Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  ‘Whereas here, on her right, sire, which all God-fearing men accept as the holy side, the devil’s corruption has not yet fully spread–’

  ‘Silence, man!’

  The magistrate held up a hand to stop me and then turned to the town clerk, a man who looked far too well fed for his station.

  ‘Clerk, how much has the common council paid for this man’s venomous services?’

  The clerk consulted his scrolls. ‘Some twenty shillings per witch, sire.’

  There came a low whistle from the crowd, which attracted the magistrate’s ire. He pointed his gavel at a young fellow with his long fingers hooked into his mouth.

  ‘Silence, whistler, or you’ll feel the sergeant’s club. Though granted, you’ve a right to whistle at the sum of twenty shillings. Thank you, clerk.’ The magistrate turned to me. ‘And how many witches have you found for us, John Pricker?’

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, muttering and counting on my fingers, my mind whirring. It was hard to recall the numbers. Try as I might, I couldn’t put my mind on the number, and the names and faces seemed suddenly slippery. They all looked as one. Each bore the grinning leer of Dora Shaw, the old hag who’d killed my mother, then my father, and then came back to finish my wife and child. I had to remind myself of my true purpose. I was on God’s errand. There would always be naysayers. All that was needed was to keep my head. Thirteen was it, or fourteen? Fifteen. No, sixteen.

  ‘Why, sire, the sixteen found guilty on Friday and however many we find today.’

  ‘Seventeen, man, seventeen! Are you forgetting Ann Chandler, this girl’s own mother? Have you cleansed her memory so swiftly from your mind?’

  I swallowed, my mind flailing. ‘Sire, upon my word, it has been a busy time for me, with not much time for sleeping or eating, and it is hard to remember numbers at will.’

  The magistrate narrowed his eyes. ‘Seventeen so far and twice as many to come, no doubt.’ He turned to the aldermen. ‘Gentlemen, are we not encouraging this man to find more witches by paying him as we pay the town rat catcher – per head?’

  My blood boiled at being compared to a common rat catcher. I considered objecting and pointing out that this was God’s errand, clearing the town of a more demonic infestation. I opened my mouth, but the magistrate spoke over me.

  ‘After all, a rat is always a rat, of that there is no question. A man has only to use his eyes and common sense to determine a rat. But to prove a woman is a witch requires more than eyes and common sense. It also requires that infernal blade.’

  The magistrate nodded to a sergeant, who plucked the blade from my hand. My hands were so slippery, the pricker just slid from me. My guts plunged and sweat broke on my brow. I must not mop it, lest it draw attention.

  ‘Sire, that blade has been doing God’s work and is contaminated. Let me give you a clean bodkin to spare your gloves.’

  ‘Stop your wheedling, Sharpe. This one will suffice. Since witches do not bleed, I dare say my gloves will survive the ordeal of innocent blood.’

  The magistrate examined the instrument, eyeing its length while I looked on, trying hard not to appear agitated. The whole room was silent, waiting for the magistrate to speak again. Their eyes were on me, sizing me up. I was used to looks of reverence, but these people had jeering eyes.

  The magistrate leapt to his feet. ‘Sergeants, seize him. And open his jerkin.’

  At this instruction, my heart almost seized. ‘But sire, I come only to do God’s work. This isn’t right. It goes against God–’

  One of the sergeants began unfastening my clothing.

  The magistrate pointed to my jerkin. ‘Tear it, sergeant, we don’t have all day!’

  Obediently, the sergeant ripped my jerkin to the navel, and I mourned its loss. Such a shameful waste was against God. I’d need to work harder to make up for the loss. Perhaps increase my price. The news of my breaking the Newcastle coven would perhaps precede me and increase my worth.

  ‘John Sharpe, confirm your name, birthplace and occupation.’

  I spoke, dry-lipped. ‘John Sharpe, from Scotland, come lately to Newcastle to find witches at the behest of this council.’

  ‘Good. Now, you say that confirmation of witching relies upon this sharpened bodkin?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ I wished the magistrate would stop handling the device, and I fought the urge to snatch it back and run from the room. No one could understand what I faced when doing God’s work. God’s will wasn’t always enough against the strength of the devil and his brood of bitches. Sometimes, God needed help – a willing channel to perform His will.

  The magistrate stepped down from his bench to the floor, where he faced me. ‘John Sharpe of Scotland, I put it to you that are you a witch.’

  ‘I am no witch, sire!’

  The magistrate’s eyes bulged. ‘Sergeants, seize him!’

  The stinking sergeants gripped me and their breath was as rotting meat. The magistrate stood so close I could count the red veins in his eyes. A sure symptom of depravity. Perhaps another indication that the magistrate wasn’t fit for office.

  ‘Since you’re not a witch, John Sharpe, when I plunge this bodkin into your liver, your blood will issue forth?’

  I blinked twice and then nodded. Surely to God, this man couldn’t be allowed to get away with this. Feverishly, I tried to recall what state the bodkin was in when the sergeant snatched it from me. Dear God, I was to be slain, without fair trial, in front of this mob. And my blood would be contaminated with the taint of the devil’s child. After all my hard work, I’d be stained and unfit for my reward. I braced myself for the pain that I knew was coming.

  The magistrate plunged the pricker under my ribs. My flesh remained clear and whole, but this was no cause for celebration.

  The crowd began hissing and stamping. Cries of ‘Witch! Witch!’ issued from all corners of the room. The magistrate returned to his seat at the bench.

  ‘This room will be silent!’ The volume of the magistrate’s voice quietened the room immediately. ‘Now, I’ll explain my queer demonstration. This man is no witch.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘This man before you, John Sharpe, is something worse. He is a trickster and no better than a common murderer.’

  One of the aldermen cleared his throat. ‘Sire, this is quite an accusation to address at a man employed by the council. Pray, might you explain yourself?’

  The magistrate turned to the alderman. ‘It is a tricky implement. Watch.’ He held the bodkin upright and pressed upon the point with one finger. ‘Observe, gentlemen, that the bodkin cleverly recedes into its own handle. It gives the appearance of plunging as deep as the bone’s marrow. But it’s only a sly illusion.’

  Doubt crossed the alderman’s face. ‘But, sire, some people have bled. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

  The magistrate smiled grimly. ‘There’s a sneck. When it’s clicked into place, it prevents the blade retracting and so the victim bleeds.’ The magistrate slipped the catch and plunged my bodkin into the wooden bench. ‘And when the same sneck is clicked back, there’s nothing to prevent the blade sliding back.’ He removed the pricker from the bench, freed its catch and pushed the bodkin blade backward and forward against his gloved hand.

  The crowd’s eyes flicked back and forth. First staring at the bodkin and then at myself. It seemed that some members of the mob weren’t able to grasp the concept of God’s helper and whispered explanations passed along the rows.

  ‘Sharpe, with his trickster bodkin, has been deciding the innocence or guilt of those accused of being witches. Clerk, how many has he sent to the gallows or the stake? We know of seventeen in this town and its surrounds, but what of elsewhere?’

  The clerk scrambled through his scrolls, running his finger along tiny columns and making notes.

  ‘Sire, in Scotland, one-hundred-and-twenty-eight people, some eight of them men and twenty-three of them juveniles. Some hanged, but many burnt.’

  At th
is, I drew myself upright. ‘Aye, sire, one-hundred-and-twenty-eight witches who can no longer cast their evil upon innocent and God-fearing folk.’

  Jeers rose from the ungrateful wretches in the crowd.

  ‘Sire, do you not know what you’ve been spared from? The demonic ways of these conniving bitches that will bring you to your knees? Is this my thanks?’

  The sergeants shoved me and looked set to use their clubs, so I fell silent. The magistrate handed the pricker to the clerk. He eyed the aldermen, white-faced to a man, and then stood up.

  ‘Gentlefolk, John Sharpe has murdered seventeen of our citizens. And we’ve not only paid him, but also encouraged him with the lure of more silver.’ He paused and looked to me. ‘Good God, man – seventeen were sent to their doom only two days past. Oh, what have you wrought here? What have you wrought? A dreadful misdeed has been committed by John Sharpe. It would seem that he’s sent innocent people to their deaths, depriving them not only of their lives, but also of their afterlives – their being executed without benefit of clergy. We can’t bring those unfortunates back, but we can save these women here today from that same fate. Sergeants, free the prisoners and take him down.’

  The sergeants looked at the magistrate, confusion on their stupid faces.

  The magistrate’s eyes blazed at his sergeants. ‘Sharpe. Take Sharpe down.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but the magistrate raised his hand. ‘Your time to speak will come when it’s your turn to be tried, for tried you will be, Sharpe. You’ve grievously taken in the men of this town. After all, we are only men. You will be tried, and if found guilty, executed. There’s nothing more to say today. I declare this assembly closed.’

  The sergeants took an arm apiece, not caring that they jarred my bones, and they hauled me roughly down some dark steps. The smell of the river rose sharply in my nostrils as they pressed me ever downwards. Bile flooded my system, making a bitter taste in my mouth. Was I to be thrown in a common riverside dungeon, where the water might seep into my bones? There must be a way out. There must.

  ‘Sergeants. Silver. I have silver and plenty of it. I can pay you to let me go. It would go well in the eyes of God. You’d be serving Him if you let me go. Let me go to continue my great works. Think on it, sires, think on it hard. Let me go back into the world as God’s servant, there to do His holy works.’

  I sighed. This work was without end. It would never be done.

  30

  Jane

  A Message

  We returned from St Andrew’s in Newcastle. Mam and the others who were executed with her had been given a Christian burial in the churchyard there. It was the least the magistrates could do, after killing innocent people on no more than the say-so of an evil trickster – one who had now escaped justice. And it would pain me all my days that they’d been sent to their deaths without so much as a prayer to bless their departing souls. That they had now been taken into the church gave me a very small measure of comfort. They were laid to rest in an unmarked grave, so any forgiveness was still grudging. But at least I knew where my mother lay. Perhaps it was right that when I visited her, I would also visit the people killed alongside her.

  These thoughts thrashed around my mind so much that they communicated themselves to Rose and she wriggled in my arms. The Reverend held out his arms for her and I busied myself over the fire, setting water to boil, while he amused her with his smallest hour-glass.

  Finally, I could put it off no more and went to my mother’s pantry. I drew in a large breath as I crossed the threshold, and all the familiar smells and tastes rushed inside me. Everything was in its place. The drying rack hung from the ceiling, stocked with fennel, rosemary, comfrey, lemon balm, mugwort and lavender. There was Mam’s satchel, packed with implements and her favourite remedies. I opened it carefully. Inside were tiny vials and crocks. I removed the top from each crock and sniffed the contents. I knew each by sight, smell and taste. The dried hawthorn berries, the powdered mugwort, the fennel seeds. Next, I examined the vials. Again, I knew them all. Tincture of camomile, decoction of shepherd’s purse, infusion of motherwort, and milk of poppy. Tucked in a dark corner of the satchel was a vial I did not know. I removed it and held it up to the light.

  The vial was made of dark glass, so it told me nothing, other than that it was only half full. But I recognised it as being the same dark glass my mother had tucked in her shawl at the market all those years ago. It was the same dark glass I’d seen Meg pass to my mother by the fire all those times when they thought I wasn’t watching. It was the same dark glass I’d seen passed to my mother by the apothecary’s wife during our fateful last visit. This dark vial, in its many guises, had passed into my mother’s hands on countless occasions all though my life. Carefully, I opened it. Immediately, my senses were seized by mint. I frowned, thinking of my first Gyb, dead and rotting in the mint garden with all her kits inside her. It must be pennyroyal. My eyes watered at the smell beneath it – bitter rue. And beneath that, sage and something camphoraceous like rosemary, perhaps tansy. The longer I inhaled, the more scents assailed my senses and turned me queasy.

  For the contents of this vial, and what they could do, my mother had died. The executioner had put her to death, the magistrate had found her guilty, the fraudulent pricker had made her appear guilty. But I was certain now that the sly-tongued Goodwife Keen – the very same woman who’d sold my mother the makings of this toxic concoction – had sat in judgement of her. I weighed the vial in my hand and thought of my mother’s work, and how much of it she’d kept from me. I thought of May Green and the Greens’ baby. And I thought of Peggy Greaves and her baby. I closed the vial and stowed it back in the satchel.

  Standing in my mother’s pantry, the dreadful realisation finally struck me. I would never see her face, or hear her voice again in this world. She had given up her life for me, without a second’s thought. How could I have let her do it? This question would haunt me all my days. I sat on the floor and hugged her satchel to me, letting my tears flow. My only mother gone from the world, and to save me, her wretched daughter.

  Only a sharp cry from Rose stopped me, and I smiled through my tears. I knew then why my mother had taken my place. She had done it to spare me. But also to spare Rose. And I knew I would do exactly the same for my own daughter. The realisation brought no comfort with it.

  I placed her satchel on the shelf, where it would be ready when needed. Then I returned to Rose and the Reverend, carrying a sheaf of seventeen long stems bearing heart-shaped leaves with the tiniest of white flowers. I placed them on the table and scooped up Rose. Looking at my daughter, feeling her warmth against me and seeing her trusting green eyes made me see that my mother had sacrificed herself for me, and I must not wash my life away in tears. I would carry on her work.

  The Reverend looked at my eyes, but he said nothing. His own eyes were often red enough of late. And though I’d never been able to ask the question about my mother and him, his constantly rheumy eyes, his lack of appetite and his pallor told me what I needed to know. He had loved her, and she had loved him. I supposed the church would never sanction his marriage to my mother and so she’d had to remain his hearth woman. How could he ever forgive me for being alive when she was not?

  When Rose was soothed, I laid her down on the settle next to the Reverend and put a cushion nearby to stop her rolling off. Then I set about making a tisane. I poured hot water into two bowls, picked up the long stems from the table, stripped their leaves and flowers into the hot water and stirred the contents with a bare stem.

  ‘Here, Reverend, lemon balm. It’ll help strengthen our spirits. It was Mam’s favourite.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, Jane. I know. We’ll drink it, and we’ll remember her, and then we’ll go to the church and pray for her soul.’

  Even the smell of the scented brew turned my stomach, so I made to pour it away, but a movement outside caught my eye. My hand went to my mouth, but failed to stifle my gasp.

 
‘Jane, what ails you?’

  ‘I think it’s a messenger outside, Reverend.’ I didn’t need to remind him that the last time a messenger came here, he’d delivered coins to pay for Tom’s life.

  He put down his bowl and stood up. ‘You stay here, and I’ll go.’

  While he walked down the path, I peered at Rose and glanced at my wedding ring. Soon, we’d have to go home. Since I’d returned from the trial, Andrew didn’t like me to be away from his mother’s house, or his ever-watchful eye. He said it was for my own protection, but I sometimes wondered.

  The door opened, and the Reverend stood there, not moving. He held up a purse. It looked very much like the purse that the golden angels had arrived in. I closed my eyes. Surely the navy couldn’t be so cruel as to send more blood money.

  I waved it away. ‘Please take it to Bill. He has more need of it.’

  But the Reverend shook his head and held out the purse. ‘You must take it. There’s a message this time. I’ve read it. Dear God, Jane. Dear God.’

  There was a quaver in his voice, and my stomach turned at the thought of what the note might contain. With trembling fingers, I took it.

  My lovely Jane,

  My heart is broken that you’ve not replied to my last note. But you might not have received it, and so you wouldn’t know where to write. Or, you might have replied and your letter’s gone missing at sea. So many do. If you didn’t receive my last note and the advance on my ship’s pay, then you may suppose me still aboard The Durham, and lost with all the other poor souls when she went down. But before she went down, I was moved to another ship as a volunteer, along with the physician who has written this note for me.

  Anyway, sweet Jane, our child must be born by now, and I have sent you some more money to keep you and little Rose. Soon, I’ll be home to see you both. And we’ll be wed at last. I’ve missed you so much, and can’t wait to be with you once again.