The Witch’s Daughter (17 page)

Bess took a step back and held up the purse of money.

‘Half now,’ she said, ‘half when we have been permitted time together. An hour.’

He frowned at her and at the bag dangled in front of him. With a shrug and a grunt, he held out his hand. Bess quickly counted half the coins into his filthy palm.

The gloom and airlessness in the cells was not the worst of it. With the accused confined to their prisons day and night for the length of their stay, the air was thick with the stench of piss-soaked straw and loosely emptied bowels. Bess could only begin to imagine how much worse the jail in a town the size of Dorchester must be. These were merely cells for holding those accused of crimes and awaiting the assizes for their trials. An exception had been made for Anne and Mary. At least they had been spared possibly months of incarceration in such a hell-like place. When Bess saw Old Mary, she doubted the ailing woman would have survived more than a few days. She sat in the corner of the cell rocking back and forth, her fetters jingling as she did so, still muttering to herself, having aged a decade in a few days. Anne saw Bess and came quickly to the metal cage door, the shackles around her ankles slowing her progress. The jailer rattled his key in the rusty lock and let Bess in, slamming the door behind her. Bess fell into her mother’s arms.

‘There, child. Hush now.’ Anne stroked her back.

‘Oh, Mother, I feared I would not be allowed to come to you again before tomorrow.’

‘Indeed I am greatly surprised to see you here. Who was it who gave you permission?’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’ She pulled back to look at her mother. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, a veil of white. Her face was tight drawn but somehow serene. Not for the first time Bess was struck by her mother’s self-possession and apparent lack of fear. The memory of how she had sat unperturbed through all that had happened on the night of the watchers came back to her and spread a chill over her heart. She shook her head slowly.

‘There is so much I want to ask you,’ she said, ‘so much I do not understand.’

‘But you will, one day, Bess. One day. Do not judge me too harshly.’

‘Never! How could I judge you? You have given everything for my sake, that much I know.’

‘I am so sorry, my dearest one, to leave you so alone. Forgive me.’

‘There is nothing for me to forgive.’

Anne glanced toward the door to make sure they were not overheard.

‘Listen to me, Bess. You must make me a solemn promise.’

‘You have only to ask it.’

‘After tomorrow … no, do not weep … after tomorrow you must go to Gideon.’

‘What? Mother, no!’

‘Yes, you must ask for his help.’

‘But have we not suffered enough for his help already? Have you not paid a higher price than any other would?’

‘You know so little of the minds of folk, Bess. Do you not see that those who have condemned me must in turn persecute you?’

‘Me? But for what?’

‘You are the daughter of a proven witch. These are times unlike any we have known. People live in fear, though they do not know of what. For now it is witchery. By disposing of Mary and myself they will feel a little safer. For a short time. But it will not be many days before panic is stirred up anew, and the mob will lust for another killing. Gideon is the only one who can protect you.’

‘By what means? Would you have him turn me into…’

‘… a loathsome creature such as your mother has become?’

‘No! That is not what…’ Bess left the words unsaid and gave up trying to control her sobs.

‘Bess, heed my words, child. You are all that is left of me. Of all of us. You have your father’s good heart, your sister’s love of life, your brother’s fortitude. Survive, Bess! Live on, so that we all can continue. If you do not, then I die defeated. If you give your word you will do as I bid—then and only then can I go to the gallows content.’

‘Oh, Mama.’

‘Your word?’

Bess gave the tiniest of nods. ‘If you must have it, then yes, I give you my promise. I shall go to Gideon and ask his protection.’

Anne sighed and Bess fancied some of the tension and tautness went from her body. She put a finger beneath Bess’s chin and tilted her daughter’s face up to her own.

‘Let these be the last of your tears,’ she said, ‘so that you will have none without me there to dry them for you.’

‘Oh, Mother, I am so … powerless. If only I could tear down this terrible building and bear you away to a place of safety. How can I watch you die?’

‘You have more strength than you know, Bess. Do not grieve for me. I go to join our family, and I will take your love with me. I am not afraid.’

Bess stopped crying and touched her mother’s cheek. ‘I am,’ she said.

‘I know. But I will always be at your side, Bess. Know that. You are clever. You are resourceful. You are steadfast. There is a world waiting out there for you. I know you will do wonderful things.’

They were interrupted by the wheezing cough of the jailer as he thumped down the passageway toward the cell.

‘Right you are,’ he barked. ‘Time’s up.’

‘What?’ Bess clung to her mother’s hand. ‘You said an hour!’

‘No, lass, t’was you said an hour. I mentioned no such time. Come on, out with you before I lose my job.’

‘I won’t give you a penny more till we have had the full hour.’

‘You will if you don’t want to end up locked up in here yourself, you cocky little vixen. Here, give me that.’ He stepped forward and grabbed the purse from her belt. ‘Now move your pretty young backside up those stairs before I find another use for it.’

Bess turned to her mother, who quickly kissed her hand.

‘Go now,’ she told her after they had embraced, ‘and remember, no more tears.’

From some hidden place within her, Bess found a small, brave smile. Then she turned, fearing her courage might fail her. On leaden legs she forced herself to hurry after the jailer.

8

Being a place of no great significance, Batchcombe did not boast its own gallows, and there had not been time to construct one. There was, however, a stout oak to the west of the village, which had for as long as any could remember been known as the Hanging Tree. In less civilized times, the hapless and the wicked were summarily hoisted from its convenient boughs. There had been no steps to mount and no platform for the priest to say his words of comfort, but the convicted had ended up nonetheless dead at the end of their ropes. It was to this tree that the cart carrying Anne and Old Mary made its tortuous progress. It seemed to Bess the whole of the parish had come to witness what she saw as the murder of these two poor women. Peasant families, merchants, and nobles alike had turned out and jostled for a position with a good view. The cart carrying her mother was pulled by two mules. The women were still shackled at the ankles, with nooses already placed around their necks. They stood leaning against each other to ride the rough track without falling onto the cruel wooden spikes that surrounded them. Every step of the journey was accompanied by the jeers and taunts of the crowd. Bess looked at the wild faces and raised fists and was taken back to the cock pit where last she had seen such frenzied and brutish behavior. She had not slept but had hitched Whisper to the farm wagon and found a place on a small hillock to one side of the hanging tree. From here she could see her mother, and her mother could see her. The two women exchanged looks of longing and sadness, but true to her mother’s wishes, Bess did not cry. Indeed, she could not. It was as if over these past dreadful months she had cried the tears of a lifetime, and there were no more left.

The crowd grew noisier and bawdier as the Reverend Burdock intoned his prayers. The cart was positioned beneath the tree, and the trailing ropes of the nooses were quickly looped over the branch above. To the front of the tree sat Nathaniel Kilpeck on his fine white horse. He held up his hand for quiet as the preacher finished commending two more souls to heaven.

‘Let it be known,’ he said in the thin voice that now inhabited Bess’s nightmares, ‘that there is no victory here today. The wretched creatures you see before you were corrupted by the devil himself, and they are deserving of our pity.’

There were murmurs of dissent at this. Kilpeck continued: ‘Nevertheless, I know that all here will believe me when I say that Batchcombe is now a safer place, a more godly place, a better place, because it is free of witchery.’

This brought a cheer and cries of ‘Hang the witches! Let them dance with the devil if they love him so much!’

Kilpeck turned to the women in the cart. ‘Have you any words?’ he asked.

Mary merely whimpered and shook her head. Anne remained composed and said only, ‘I go to my family.’

Kilpeck seemed irritated by her calmness. If he had hoped for desperate pleas for mercy and last-minute confessions, he got none. He raised his hand again, signaling to the constable at the head of the mules. As he brought his hand swiftly down, the man dragged the animals forward. Both women were hauled off the back of the cart by the ropes attached to the tree at one end and their own necks at the other.

Bess felt all the breath leave her body and heard no sound but that of blood rushing in her head. She watched in despair as Old Mary kicked and jerked, her body more animated as it neared death than it had been for many years in life. By contrast, Anne slipped silently from the boards of the moving cart, her face as serene as ever. There was a crack, but she did not so much as twitch once. It was clear to Bess she was dead in less than a heartbeat, even though her beautiful blue eyes remained open, gazing benignly on the mob that screamed for her death.

*   *   *

During the slow journey home with her sad cargo in the wagon, a calmness overtook Bess. It was over, at least for her mother, and all that remained for her to do were practical things. Things within her control. The sun shone down with inappropriate cheerfulness as Whisper came to a halt in the farmyard. Bess went into the house and fetched what she needed—a shroud for her mother and a length of cloth that would serve as a winding-sheet for Old Mary. She had accepted both bodies, not being able to stand the thought of the poor kinless woman being buried outside of the churchyard, alone and unmarked. It took the rest of the day for Bess to gently prepare the two women for interment and to dig their graves. She shut her mind to the cruel memories of how she and her mother had buried first Thomas, then her father, and then little Margaret. She worked for hours, chopping at the dry soil with her spade while birds flitted overhead with twigs in their beaks. Here she was at the start of another spring, when all about her was burgeoning and budding, signifying new life, and yet she was entirely occupied with the matter of death. A soft movement of the air carried the scent of the sea with it. Bess felt a sudden longing to go to the shore and gaze upon the soothing water. She promised herself that when she had finished her grim task she would do just that. She was in no hurry to re-enter the empty house that had once been such a loving home. It took draining effort to drag the bodies from the cart onto the barrow and then lower them as gently as she was able into their earthen tombs. By the time she had replaced the soil, she was trembling with exhaustion. She knelt beside the fresh graves that lay alongside the three earlier ones, not in prayer but in a state of near collapse, her legs unable to support her a moment longer. She felt she must say something meaningful, something to mark the tragic moment. But neither words nor tears came. Instead, into Bess’s benumbed mind came the sound of distant voices and the rumbling of cartwheels over hard ground. Squinting into the lowering sun, she could see a small crowd, some on horses but most on foot, and one scruffy wagon. The procession moved without urgency but with determination, and soon arrived at the farmyard.

Bess hauled herself to her feet. She saw Widow Digby sitting on the cart, along with Mistress Wainwright. She recognized a constable among the men and familiar faces from the market. She braced herself for whatever might come next.

A man stepped forward, who she now saw was Mr. Wainwright. He pointed at the dark mounds of earth.

‘Be they the graves of the two witches?’ he asked.

Bess spoke through gritted teeth. ‘They are the resting places of my mother and of Old Mary.’

There was some activity near the wagon. Wainwright signaled to the other men.

‘Bring them here!’ he called.

The others unlatched the rear of the cart and slid out four broad flagstones, each big enough to require two men to carry it. They approached the graves. Bess was stung into action.

‘What are you about? Take those away!’

‘Stand aside, Bess,’ said Wainwright. ‘Let us do what must be done.’

‘No!’ But even as Bess protested, she was shoved from the path of the men. There were heavy thuds as the stones dropped into place on top of the graves.

‘Can’t you leave them be?’ Bess cried. ‘Even now, when they are dead, must you harry them still? Can you not let them rest?’

One of the stone carriers turned to her. ‘Aye, we’ll let them rest,’ he said, ‘and we’ll see to it that they stay resting an’ all.’ He paused in his work only to spit noisily. Others followed suit.

‘Get away!’ Bess screamed, ‘Get away! Go from this place, I tell you.’ She flung herself on top of her mother’s grave, emboldened by fury, ‘Are you satisfied now? Can you sleep easier in your beds knowing you have sent my mother to her death and pinned her soul with your wretched stones? My mother who showed you only kindness. My mother who saved your sister’s life, Tom Crabtree, and eased your pains in childbirth, Betty Tones, and drew a poison nail from your foot, Mistress Baines. Have you truly such short memories? My mother was a good woman! My mother was a healer.’

Wainwright stepped forward, close enough for Bess to smell the whiskey on his breath and see the madness in his griefstricken eyes. His voice was a slow growl.

‘Your mother was a witch!’

Silently the mob turned their backs on Bess and left her kneeling on the cold slabs they were content would prevent the witches rising from their graves and riding naked on their broomsticks about the village.