Authors: Dulcinea Norton-Smith
“
You are to be tried a week on Tuesday for the crime of
witchcraft. You may be found innocent and released, you may be found guilty and
remain in prison for the remainder of your life or you may be found guilty and
put to death. Do you understand?
”
I
nodded again. All thoughts of telling him about the Warden had now flown from
my mind. There was no space in my thoughts now for anything but the pictures I
had seen along the corridor of condemned women and men going to the hangman
’
s noose.
“
Right. Is there anything you would like to.....
”
Suddenly
the whole room shook. Cascades of dust and chunks of stone work showered around
us as a huge crashing noise echoed around the room. The pictures shook on the
walls and the window rattled.
“
What in God
’
s name?
”
Roger exclaimed as he stood up and ran to the window. The
Warden shoved me roughly into a chair as he ran to join him.
Just
as soon as they had run to the window they ran back to the Centre of the room.
Another loud banging crashing noise rang out and yet more dust and stonework
came away from the walls.
“
Saddle my horse at the back gate and get her back to the
cells!
”
shouted Roger as he ran for the door.
“
Gather the staff and get them some
swords. I will ride to get reinforcements
”
I
had no idea what was happening. Were we at war? I knew nothing of the country
’
s wars and battles. My head span.
Perhaps it would be better to die here in the battle than dangle from the
hangman
’
s noose. The choice was not to be mine though. The Warden
half carried, half dragged me back to the goal and threw me into the middle of
the panicking crush of prisoners, shouting and screaming as the gaol shook with
increasing blasts.
I
fought and clawed my way through the throng and collapsed into my cell,
shivering from the shocks of the past half hour. It seemed that God had not
forgiven me and that my death was coming, by one means or another.
Roger
’
s bones jolted as he rode back to the
gaol. The horse had been spurred to canter as fast as it was able and Roger had
not spared the whip. He had been gone just twenty minutes since riding off to
get the local constabulary yet so much could be done in twenty minutes. He
feared that his return would be greeted by bands of witches or even worse empty
cells and dead gaolers.
Behind
Roger rode ten men. It had been a gift of God that they had all been at the ale
house, all but three finished with their duties for the day, the rest about to
start drinking. Lancaster had the largest constabulary in the County, thanks to
the regular drunken brawls that spilled out onto the streets and the many light
fingered street thieves. As Roger rounded the corner Lancaster Gaol came into
view. It was still standing, thank the Lord, but the orange sparks flickering
into the inky evening air hinted at the many small fires which Roger eventually
saw dotted around the grounds as his horse galloped onto the drawbridge. One
section of the gaol wall was little more than rubble and Roger and the
constabulary dismounted then rushed through the hole in the wall into the main
entrance hall of the gaol, following the cries and shouts of the fight.
The
sight which greeted them was one of a pub brawl. Though the witches and their
men folk had a wild and terrifying look about them they were armed with only
rakes, spades and homemade weapons which were not standing up to the swords and
muskets of the assembled men of the town. Many of the witch
’
s men were injured or dead and some
of the witches were tied to the banisters in the main hall but there were still
more than thirty left fighting and they were vicious. Even the oldest looking
crones were wild eyed and were leaping at Roger
’
s men, grabbing their hair and
scratching at their eyes and faces. Curses were spat out and several broken
clay dolls were scattered about the floor.
Roger
grabbed his little used, mainly decorative sword out of its scabbard and swung
it as he leapt into the fray. He swung it with a practiced aim, though this was
the first time he had used it against a human. He cringed as a jolt shot
through his arm and he realised his sword had connected with something fleshy.
Using both hands to pull the sword out he tried not to look at who he had
struck but he had no choice. His sword finally came free and the young woman it
had stuck in fell to the ground, eyes wide and hands clutching her side where
blood gushed from between her fingers. Roger felt his heart lurch. He had never
even struck a woman before and now he had killed one. He stared at her body and
said a silent prayer. His moment of stillness was a mistake. He was knocked to
the ground as someone landed on his back. His face hit the floor and he heard
his nose crunch and saw stars. As tears blurred in his eyes he felt someone
rolling him over then sitting astride him.
Roger
squinted up and blinked the tears of pain away. On top of him sat a woman who
looked almost forty years in age. Her eyes were almost all black and her hair
stuck out at all angles. As she smiled at him her mouth gaped so that he could
see just three brown teeth. She gripped Roger
’
s face until his teeth bit into his
cheeks and he tried to free his arms but she had knelt on them securely enough
to slow him down and her face was inches away from his before he could start to
make a plan. Then her eyes showed a look of shock and her head tilted sideways
before her full weight was upon him. Roger looked down at the woman to see a
sword being pulled out of her back, then the heavy boot of the Warden kicking
her off Roger.
Roger
sat up and surveyed the room. In the few moments that he had been down it
seemed that muskets and swords had won the battle and the embroidered rugs of
the main hall were littered with bodies. Blood coated the delicately
embroidered flowers and butterflies of the rugs. Howling in anger the remaining
witches were all tied to the banisters. They numbered twelve and were tied at
each side of the stairs. Roger climbed to his feet, clutching his swelling,
bloodied nose.
“
Take them to the cells.
”
He said.
“
Take the old one to the witch room
and re-unite the rest with their whelp. We
’
ll have no more waiting before we
send them to the Devil. We go to trial tomorrow.
”
Roger
stood at the back of the witch room and watched Warden Ainsworth with disgust.
The man served his purpose, he kept the prisoners in line and saw to
unpleasantness like this, but his pure enjoyment of inflicting misery and pain
turned Roger
’
s stomach. This room had only been used once and Roger had
not been the magistrate on the trial that followed so this was his first time
in the witch room. It was all that he had imagined and he feared that the use
of the implements in this room would take him one step close to Hell than he
wanted to be. This was evil beyond anything he had witnessed in the past and it
was being dispensed in the name of justice. Not for the first time Roger
wondered if justice and God sometimes ran in opposite directions.
Warden
Ainsworth finished strapping the old wretch Demdike to a chair and stood back
with a greedy leer as he cracked his knuckles. Roger tried to ignore him as he
stepped forward to speak to the woman.
“
Mrs Southerns, the one they call Mother Demdike. We bring
you here to see, first and foremost, if you are a witch and what
’
s more the head of a family of
witches. Secondly we bring you here so that you may deliver your confession and
spare yourself a trial.
”
Demdike
spat on the floor causing Warden Ainsworth to leap backwards in disgust.
“
Mrs Southerns, are you a witch?
”
“
What of it? What business is it of yours?
”
“
Mrs Southerns, witchcraft is illegal and there have been
numerous complaints about you and your kin over the years. Complaints of
causing crops to fail, animals to die, sickness and death of the good people of
Pendle. I ask you one last time, are you a witch?
”
Demdike
leered at Roger than laughed, a long crackling chortle erupting from her
throat.
“
Aye lad that
’
d be me.
”
“
This is your opportunity to give me a full confession and
spare your daughter and granddaughter the upset of a full trial.
”
“
They can take it. I
’
m not afeart for those little
witches. They
’
d see me dead soon as look at me an
’
all they would. No reason for me to
make their lives easier. You won
’
t get nowt else from me Roger Nowell.
I
’
ve seen you round the County since you were a scrat of a
lad. You don
’
t scare me and I won
’
t be doing no more of this bickering
with you. My brain isn
’
t addled enough to tell you all just for you to hang me.
You and that wretched family of mine can rot in Hell.
”
Demdike
spat again, this time hitting Ainsworth square on the boot. He looked at it
with a glare then hit Demdike hard across the face, flinging her head
backwards. When she lifted her head again she had blood coming out of her
mouth, mixing with phlegm to make a slimy red smear down her dirt covered chin.
A brown and yellow tooth hung from the front of her mouth from a thin thread of
gum. She cackled. Ainsworth let out a cry of rage then leant forwards and
yanked the loose tooth out of her mouth but the only response he got from
Demdike was further laughter.
“
Enough!
”
Shouted Roger.
“
Mrs Southerns you give us no choice.
If you won
’
t give us your confession willingly then it leaves me no
choice but to sanction the use of the methods allowed to us by our King to
elicit confessions from witches such as yourself.
”
Roger
nodded at Ainsworth. Ainsworth made his way to a heavy wooden table in the
corner of the room on which a number of metal and wooden instruments were
arranged. Roger moved back towards the doorway. The door was closed but he felt
more removed from the situation at this distance. Although tortures such as
these were sanctioned by both the King and the church he still felt unclean at
the thought of being involved in them. He hoped that the first torture would
bring forth a confession so that further tortures were not necessary. Ainsworth
returned from the table with two strips of iron held apart by a thick screw at
each side. Along the insides of the iron strips were small but sharp spikes,
little more than pointed nubs on the metal. Ainsworth put Demdike
’
s thumbs together and tightened the
screws until any slack in the fitting was gone.
“
Mrs Southerns, did you kill baby Emma Baldwin?
”
Asked Roger.
“
Dust tha think I
’
m a babby what can
’
t take pain Roger Nowell? Tha
’
ll haft to try harder
‘
n that.
”
Roger
nodded at Ainsworth. He turned the screws three times, tightening the clamps
and causing the spikes to cut into Demdike
’
s thumbs. She laughed.
“
Mrs Southerns, have you caused the death and sickness of
more than ten people in the County? I have had these complaints put against you
the last few years from ten families. Is it true?
”
Demdike
kept smiling and chuckling. No answer came. Roger nodded to Ainsworth once
more. This time there was a crack as the old, brittle bones in Demdike
’
s thumbs crunched. She howled in
pain.
“
Mrs Southerns have you caused illness and death by
witchcraft?
”