Gallows at Twilight (23 page)

‘What now?’ Monks asked.

‘Now, gentlemen, we watch.’

‘Watch? For what?’

‘For his demons. They will visit him soon enough.’

‘But the witch marks,’ Utterson said. ‘Surely that’s all the evidence we need.’

‘I am building a case, brick by brick.’ The Witchfinder walked to within an arm’s length of his prisoner. His watery blue eyes held Jake’s. ‘The mark, the magic, they are pieces that will make up the whole. The demons come next, and then the confession.’

Jake knew the history of witch trials well enough to know that this was utter garbage. Some witches had been hanged on the evidence of the witch mark alone. In fact, with the statements of the townspeople who had seen his arrival, Hopkins had more than enough proof already. So why was he playing this game? The answer was obvious. He wanted ‘Josiah Hobarron’ to suffer. Hobarron had thwarted Hopkins’s work as a witchfinder, and now it was payback time.

Six days of starvation. Six days of torture. Six days in which Jake’s young body had been transformed into the horrific vision that confronted him every time he glanced at his reflection in the window of the banqueting hall. Dull eyes stared out from hollow sockets. Skin stretched taut over his bald head. The puncture wounds made by the bodkins gaped when he breathed and thick green strands of infection bled out.

He had not moved from the stool. The idea behind ‘watching’ was that, if a suspected witch was observed constantly for a space of several days, then his demon must eventually come to him to be suckled. It was important that the witch should be kept awake during this time. If Monks or Utterson saw Jake flagging they were encouraged to throw icy water over him.

The sun rose and fell, rose and fell. On the sixth day, they began to ‘walk’ their prisoner. Jake screamed as he was lifted from the stool. Pockets of blood had collected in his legs and now they struggled to flow through cramped veins and arteries.

‘Run him up and down the room,’ Hopkins instructed. ‘He must be alert or his demon will not come to him.’

Monks and Utterson held Jake under the arms and raced from wall to wall. Worn down from constant kneeling, the paper-thin skin of his knees broke apart. Back and forth they dragged him until his screams became too much, and even Mr Monks had to stop.

‘He can’t take much more, sir,’ Monks panted. ‘He’s half-dead and I fear we’ll run him the other half if we keep this up.’

‘Very well,’ Hopkins nodded. ‘Set him down on the floor.’

Jake fell into a bony heap and the gag was removed.

‘Water,’ he wheezed. ‘Please.’

Another nod from Hopkins. Monks dipped a flagon into the barrel of water that stood by the door. Hopkins had had the barrel brought up from the yard, hoping that the sight of water would add to Jake’s torment. Monks stooped down and pressed the cup to Jake’s broken lips.

‘Enough,’ Hopkins said.

‘Some more,’ Jake pleaded. ‘Just a little … ’

The Witchfinder dashed the flagon from Monks’s hand.

‘Put him back on the stool.’

‘No!’ Jake struggled against Monks. ‘You can’t!’

The sergeant was about to strike Jake when a voice boomed through the chamber.

‘In God’s name, let him be!’

Monks jolted back as if he had been stung. Free at last, Jake slumped against the wall and took a deep, shivery breath. He was so weak that it was difficult to focus, but at last the chamber and the people within steadied. Monks, Utterson, and Hopkins bowed before Richard Rake, Earl of Cravenmouth. To one side of the Earl stood Leonard Lanyon, his horrified gaze moving over Jake’s tortured body.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lanyon asked, his voice trembling with rage.

Hopkins looked puzzled. ‘The meaning of what, sir?’

‘The meaning of this TORTURE CHAMBER?’

Earl Richard laid a jewel-encrusted hand on Lanyon’s shoulder.

‘Peace, Mr Lanyon,’ he said. ‘Mr Hopkins knows his business better than we do. I’m sure he has an explanation for the prisoner’s condition.’

‘I hope he can also explain why I have been denied access to Master Hobarron,’ Lanyon seethed. He glanced at Jake, his face full of regret. ‘Every day I have come to the castle to minister to the prisoner’s needs. Every day I have been turned away.’

‘Quite so,’ Hopkins interrupted. ‘If you will forgive me saying so, sir, you have too soft a heart to battle against the forces of darkness. As soon as I arrived, I saw your sympathy for the witch and, knowing such creatures as these, I felt sure he would take advantage of your kindness. I had to keep you away, lest he work his evil will upon you.’

‘That seems reasonable,’ the Earl said. ‘But the prisoner has obviously been ill-treated, Master Hopkins.’

‘My Watchers and I have done no more than examine and observe. I would swear that on my Bible.’

‘And what are your conclusions? Is he a witch?’

‘Alas, although I have gathered much evidence as to Mr Hobarron’s guilt, he has not confessed. There is one last weapon in the witchfinder’s arsenal, gentlemen. I must be allowed to swim the prisoner.’

Lanyon looked horrified. ‘You must
not
agree to that, sir! The swimming of witches is the worst form of barbarism.’

‘I disagree,’ Hopkins said. ‘The late King James approved of the swimming test as a true way to discover witches. Although the king’s ungodly son has now been chased from his throne, his father’s opinion on witches is still most wise. I am only advising we use such a method because I want to be absolutely sure of Master Hobarron’s guilt … ’ Hopkins shot Jake a sly smile, ‘before we hang him.’

‘Sire, I beg you—’

Earl Richard held up his hand. ‘I am minded to approve Master Hopkins’s request. Let the witch be swum.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Hopkins bowed. Then he turned to the vicar and his face darkened. ‘Mr Lanyon’s objections can go on record in my little ledger. I have other such statements there from men of the cloth. Of course, a good many of them were later discovered to be witches themselves, and hanged for their trouble.’

You told me not to confess
, Jake projected the thought towards Lanyon.
You said you’d help me. You have to do something!

Lanyon looked from Jake to the smiling face of the Witchfinder General.

I’m sorry.
Jake could hear the quiver of fear in Lanyon’s thoughts.
God forgive me, but I
cannot
help you.

The sky was dull, the sun masked behind grey clouds. Nevertheless, the light hurt Jake’s eyes as he was half-led, half-carried through the castle’s outer gate. The company, made up of the Witchfinder and his assistants, the Earl, Mr Lanyon, and Jake, passed under the jaws of the portcullis and onto the drawbridge.

‘A pity that the moat is dry,’ Hopkins observed. ‘It would have served us well.’

‘The river isn’t far,’ Monks said.

Jake managed to lift his head and follow the direction of the sergeant’s fat finger. In the near distance, he saw a shimmering blue thread snake its way out of the forest and roll down through the fields. Partway along the river’s course stood a millhouse, its great wheel churning the waters.

It took the company ten minutes or so to cross the fields and reach the river. En route, they picked up a procession of gleaners, yeomen, and plough-hands, all eager to witness the spectacle of the swimming test.

The Witchfinder came to a halt on the bank of the millpond. This deep pool stood before the rush of the wheel, its underwater forest of reeds swaying in the swell. Hands released Jake and he fell to the ground. Above the roar and clatter of the millwheel he heard the talk of the crowd.

‘Is he really a witch, Ma? He don’t look bad.’

‘Witches are cunning, Michael. Sometimes they can deceive us with pleasing forms.’

‘Pleasing forms! Look at the poor creature, Mary Goodwife. He’s nowt but bones and bruised flesh. What have those devils at the keep been doing to him?’

Hopkins turned to the crowd and made a deep bow.

‘Good people, as some of you may know, the swimming test is one of the surest methods to discover a witch. Some may call it superstition, but I say there is much wisdom in the old ways.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘Well said, Master Witchfinder!’

Hopkins bowed again. ‘Now, I call upon you to bear witness. If the suspect sinks to the bottom of the pool then he is as innocent as a newborn babe. But if he floats we will know that he has embraced witchcraft and has renounced his baptism. In this case, the pure, godly element of water will reject him.’

Hopkins gave Monks a nod and both men knelt beside Jake. Mr Lanyon and the Earl were standing with the crowd and could not hear what passed between Jake and the Witchfinder.

‘You want me to say that I’m a witch?’ Jake’s voice cracked under the weight of his despair. Mr Lanyon had been his only hope, but the vicar would not risk his neck for a stranger. Now, as he stared into the frothing, churning waters, a final burst of resilience flared in Jake’s heart. ‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, you pathetic lunatic. I’d rather drown.’

‘Oh, you won’t drown,’ Hopkins whispered, stealing a glance at the crowd. ‘No one that
I
accuse of witchcraft ever does … Mr Monks, you will bind him exactly as I taught you.’

Monks took a ball of twine from his pocket and cut two short lengths. While Hopkins held the exhausted prisoner, Monks tied Jake’s opposing thumbs and big toes together. In this hunched position, Jake was rolled onto his side and a thicker, longer rope was secured around his waist.

‘All ready, sir.’

‘Then cast him into the river!’

Between them, Monks and Utterson carried Jake down the bank. When they reached the riverside, Jake looked back and saw that the crowd had ceased its chatter. Among the faces, only Mr Lanyon looked away, his expression one of utter shame. Monks nodded at Utterson, and together they pitched Jake into the river.

The icy water robbed Jake of his voice. He tried to swim, to kick his arms and legs, but the twine held fast. Locked in that huddled ball, he started to sink. The whitewashed walls of the millhouse, the dark, dripping paddles of the wheel, the people on the bank and the pale sun overhead: all of it shimmered and grew dimmer.

Once, long ago it seemed, Jake had used magic to save himself from drowning. Now he did not even try to summon his powers. Bubbles erupted from his nose and he took in a bellyful of water. He tried to cough it up but more water flooded down his throat. He could feel the thinly scabbed wounds on his back reopen and blood bloomed around him. He sank, down, down, down into the misty red river.

Then the rope around his middle pulled taut. A small tug, and Jake felt himself turning in the swell. The current cradled him as he was rolled back through the reeds and towards the sunlit world beyond. He broke the surface and coughed up pints of river water. Through the swish of his blocked ear he heard the cries of the crowd:

‘See, he floats!’

‘Just like the Witchfinder said—the water will not take him!’

Another tug of the rope, done so gently that no one on the bank noticed. No one except Mr Lanyon, who glared at Sergeant Monks. For a moment, Lanyon looked as if he was about to say something, then he glanced at the Witchfinder and the words died on his lips. Shivering, the vicar turned and walked away.

The rope seized Jake’s stomach and he was pulled to the bank.

A voice called out—

‘Witch!’

The word was taken up and passed around.

‘Witch!’

‘Witch!’

‘WITCH!’

By the time Jake reached the bank the cries had become a chorus.

‘WITCH!’ ‘WITCH!’ ‘WITCH!’

And then—

‘Hang him!’

‘String him up!’

‘Build the gallows high!’

‘In the name of God, rid us of this EVIL!’

Jake was dragged up the bank and thrown at the feet of the Witchfinder General. His eyes came to rest on that quietly savage face. Matthew Hopkins smiled triumphantly and mouthed the words:

‘Death to the witch … ’

Chapter 21

The Devil’s Disciple

The cart rumbled down the rutted road. Every jolt twisted Jake’s tired muscles and rattled his aching bones. He was standing in the bed of the cart, hands tied in front of him. At each corner sat a guard holding the end of a thick chain which ran back to the manacle locked around Jake’s throat. When the cart lurched, the chains pulled tight and the iron collar cut into his flesh, causing blood to trickle down his crisp linen shirt and his fine black breeches. Seeing the finery of his dress a few of the poorer peasants lining the road took up the now familiar chant of ‘WITCH!’ and spat at the prisoner.

Jake had to hand it to Matthew Hopkins: the Witchfinder General could manipulate earls and paupers alike. After the swimming test, he had petitioned Richard Rake to hold Jake’s trial as soon as possible. Jake had still been lying on the bank, recovering from the ordeal, when he overheard the conversation. At first the Earl had been reluctant. Any case of witchcraft ought to be tried by the judges at the next Assize court, he said. Hopkins immediately objected—the next Assizes would not take place until March the following year …

‘The witch’s evil is infecting this godly town.’ Hopkins placed an imploring hand on the Earl’s arm. ‘Every day there are stories of ill omens. Only this morning I heard tell of a demonic hooded woman seen in the woods just outside Cravenmouth. For the sake of your people, you must act now, my lord!’

‘I
am
an Assize judge … ’ the Earl considered. ‘All right, Master Hopkins, you’ve convinced me. In three days hence we will hold the trial in the Shire Hall.’

The mutterings of the crowd by the river had not been missed by Matthew Hopkins. As soon as they returned to the keep he had instructed that Jake must be fed and washed, that his wounds be tended by the barber surgeon and that new clothes be brought up from the town. And so, three days after his torture had ended, Jake now presented a less wretched figure to the crowd. Any sympathy the poor might have had for him vanished as soon as they saw those expensive clothes.