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  To Snare a Witch

  A tale of Witchcraft and Wickedness

  Jay Raven

  Copyright © 2018 by Jay Raven.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Jay Raven/Junction Publishing - United Kingdom - New Zealand

  [email protected]

  www.junction-publishing.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  To Snare a Witch/Jay Raven. -- 1st ed.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Ding dong bell

  2. One, Two, Three, Four, Five

  3. Higgledy, Piggledy, my black hen

  4. Hark, hark, the dogs do bark

  5. Birds of a feather flock together

  6. Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross

  7. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

  8. For every evil under the sun

  9. Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold

  10. Intery, mintery, cutery corn,

  11. Rock a bye baby on the tree top

  12. Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green

  Ding dong bell

  Pussy’s in the well…

  The baleful chime carried across the ramshackle village and out into the surrounding English countryside, the slow, monotonous toll summoning the last stragglers to the pond side, already lined with anxious onlookers.

  Watching in approval, Inquisitor Thomas Gaunt pulled his black cloak tighter around his doublet and breeches to block the early morning chill, and tilted his head towards the church. As instructed, the relentless peal echoing from its belfry was funereal in tone, heightening the sense of foreboding he required from his fearful audience.

  Yards away, Matthew Stiles – his tense-faced assistant – lifted his wide-brimmed Pilgrim’s hat and made eye contact for a moment, nodding a silent message. As expected, the raggedy, snot-nosed village children had snatched the bribe of halfpennies and were waiting to chant as soon as the wagon rolled into view.

  It was a small detail, but integral to the staging of the grim event, as Thomas knew from experience. As was the presence of the worried priest, brow furrowed, muttering prayers in Latin. Everything had to be flawless; meticulous in its preparation to guarantee that the intimidating spectacle would bedazzle and terrify.

  Abruptly, the harsh clanging ceased and the apprehensive watchers crossed themselves, the murmur of expectation growing to a roar.

  Excellent, Thomas told himself. The scene was set. All it needed was the lead player, the protagonist of this tragedy.

  At that moment, she made her entrance.

  The rickety cart was pulled by two mules, the crude wooden wheels rough-edged and irregular, making it judder as it ran over the uneven ground. Lying in the back, prostrate amongst the dirty straw, the ashen-haired old woman sobbed loudly, the tears leaving tracks through the grime on her leathery face.

  She held her hands to the sky, beseeching, the wrists red raw from the manacles that had held them roughly together.

  “Oh Lord, help me. Help me,” she implored, in a hoarse rasp. “None of it is true. I am falsely accused. As God is my witness, I am innocent!”

  Despite her whole body shaking with fright, Thomas could tell that she still had some fight in her. Well so be it, he told himself; the freezing water would take care of that.

  On cue, the bare-footed children dashed out from several directions, following the wagon, throwing stones and bursting into the rhyme they’d been told to recite:

  “Old Mother Goose

  When she wanted to wan-der

  Would fly through the air

  On a very fine gan-der.”

  The urchins sang out of time, barely sticking to the tune, but that didn’t matter. The words instantly registered with the crowd, stunned faces comprehending the true meaning of the ditty.

  Would fly through the air…

  Oh yes, they understood, Thomas noted, seeing comprehension in their distrustful, superstitious eyes. No-one had to mention the word broomstick for the significance to sink in. As the cart passed them, those nearest stumbled backwards, flinching, worried that, despite being contained, weak and subdued, the crone represented a threat.

  There was a nod from Matthew, and the boys and girls launched into the second verse, discordant but clear enough.

  “Mother Goose had a house

  It stood in the wood

  Where an owl at the door

  As sentinel stood.”

  Thomas stroked his chin thoughtfully, making sure everyone noticed. They couldn’t fail to sense what the inquisitor was considering…

  Didn’t this scrawny hag also live in a cottage… outside the village, secret and alone, her deeds hidden from their prying eyes? Didn’t she have a cat, which lay by the door, guarding her lair in a similar way to the owl in the verse?

  Wasn’t the spitting, hissing, evil-tempered creature her constant companion… as black as night and just as threatening?

  Thomas let the word familiar run around his tongue. For him it didn’t just refer to the hag’s malevolent pet but to the familiarity of this carefully choreographed drama. He’d arranged it hundreds of times before, had profited from the gullibility of countless other crowds – all equally as cowering, ignorant and mindlessly cruel.

  “It never fails,” he informed Matthew as the first cries of ‘witch’ and ‘kill the bitch’ rang out. “Yokels are so easily led, so malleable, and predictable in their reactions.”

  “And I give daily thanks that it is so,” his assistant replied, “for it is what has kept us both gainfully employed all these long years, and so handsomely paid.”

  Instinctively, Thomas let his hand drop to check the money bag slung from his wide belt.

  Indeed, this morning’s dark work would add another twenty shillings to the swelling total it contained. Such a generous bounty Parliament had decreed for detecting witches, he reflected, and ridiculously easy to obtain. Every rural community was a hot-bed of feuds, gossip and petty mischief, squabbling neighbours quick to accuse and condemn – every bad fortune, every illness, every strange omen or turn of the weather an excuse to blame those feared or disliked.

  The reward money fell from Heaven like tainted manna, so abundantly that Thomas considered it miraculous that he and Matthew didn’t face more competition from other equally greedy inquisitors.

  The cart rumbled to a halt by the water’s edge. Time for the next act.

  “Bring her down,” he instructed.

  The two young field labourers who’d been commandeered into helping paused, reluctant to touch the old woman, but obeyed after a few seconds. Grunting, each grabbed her under the arm, half lifting, half dragging the frail biddy to her feet to the accompaniment of encouraging catcalls.

  The bedraggled woman swayed perilously, liable to swoon at any instant. Thomas marvelled that she cou
ld stand at all. Mistress Simmons had been subjected to days of unrelenting interrogation, her body shaven and probed as they searched for any blemish, any mark or wart that might brand her as Satan’s property. Every two hours, night and day, her skin had been pricked with long sharp pins to test her resilience to pain; checking that she oozed normal blood.

  She had wept, pleaded and cursed, drifting in and out of delirium, refusing to admit her guilt. It didn’t matter. In a few minutes her fate would be settled – confession or no.

  “Good citizens, pray quiet and attend carefully to what I say,” Thomas said solemnly, his rich and intimidating timbre instantly bringing them to silence. “Under the authority of our beloved King Charles and his noble and wise auspices I am hereby entrusted to determine the truth in the disturbing allegations laid against this pathetic wretch known as Old Mother Simmons.”

  He beckoned with one finger and the woman was pushed forward, almost falling at his feet. Holding out his palm, he took receipt of a roll of parchment from Matthew and, unhurriedly, began to read from its flowing copperplate script:

  “Mistress Agnes Simmons, on this fifteenth day of March in the year of our Lord, 1632, you are accused of blasphemy and the most heinous and corrupt crimes of witchcraft. You stand indicted of being in league with Lucifer, of conjuring fiendish inhuman spirits to do his wicked bidding, and causing injury, sickness, death and all manner of willful harm to your neighbours by the casting of iniquitous hexes, incantations and evil curses. How say you?”

  “How say I? I declare I am innocent of all these slanders,” she wheezed. “I tell you now and have told you over and over again. I have done nothing wrong. These malicious claims are all falsehoods, wild childish fancies, the ravings of fools.”

  “So you say,” Thomas agreed, skepticism clear, “but there are many who have given sworn evidence against you.”

  He turned to the spectators.

  “The accused denies the charges. Are there any here gathered who would give testimony now?”

  A slight, middle-aged man shuffled forward, cap in hand, balding head bowed. “I would, Your Honour.”

  “Your name?”

  “Lundy, Your Honour. John Lundy. I’m the village school master.”

  “Ah, a man of learning,” Thomas observed, pleased that the first to speak out should be so outwardly reliable a witness. “And what is your grievance against this woman?”

  The man stammered, studiously avoiding the accused woman’s resentful gaze.

  “Agnes Simmons killed my dear wife,” he said, his voice low. “These four months past. Murdered her with an infernal hex. It was… was hideous, truly horrible, to behold my love’s unspeakable suffering. She kept coughing, coughing up blood, a torrent of blood. And green slime. Noxious, disgusting slime. I tried… tried so hard to help my darling Mary, but there was naught I could do, nothing. She died in great agony.”

  He pointed an accusing finger. “And it was all that vile harridan’s doing.”

  How was Old Mother Simmons responsible, Thomas enquired, easily adopting the role of the voice of reason and fairness. What evidence could Lundy put forward to substantiate his allegation?

  “Mary visited the hag’s cottage just days before to collect payment for woollen blankets she had fashioned for the ungrateful bitch. Mary told me they had quarrelled over the agreed price. They exchanged harsh words, and Mary fled, sore afraid of what would happen. She said Mother Simmons would take her revenge… and the witch did. Oh God, she did.”

  The schoolmaster’s shoulders heaved in grief and anger.

  Agnes shook her head, the movement jerky and trembling.

  “He is mistaken,” she croaked. “His wits are muddled with his loss. It is true that Mary Lundy and I had heated words, but it was nothing. A trifle. A moment of ill-humour that quickly passed. We parted on good terms.”

  “There was no lasting animosity on your part?”

  “Of course not,” she insisted, exasperation showing. “If I had borne her ill-will, why would I have given her the medicine?”

  No sooner had the words left her lips than the accused woman paled.

  “Medicine?” Thomas repeated slowly, voice heavy with irony. “And what medicine would be that be?”

  She twitched. “Nothing, nothing of concern, merely a harmless instillation of herbs and roots.”

  “A potion?”

  “Yes… no. No. Not a potion. I don’t make potions. It was a simple natural remedy for her stomach aches. She told me she had stabbing pains in her belly, an ailment of the digestion.”

  Thomas paused, hardly daring to believe his luck. The villagers were already drawing their own deadly conclusions.

  “And that concoction would be the green substance that she vomited?” he said. It was more of a comment than a question. “With all the blood? The stream of blood that spewed forth?”

  “It was meant to help her!” The woman’s voice betrayed her growing panic. “It was only an herbal medication!”

  “Perhaps, or perchance this foul preparation was a poison. An insidious toxin that this assembly have heard you confess to mixing.”

  The woman protested frantically, telling them that it wasn’t what it appeared, but Thomas could see that no-one was going to be taken in. Hadn’t she just revealed her true nature, condemned by her own careless tongue?

  Time, he reflected, for the finale of this melodrama.

  “I have heard enough,” he announced. “It is clear that there is a case to answer, although I shall not pass judgment on your guilt. I shall leave that to a higher authority.”

  He beckoned the priest forward.

  “Pray for this woman’s eternal soul. Pray that this morn she be cleansed of her malignant sin. And that God may have mercy upon her.”

  Rolling up the parchment, he declared: “The Good Lord above will judge. His holy waters will reveal the truth.” He jerked his head. “Into the pond with her.”

  He didn’t bother watching as the labourers grabbed Agnes and, under Matthew’s expert instruction, trussed up the shaking, babbling, old woman in the prescribed way – the rope tying right hand to left foot, left hand to right foot, so it crisscrossed her body, guaranteeing she couldn’t struggle or attempt to swim.

  Her increasingly desperate caterwauling and begging went unheeded. The atmosphere changed, turning almost to that of carnival day, the crowd’s fear transforming into callous excitement. As the two men lifted their frail, bound victim off the ground and marched to the water’s edge, their friends and relatives shouted encouragement.

  Swinging her like a sack of corn about to go on to a cart, their brawny bare arms moved in tandem, arching first one way then another – back and forth; growing faster, building momentum before the moment of release.

  Whooping with each swing, the on-lookers yelled: “One… two… three…” then “go!” as the terrified woman was propelled high into the air and then dropped like a stone.

  The splash, Thomas noted with satisfaction, was impressively loud; as was Agnes Simmons’ choked screech as she disappeared explosively under the muddy surface.

  One, Two, Three, Four, Five

  Once I caught a fish alive…

  Great ripples raced across the disrupted waters, spreading outwards in concentric circles. Seconds passed – tense, exhilarating, nerve-shredding moments of uncertainty as the surface slowly began to settle.

  After their raucous outbursts moments before, the villagers’ sudden silence might have seemed remarkable, but it didn’t surprise Thomas Gaunt. He understood their trepidation, the agony and ecstasy of expectation as they stared at the stilling pond, waiting, wondering, hoping, fearing…

  Everyone knew the twisted logic of the test. If the crone remained submerged, water filling her lungs and life escaping in a flood of bubbles, then she was innocent. She would be drowned, admittedly, yet she’d have been vindicated, taken into God’s caring bosom.

  Should she float, her guilt was beyond question; the hol
y baptism waters would have expelled her as a foul servant of Lucifer.

  She was doomed either way.

  Those of a callous disposition might have thought it a fine excuse for a wager. What do you think, fellow gamblers – rise or fall? Sink or swim?

  And Thomas would have happily taken the bet, for he knew the outcome with unerring accuracy.

  A half minute passed – thirty teasing seconds in which the submerged hag turned, churned and tumbled, struggling to survive in the murky foulness.

  The watchers leant forward, almost falling into the deep pond themselves. What was going to happen? Was Satan going to save her? Or had they just done something terrible, committed an appalling act beyond redemption?

  Even the priest’s face betrayed doubt and rising unease; he was clearly wondering if he had compromised his own conscience by taking part in this ugly demonstration of mob mentality.

  Matthew flashed his master a worried look, but Thomas whispered: “Any moment now.”

  And Agnes Simmons suddenly broke the surface, gasping, spluttering, white-faced and terrified, half drowned, lungs devouring gulps of air.

  “She lives – the witch lives,” Matthew proclaimed, with relief.

  “Lucifer’s lackey has been snatched from our Lord’s tender mercy. She is condemned by her own sinful and supernatural salvation,” Thomas concurred, signalling the labourers to pick up the long wooden rake that lay nearby. “But she shall not so easily cheat our righteous justice. Be assured, good citizens, that swift, vengeful punishment awaits this foul, depraved creature.”

  The burly farmhands, accustomed to wielding the heavy tool, quickly hooked the soggy skirts of the waterlogged old woman and began dragging her back towards the bank.

  Mother Simmons’ thin lips opened and shut soundlessly like a fish, struck dumb by her icy ordeal. Streams of fetid liquid poured from every part of her body as she was brought back to land and dumped on the ground like a hunk of rotting meat.