the minister’s prayer and stand more chance of being heard that way.

  Once the blessing was done, the drumming palled and the magistrate stood up and consulted his scroll, ready to make his terrible pronouncement. A light of hope flared in my heart. Perhaps there was some mistake, or there could be some intervention. Perhaps my mother, who was filled only with goodness and kindness, would be spared and her name wouldn’t be read out. I forced myself to attend to the magistrate’s words, holding my breath, crossing my fingers and closing my eyes, all in the hope that God would intercede.

  But when I heard my mother’s name float away on the slight breeze, I opened my eyes. Mam was still here and so God hadn’t seen fit to spirit her away to safety. The only sounds came from the whickering horses and from the weeping condemned. I willed Mam to look up, but her head stayed bowed. She was so thin and her neck looked too weak to hold the weight of her head. May God forgive me, but I hoped her neck would snap and bring a quick release. I’d heard of too many strong-necked men and light women swinging until they choked to death. A neck broken swiftly was a mercy.

  The newly blessed executioner climbed onto the first cart, drew the noose over the trembling woman’s head and then removed her chains. He took a few seconds to adjust the knot to her neck, and then placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered a few words into her ear. His whispered words and the placing of his hands seemed to quieten the woman and bring her peace. This, no doubt, was the hangman’s promise. He’d been to see us in the gaol and told us our end would be as swift as he could make it. But I knew the end was rarely swift for women as slender as these. In this way, the hangman continued along the row of carts, checking each noose and whispering his secret words to quiet the wailing prisoners.

  Finally, the executioner mounted the last cart. I swallowed, forcing myself to watch as he placed the noose over my mother’s head. Mam was so tiny and she was shaking. He fitted the noose to her neck and knotted it tightly. Mam stayed silent, looking up at the sky. She looked so afraid and eternity was such a long time. My entire body shook and it was all I could do to stay upright. To be there for my mother. To bear witness. To pray for her soul.

  The executioner stepped down from my mother’s cart and took his place before the gallows. The magistrate and the aldermen hung their heads, choosing not to watch what they’d wrought. But the cart drivers all had their eyes on the executioner. When he gave them a deep nod, they raised their whips to their horses. The shocked animals lit across the moor, their drivers struggling to keep them from careering into one another. A loud roar came from the moor as the seventeen prisoners dropped on the short journey to their deaths.

  I could only stare as the cart went from under Mam. Her feet thrashed desperately, trying to gain a foothold and I willed God to take her quickly, hardly able to watch the purpling of her face as the rope began to bite. Mam’s neck was thin, but so was her body, and her weight wasn’t enough to snap her neck. So she dangled, feet twitching, with her hands clutching at the rope that bit into her. But as soon as the horses were clear of the gallows, hooded men began running towards the condemned, throwing themselves at their legs. A tall man shot towards the gallows, hurled himself at my mother’s legs and clung to her until his weight snapped her neck and her feet were finally still. I closed my eyes and silently thanked him, whoever he was.

  But now, a great fire raged through my chest. Mam’s soul had left this earth, going unshriven to the next world, to spend all eternity in hell. I screamed a silent scream to the black sky, which opened and let loose its rain, cleansing and blessing Mam’s remains. My feet pressed into the soft grass, with the earth giving slightly beneath it. My body was so light, I feared it might float away if I didn’t keep pushing my feet down. If I could only summon the strength to press harder and sink into the cool and protecting earth, to feel its mouth close above my head and keep me safe amongst the blind roots and the sightless, burrowing creatures.

  * * *

  Once again, I was in the town hall, but this time without my mother. The courtroom was vast, but so filled was it with people that it appeared no bigger to me than the dank cell where we’d been held. The walls and ceiling were dark wood, which brought them closer, leaving scarcely enough air for all the busy lungs that required it. My ribs brushed against my filthy shift and felt as if they might cut through the flimsy fabric, so sharp were they. Heat coursed through my body. This heat came not from the sun, but was an inner heat created by the poppy milk that Reverend Foster had smuggled into gaol for me. Perhaps it was intended for my hanging, but there was nowhere to hide the vial, for Sharpe would find it, no matter how privately hidden.

  I peered down on myself. My eyes shone, bright amber, with no darkness at their centres. I gave out my own radiance and took in little light from the room. Filled with an inner fire, I breathed very slowly, feeling the walls and ceiling of the room breathing in and out with me, alternately pressing in on me and then moving away into a dizzying void. Through the darkness, the crowd was a writhing mass, adorned with hundreds of glittering eyes, snatching hands and devouring mouths.

  From aroun
d the room came the burr of voices, distant echoes of the same words that had condemned my mother on Friday, a day that belonged to another life. I was beyond tears and the warm numbness swaddled me from my own terrible fate. The voices continued to rise and fall. These voices belonged to men. They were deep and it was hard to hear them. Occasionally, they were run through with sobs and prayers. These voices belonged to women. They were high and it was easy to hear them. These unlucky souls had no poppy milk to help them.

  I’d not look at Sharpe, nor watch what he was doing to the woman before him. I’d not hear his proclamations. But the pleading woman’s voice found its way into my ears anyway. When my turn came, I’d not speak, plead or whimper, because I didn’t have enough breath. My heart was so slow, and my breathing so heavy, that I might simply stop breathing. Maybe I’d do just that. Stop breathing.

  Rough hands seized my upper arms and my feet rose from the floor as I floated to where Sharpe waited. My head drooped and the witch-finder grabbed my chin, but I refused to see him for he was just a dark outline to me. His angry voice boomed at me, but I’d admit none of his words entry.

  Cool air touched me as my shift was ripped down the front, but I was still warm inside. I didn’t shiver. I didn’t hear. I didn’t see. Sharpe grabbed the short stubble on my head, wrenching me down while the sergeants lashed my wrists to my ankles. The motion almost overbalanced me, but the sergeants held me steady by pushing a stick under my ribs and holding it at each end.

  My head became hotter and felt fuller, as if my skull had grown because of the blood pooling there. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the blood pounding in my ears, letting it drown the sound from the room. Now was the time to stop breathing. My sharp ribs would cut through the stick that held me. I’d fall forward and sink into the waiting earth, where it was soft and welcoming. I’d sleep there, floating inside a warm, dark dream. Coiled once more inside my mother’s womb.

  The witch-finder moved behind me and I felt his cruel fingers inside me. When he withdrew his fingers, I prepared myself for the pricker used on my mother. Sharpe plunged it into my haunch. I made no sound and my body didn’t react. The witch-finder ran his hand down my thigh. The blood continued to roar in my ears, blocking out all sound, filling my mind with blessed blackness. But still I could hear men’s voices swirling around my head, sometimes entering my ears, sometimes not.

  ‘The witch does not cry out, flinch or bleed. See how she faints away to escape her accuser! This is proof that she’s a consorter of Satan, the devil’s own child and–’

  But Sharpe’s words were cut off by a familiar voice shouting. It was Reverend Foster. ‘She’s no consorter! Sire, I beg you, Jane is no child of the devil. There’s no harm in her–’

  The sergeants ran from me and there was a scuffle. Poor Reverend Foster. He wasn’t present for Mam’s trial, so why was he here now?

  The magistrate raised his voice. ‘Sergeants, hold your weapons. We will not tolerate the beating of a holy man. Reverend, this girl has been proven guilty. One more word and I’ll have you seized. Jane Driver, you are hereby sentenced–’

  But Reverend Foster interrupted again. ‘Sire, in the name of God, I beg you halt, for there’s something most irregular in these proceedings.’

  The magistrate paused, perhaps at the mention of God from a holy man’s mouth. ‘Reverend! There’s something most irregular in your continual interruption of these proceedings.’

  ‘If it pleases you, sire, let me put something to you, upon my word.’

  The magistrate sighed loudly. ‘Since you’re a man of God, I’ll grant you audience. Continue, Reverend.’

  ‘Thank you, sire. Sharpe, untie Goodwife Driver and let her stand up for a while. Then when she has quite recovered, prick her on another part of her body. This time, I’ll bear witness from close quarters.’

  Sharpe’s voice was alive with outrage. ‘This is preposterous. Her corrupted flesh alone should be enough to condemn her–’

  But the magistrate shouted over Sharpe. ‘Silence! I will have silence. Stand her up straight, then prick her again. Proceed, with the Reverend in close attendance.’

  The sergeants unfastened my wrists from my ankles and stepped away from me. I slowly straightened up. My face was on fire and I saw the world through eyes made of flat glass. I swayed slightly as the blood began to leave my head, but my naked body was still on display. The witch-finder bristled and his eyes flickered at the aldermen, but their stares were indifferent.

  The magistrate spoke again. ‘Do as commanded, Sharpe. Refrain from dallying.’

  Sharpe produced the bodkin without ceremony and plunged it no more than an inch into my leg. I shrieked and blood oozed from the shallow wound.

  ‘She bleeds!’ roared Reverend Foster, turning towards the magistrate. ‘Sire, there’s trickery afoot. Jane Driver is no witch. She’s bled freely in front of my own eyes. I beg you, sire, set her free and let her cover her modesty.’

  The magistrate looked from my bleeding leg to Sharpe’s outraged face. He waved Reverend Foster away.

  ‘Return to your place, Reverend, this matter requires further investigation. Sergeants, give the girl cover.’

  ‘Cover her, he said.’ Reverend Foster slipped forward and wrapped his cloak around me.

  The Reverend held me and passed a small vial of hartshorn under my nose. An acrid smell rushed up my nostrils and burnt its way into my chest until I began coughing and spluttering. I sucked in a huge breath and choked on it. Reverend Foster pulled his cloak more tightly around me. I was parched and much relieved when he held a flask of water to my mouth.

  I licked my lips and blinked. The room still felt very small and close, and it was filled with roaring and buzzing voices, which were too loud and too many to take in. Exhausted, I slumped against Reverend Foster.

  ‘Reverend, where have I been?’

  ‘To a dark place, Jane.’

  I furrowed my brow, trying to remember, but nothing would come from the blackness. Then a memory surged up and tears filled my darkening eyes.

  ‘When am I to be hanged, Reverend? The morrow?’

  He shook his head and pulled me closer. ‘No, not the morrow. Not ever. You’re safe, Jane.’

  29

  John

  It Is a Tricky Implement

  Oh, what fiendish imps were at work in this courtroom? One minute I was revered as God’s own messenger, and the next I was a lowly criminal. The assembly had collapsed into arguing and shouting. How easily these people’s blood ran to excitement. Too sanguine by half. Nothing that a proper bloodletting wouldn’t resolve. But this was only false bravery, and in reality, my heart was pounding and my fingertips were slick with sweat. I held my hands stiffly, else I give in to the impulse to wipe them on my breeks.

  The magistrate wasn’t fit for office and had lost control. The fool flapped his hands at the sergeants, who were using their clubs on the unfortunates near the front of the standing crowd. But where the clubs found their targets, the crowd quietened and the magistrate’s words began to gain ground.

  ‘Not one more word from this room, else it be cleared.’

  The magistrate looked each rough man in the eye until the other dropped his gaze and quiet seized the room. The magistrate sat back in his seat, still eyeing the culprits. But then his gaze swung round and fastened itself on me, and I quailed inside.

  ‘John Sharpe. Sixteen women and one man were hanged from the gallows only two days past on the say-so of your pricking technique. And now it’s been called into question by a man of God.’

  I didn’t reply, but my Adam’s apple bobbed, which must surely reveal my fear to all.

  ‘Tell me, man, in the first instance of your pricking Jane Driver, how might a four-inch bodkin sink into the haunch of such a slender girl?’

  The magistrate waved a hand in the direction of the bitch. I looked at her while trying to form my thoughts into acceptable shapes. Despite my trembling hands, I stroked my beard to a point as I
’d seen many men of high office do. It conveyed the appearance of wisdom, even when none lodged there.

  ‘The bodkin pierces the flesh and carries on down to the bone, sire, where it then continues through to the infernal marrow of the witch. You’ve borne witness to this phenomenon here today.’

  The magistrate raised his eyebrows. ‘As the bodkin forces its way into the marrow, why does the woman not shriek? I’m sure seasoned soldiers might make some sound following such a wound.’

  ‘Sire, witches feel no pain because they’re not made as men of God are made.’

  The magistrate nodded. ‘So then, in the second instance of pricking, how is it that the blade barely pierced an inch on the girl’s right haunch, yet she bled profusely and shrieked high enough to curl teeth?’

  Oh, this magistrate was tricksy. He kept his cleverness hidden, bringing it into the light only now. I blew out a breath, eyes flicking left and right before replying. ‘On occasion, with younger witches, the flesh has not had time to become fully corrupted. This young witch is a perfect specimen. With this girl, the sinister side has been fully corrupted.’ I pointed to the witch, indicating her left leg. ‘See, all down her left side, she feels no pain, nor does she shed blood.’

  I paused, allowing the magistrate to consider this. But he frowned, which wasn’t a helpful sign. No doubt, it signalled the unleashing of more cleverness. I raised my voice and spoke quickly.