Gallows at Twilight (24 page)

A piece of rotten fruit smacked against Jake’s face.

‘Can’t we let him sit, Mr Monks?’ one of the younger guards asked. ‘He’s an easy target standing up like that.’

‘What say you, witch?’ Monks smiled. ‘Care to drop ye down?’

Jake looked over his shoulder at the narrow wooden box behind him. Sergeant Monks rapped the coffin lid.

‘No thanks,’ Jake said. ‘In fact, I don’t plan to go anywhere near that thing.’

‘Really? Think you’ll get off, do you?’

Jake reached into his mind and felt the presence of the Khepra Beetle.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jake mused. ‘Like the offspring of a warthog and a dairy cow being selected for the position of town sergeant?’

Monks glared and the other guards burst out laughing.

The cart reached the south gate of Cravenmouth and passed under the wall. Eager to catch a glimpse of the witch, the watchmen craned their heads over the battlements. The prison wagon blinked out of the summer sunshine and entered the winding streets of the town. The driver slowed his ancient pony to a trot. It was too narrow here for the crowds to gather, though a few barefoot children raced ahead of the cart, tapping sticks at doors to announce the witch’s passing. Faces appeared at the windows of the crooked houses. One evil-looking old woman, probably too weak to join the party, shrieked and emptied her chamber pot over the sill.

‘God’s curse on all witches!’

The foul shower missed Jake and hit Sergeant Monks square on the head. Monks roared and wiped the greenish brown water from his face.

‘You’ll answer for that, Abigail Sneap!’ he cried. ‘I’ll see your bony old backside in the stocks!’

Mother Sneap shrieked again and disappeared back into her room.

‘Nicely tanned, Mr Monks,’ Jake grinned, ‘it’s a good look for you.’

Again, the guards had to stifle their sniggers.

After ten minutes of rattling through shadowy streets, the cart entered the square.

‘He’s here! The witch has come!’

A rumble of turning feet. Voices rose up and shook the air.

Jake’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were squeezed into the square. A sea of staring, blinking, gaping, gawping faces. The driver snatched the reins and shot up from his box.

‘Make way! In the name of the Law, make way!’ He eyed the rotten fruit cradled in the arms of a gang of rough-looking men at the front of the crowd. ‘And don’t you be throwing any foulness this way. Like as not, you’ll see the witch suffer enough before the day is out. Now, make a path!’

He cracked his whip and the people parted.

From his position on the bed of the cart, Jake could see the entire square. People were hanging out of the windows of the shops, some of them waving at Jake as if he were a celebrity. There were kids perched precariously in trees, men and women standing on buckets and barrels. Halfway into the square, an enterprising carpenter had erected a large platform and was charging people a penny to climb the rickety scaffold so that they might ‘have a fine view of the witch’s last moments!’.

Bakers with trays of buns, pies, and puddings moved through the throng. There were saddlers and ironmongers, pedlars and ballad-sellers. Wandering barber surgeons offered to trim a straggly beard or pull a bad tooth. A few traders had even set up stalls. Standing beside a travelling apothecary, and trying to out-bellow him, was a chapman selling pamphlets:

‘Today we witness the godly work of Master Matthew ’opkins!’ the man cried. ‘But in
these
pages you will read of how the Witchfinder General began his Divine Crusade against all black-souled witches! Read of ’opkins’s first witch-hunt in his hometown of Mistley! Marvel at how he fought off the demon bear sent to kill him! Weep over the murder by witchcraft of his beloved pet greyhound!’

As the cart moved on, Jake saw fiddlers and drummers, tumblers and acrobats. Outside the door of The Green Man tavern a troupe of actors had just started a theatrical performance. A man with ruddy cheeks and a booming voice stepped forward and addressed his distracted audience.

‘Good people, please attend! For your delight and moral education we poor players will now act out A Most Gruesome Tragedy entitled “The Lament of the Pendle Witches”.’

The audience applauded and the play began.

‘Any other day I’d arrest that lot,’ Monks grumbled. ‘Plays being outlawed an’ all. Still, I wonder if one day they might act out the story of the Cravenmouth Witch.’ He shot Jake an evil glance. ‘I know how
that
play will end!’

He pointed at the structure taking shape in front of the Shire Hall.

The half-built gallows cast a thin shadow over the square.

‘English justice,’ Jake said, forcing a smile. ‘None better.’

Despite his bravado, Jake had to turn away from the inverted wooden L of the gallows. He closed his eyes, but nothing could drown out the
tap-tap-tap
of the carpenter’s hammer. Inside, he felt the beetle stir and its pincers slacken their grip on his brain.

When he opened his eyes again, they had reached the steps of the Shire Hall. Monks got down and waddled to the back of the cart. He cut the rope around Jake’s feet and the guards helped to lift the prisoner to the ground. As Jake was led to the stairs, the crowd surged forward.

Monks gave a signal and twenty or more brawny watchmen appeared from behind the pillars of the hall. Armed with muskets, pikes, and halberds, the men lined up in front of the crowd.

‘The Hall is full!’ Monks shouted. ‘Once the jurors have reached a verdict the town crier will step out and announce it.’ He glanced at the gallows and gave a knowing smile. ‘Then what may be done may be done.’

‘Fair enough!’ a voice cried out. ‘We don’t need to hear the blather as long as we sees the hanging!’

Laughter greeted this remark and rumbled its way back into the square as the joke was repeated. Then the blare of a trumpet sounded and cut the merriment dead. Jake looked over the heads of the crowd. A beautiful closed carriage pulled by a pair of snow-white horses was making its way towards the Hall. The driver and the footmen were liveried in clothes so fine that they drew gasps from the people. Monks ordered the prison wagon away and, seconds later, the carriage drew up in its place.

A servant opened the door and Richard Rake stepped out, followed by Leonard Lanyon and Matthew Hopkins. Some of the crowd gave awkward little bows while others applauded their betters. The Earl mounted the stairs. At the Hall door, he turned and held up his hand for silence.

‘Good people of Cravenmouth, it is customary before a trial such as this for a minister to say a prayer. I therefore invite Mr Lanyon to address you.’

Lanyon hurried past Jake without a word.

‘M-my flock,’ Lanyon flustered. ‘I … I … ’

Silence in the square. Neighbour glanced at neighbour and shrugged. Jake could see the struggle in Lanyon’s eyes.

‘I pray that Earl Richard and his magistrates will remember that the sword of justice must be tempered with mercy. I pray that we may all understand that life is precious and … ’

Lanyon’s gaze rested on Matthew Hopkins. The Witchfinder shook his head and smiled.

‘That is all,’ the vicar sighed. And then, in a softer tone that Jake could only just hear, ‘God forgive me.’

The Earl raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He nodded to Monks and Jake was hauled up the steps and into the Hall.

The central chamber was a huge wood-panelled room with a long bench on a raised platform at the back. It was already filled with people. Earl Richard and two dusty-looking men with hook noses mounted the dais and took their seats behind the bench. From the chatter of the crowd Jake identified these men as ‘Sir Thomas and Sir Daniel Noakes, the brother magistrates’. Chairs had been set up to the left of the judges’ bench and the jury, a rabble of twelve freeholders, were sat down and sworn in.

Jake was positioned to the right of the bench. The chains around his neck were fastened to iron staples in the floor and his feet were rebound. There was a rustle of paper and the squeak of stoppers as people unwrapped bundles of bread and cheese and started passing around bottles. Jake was surprised that this mass picnic went unnoticed by the Earl and the magistrates. Sunlight poured through the wide windows and the stink of a hundred hot bodies filled the air. The Earl covered his face with a scented handkerchief while Jake spluttered on the stench.

‘If you will, Sir Daniel,’ Earl Richard said, his voice muffled.

Acting as clerk, the magistrate addressed Jake:

‘You are charged, Mr Hobarron, with performing acts of conjuration and witchcraft contrary to the Witchcraft Act of 1604. How do you plead?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘Very well,’ the Earl sighed. ‘In that case, I call upon Master Matthew Hopkins to present his evidence.’

Hopkins made a deep bow to the judges and the jurors, his nose almost sweeping the floor.

‘My lord, venerable magistrates, good people of Cravenmouth—I tell you now, the Signs are everywhere! In the stars, in the seas, in the great turmoil of the Age. This wicked world is coming to its END!’

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Emboldened, Hopkins stepped towards his audience, hands outstretched.

‘But does that mean we lay down our arms and wait for the End of Days? No! We must fight to prove that we are worthy of our place in heaven! Good people, I know that you, like all true Protestants, have been fearless in your crusade against the enemies of God. You have smashed the gaudy windows in your church and broken the idols of the old religion!’

Rapturous roars and shrieks greeted these words. Jake saw the joy in the faces of the people and felt his heart sink. Hopkins, that master manipulator, had them eating out of his hand.

‘But I tell you this,’ the Witchfinder continued, ‘you have but scratched the surface of the Evil that plagues this land. I name this Evil—Witchcraft!’

The crowd fell to murmuring. Hopkins’s eyes blazed and he spun round and pointed at Jake.

‘Here is a practitioner of the craft! Here is the Devil’s true Disciple! In the Book of Revelation it tells us that such sorcerers must be thrown into the fiery lake. My friends, it is our duty to hasten this foul creature to those infernal shores!’

Hopkins’s theatrics had the room enthralled, but he had not captured everyone’s imagination. The Noakes brothers gave dry little coughs and said together:

‘You are not in the pulpit, Mr Hopkins. Please present your evidence.’

‘Gladly, sirs,’ Hopkins said, and bowed again. ‘I call my first witnesses: Mary Dower, the butcher’s wife; and Geoffrey and Caleb Gidd, bakers.’

Mrs Dower and the Gidds gave their evidence. Jake could not fault the beginning of their story. Some weeks ago, this strange man—a boy, really—had appeared in the square, exploding from thin air in a ball of flame. As the testimony went on, however, Hopkins began to pepper the tale with his own additions.

‘And is it not true, Mother Dower, that a few days before this witch’s arrival a strange light was seen in the sky?’

‘Aye,’ Mary Dower frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, I do recall a light.’

‘A comet, was it not, blazing across the heavens?’

‘It was! I saw it! A great ball of flame in the sky!’

Hopkins turned to the bench. ‘Others have reported seeing this phenomenon, my lord. The comet was a dark herald. An omen of the witch.’

He moved on to the bakers, starting with the father.

‘Mr Gidd, is it not true that, on the morning of the witch’s appearance, the first batch of bread you baked came out of the oven and was full of blood?’

‘I-I cannot be sure.’

‘But you have testified this story to Sergeant Monks. At the peril of your immortal soul, tell me, did not the bread bleed when you pricked it?’

‘It is so!’ the old man said, tears in his eyes. ‘Yes, I swear it!’

‘And you, Gidd the Younger—did you see this omen too?’

‘Aye,’ Caleb Gidd murmured, less certain than his father. ‘As you say.’

The witnesses were thanked and dismissed.

‘Now I will set aside Signs and Omens,’ Hopkins said, ‘and come to the evidence of my own eyes.’

With Monks backing him up, Hopkins told the court that they had searched the suspect for witch marks and had discovered two places insensible to pain just below Jake’s shoulders. He then went on to describe how, over the course of six days, Monks and Utterson had watched Jake to see if his demonic familiars would appear.

‘And did such creatures come to him?’ Hopkins asked.

‘Aye, sir, they did,’ Monks affirmed. ‘A great black rat and a loathsome spider. He named the rat Mr Smythe and the spider Miss Creekley.’

Jake realized what must have happened. Barely conscious during his torture, he had probably seen these creatures—one of the thousands of rats that plagued the keep and a stray house spider—and associated them with the demons of Sidney Tinsmouth and Mother Inglethorpe. In his delirium he had most likely called out those names. But how could he explain such a thing to the court?

‘And did you not see this Mr Smythe and Miss Creekley suck blood from the suspect’s body?’

‘I did.’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘The accused will hold his tongue!’ Earl Richard commanded. ‘You will have your chance to speak later.’

Hopkins turned to the bench.

‘My lord, if I might now sum up the evidence?’ He counted off the points on his fingers. ‘We have the testimonies of several witnesses, each of whom saw the magical arrival of the suspect. My assistants and I have told you of the marks below his shoulders and of seeing demon familiars attend the witch. And you yourself, my lord, saw how the waters of God rejected his evil body.’

The Witchfinder swept every face in the hall. He looked to the windows where the crowd outside pressed against the glass, desperate to hear his words.

‘ “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live
.” So said the Lord, our God.’

He turned to the vicar of Cravenmouth, who had been twisting his hands together in anguish.