Witch Child Read online

  .

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

  This electronic edition published in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Text copyright © Celia Rees 2000

  The moral right of the author ahas been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise

  make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means

  (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,

  printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the

  publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication

  may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 4088 1037 8

  www.bloomsbury.com

  www.celiarees.co.uk

  Visit www.bloomsbury.com to find out more about our authors and their books

  You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for

  newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers

  .

  Also by Celia Rees

  .

  Witch Child

  Sorceress

  Sovay

  g

  For Rachel

  g

  Foreword

  g

  g

  The following manuscript is made up from a remarkable collection of documents termed ‘the Mary papers’. Found hidden inside a quilt dating from the colonial period, the papers seem to take the form of an irregularly kept journal or diary. All dates are guess-work, based on references within the text. The first entries are tentatively dated from March 1659. I have altered the original as little as possible, but punctuation, paragraphing and spellings have been standardised for the modern reader.

  Alison Ellman

  Boston, Mass.

  g

  Beginning

  Entry 1 (early March? 1659)

  I am Mary.

  I am a witch. Or so some would call me. ‘Spawn of the Devil’, ‘Witch child’, they hiss in the street, although I know neither father or mother. I know only my grandmother, Eliza Nuttall; Mother Nuttall to her neighbours. She brought me up from a baby. If she knew who my parents are, she has not told me.

  ‘Daughter of the Erl King and the Elfen Queen, that’s who you are.’

  We live in a small cottage on the very edge of the forest, Grandmother, me and her cat and my rabbit. Lived. Live there no more.

  Men came and dragged her away. Men in black coats and hats as tall as steeples. They skewered the cat on a pike, they smashed the rabbit’s skull by hitting him against the wall. They said that these were not God’s creatures but familiars, the Devil himself in disguise. They threw the mess of fur and flesh on to the midden and threatened to do the same to me, to her, if she did not confess her sins to them.

  They took her away then.

  She was locked in the keep for more than a week. First they ‘walked’ her, marching her up and down, up and down between them, for a day and a night until she could no longer hobble, her feet all bloody and swollen. She would not confess. So they set about to prove she was a witch. They called a woman, a Witch Pricker, who stabbed her all over with long pins, probing for the spot that was numb, where no blood ran, the place where the familiars fed. The men watched as the woman did this and my grandmother was forced to stand before their gloating eyes, a naked old lady, deprived of modesty, dignity, the blood streaming down her withered body, and still she would not confess.

  They decided to float her. They had plenty of evidence against her, you see. Plenty. All week folk had been coming to them with accusations. How she had overlooked them, bringing sickness to their livestock and families; how she had used magic, sticking pins in wax figures to bring on affliction; how she transformed herself and roamed the country for miles around as a great hare, how she did this by the use of ointment made from melted corpse fat. They questioned me. Demanding, ‘Is this so?’ She slept in the bed next to me every night. How do I know where she went when sleep took her?

  It was all lies. Nonsense and lies.

  These people accusing her, they were our friends, our neighbours. They had gone to her, pleading with her for help with beasts and children, sick or injured, a wife nearing her time. For she had the skill, in herbs, potions, in her hands, but the power came from in her, not from the Devil. The people trusted her, or they had until now, they had wanted her presence. Birth or death, my grandmother was asked to be there to assist in the passage from one world to the next.

  They were all there for the swimming, standing both sides of the river, lining the bridge, staring down at the place, a wide pool where the water shows black and deep. The men in tall hats dragged my grandmother from the stinking hole where they had been keeping her. They cross bound her, tying her right toe to her left thumb, and vice versa, making sure the cords were thin and taut. Then they threw her in. The crowd watched in silence, the only sound the shuffle of many feet edging forwards to see what she would do.

  ‘She floats!’

  The chant started with just one person remarking, in a quiet voice almost of wonder, then it spread from one to another, until all were shouting with one voice, like some monstrous howling thing. To float was a sure proof of guilt. They hooked her, pulling her back to shore like a bundle of old washing. They did not want her drowning, because that would deprive the people of a hanging.

  Entry 2

  It is a cold day, even for early spring. White frost on the ground and green barely touching the trees, but folk come from far and near for the hanging. They crowd the market square worse than Mop Day.

  It is dangerous for me to be there. I see them glancing and whispering, ‘That’s her, the granddaughter’, ‘daughter of the Devil, more like’, then they turn away, sniggering, hands covering their mouths, faces turning red at the lewd images they conjure in their own mind’s eye. The evil is in themselves.

  I should flee, get away. They will turn on me next unless I go. But where to? What am I to do? Get lost. Die in the forest. I look around. Eyes, hard with hatred, slide from mine. Mouths twitch between leering and sneering. I will not run away into the forest because that is what they want me to do.

  I keep my eyes forward now, staring at the gallows. They have hammered away for a night and a day putting it up. You can smell the fresh cut wood even where I am at the back of the crowd.

  What powers do they think we have, my grandmother and I? If she had real power, would she not be able to undo the locks to their stinking dungeon and fly through the air to safety? Would she not call up her master, Satan, to blast and shrivel them to dust and powder? And if I had any powers, any at all, I would destroy them all, right here and now. I would turn them into a mass of fornicating toads. I would turn them into leprous blind newts and set them to eat themselves. I would cover their bodies with suppurating plague sores. I would curse them from generation to generation, down through the ages, so their children and their children’s children bore gaggling half-wits. I would addle their heads, curdling, corrupting the insides of their skulls until their brains dripped from their noses like bloody mucus ...

  I was so lost in my curses that only the sudden silence of the crowd brought me back to what was about to happen. Black figures stood on the pale boards, silhouetted against the white of the sky: Witchfinder, Minister, Hangman. In the unexpected quiet, a sneeze sounded loud. Obadiah Wilson�
��s thin figure bent forward, suddenly convulsed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face as sneeze after sneeze racked him. When he took it away the crowd drew breath, blood bloomed thick and red on the snow white linen. It was the only colour on the whole platform.

  My grandmother was brought forward for all the crowd to see. She was held, arms pinioned behind her, and pushed to the foot of the ladder which leant against the gallows tree. She ignored the eyes on her, looking over the upturned heads, searching for me. Her eyes found mine and she smiled. Her glance went sideways to Obadiah Wilson, self-appointed Witchfinder, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nostrils and she nodded very slightly, as if to say ‘well done’. She nodded again to someone behind me.

  That was the last I saw of her. The hangman stepped forward, hood raised to cover her face, and at the same time a cloak closed around me. I was taken down one of the steep alleys leading from the market and was stepping into a waiting carriage when I heard the crowd’s roar.

  Entry 3

  The woman sitting opposite me said not a word, nor I to her. She stared out of the window, studying the passing scene while I studied her. She was obviously a lady, richly apparelled. Her cloak was soft dark wool fastened at the throat with a silver clasp and chain; her dress was green silk velvet, the shifting shade of young beech leaves turning in a spring wind. Her hands were gloved, her fingers long and thin and beneath the soft leather I could see the bulge of many rings. Her face was veiled. Black gauze as fine as mist obscured her features, but I could see enough to know that she was young and comely. Her skin was pale and I could make out the shadowed jut of high cheek-bones and the curve of finely moulded lips. I could not see her eyes and, anyway, they were not upon me. They stared outwards steadily.

  If she was aware of my scrutiny, she showed no sign of it and made no comment as the coach rumbled on. I wondered if she stared out to look for robbers, for these are lawless times, the roads infested with bands of soldiers left over from both armies, and other roaming packs of sundry vagabonds. Many are fearful to travel, and she made no attempt to hide her wealth.

  She did not seem inclined to tell me who she was and I did not ask her. In my mind, an old rhyme began to chime. As we travelled onwards, the wheels of the carriage took up the rhythm:

  ‘In the town live witches nine, three in worsted, three in rags, and three in velvet fine ... ’

  g

  Journey 1

  Entry 4 (March, 1659)

  The changing motion of the carriage woke me. I must have fallen asleep, my senses dulled by exhaustion and lulled by the constant swaying movement. I started awake to the sound of horses’ hooves clattering on cobblestones. Outside the day had darkened. I judged it to be late afternoon, although tall buildings crowded out the sky. The coachman called and the horses neighed in answer as the coach turned into a wide inn yard.

  ‘Where are we?’

  My companion still said nothing, merely smiled beneath her veil and put one gloved finger to her lips. The coach had come to a halt. I drew back the leather curtain a little more to peer out. The coachman opened the door for my companion to step down. People came running: an ostler to hold the horses, the innkeeper bowing, his wife dropping curtsies. Their eyes widened somewhat as my companion turned back to help me out, but they said nothing. It was as if we were expected. I stumbled slightly, my legs stiff from sitting so long and my head still rocking with the motion of the coach. The hand on mine tightened and did not let go.

  We were shown to a spacious room, part bed chamber, part parlour; obviously the best the inn could provide. The landlady brought food and drink: pewter plates laden with stewed meat, mutton by the smell of it, wheaten bread and cheese, a mug of beer for me and wine for my companion. The woman laid the food, bobbed her head at both of us and left us.

  My companion ate little, just lifted her veil to sip her wine, crumbled some bread between her gloved fingers and pushed the stew about on her plate. Perhaps the food was too rough for her taste. I was aware of her eyes upon me, that now I was the object of her study, but I did not look up until all the food was finished, the last smears of gravy wiped around with bread, for despite her scrutiny, and despite all the things that had happened to me, I found that I was very hungry indeed.

  ‘Are you sufficed?’ Her thin fingers drummed the table.

  I nodded.

  ‘Is this room to your liking?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Good.’ She stood up. ‘Now I must leave you. I have much to do. Annie, the landlady, will care for you. You will be safe with her, have no fear.’

  With that she left. Outside the room, I heard her talking to the landlady, ordering a bath for me. This duly arrived. A great tub lined with linen, followed by maids bringing pitchers of steaming water. I had never even seen such a thing before, let alone been in one. At home, my eyes stung a little at the thought of it, at home we bathed in the river, if we bathed at all. The landlady came bustling in when all was ready and took charge of me. I was ordered to undress.

  ‘That too,’ she said, when I was down to my shift.

  A maid collected my clothes and took them away with her.

  ‘Where is she taking them?’

  ‘To be burned.’

  ‘What am I to wear?’

  ‘This until tomorrow.’ She had a long white linen gown over her arm.

  I was left standing naked before her. My hand went to my neck. I wore a small leather pouch there, made for me by my grandmother. It contained things, special things, not to be seen by anyone. The hot blood rushed to my cheeks. I feared that I was undone.

  ‘You are safe with me,’ she said quietly, as if she knew who I was and what I had come from. ‘Put it aside and then into the tub with you.’

  Annie was a big woman with little black eyes set like currants in a round bun of a face. She rolled her sleeves to show forearms as thick as ham hocks, caught me in a farmer’s grip and began to scrub me clean. I had not thought myself especially dirty, not compared to most in our village anyway, but it took two changes of water before Annie was happy. My hair caused the most difficulty. It was tangled and knotted, snarling up the comb so she had to shear hunks of it away. Then she anointed me with a sharp-smelling concoction.

  ‘Black alder bark boiled in vinegar,’ she replied when I questioned her. ‘You’re as lousy as a beggar’s dog.’

  She left that to soak while she scrubbed away at the rest of me with lumpy balls of hard soap and bags of sweet herbs. Then she attacked my head again with a fine tooth comb to remove all the nits and lice. It felt as though most of my hair was going with them and my scalp was near bleeding before she was satisfied. I was sitting in the tub until the water was cold and I was shivering. Finally she bade me get out and rubbed me pink and warm again inside a sheet of coarse linen.

  ‘There,’ she held me at arm’s length, her face red and sweating. She parted my hair and peered at my scalp and then looked me over from head to foot before pronouncing, ‘I think you’ll do.’ She held the nightgown for me. ‘Into bed with you. I’ll bring you up a posset.’ Her homely faced creased in a smile. ‘You’re quite a pretty one under all that dirt.’ Suddenly, she hugged me. ‘Poor little maid. What’s to become of you?’

  The bath was cleared away, the dirty water emptied in a great sloosh out in the yard and I was left alone. I took the candle and went over to the cracked and misted mirror that stood on top of a tall chest of drawers. Soap suds and kind words had brought the tears stinging to my eyes. They stared back, red-rimmed, the irises black-bordered, luminous grey flecked with yellow, gazing out of a face all pink and white and many shades paler than before. My hair fell down in thick cords, grey as ash bark, the tips drying to dull gold, the colour of oak leaves in winter. It framed a face full of unfamiliar hollows and shadows. Perhaps it was the candle’s flickering light, but I seemed to be looking into another’s face, a stranger’s face. The face of a woman, not a child.

  A knock at
the door made the grey eyes start wide as a deer’s. It was the maid carrying my posset. The mess of bread was well soaked in hot milk, generously flavoured with brandy, honey and spices. I stirred it with the horn spoon and ate it slowly, letting its warmth comfort me. I stayed, curled up in a chair in front of the fire, until the logs fell to red embers. Only then did I climb into bed.

  I had never been in a bed like this before. I had only known the little sleeping platform in the smoky loft of our one-room cottage, rough homespun blankets, straw-stuffed palliasse. The bed was heated by a brass pan full of coals, but that was no comfort. I missed my grandmother’s warm bulk next to me. She was all that I knew, all that was dear. I’d loved her and she’d loved me. Now I was alone in the world. How would I do without her? My thoughts echoed the landlady: What would become of me? I turned my face into the feather bolster, and clutched tight on the woollen blanket and smooth white linen. I drew them about my head to muffle the sound as I wept.

  Entry 5

  I did not see the woman who had brought me here until towards the next evening. In the meantime, Annie looked after me, feeding me and bringing new clothes: linen, skirt, bodice and jacket, a cap to cover my hair. Good material. Not of the finest, but better than the rough homespun stuff that I was used to. Plain dark colours. Sad colours. Puritan colours. I should have guessed my fate.

  My window had a good view of the yard. I turned the chair and sat there in my new clothes looking out. I had been told to keep to my room, so spying was my only amusement. Just as the light was fading I saw her coach turn into the yard. She got down, but told the coachman to wait. An ostler came out to feed and water the horses but he did not take them from their traces. We were to travel on together, or so I thought.

  ‘Quite the little Puritan,’ she said as she came in through the door. ‘Let me see you.’ She came over to my place at the window. ‘You will do well enough. At least you look the part.’