I watched the look that passed between them and wondered how much my mother had told her. Mother was too angry for any attempt at discretion and answered frankly.
She told us that she arrived at the Page farm and made straight for the kitchen. She entered the door without knocking and confronted Mrs Page who was toiling at the stove. Suki and the two youngest children were with her. Suki took one look at the expression on my mother's face and fled from the room with the children in tow. Mother walked towards Mrs Page and stood so close that she could smell her sickly breath. “Where is your husband,” she hissed.
Mrs Page laughed in her face and accused her of birthing a harlot. She screamed accusations about my behaviour, claiming that I had seduced her husband. She said I had bewitched him with magic or he would never have touched me. My mother took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes. She said, very calmly, that Page was disgusting and would pay for his sins. Her voice was quiet, menacing, and she trembled with anger. Martha Page cowered at the sight of her, transfixed by mother’s controlled ire. Mother sensed her fear and stepped forward raising her hand. Martha dropped to her knees, pale eyes bulging with fright. When Mother returned, she told us she had been tempted like never been before. She longed to feel the satisfaction of administering a stinging slap to Martha's pasty skin. But she looked down at the pathetic woman before her and relented, feeling only pity. Living with her sadistic, coward of a husband was punishment enough. Mother lowered her hand, shook her head and turned away without another word. She left the farm and walked home.
She said she left, buoyed with anger but as she approached the village, frustration overtook. Her lowly position in life had led us to this moment. If she were still a merchant’s wife in Lavenham, I would not have been working for such people. Her position in society would have afforded us protection. She felt responsible for my condition and was resolved to approach the magistrates and plead for justice.
She walked down Cratfield Road and encountered a man riding along the highway ahead. She recognised him as John Brame, a man influential within the parish and thought his presence a good omen. She decided to approach him and make her case. Before she drew level, his horse inexplicably took fright and unseated him. He fell in an undignified heap on the road before her. She moved towards him and offered her hand to help him up, but he pushed it away. He dusted himself down, cursing at Mother who he blamed for startling his ride. By the time she returned home, her anger was once more aflame.
Aunt Bennett and I listened as she spoke. We remained together in the parlour for several hours while Patience and the younger children played outside. She grew calmer as we talked and we made plans to accommodate our new situation. Mother would not let me return to the Page farm or any other. She decided, instead, to seek work to support the family, at least until I recovered from the worst of my ordeal. I would stay at home for the next few weeks and attend to the needs of my aunt and siblings. The money my mother had realised from the sale of our few possessions had long since been spent. The younger children would need to play their part in supporting the household but could not return to the Page farm. Mother decided to take Alice and Walter to another nearby farm. They could still earn a little by picking stones in the field and Mother would find farm work for herself.
The next day she applied to Bird’s farm on the Laxfield Road. It was spring and the beginning of lambing season. Even with the threat of impending war, seasonal farm work was always available. She was employed the same day. For the first few weeks, the hard toil was bearable and she earned enough for us to survive.
Our good fortune did not last. The evil that dogged Mother to her death began abruptly, midway through the second month she started at the farm. It was a balmy spring day. Mother had been labouring in the fields during the morning, her face and neck growing brown from the lazy April sun. She was relieved of her field chores and sent to the dairy early in the afternoon but was roused from her task at the sound of a commotion in the yard. She ran outside and joined a small crowd of workers. They watched as one of the farmhands ran from the top field bellowing for the farmer. He rushed to the yard, pallid and out of breath, hands and smock smeared with fresh blood. The farmer emerged from the side porch demanding to know what was going on. The farmhand pointed to the top field with a trembling finger and they set off together at a brisk pace. Mother and the other workers trailed behind. They reached the field as a cloud of flies rose above the side of the fence nearest to the farmhouse. Below the buzzing mass lay two sheep side by side, their innards splayed across their white fleeces. Blood pooled in the grass.
The farm labourers gathered around the butchered sheep while the farmer prodded their carcasses with his stick. He scowled at the shepherd who had joined the throng and admonished him for his carelessness in allowing the sheep to die. The Shepherd dropped to his knees and examined the smaller sheep. He parted the bloody fleece revealing deep gouges in the sheep’s neck. His face set into a frown as he pointed to the bite marks. The farmer pursed his lips and thrust his stick deep into the ground next to the slaughtered sheep. He began berating the shepherd again for allowing the carnage. The Shepherd protested. He said that the sheep were under watch at all times. It would be impossible for two healthy animals to be savaged so close to the farm when the farm dogs roamed freely. One of the older farm servants, Audrey Smith, stepped forward and spoke. She said a similar thing had happened at the Page farm. Martha Page spoke of it at the market earlier that week. She believed her dead animal was killed by a familiar, sent by a witch.
The workers listened in silence, then erupted in a babble of fevered speculation. Audrey Smith crossed herself and reminded them that a witch endured trial by water at Brandeston only a few years earlier. At this, my mother raised her eyes heavenward for she was educated and did not believe in witches or superstitious things. But the farm hand who found the slaughtered sheep spoke of the Manningtree Witch Trials. He said if witches were in neighbouring Essex, then it would only be a matter of time before they came to Suffolk. By the time my mother returned home that day, the farm folk had convinced themselves that they had borne witness to witchcraft.
When Mother recounted her day, I railed at the unfairness. The irony of imagined supernatural evil when real wickedness resided within one living in their own parish, sickened me. William Page had recklessly ruined my life with his debauchery. I have no doubt he ruined other lives before mine. Yet he lived in the heart of these people and they could not see the evil within. He was the wicked, ungodly one. I almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it, but I did not, for my mind was preoccupied.
At first, I put it down to the maggot of fury nestling within me, the violent depths of my revulsion, made real in sickness. My bruises had faded and my body healed, though my soul was forever destroyed. But I ailed and it was not commonplace. I had been healthy all my life.
Gradually a thought wormed into my head, a notion so repugnant, so loathsome that I shut it out until it would not lie dormant. And when I finally allowed it voice, I wanted to die. I wanted it cut from me. I was sickened with disgust.
One day, when my mother returned to the fields, bone tired with all the superstitious prattle, my aunt asked me if she might help with my problem. How she knew about the parasite within, I cannot say, but it was not a great surprise for she seemed to know much without being told. She offered me a foul-tasting liquid, yellow tinged and cloying. I gulped it down but immediately vomited, so she made me drink more until it stayed in my gullet. She warned me that it may or may not help. I prayed to a God I no longer trusted, to destroy the evil seed within me. A week later I knew my prayers had gone unanswered. The Page leech still clung to life, despite our best efforts. Worse still, any hopes that my aunt would be able to assist in some other way vanished. After a long life, she succumbed to old age and infirmity and we found her dead in her bed one Sunday morning.
My aunt left us nothing for she had nothing. We sold her clothes and a few trinkets and buried h
er as best we could. She was laid to rest in the church where we worshipped and her funeral passed without incident. It was the last dignity the parish afforded us.
Mother walked to work the day following Aunt Bennett’s funeral. Upon entering the yard, the farmer came towards her and held his hand aloft, barring the way. She smiled and tried to pass but he refused her entry and turned her away without a word. She shouted over to Audrey Smith who was standing by the well but Audrey turned her face and made for the dairy. My mother stared across the yard perplexed. She waited in vain for someone to appear and offer an explanation. Nobody materialised and she had no choice but to return home.
The children and I were settled in the cottage going about our morning chores when Mother opened the door. She slumped in the wooden chair nearest the fire with her head in her hands. I rushed to her side and asked what ailed her. She recounted her story, picking over the details, her thoughts mired in confusion. She could not account for the sudden hostility, knowing as she did, that her work had always been good. I tried to console her, but she was still mourning Aunt Bennett and began to cry. When Patience saw her tears, she wiped them away with a clumsy hand and put her head in Mother’s lap. Mother stopped crying at this small act of love but stared disconsolately out of the window, brooding. I continued sewing and an uneasy silence settled over the cottage.
It did not last long. There was a hiss and a thud and the melancholic atmosphere was interrupted by a burning stick falling to the stone floor. It had been tossed through the open front window of our cottage. Alice leapt to her feet and stamped out the flames while we rushed outside to see the perpetrator standing before us. It was Martha Page and her son Samuel who were waiting at the top of the path. Martha’s face was a twisted mask of fury. Rivers of tears tracked down her face. “You Witch,” she snarled at the sight of Mother.
I stepped forward. “Leave us alone, stupid woman,” I said. I was unafraid. She held no power over me anymore.
“He is dead,” she wailed, pointing at my mother. “And you have killed him, as surely as you killed the sheep.”
The expression upon my mother’s face changed, enlightened. “Is that what you told the farmer?” she asked. “Is that why he will not let me work.”
“You should not be among decent people, Witch,” screamed Martha. “You have murdered my son. You said you make me pay when you cursed me.”
“I did not curse you,” countered my mother. “Nor did I kill your son. I do not wish ill on your children, even if I despise your husband.”
Martha Page gasped. Her face whitened as if drained of blood. “You would harm my husband?” she cried, grasping Samuel and hiding behind his shoulder. “You threaten my family?”
I stepped forward, sickened by her attempt to manipulate my Mothers’ words. “Be gone,” I said. “Or I will make him pay bastardy for the child he has forced upon me.”
“You Harlot,” she screamed, then turned to my mother. “You have begotten an evil, wicked child and God will punish you.” Samuel, who had remained silent throughout, spat full in my face, then put his arms around his mother’s waist and led her away. Her screams rang in the distance for a long time. I wiped the spittle from my face, glaring at the incumbents of the next-door cottage. They stared back in silence, offering no support.
We spent a sleepless night in the cottage. Mother tried to calm Patience who was unsettled by the incident while I cared for the younger two. We did not speak of it again, but worry hung heavy upon us.
The next day was Sabbath so we could neither work nor find an occupation. We decided we would both seek employment in case it became difficult for Mother to find work while the febrile atmosphere prevailed. One or the other of us should be useful at this busy time of year. Though Alice was only nine, it was time for her to take a turn caring for Patience and Walter. If Mother and I could both find work, it would be more fruitful than Alice labouring in the fields. She would get little wages at such a young age.
We set off for Church, leaving Alice in charge and paid our respects at Aunt Bennett’s grave by the churchyard wall. Mother wept for her aunt who had shown us so much kindness, but I could not cry. My sadness had long since turned to a bitter bile, which coursed through my body. Mother laid wild flowers on her aunt’s grave and we made our way to the church.
We sat at the rear, nearest the door. We had arrived early for the service and there were only a few parishioners already seated. They were hostile from the first. They turned in their seats and one after another told us to leave. They said we were not welcome in God’s house. One woman seized a cross from around her neck and held it towards us as if to ward away evil. I took Mother’s trembling hand in mine, unable to decide whether she was angry or frightened. I faced our tormentors and told them it was our church and our God and we would not leave. Then more worshippers arrived and every one of them told us to go. They stood in the aisle before us, threatening and cat calling. Mother shrank into her chair but did not make to move and I sat bolt upright and told them I would not leave unless they dragged me out. Two men moved towards me as if they might try it, but the Vicar intervened and told them to desist. He commanded them to behave in God’s house and insisted that they sat down. They returned to their pew but were not quiet. They railed and argued, refusing to worship in the same place as a witch.
The Vicar gestured for quiet and approached us. He asked us to leave until passions quietened. Mother pleaded with him to allow us to stay, appealing against the unfairness of his decision. She had caused no trouble and only wanted to be allowed to pray to God as she did every Sunday. The Vicar was unmoved. Adamant that he could not preach a sermon over the cacophony of noise, he said it would be for the best if we returned another day. Mother put her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the injustice. The shame of being asked to leave her beloved church was mortifying. I tried to quell the anger simmering in my chest but it defeated me. I confronted the Vicar and called him a coward. I told him that if he turned us away, we would never return. He turned his back on me and walked to the pulpit without another word and waited for us to leave.
Mother took a deep breath and walked from the church with her head held high. She crossed the graveyard before kneeling at the foot of Aunt Bennett's grave where she sobbed as if her heart would break.
Chapter 14
Wingfield
The journey to Wingfield was every bit as awkward as Lawrence feared. The carriage was comfortable enough but there was an uneasy atmosphere. Though nothing was articulated, Lawrence sensed a mutual dislike between Loveday and Violet Smith. Loveday did not react well to the news that they would be travelling in the company of others. She feared the conversation would be dull, but Lawrence was unmoved. They would travel together or not at all. Loveday was only pacified when he agreed to escort her to her friend’s while Michael and Violet conducted their business with Mrs Higgins.
The carriage arrived in Wingfield mid-afternoon. Only a few brief words had been exchanged between the four of them throughout the journey. Lawrence did not try to move the conversation forward. He was preoccupied. May Day was looming fast. It had been weeks since his last nightmare but judging from previous experience, another night terror would soon arrive. It always did whenever he became introspective. The more he thought about May Day, the more he feared it. The more he dwelt upon it, the more likely he was to create a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the good night’s sleep that eluded him, was the least of his problems.
Catherine still occupied so many of his thoughts. He missed her more than ever and felt her loss keenly while travelling in close proximity to Loveday and Violet. He would be better off alone or at least in male company. Their voices, their scents, their femininity evoked memories too painful to bear. He wished he had not accepted this assignment. Better to be alone in his rooms in Bury Saint Edmunds than lonely in company. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether to abandon the investigation altogether.
When it became clear that Lawrence would n
ot be a convivial travelling companion, Michael tried to instigate a conversation himself. It was not to be. Violet tried, Loveday did not and Lawrence was, in spirit, elsewhere. All four were relieved when the carriage stopped in the middle of the village and the driver opened the door. Michael helped Violet down the step and they walked west after agreeing to meet back in two hours.
With Violet and Loveday apart, the awkwardness vanished. Loveday linked her arm through Lawrence’s, smiling for the first time that day. He fought the urge to remove it, torn between concern at the over-familiarity versus a lack of manners. Eventually, he decided to keep it there choosing not to upset Loveday in the hope the journey back was less difficult. She smiled demurely and he returned her smile. She was a beautiful young woman and he decided to make the best of the situation and enjoy her company.
“I have hardly seen you today,” she complained. “Only from afar as you go about your business. Have things gone well?”
“Things have gone very well,” said Lawrence. “I may not have to spend quite so much time prevailing upon the kindness of our host.”
“That is too bad,” said Loveday, “and not at all what I want to hear. You must stay at least three weeks until my ship sails.”
“You want me to prolong my investigation just to keep you company?” he teased.
“Certainly,” replied Loveday, pouting. “You have only just arrived and it would be too boring if you leave straight away. You are to remain here for three weeks and that is the end of it.”
Lawrence laughed. “Then I will make sure I miss every clue and disregard any suspect to make this case last longer.”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 9