Hour of the Witch(108)

“And thou didst what?” asked Adams.

“I put on my cloak to find the constable. But as I went for the door, in my haste I stumbled. I fell and saw that Mary had carved the Devil’s sign into the doorframe.”

    The governor leaned forward and said, “I appreciate thy candor, but we have not established that Mary Deerfield was responsible for the mark on the doorframe.”

“I am sorry,” said Catherine, and Mary was left to wonder: might this very man, John Endicott, who had sentenced Ann Hibbens to death, be feeling sufficient remorse that he would spare her—that he did not want the execution of two women on his hands?

“Thou needest not my forgiveness,” said the governor. “Continue.”

“Prithee, I have a question,” Wilder interrupted. “Why didst thou race straightaway to the constable? Why didst thou not wait for thy master or mistress to return?”

“It was not disobedience, sir. I promise thee. I recalled the way I had seen Mary burying the Devil’s tines and a pestle in the dooryard in the autumn, and I was much afraid.”

“Very well.”

“And so I went to the constable, and he suggested we get Master Deerfield. Given the horror of what I had found, we also brought with us a captain of the guard.”

“Because,” said Richard Wilder sarcastically, motioning at Mary, “thy mistress is so very frightening?”

“Because I have a righteous fear of Lucifer,” said Catherine.

“Tell us, Catherine,” asked the governor, “hast thou seen any signs of possession in Mary Deerfield?”

“I am not sure,” the girl answered.

“Thou art not sure? Possession has rather evident manifestations. Didst thou ever find her shrieking most piteously or pulling at her hair?”

“No, sir.”

“Didst thou ever witness a fit?”

Catherine shook her head, and Mary thought how easy it would be here for Catherine to lie. The girl could claim that she had seen any of these things. She and her scrivener had thought it possible, and their response would be to ask why she was only reporting possession now. But she wasn’t lying, which both perplexed and relieved Mary. Either way, it seemed to suggest that while Catherine was the principal force driving her to the gallows, the girl might honestly believe that her mistress was in league with the Devil. This wasn’t an attempt to accuse her of crimes that she herself was committing; she was actually convinced that Mary had been taken by Satan.

    “Thou never saw a fit of any kind?” pressed Adams, and he, too, seemed surprised.

“I saw…”

“Go on.”

“I saw melancholy. I saw sadness, which, given the station on which our Lord God has placed her and the blessings He has bestowed upon her, seemed odd to me.”

Adams nodded, but Wilder jumped in. “That sadness, Catherine: could it not be attributable to the fact she has not been blessed with a child?”

“I am not schooled enough to know the answer to that,” Catherine replied, and she almost curtsied in her response.

“And, Richard,” said Adams, “let us not forget that it was suggested in the midst of her civil presentation in the fall that Mary may have made her pact with Satan and buried the Devil’s tines precisely because she was barren and wanted Him to rectify that situation.”

“I have not forgotten,” Wilder said with a trace of exasperation.

“But I didn’t bury the forks,” Mary said, and for a moment she hadn’t realized that she had spoken the words aloud. She had been focused on the absurdity of the exchange between the magistrates, and her response had been a reflex. But enough people heard her remark that a small babble enveloped the room, and the governor rapped his knuckles on the bench and commanded Mary to quiet down.

She felt her scrivener’s hand on her sleeve and took a step back, hoping to be less obtrusive. She recalled his advice: be obedient and be calm. It took a moment for the rest of the crowd to adhere to the governor’s admonishments, however: there were some who were muttering with indignation at the idea that Mary would dare dispute the charges that she was a witch.

    “Didst thou ever ask Mary about her melancholy?” Wilder inquired.

“I never knew what to do when I saw my mistress in such a state,” the girl said. “But I knew my place. Sometimes I would pray for her.”

“Didst thou tell thy master?”

“I did not and I am woefully sorry. I hoped I was mistaken and that my mistress was not in the midst of a battle with Satan.”

“What else canst thou tell us?” Adams asked next.

“She—my mistress—is friends with a woman who lives out by the Neck. A woman most—”

“Prithee,” said Wilder. “Just tell us the woman’s name.”

“Constance Winston.”

Again, there was a buzz in the room, either because people knew Winston or had heard of her. Mary felt bad that the woman had been drawn into her affair, but she had expected it. She had learned the hard way that this was a world in which a woman such as Constance hadn’t a chance at having a reputation unsullied by slander and meanness.

“What dost thou believe was Mary’s plan?” Adams asked, raising his voice so the room would settle down. “Why was she meeting secretly with Constance Winston?”