Suffer a Witch Page 3

  The same thing must have occurred to George. He glanced over the bottles and the symbols that Pippa had been drawing. “Wait … wait, Pippa, you’re cunning, are you not? Can you come?”

  Pippa snapped to a decision. “Yes! I’ll fix it for you! Wait here.”

  George waited in the yard while Pippa dashed inside the cottage and dragged an iron horseshoe out from under Lillibet’s bed. She changed from her brown, muddy work clothes into her blue house dress.

  “Come,” she said, seizing George’s hand and latching the gate behind her. “Let us make haste.”

  The walk up to Pye’s farm was a long one and Pippa and George both were breathing hard by the time they reached it.

  “Goody Pye,” Pippa dipped to Hannah Pye.

  “Oh, Heavenly Father, what has come upon this house!” Goody Pye ushered her in. “What can be done?”

  The scene that greeted Pippa was normal in the physical realm. Neat rows of pots and pans. A clean-swept wood floor. The newborn babe rested in a cradle next to a rocking chair. A teapot of water simmered over the fire, almost ready to hiss. A brass lantern clock adorned the mantle, and the hands told the hour: almost three o’clock in the afternoon.

  “They say that Jesus rose at three o’clock,” said Goody Pye, nodding to the time.

  It was thus the best hour to neutralize ill will.

  “He’s upstairs,” George whispered.

  Pippa was led up the steep staircase to the loft-like space where the twins slept. Francis was laid out on a mattress with a wool blanket up to his armpits.

  “Hello, Francis Pye,” she said. “You know me. Pippa Wylde.”

  “Hello,” Francis whispered.

  “Now,” she said, kneeling on the floor next to him. “Let’s see what’s the matter with you.”

  With firm hands, she felt his chest and his heartbeat, and dipped her ear to listen to his breathing. All seemed well. But then … she looked into his eyes. “Hmm!” she said.

  The pupils of Francis’s blue eyes were larger than usual. It was as though he was seeing a darkness that was not there. It was a sure sign of bewitchment.

  Goody Pye, at the door, said, “Oh, Heaven help us, and God be with us, and …”

  “I will remove the curse,” said Pippa.

  Goody Pye looked ready to kiss her.

  And then, Pippa was at a loss. She couldn’t remember what happened next. She tried to recall Lillibet’s precise technique. Gulping, she closed her eyes, feeling Hannah’s eyes upon her. What if she failed? “Er,” she said. “Um … I must … the horseshoe! We … um …”

  Goody Pye stared at her.

  She could hear Lillibet’s admonition in her head: “If you do magic without confidence, it will not work.”

  “Right,” said Pippa. “I need a pot, large enough to hold this,” she said, holding up the horseshoe. “Take a lock of Francis’s hair, and he must piss into the pot. We boil it away, and the hex will be removed.”

  Goody Pye nodded. “George, bring a pot for your brother.”

  Meanwhile Pippa stoked the fire downstairs and moved the teapot out of the way. Into a small iron cauldron went the horseshoe, the urine—an impressive amount for a small boy—and it was set to boil.

  They waited.

  The sharp scent of the urine filled the room. “Open the window,” Pippa said, remembering more. “If a person or a stranger is drawn to this, they’re the culprit.”

  When the urine was good and boiling, Pippa tossed the lock of Francis’s hair into the mix. All was quiet for a few tense minutes and Pippa began to wonder if there was a more mundane cause for Francis’s fit. She was also nervous that Lillibet would find out what she was doing, march up here, and scold her in front of their client.

  There was a knock on the front door and both women and George jumped at the sound. Pippa drew a deep breath before nodding to Goody Pye to open the door.

  “I be selling eggs,” came the hoarse voice.

  “We need no eggs,” said Goody Pye shakily. With a hand she waved at Pippa to come over.

  “Anne Buckett!” exclaimed Pippa. Speaking her name was to control her power of malice. “Get yourself elsewhere. You may not come here again.”

  “Who be you, perky girl, to tell me what to do?”

  “Leave!” said Goody Pye shakily, pointing at the cattle road that led to the house.

  Anne lingered and waved the eggs at them. Her stringy hair hung about her face, already lined with hardship at the age of thirty, and there was a blemish on the corner of her mouth. Her father, the wretched husband of Joan Buckett, had abandoned them and then died of consumption. They had no power to earn their living but from begging, petty thievery, and the occasional selling of eggs or milk.

  It was not until Francis’s urine had completely boiled away that Anne Buckett ceased her pacing outside, quieted her pleas for them to buy eggs, and headed down the road. It was obvious that Anne’s ill intent had been toward Francis. Pippa left the Pyes’ with the satisfaction that the hex had been lifted, and also with a shilling in her pocket as payment from a grateful Goody Pye. The threat of thunder had drawn closer; from the southwest, a storm front approached the Vale.

  When Lillibet returned at sunset, Pippa decided to tell her straight away about Francis Pye. Her mother had an uncanny way of finding things out, so it was best to be honest with her. “I did something you’ll be proud of!” Pippa said, taking Lillibet’s shawl from her shoulders.

  “Oh?” said Lillibet, her mouth curving into a smile.

  Perhaps she already knew.

  Pippa plunged into the story. “He was bewitched, young Francis Pye! And I did just as you said that one time, I brought the iron horseshoe, and boiled his urine, and discovered it was Anne Buckett! She brought a hex on him. Who knows why, I imagine the boys were harassing her, but …” she trailed off at the look on Lillibet’s face.

  The smile had faded, replaced by a crinkle of consternation. “Oh, Pippa. I hope you did not charge her for it.”

  “Well, she was so relieved, Goody Pye was. She paid me a shilling! Is that not what we do?”

  “Did Francis have spasms, with darkened eyes?”

  “Yes …”

  Lillibet sighed and eased herself onto her chair. “Start the fire, me bones ache. And you’re to return that shilling to Goody Pye.”

  Pippa couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Swallowing a sudden urge to cry, she was silent as she gathered up the kindling and struck the flint.

  “Pippa,” said Lillibet, taking her by the chin and looking into her eyes, “that curse has been with the Pye family since their grandparents’ generation. You broke no hex by Anne Buckett, for Francis’s grandfather had the same affliction, long before the Bucketts lived in the Vale. I’ve done all I could for the family in me day, but it seems to be in their blood. You cannot accept payment for what you did not do.”

  “But Lillibet, it was so obvious! Anne came round just at the time the mixture boiled, and seemed unable to leave until it was finished …”

  Lillibet shook her head. “A chance event.”

  “You say there’s no such thing as chance.”

  Aged, wise lips pressed together. “Did you believe you broke the hex?”

  “Yes!” Pippa cried.

  “Well, perhaps it will give Goody Pye some relief, to believe the same thing. But if Anne Buckett is innocent, ’tis not right to put this thing on her. You must return the coin and tell them that the service was free of charge, if they will remember our kindness someday in return.”

  “But —”

  “No arguing. Pippa, you should have come to me, not gone crashing around yourself, without any knowledge of curses or the history of the family!”

  “I’m sorry,” Pippa muttered. How was she supposed to become cunning if Lillibet wouldn’t teach her? And how would she convince Lillibet to teach her, unless she could somehow prove herself? Scowling, Pippa chopped turnip greens for their stew, attacking the vegetables w
ith firm, angry slices of the knife.

  The next day, Pippa was over her sulk and she knelt at her mother’s feet, hoping for instruction. “What today, Lillibet?”

  “Tincture of St. John’s Wort,” she said.

  “For?”

  “Edmund Renshaw.”

  Pippa raised her eyebrows. Edmund Renshaw was in middle age and owned the village inn and public house. He had a wife and a grown son, Will. St. John’s Wort was taken by men to re-ignite passion … why did Renshaw need it?

  “I know what goes through your head,” Lillibet warned. “’Tis not our place to judge.”

  “Did I say anything?” Pippa asked, but she still smiled to herself as she brought out the alcohol and stoked the fire.

  Midday, Pippa was delivering the tincture to Goodman Renshaw when she saw a small parade down the Vale’s only proper road. She picked out Hugh Felton right away, admiring how well he rode a horse. Accompanying him were his father and brother, and the Radcliff girls on a wagon. She remembered Hugh saying that they were going to the Lavenham market.

  “Good morning,” said Hugh, tipping his hat, courteous as always.

  “May God bless your journey,” Pippa said to the whole party, eyes still lingering on Hugh’s expert seat.

  The Radcliff girls ignored her. They’d never liked Pippa, and she’d never liked them.

  The wagon and horses rounded the bend. Pushing away the image of Winifred—who would be spending the day with Hugh, she with her pearl cuffs and gleaming chestnut hair—Pippa turned toward the pub.

  She paused at the wooden carved sign that hung above the door. The Green Man, it said, and his innocent, leaf-lined face was a familiar friend to her: round eyes and a broad smile, childlike yet knowing. Years of weathering had washed away most of the paint on the sign, but the essence of his oak leaf headdress remained. To Pippa, he was more of a living divinity than the cross that adorned the top of the church.

  Giving him a tiny wink, she walked through the open door.

  The pub’s interior was almost as old as the Vale itself. The inn was the first building in the village from the days when this was a better-used thoroughfare between Lavenham and Bury St. Edmunds. The inn had been followed by cottages and farms and a tiny roundabout with a maypole.

  The whitewashed church was the most recent construction. Before the Reformation and the strict theology that accompanied it, the people of this area had walked to nearby Brettenham for services. But then Calvinist doctrine had spread through the land and the plain undecorated church had been built. There had once been a grove of very old yew trees there, but they had been chopped down to make way for the church building.

  Aside from new velvet curtains in the Green Man, little had changed in a hundred years. The floor was packed dirt. The windows were thin stretched vellum. There was a carved oak bar, barrels of ale and bottles of wine, several rustic stools and benches and tables, and a fireplace made of fired bricks. Candle wax had dripped into fantastical shapes on the mantle and inside the sooty lamps. At this early morning hour, there was only one patron inside, Old Man Ashley. He was a drunk with one leg, but he’d been in the wars.

  “Mr. Renshaw?” Pippa called out.

  “Pippa?” Goodwife Renshaw emerged, wiping her hands on her greying apron.

  “From me mother,” said Pippa. She showed Mrs. Renshaw the small clay vial containing the tincture.

  “Hmm!” said Mrs. Renshaw, taking the vial and peering at it.

  Did she even know about her husband’s problem?

  Mr. Renshaw walked in the door with a straw broom in his hand. “Ah, my thanks.” He fished in his pockets and produced ten pence, the fee for a strong tincture. “For strength,” he told his wife.

  Well, Pippa thought, that was one way of putting it.

  She sat down next to Old Man Ashley, who peered at her with his one good eye. The other eye had a cataract.

  “Hello, Ash,” she said.

  “Pips,” he said, raising his cup. “Can ye bring me any news?”

  “The Feltons are visiting the market at Lavenham today.”

  “Not that kind of news, ye silly gilly.” He swatted at her. “News of the armies! Of the King! Of Cromwell, may God protect ’im.”

  “Oh. I know not.” Pippa knew there was a civil war raging in England between King and Parliament, but it didn’t concern her as long as the battles were far away.

  “Bah! What use are women?” Ashley took another gulp of ale. “I tell ye, Pips. That King’ll march ’is army straight down this way. His eye’s on these counties.”

  “Would the King fight for the Vale?”

  “Bah! No! But Cambridge, or Bury, or Ipswich ’e’ll damned well fight for.”

  “Your language, Ashley!” Goodwife Renshaw bustled out of the kitchen. “Girl, you’d better get on home. Listen no more to this wicked old dog, he’s a bad influence on your ears.”

  Before Pippa had a chance to take her leave, the door behind her creaked open and she swiveled to see the silhouette of Reverend Yates. “I have heard,” the Reverend announced, “that there have been cases of witchcraft abroad. In Essex.”

  “Witchcraft!” Mr. Renshaw’s voice cracked with fear.

  A thrill of alarm made Pippa’s hands tremble. Witchcraft! She had a sudden vision of herself, weaving spells of protection with smoke and flame against a horde of oncoming black witches, protecting those she loved … her friends, Hugh … her mother praising her skill … in one hand was an open Bible as she read aloud the verses Jesus used against the demon legions, in her other hand was a torch of cedar wood, wrapped with holly berries and oil-soaked cloth … the witches fell back, screaming, and she was triumphant. Pippa snapped out of her reverie as the Reverend spoke again.

  “I’ve brought pamphlets for distribution. Terrible, and in these uncertain times … the moral laxity of the people must be prevented.”

  “Couldn’t agree more!” Old Man Ashley chimed in. The Reverend gave him a sideways look.

  “I was deep in study this morning,” said Reverend Yates, “reading the wisdom of the Old Testament. There are strident warnings against anything that reminds of idolatry, which after all leads to worship of ungodly things, and devilish things, and to consortium with Satan.”

  Pippa shifted in her seat.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Renshaw. “Indeed.”

  “I was in prayer,” Yates continued. “I began to contemplate the ways that we people of the Vale might improve our ways toward God. In dress, in manner, in thought … there are always areas that need purification.”

  “It reminds me of old Brewer’s process,” said Mr. Renshaw, “that makes his ale the best in this country. He strains the ale, you see? He uses cloth to—”

  “Yes,” said Yates, “but that’s just ale. Our souls are at stake.”

  To Renshaw the innkeeper, there was little difference between ale and souls, and perchance the two were intertwined.

  “You live here at the crossroads,” said the Reverend. “Keep your eyes open for the doings of witchcraft. That part of Essex has long been troubled by it. We must make certain it doesn’t infect us here.” He glanced toward Ashley, slurping down the last of his ale.

  “Here, now. Do you say that my inn is ungodly?” Mr. Renshaw asked. “That I be of lax morals for owning it?”

  “No, no, my good man. Not at all. All I say is that we must take care not to attract thoughts or individuals who do not take their authority from the Bible. As they say, prevention is better than affliction.”

  The talk unsettled Pippa. With one hand she felt at the band of her petticoat. Tucked against her skin was a charm against evil influence. Alice and Sybil had identical ones. They’d made them together, writing nonsense rhymes on old paper to confuse bad spirits, and adding rosemary.

  “Beware,” said the Reverend in a high-handed tone as he set a stack of flyers on the bar. Pippa and Ash peered over one and she shuddered at the illustration: several ragged women surrounded by snee
ring imps, unnatural creatures with the bodies of animals and the faces of men. It said, “Trying of witches in Manningtree … by the gentlemen Stearne and Hopkins … witch-finders.”

  Pippa wanted to stay and discuss these new developments, but Ashley had become preoccupied with his drink again, so she bade him good day and went home. There were always chores to do, like sweeping the yard, feeding the two hens, and picking wild comfrey that grew on the hill. Her mother was on a house visit to Margaret Howell and her unborn child.

  Even in so small a village, there were always clients for the cunning-folk.

  The Wylde women were exactly what the Reverend would call pagan, ungodly … a white witch was still a witch.

  Sighing as she labored, Pippa wished that Lillibet would bring her along on her rounds. She must let me do it someday, Pippa thought. I’m going to be a midwife just like her. And my cunning will show, just like hers. Pippa made up the forest rituals, mimicking Lillibet, but deep down she knew it was just a girlish game.

  When she was finished with her chores, she let her hair down and brushed it one hundred times with the fine-tooth comb that had belonged to her maternal grandmother. It was kept in the locked chest beneath her mother’s bed, along with the other treasures of the house, except for their coins which were behind a loose stone in a random spot high up the northwest wall. Thieves always looked in and around fireplaces for hidden treasure. It would not have been very clever to keep their hard-earned shillings there.

  The ashes from the morning’s fire were in piles amid a few glowing coals. Pippa took the iron poker and began to draw idly in the grey remains: spirals, stars, and then the other symbols, sharp-edged and strong, the ones her mother had taught her, the ones that spelled out wisdom older than the trees.

  THE INSTRUCTIONS WERE CLEAR in Daemonologie and the Malleus Maleficarum on how to identify a witch. An idea had occurred to Hopkins, inspired by Daemonologie, that if he could find the Devil’s Register itself, the entire list, there would be no stopping him from bringing God’s justice down on the witches. He would have their names. Already he was thinking, plotting, on how to find this demonic artifact.