by Anya Seton
You didn't in Barbadoes, she thought. "There's my four-hundred-pound dowry," she faltered. Both she and Martha had inherited this sum from Thomas Fones's estate. "Couldn't we use that?"
Harry shook his head with regret. "Father has it, nor will he let me touch it." He did not add that his father had been forced to spend much of this sum in settling Harry's debts. "He feels that he provides for all your needs here, and will for mine if I do as he says. There's no help for it, sweetheart." He slipped his hand on her breast beneath her bodice, and began to kiss her neck. "No more tears," he said. "There are far better things to do." He unpinned the brooch he had given her, and untied the lacings at her waist. She started to push him away, but her hand instead began to stroke his thick blond hair, drawing his head close against her breasts. "Harry, Harry—" she whispered falling back on the pillows. "When we are like this, together, I forget everything but you—" He laughed low in his throat, and she shut her eyes, abandoning herself to pleasure so keen that it was indistinguishable from love.
They were aroused some time later by a timid knock on the door. Harry cursed and shouted out a sleepy "Who's there!" to be answered by an indistinct murmur.
"'Tis Sally," sighed Elizabeth. She pulled herself from the bed and wrapped the satin coverlet around her nakedness. She unbolted the door, knowing that her little maid would never disturb them except for real cause. "What is it, Sal?" she asked through the crack.
Sally was a buxom Suffolk lass of sixteen with squint-eyes and pimples. She bobbed a curtsey and said, "Beg pardon, ma'am, but Marster Winthrop he's a-waiting to star-rt the prayings, an' he sent me tew fetch ye."
"Oh, to be sure—" said Elizabeth blushing. She noted that Sally held a candle. It had grown late while they dallied together and dozed. "We'll be down directly," she said to Sally, but the girl still lingered. "Oi've a message fur Marster Harry special. It come from Boxford some hours agone, from the Fleece, it dew."
"What's that?" cried Harry sitting up. "Bring me the message, Bess!"
"'Tis not wrote, sir—" said Sally, she twisted one red chilblained hand in her apron, and glanced nervously over her shoulder down the long shadowy corridor. "A wee lad come privily to me to say thot the Egyptian's in bad trouble, will ye tew the Fleece and help him, sir!"
"Blast and damnation—" muttered Harry below his breath, while Elizabeth thought, Can it be Peyto? though Harry said he'd left him in London. "What sort of trouble, Sally, do you know?" she asked the girl who nodded and shivered.
"They be saying in Boxfor-rd, that he's a witch!" She gasped, putting her hand over her mouth, and scuttled away towards the servants' quarters.
Elizabeth lit the candles in their bedroom and said, "Is it Peyto, Harry?" He grunted, and she went on, frowning, "But I thought you got rid of him long ago. You promised your father—"
"Can I help it if the scamp is devoted to me? If he got a job in the stables at the Fleece to be near me! Good Lord, Bess, he risked his life for me in Barbadoes."
"You've been seeing him then?"
He shrugged. "Now and then. He's done me some good turns."
Ah, she thought, sighing—that's where the brandy comes from. "What will you do, Harry?"
"Go to the Fleece and see what this all means. Hurry up, sweet, there'll be enough trouble without our being late to prayers!"
They dressed hastily and went to the parlor. John Winthrop absently accepted their excuses and did not give the prayers and psalms his usual impressive emphasis. As soon as he had implored God's blessing for the night he dismissed the servants and younger children and addressed the others. "There's been called to my attention a matter of such grave concern, that occupied though I am with preparations for departure, I feel it must be dealt with."
They all looked at him anxiously except Jack who had been with his father when the angry delegation of townsfolk from Boxford stamped through the sleet into the Manor. Winthrop continued frowning. "The Landlord of the Fleece, Constable Cole, Mr. Doggett and Goodman Biggs, all waited on me here this afternoon to prefer a charge of witchcraft against—" he paused and looked at Harry, "a fellow recently hired as ostler at the Fleece."
"Witchcraft!" cried Margaret, her round face paling. "Oh, John, how terrible!"
"I don't understand, sir," said Forth in his rather pedantic way. "Why did they come to you if the alleged witch or warlock is at Boxford? Why did they not take their charge to Mr. Brand at Coddenham Hall, is he not their squire?"
"They came here," answered his father, "because this knave is known to have been in the service of a member of my family. He is, in fact, Peyto, that disreputable gypsy churl I repeatedly told you to dismiss, Henry, and whom you assured me you had."
"I did, sir," said Harry quickly.
"Had you any knowledge of his presence now so near us at Box ford?" Winthrop's eyes flashed with anger born of distress. There had been no witchcraft, no such hint of the Devil's presence in this part of Suffolk for years, and the delegation had heatedly assured him that it was being taken as a sign of God's wrath and divine opposition to Winthrop's plans for leaving home. Mr. Doggett had even said that local men who had signed agreement for New England and guaranteed passage money were withdrawing their names.
"Answer me, Henry!" cried Winthrop in a thunderous voice. "Do you know aught of this man's being at Boxford?"
"No, sir," said Harry looking his father straight in the eye. His lie sprang not entirely from cowardice though he was afraid, but from loyalty to Peyto whom he thought he might help more easily if their recent connection was unknown. Jack raised his eyebrows to give his brother a sad speculative glance, but Winthrop accepted the statement with relief.
"What do they say Peyto has done, sir?" asked Harry in a small voice.
Winthrop pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, and scanned the arraignment Doggett had written for the aroused townsfolk to make their marks on. He then read the gist of it aloud.
"1. He is admittedly an Egyptian, and all such are known for evil practices, the landlord hired him unaware, thought him Welsh or Cornish, having never seen natives of those places.
2. He is given to secret sorcery and divination by means of Satan's own tool, some strange-pictured playing cards.
3. He has a familiar, a nearly black donkey to whom he often talks in a strange language, and the donkey has been heard to answer him.
4. Since he came, there have been many marvelous disasters. Six cows died along Stone Street where he was seen to ride his donkey, then Robert Reynolds, the cordwainer's entire shoe shop was burned last Sabbath day. At the Fleece, they have heard strange noises in the night, particularly the ringing of the chamber bells in the courtyard, from rooms known to be vacant. This has so frightened travelers, that the Landlord is losing his custom. Worst of all, when Goody Biggs began to suspect him by reason of her horse running away out of the Inn courtyard after this man had watered the beast, and came to accuse him of malicious mischief, he denied it with a foul oath and the next day Goody Biggs' young daughter fell into fits. Upon her mother asking her if they were caused by the foreign ostler at the Fleece, the girl said they were, and that she had been bewitched.
5. The man was accordingly seized, stripped and searched. His ears had been cropped, the scar of an apparent brand burn on his cheek had been tampered with so its letter was uncertain, and many thought Satan might have made it. There was found also a large mole on his arse shaped like a cloven hoof. There is thus no possible doubt that this man who gave his name as Guy Smith, alias Peyto, has formed a covenant with the devil. And we demand that he be burned at once without trial."
Winthrop folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. There was a long shocked silence, during which Martha began to weep. Finally Margaret said in a trembling voice, "This is fearful, my husband, surely they won't burn him—if these, these horrors be indeed true, yet surely he may but hang."
"They can neither burn nor hang him without a trial," said Jack sternly. "My father told them that. B
ut they were very angry and Doggett quoted Moses' own law as given by God. 'A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard shall surely be put to death.'"
"What have they done with Peyto?" asked Harry roughly. He believed in witchcraft, of course, and it was true that his servant had uncanny skill at reading his peculiar cards, but for the rest the charges were ridiculous; he knew Peyto as well as he did his brothers.
"He was chained in the cellar of the Fleece," said Winthrop, "but just before prayers Doggett sent word to me that he has escaped. They think he bewitched the cook's little lad, who helped him."
Fortunately nobody but Elizabeth was looking at Harry, for he could not hide his relief, while Jack said, "I did not know that. He'll get away then, out of the country, and perhaps the trouble will be over!"
Winthrop shook his head. "He'll not get far in this weather; he fled naked as a frog, and Cole has the whole of Boxford out searching for him. We must at once rouse all our Manor folk to help."
He'll come here to me, Harry thought. Even now Peyto might be hiding in the abandoned mill on the Box they had used for their meetings these past weeks. "Aye—" he cried jumping up. "The Manor must be roused. I'll set about it now. It horrifies me inexpressibly to hear that Peyto has lost his soul. How right you were, Father, to forbid me his foul company, and what a deluded fool I was!"
The harassed Winthrop heard nothing but proper sentiment in this speech; the women were exclaiming and shuddering, except Elizabeth who guessed her husband's motives well enough, and was frightened, while she rushed after him whispering, "Oh, my dear, be careful!" He nodded, grabbed his cloak from a peg, and ran out to the stables, shouting for his horse.
When she returned to the group, she caught Jack looking at her. He shook his head imperceptibly, but he said nothing, and she noted that lie made delays in joining Forth who had already gone to alert the servants. Pray God Sally holds her tongue about the message, thought Elizabeth, her heart thudding. She ran to the offices and found Sally alone crouched by a candle in the brewery, clumsily mending one of Elizabeth's plain lawn collars.
"Would you like that collar for your own, Sal?" she whispered.
The girl goggled at her and finally said, "Yus, thot I would, ma'am."
"Then say nothing of the message to Master Harry. You haven't, have you?"
Sally shook her head. "Oi'd be afeared. Oi'm feared of going tew bed even—Oh, ma'am!"
"No, no—" said Elizabeth urgently. "There's no need for fear. Peyto's no witch. Why, you liked him when he was here! It's just those Boxford folk have gone mad!" This was a shrewd touch since Sally came from Edwardstone which had a constant rivalry with Boxford.
The girl nodded slowly. "Oi won't say naught. Oi'd never make tr-rouble fur Marster Harry."
"Good lass." Elizabeth smiled at her. "And wear the collar on Sunday!"
She walked slowly back to the parlor, conscious now of the fluttering burden she carried, though her waist had thickened but little. The men had disappeared; Margaret was sitting by the fire, idle for once, her hands clasped on her belly where a dull pain mingled with the movements of her own child which had also lately quickened. Margaret was forty, had borne five children and buried one, Nathaniel, and she suffered many discomforts this time though she never complained.
"Sit down, Bess," she said gently. "You look white. You must not let this horrible business upset you, it might mark the babe. Let us talk of other matters—or Mary, read aloud to us, dear. What have you there?"
Mary's sober young face was bent close to her book, for she was short-sighted. She looked up and said, "'Tis a description of New England by a Captain John Smith, a great warrior it seems. Brother John gave it to me, it tells of the very land we're going to."
Margaret had long since resigned herself to the move her husband so delighted in and she said, "That will be most interesting."
Martha who had been huddled nervously on a stool by the fire, brightened. She never found pleasure in reading herself, but she loved hearing stories. She took silks, needle and a half-finished purse from her pocket and continued its embroidery. The purse was for Jack's birthday gift in February, but she had told this to nobody.
"Captain Smith is writing—" said Mary, "about the country of the Massachusetts—is that not where my father will go?" Margaret nodded, and the girl went on, "He says it
is the Paradise of all those parts.
For, heere are many lies planted
with come; groves, mulberries, salvage
gardens, and good harbours—"
She stopped, for they heard a sinister clamor outside, the hallooing of men, the barking of hounds, the thump of horses, all mingled with the long drawn wailing of a horn.
The women looked towards the windows. "The hue and cry," said Margaret faintly. "They've not caught him yet, then."
"I pray they don't," said Elizabeth. It sounded like the howling stampede of great bloodthirsty beasts out there, and the beautiful firelit parlor suddenly seemed full of fear-stench.
"I know," said Margaret. She reached to the table and poured cups of mead. "But Scriptures also say 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' We must keep God's Law. Perhaps some mead will strengthen us..." She gestured towards the cups. "And go on reading, Mary."
The young girls obeyed, but Elizabeth stood up. "I'm sorry, my mother, I am too disquieted to stay. I'll go to bed."
She was in a fever of worry for Harry, and suddenly it occurred to her that if he needed her help she had best be alone in their bedroom. The hue and cry passed on towards Castling's Heath, and dwindled away while she sat waiting.
It was near midnight when Harry came stamping into their room; the sleet had changed to snow, and he shook flakes off his shoulders, crying loudly, "No, Bess—alack, we haven't found the skulking bastard yet! But no doubt will, as soon as it's light!"
She saw that this was for the benefit of his brothers in the passage; and when Harry had shut and bolted their door, he held his raw hands to the fire murmuring, "I've got him safe. 'Twas a near thing. The hue and cry went by us, but I had him on the saddle with me, covered by my cloak. They never saw."
"Where is he now?" she whispered helping to pull off the sodden boots.
"D'you remember the old attic we used to climb to from the bakehouse?"
"To be sure, and the hours I lurked there the day your father flogged me—Oh, Harry—you've never put him there! In this very house!" She sank down on the hearth settle and began to laugh hysterically.
"Hush!" he said. "There's naught for merriment. He's half froze, starved, he's hurt his foot, and I know not how to free him either. I must fetch him food tonight, since all day the bakehouse is in use."
"There was a little door bolted, behind that suit of armor, I remember—" she said. "It must lead to the other attics. Let's try and get it open now."
Harry bent to hug her. "That's my plucky girl. I told Peyto you'd be with us. He's—he's much afraid of burning, poor little wag."
During the days that they managed to tend Peyto, Harry and Elizabeth were nearer in spirit than they had ever been, or were to be again, and both of them enjoyed the perils of their adventure, though well aware of the gypsy's pathos and continuing danger.
The hidden door was warped, cobwebbed, and the bolt rusted so fast that it had to be shattered, but Harry nonetheless managed to open it and then it was easier to visit Peyto. The servants who slept in the far attic chambers complained of noises and footsteps in the night. Upon hearing of this from Sally, Elizabeth said anxiously, "Oh, I hope it is not old Adam Winthrop the first, who is 'walking' again. 'Tis supposed to be bad luck to those who see him!" That disposed of all nosiness on the part of the servants, and as for the family, Margaret, and the younger members had never heard of that particular attic, while John Winthrop had long forgotten its existence, nor had reason to remember it now.
Boxford and Groton folk, having beat over every foot of ground for miles, came to the reasonable conclusion
that the Devil had again saved his own. In fact Goody Biggs's young daughter said she had seen Peyto flying past her window on a broomstick before dissolving into a ball of fire, so there could be little doubt how he got away.
There remained only one thing the uneasy townsfolk could do to insure themselves against further malignant sorcery. On the third day after Peyto's disappearance they gathered around a pyre of burning faggots in the marketplace and solemnly burned Peyto's familiar, the little black donkey. There were several who were enraged when they found the donkey already dead in the stable before the burning, because someone had stabbed it to the heart, but more were secretly relieved. Many folk who did not mind a bull- or bear-baiting, because it was sport, were squeamish about the agonies of fire. The minister, Mr. Grant, read the old form of exorcism over the donkey's ashes, and said a very fine prayer of his own. The landlord of the Fleece invited all to open house, and it was generally admitted that the whole grievous matter were best forgotten now. In a day or so Reynolds, Biggs, and others of the erstwhile emigrants sheepishly returned to Groton Manor and asked Governor Winthrop to reinstate their names for the Plantation, whereat he was much pleased and relieved.
But in the meantime Peyto still lay hidden in the attic by the bakehouse. Besides injuring his foot he had caught a fearful cold the night of his escape, and spent the time shivering and coughing with his face muffled by the velvet robes of a long-dead Winthrop, so that no untoward sound might be heard.
Elizabeth smuggled to him flaxseed poultices and infusions of camomile, along with all the food she or Harry dared sneak from the pantries. Peyto gradually improved and might soon escape to the North where he wanted to go, but there were difficulties. His wrenched or broken foot—Elizabeth was not sure which—would not permit of his walking far yet, and neither she nor Harry had any money to give him, let alone the means of getting him some sort of mount.