Hopkins set off with my mother, accompanied by two soldiers and two women he had brought from Manningtree. She was paraded down the street like a common criminal, with the two soldiers to the front and the two women at the rear. Hopkins walked at the head of the party. Mother remained expressionless but continued at a pace with her head held high for the first time in a long while. Somehow, her predicament made her stronger. It was half a mile to the Inn from our cottage. We passed many people along the way, some jeering as usual, but others turning their heads away to look at the ground. They were shocked, fearful. Thankful it was not one of their own.
When Mother arrived at the Inn, they took her through the front door. I tried to follow, but they blocked my passage. I sent Alice home, to her chagrin. She had followed me but Patience, Walter and the baby could not be left for long so I asked Alice to return home to mind them. She reluctantly agreed, but only when I insisted upon it.
I ran to the rear of the inn, checking every window for signs of my mother. I could not see into every room but she was not visible in any of those with a view point, so I slipped through the rear door and up the creaky staircase. Loud voices rang from a room at the end of the passageway. I listened. They were inside the room shouting instructions to my mother. I tiptoed towards the sounds. There was a small bedroom immediately before the room in which my mother was held. The door was open, so I crept in and closed the latch.
I knelt by the window. The ill-fitting wood panels allowed me to hear every sound and I could see a small part of the room through an empty knot in one of the planks.
My mother was sitting on a wooden chair, next to a square table. Hopkins crouched in front of her and two women watched from the rear of the room. They were both in their fortieth decade, one plump with hair piled in a greying bun; the other thinner with a slight stoop. She wore her straggly hair down and worried at the ends of it with bitten nails. Two men of about the same age stood behind Hopkins, leering at my mother, lips curled in derision.
Hopkins stared in silence at Mother for a minute or more, then he began to speak. His voice was gentle. He said his name was Matthew Hopkins and he was going to ask her some questions. He spoke almost conversationally. He asked her name and when she replied he asked what she was known as. She responded and he nodded his head as if she was a small child winning favour. He asked her about her family and her work. Then he leaned forward until his face was almost touching hers. In the same quiet voice, he asked why she had bewitched the Page boy.
I saw her start at his sudden change in topic. She put her hands on the chair of the seat and shrank back in shock. He moved further forward and repeated the question once again. She denied it vehemently. He raised an eyebrow, then stood up and walked to the rear of her chair. Leaning forward over her shoulder he asked her why she had killed the livestock. He counted on his fingers the various locations where the killings had occurred. His voice was even, low and sonorous though his words were ridiculous. Mother denied it at once, insisting that she had not killed any livestock. Having worked on a farm, she cared for animals, and would never harm them. From what she had seen, the livestock had been mauled by a wild creature of some kind.
Hopkins closed his eyes and moved his head away. He looked towards Mother and sighed before slamming his hand down on the square table with such force that an unlit candle clattered to the floor. He turned to her triumphantly claiming that she had made the candle move. Before she could deny it, he demanded that she confess to conspiring with a devilish creature to wreak havoc within the parish. Why did she hate the farmers? Was she in league with the devil? She clasped her hands to her face, eyes misting in despair and said again that she was not and he said that he did not believe her. The two women exchanged glances. A smile flickered across their faces. Satisfaction. A good outcome.
My mother glanced over her shoulder, to the left and to the right, movements swift, eyes exploring every part of the room, searching for a way out. Seeing none, she looked straight into his eyes and reprised her denials.
He continued, ignoring her words as if she had not said them. He claimed to have witnesses who had seen her covenant with the devil. She asked how that could be as she had never done so. He said that she had and it was in the presence of Martha Page and others who would attest to her wickedness. Furthermore, she had encouraged her daughter to do the same. Mother’s face paled. She clenched her fists in anger and raised her voice for the first time. She accused William Page of defiling one of her daughters. Hopkins countered at once. He said that Martha Page had already told him she would say this. The Devil would persuade her to lie. Any claims about William Page were wicked untruths put into her head by Satan. Mother shook her head, railing against the unfairness. She asked him outright what the purpose was in answering his questions if he was going to ignore what she said. He shook his head and said that her words could not be believed, for her motives were tarnished by her pact with the Devil.
At that point, she lost her temper, Vicar. Mother was educated and could see the hearing for the trap that it was. She jumped to her feet and said she would not tolerate any more questions, but Hopkins thrust her against the chair. She almost tumbled backwards but righted herself maintaining a modicum of dignity. All the while, my hand was in my mouth for fear I would cry out, watching her tolerate such unfairness.
He questioned her for at least an hour, though it seemed like more. I could hear the church bells from my vantage point and was aware of time passing. Mother rebutted every accusation. She denied the barrage of slurs against her character and did not fold, not once.
Hopkins mood was darker now, angry. He might have thought that the interrogation would be easy and that she would be broken by now under his onslaught. He was unhappy with his progress and summoned the women to his side. They had been muttering in the corner, bored by the proceedings. He introduced them to my mother, addressing them as Anne and Priscilla, oddly formal in the context of what he was about to ask them to do. Then he commanded them to search her and strode from the room. I waited in the next room with bated breath. He walked past the door, then stopped. I feared he would enter, but he waited a while, then moved along the passageway with measured steps.
The distraction gone, I peered through the wormhole again. Do you know what I saw, Vicar? Can you begin to imagine the horror of it? They held her down, and tore the clothes off her back. Every item of apparel, peeled from her body and flung into the corner of the room. She sat on the chair, trying to cover herself, exposed, humiliated, dignity in tatters. She wept, Vicar, big shuddering sobs as if her heart would break.
They hovered around her like a pair of vultures, pointing to her body parts, discussing her anatomy in graphic detail. I did not want to look, but if she must endure it, so would I. Bitter, salty tears streamed down my face, unchecked, as I watched her torment through the wall.
They made her stand, Vicar, while beady eyes scanned her body. They moved close enough that she could feel their breath on her flesh. The women were like truffle pigs, rooting, snouts twitching with anticipated pleasure. She covered her breasts with one hand, Vicar and her modesty with the other, trembling from head to toe. Whatever they sought, they failed to find at first and soon grew impatient. The thin woman ordered Mother to move her hands away but she refused so Hook Nose swiped them away. Then the plump woman lumbered around and pinioned her arms from behind. Mother cried out and kicked with her legs. The thin woman slapped her around the face. A red welt appeared, so vivid that I could see it through the hole.
She gave up then, Vicar. It was as if she shrank, became less. She stopped crying and stood impassively. They pushed her to the chair and parted her legs. The plump one cackled in delight. She pointed to something on my mother’s thigh and likened it to a nubbin. A witch’s mark, she claimed. A teat for a familiar to suckle upon. My mother said nothing, she did not argue or rail against it. She did not even try to close her legs, but stared into the distance and allowed them to look at her.
/> The thin woman took a long wooden implement from the floor and walked towards my mother, sneering. She said that the instrument was a pricking needle and it would soon reveal whether Mother was a witch or not. She brandished it in the air. It was so close to me it could only have been an arm’s width away. The needle glinted, sharp and long on the end of the stick. Then she manipulated a mechanism and the needle vanished, evidently spring-loaded. By the time it reached my mother, the needle was out of sight. They prodded the stick against her thigh. Of course, there was no pain. The blunt stick was not capable of piercing skin and the needle was concealed.
When mother failed to cry out, they shouted their declaration. Mother was undeniably a witch. On hearing the noise, the soldiers returned. Mother remained seated on the chair, naked and numb. They did not avert their eyes. They were no gentleman. Priscilla Briggs recovered my mother’s clothes and tossed them in her lap. She told her to cover up and sit down. A soldier opened the door and called for Matthew Hopkins.
Hopkins returned from the room he had been resting in further down the corridor. He marched past my room and I held my breath as my heart thumped in my chest. One single sound and he would have heard me, one sob, one heavy breath and it would have been over. I knelt, my bones stiff with lack of use waiting to see what would happen to my mother. My pulse thundered in my ears as I considered her fate. She had already been subjected to horrific treatment, Vicar. How much worse could it get?
Hopkins strode towards her. She was half-dressed by now. Stays up, dress on but open, eyes red-rimmed, empty. She stared at him, unblinking.
He collected the pricking needle and examined it, stroking a gloved hand across the rough wood. He smiled, a sinister twinkle in his eye and told my mother that she had failed the test. They had found a teat and there was no doubt that she was a witch. All she needed to do now, was confess. My mother remained seated, head bowed, eyes sullen. He spoke again and told her to confess immediately, in front of his witnesses. She shook her head. He threw the stick to the ground and pressed his face up to hers. Snarling he bade her confess again. She spat a single word. No. The men cried shame and the women jeered. Hopkins hauled my mother off her seat by her hair and told her he would make her confess in the Gaol House.
They marched her away again, two burly men to the front, and the two searchers to the rear. Hopkins headed the wicked parade, marching out front like a vainglorious soldier, sated by the capture of his prey.
I waited until the footsteps faded to nothing, then rose to my feet, shivering. My head swam. For a moment, I thought I would faint away. I had been there for hours, crouched and cramped without water or sustenance. I waited unsteadily by the window until I was certain that they had left the premises. I watched them in the distance. They had tied my mother’s hands behind her back. She walked lonely and friendless towards the parish Gaol. When I was sure I would not be seen by the occupants of the Inn, I crept down the stairs and out of the house, into the clean air, unpolluted by evil.
Mother was held at the Gaol for three long nights. I could not find a way to see her the first night and paced the cottage throughout the evening. At daybreak, the next day I journeyed to the Gaol house. I needed to be in close, although impotent, proximity.
There were two cells in the Gaol, both set into a stone-built room. It had been locked the previous evening but now stood open. I tip-toed into the room and saw Mother at once. She was moving up and down the cell, linked arm to arm with Priscilla Briggs who all but dragged her. Mother was moaning, eyelids half-closed, head shaking from side to side. Priscilla complained, chiding mother for being slow. I concealed myself behind a screen. After ten minutes, Priscilla turned and stared through the cell doors, beady eyes searching for signs of life. She shoved my mother into a corner and told her to stay there. I slipped outside the room and flattened myself against the side wall hoping she would not see me. She walked towards an oak tree and stood on the other side. She removed an old clay pipe from her apron as she walked and puffed upon it, obscured by the tree. I took my chance and tiptoed towards the cell.
Mother was slumped in the corner with her head in her lap. I reached for her hand and called her name. She lifted her head, regarding me with faded eyes and whispered that I should not have come. She had only been in the cell for one day, but her lips were cracked and her tongue swollen. She asked me to leave and told me I would put everyone in danger if I was caught. She could bear her own pain but could not countenance the thought of one of her children being harmed. I said I did not care, but she was adamant. I must go. I asked her what they had done to her and she said they had walked her all through the night without a break. Up and down the cell, over and over again. She had fallen to her knees more than once, but they hauled her up and started anew. They worked in shifts, taking turns at walking her, but one by one they left for sleep or sustenance. Priscilla would be replaced by another woman within the hour. If it were not for Priscilla's tobacco habit, Mother would still be walking the cell now.
Mother implored me to leave. I tried to argue but as tears began to well in her eyes I decided not to drive her to further anxiety. So, I left her, Vicar. Walked away and left her to her fate. At least I visited her, which is more than can be said of you, or indeed of any of God’s holy men.
I walked home the long way, wending my way through the woods in search of something edible. I had not eaten for a whole day and my milk had begun to dry up, so I would need sustenance soon. The child still fed from the breast and if I could keep producing milk for a little while longer, there would be one less meal to worry about. My other concern was keeping Walter alive. He had grown thin and sickly and was in dire need of nourishment. For once, food came easily. A fat hedgehog shambled along the track in front of me and I picked it up and put it in my apron pocket. I gathered some fungi and a few sticks, enough to feed and heat us a little.
When I arrived home, it was quiet. Alice was nursing the child and Patience rocked in the corner chair. Walter was sleeping in the upstairs room. Alice asked me how mother fared and I told her everything, facts a young girl should never hear. I told her anyway because I feared worse would follow and she might as well be prepared. She was stoic, rational beyond her years, but sad. I prepared the meal, despite my own lack of appetite and we were readying ourselves to eat when there was a disturbance outside. Alice opened the door and Matthew Hopkins strode into our abode as if he owned it. His two male assistants followed behind.
He surveyed the room, curling his lip in disgust at our lowly quarters, then he addressed me and asked which of us was Patience. Alice looked anxiously towards me. We exchanged glances and I hoped she understood my meaning. I said nothing. He asked again, narrowing his eyes as he spoke. I stared mutely. He looked at me with a sneer and said he would beat me if I did not answer. I prepared myself but at that moment Walter traipsed down the wooden steps rubbing his eyes. He looked at the big man standing before him and pointed wordlessly towards Patience.
Hopkins told Walter that he was a good boy and Walter smiled, not realising what he had done. The assistants were ordered to seize Patience. I shouted ‘no’ and sprang at Hopkins but he pushed me to the floor and my head smacked against a wooden chair leg. I watched through a mist of pain as he approached Patience. She began to wail. He pulled up short and stared as if he did not comprehend the nature of this full-grown woman rocking and moaning like a child. Patience did not like strangers. She was inconsolable already and tears mixed with snot as they tracked down her face.
Hopkins swore under his breath, taking God’s name in vain, which did not trouble me, Vicar. Then he called Patience an imbecile and said that the devil must have been desperate that day. The two soldiers sniggered. I tried to scramble to my feet, but the knock had left me reeling and I could not rise. I begged them not to take her and told them that despite appearances, she was only a child. Do you think they showed her mercy, Vicar? Did they consider the impact of tearing a gentle soul with an impaired mind away from her
family? You know full well they did not.
They took my tender-hearted sister and tied her hands behind her back. She was pushed from the house howling piteously and dragged up the street as if she was no better than a donkey in harness.
Alice ran from the house, screaming at them. I crawled towards the door and vomited over the floor. Walter and the child were crying, I was retching and Alice’s angry cries still rang in our ears. A discordant mess of anguish.
Alice returned within moments. She slammed the door and threw herself on the floor, head upon her knees sobbing. I asked her what happened and she said they had taken Patience to the Gaol. When they spied Alice following behind, one of the men took a rock and hurled it narrowly missing her head.
Do you think of us, Vicar, when you say your prayers at night? Four troubled souls trying to make sense of what happened, two of them too young to ever comprehend. We sat there for the rest of the day and huddled together through the night. Page’s child slept, but the rest of us lay awake in wary silence. Alice held Walter while she prayed to a God she no longer believed in and I counted the ways to exact my vengeance upon Hopkins and his ilk.
Chapter 25
The Smoking Baby
“Are you there Lawrence?” A female voice was calling him, pulling him away from this other world. Unwelcome. He looked up from the account and snapped the notebook shut.
“What is it?” he asked, tersely.
The door opened and Violet Smith entered.
He apologised, “sorry, I did not realise it was you.”
“It is nothing,” she said, “but you should come downstairs.”
“Why?” he asked, then ignoring her suggestion continued. “When did you return?”
“I have been back at least an hour,” she replied.
“Should be impossible, “he said gruffly. “I cannot have been reading a whole hour.” He pushed the notebook away. “Did you enjoy your trip?”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 14