Weyward(31)

The prosecutor nodded, paused.

‘Are you able to tell the court’, he said, ‘your opinion of Altha Weyward?’

‘My opinion? In what respect?’

‘To put it another way. Are you able to tell the court the nature of your acquaintance with her, over the years?’

‘I would say that she – and her mother before her – has been something of a nuisance.’

‘A nuisance?’

‘On several occasions, I’ve had reports that she’s attended to villagers, patients who were already under my regimen.’

‘Are you able to provide an example, sir?’

The physician paused.

‘Not two months ago, I was treating a patient for fever. Baker’s daughter, girl of ten. She had an imbalance of humours: too much of the sanguine. This led to an excess of heat in the body, hence the fever. As a consequence, she needed to be bled.’

‘Go on.’

‘I administered the treatment. Advised that the leeches should remain for one night and one day. When I returned the next day, the parents had removed the leeches prematurely.’

‘Did they say why?’

‘They’d had a visit from Altha Weyward in the night. She’d recommended the girl take quantities of broth instead.’

‘And how did the child fare?’

‘She lived. Fortunately, the leeches had been left on for long enough that most of the excess humour was removed.’

‘And has this sort of thing happened before?’

‘Several times before. There was a very similar case when the accused was still a child. She and her mother treated a patient of mine suffering scarlatina. John Milburn’s late mother-in-law, actually. Anna Metcalfe. Sadly, Mistress Metcalfe passed away.’

‘In your opinion, what caused her death?’

‘The accused’s mother. Whether through malice or not, I cannot say.’

‘And, in your view,’ said the prosecutor, ‘what role did the accused play in Mistress Metcalfe’s death?’

‘I could not say for certain,’ the physician replied. ‘She was but a child at the time.’

I could hear the hum of whispers again. I looked at Grace, sitting at the back of the gallery. She was too far away for me to make out her expression.

‘Doctor Smythson,’ the prosecutor continued, ‘are you familiar with the characteristics of witches, as laid out by His Royal Highness in his work, Daemonologie?’

‘Of course, sir. I am familiar with the work.’

‘Are you aware’, said the prosecutor, ‘of whether Altha and Jennet Weyward possessed animal familiars? Familiars’, he spat, turning to face the court, ‘are evidence of a witch’s pact with the devil. They invite these monstrous imps – who wear the likeness of God’s own creatures – to suckle at their bosom. Thus they sustain Satan himself with their milk.’

At this question my heart hammered in my chest, so loud that I wondered that the prosecutor himself could not hear it. Doctor Smythson had never been inside the cottage.

But so many others had. So many others might have seen the crow that perched, dark and sleek on my mother’s shoulder, the bees and damselflies I wore in my hair when I was small.

Had someone told him?

The courtroom was still, all eyes trained on Doctor Smythson for his answer. The physician shifted in his seat; mopped his brow with a white handkerchief.

‘No, sir,’ he said, finally. ‘I have not seen such a thing.’

Relief flooded my veins, sweet and heady. But the very next moment, a cold dread took its place. For I knew what question would follow.

The prosecutor paused.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘And have you, in the course of your acquaintance with the accused, had the opportunity to examine her for a witch’s mark? An unnatural teat, from which she may give suck to the devil and his servants?’

‘Yes, sir. I made the examination at Crows Beck gaol, in the presence of your men. The mark is on her ribcage, below the heart.’

‘Your honours,’ said the prosecutor. ‘I would like to ask the court’s permission to make an exhibit of the accused’s body, to demonstrate that she shows the witch’s mark.’

The stouter judge spoke: ‘Your request is granted.’

One of the guards strode towards me. I was hauled, still shackled, to the boards in front of the jury. I stood queasy with fear, until I felt harsh fingers tug at the bindings of my gown before pulling it over my head.

I quivered in my filthy shift, shamed that all and sundry could see me thus. Then the fingers were back, and the shift was gone. My skin met with the clammy air. The gallery roared, and I shut my eyes. The prosecutor circled my body, looking at my exposed flesh the way a farmer looks at his cattle.

I would have prayed, if I had believed in God.

‘Doctor,’ called the prosecutor, ‘can you point out the mark?’

‘I can no longer see it,’ said Doctor Smythson, his features furrowed. ‘Alas – what I took to be the witch’s mark in the dim of the gaol appears to be but a sore. A flea bite, perhaps. Or some sort of pox.’

The prosecutor stood still for a moment, his cold eyes blazing with fury. Rage gave his scarred cheeks a purple hue.

‘Very well,’ he said, after a time. ‘You may clothe her.’