The Crimson Ribbon (24 page)

‘Lizzie?’

‘Your friend? She is watched also.’

‘She lives?’

‘Yes.’

I feel my heart take a great leap and I swoon. Grace’s arms come round me again, catching me.

‘Come, we must get you back on the stool.’

‘Wait, please, tell me how she does.’

‘I have not seen her. But I know that you are both in a great deal of trouble.’

‘But what is the charge? Please, no one will tell me.’

‘Your friend is accused of using witchcraft to seduce men and to commit a murder.’

My head spins. ‘But . . . that is not true . . .’

She hushes me. ‘That is not for me to say.’

‘And me?’

‘They say you are a witch also, and that you are seduced by her. They say you are unnatural with her and that you aid her in her magic. You will be tried for a witch.’

I always feared it would come to this. It seems, no matter how hard I try, I cannot escape this fate. Even in death Isaac Tuttle has won. But my mind is as hazy as a Fenland fog. If Joseph is right, and Isaac is gone, then who sent the Watch to West St Paul’s? It makes no sense. I am so tired, I cannot think.

‘Please,’ Grace begs, as Mistress Wheeler stirs, ‘if you are watched three days and nights and the Devil does not come to you, they will have little proof. You may be spared the rope . . .’

But, despite her coaxing, I cannot find the strength to stand. I feel nothing but an overwhelming desire to lie down upon the freezing flags and let my bones turn to ice.

I am not the Devil’s plaything, of that I am sure, but some of the things Grace said are true: I have loved Lizzie; I have been bewitched by her. I have lived with her and shared her bed, thinking it to be the finest, most beautiful thing. And, for a time, it was. Even though those days are past, lost along with my trust in her, it seems I must pay a price for them.

Perhaps there is a kind of balance in this world: for every good thing I have, I must give up something else. For every joy, there must be pain. For the simple, uncomplicated love of my mother, I must suffer the grief of her end. For the fleeting moments of affinity I have felt with Joseph, I must bear the disappointment of his failings. For the rapture of my passion for Lizzie, I must suffer a broken heart. Nothing comes free, not even love.

My shrivelled stomach reacts violently to the food and I retch onto the floor until bloody green stuff comes out. The noise wakes Mistress Wheeler and the last thing I remember is the sound of her scolding, and the blur of faces in the glow of candle flame, before I close my eyes and let blackness take me.

Chapter 40

I am feverish for some time. I do not know how long. I lose count of the days.

I am put back in the dungeon and am glad of the company and warmth of others. One girl brings me my bread each day, saving it from eager hands, and helps me to eat. I do not ask her name, or why she is here, but I’m grateful there is some kindness to be found in such a place.

I begin to think I may die here. My mind is so frenzied I am ready to lie down one last time, but thoughts of Lizzie stop me. Since Grace told me that she lives, and although the keeper will not answer my questions, I will not give up while there is still that hope. When, at last, the fever breaks and my head clears, I think that perhaps God has plans for me yet. When Master Oliver hears of this, surely he will help me. He will tell them the truth, and they will not dare to go against him. The truth is what matters now. The truth will save us both.

The assizes are held in the first week of March, when I have been here a month.

The keeper gives no warning, but when the court bailiff comes to fetch me, the other women shout and rattle their chains. In my time here I have seen others go to meet their fate before the magistrate. None has come back. I am dragged from the room, bound at the wrists and shackled with a heavy iron collar. These things are to keep me from bolting, as if I have the strength for that. As I pass her, the girl who nursed me through my illness gives me a sad smile.

The Newgate courthouse is full to bursting. In the public gallery the gossips are gathered, chattering as if they have come to see a play. With the theatres closed so long, London finds entertainment where it can. I dare not look among them for a friendly face, for fear I will find none. So I keep my eyes to the floor until I am led into a gated box and forced to sit and wait my turn before the court.

The jurymen are lined up on benches, the magistrate on a raised platform before them. He is a big man, ruddy-faced and fat, his skin bearing the old marks of the pox. He confers with Mason Ponder, his bulk a stark contrast to the lawyer’s wizened frame.

Next to me is another woman, a ragged specimen with dirty fair hair that might once have been golden, hanging in matted clumps. Her eyes are wild and she gives me a sneer of a smile.

At last, Lizzie is brought up. I barely recognise her, she is so wasted and stooped. Her dress, dirty and torn, hangs from her bones. Her face is smeared with the filth of her cell and her beautiful hair is tangled and faded, all the fire gone from it. She looks like a beggar. I would have passed her by in the street.

I struggle to stand as she enters the box, but the bailiff pushes me down and threatens me with a cudgel. She sits, just a few feet away and looks at me. Although her eyes are dull, she gives me a small, secret smile and it is enough to make my heart sing. I’m surprised by a tear leaking down my cheek. I’d thought I had none left.

They put Lizzie up first and make her stand on a small raised step before the jurymen.

‘Swear her in,’ the magistrate says.

Ponder brings the book to Lizzie. She puts her hand upon it and recites her pledge before God. There is much muttering and whispering among the crowd and the magistrate orders silence before he begins.

‘Are you Elizabeth Poole?’ he asks.

‘I am.’

‘Elizabeth Poole, you are accused of witchcraft. You are accused of entering a covenant with the Devil and using the powers granted you to seduce men and commit adulterous acts. You are accused of using the powers granted you to commit a murder. You are presented before this jury as a witch, an adulterer and a murderess. Do you understand?’

Lizzie nods.

‘You must speak, madam.’

‘I understand.’

‘And what is your plea?’

‘I am not a witch.’

The crowd stirs.

‘Are you guilty or no? You must plead.’

‘I am not a witch,’ Lizzie repeats.

‘Very well. The prisoner pleads not guilty.’ The magistrate waits for the clerk to scratch this into his ledger. ‘Mistress Poole, we have witnesses who will testify to your guilt. Before we bring them up, do you have anything further to say for yourself?’

Somehow Lizzie manages to stand tall. Only I, who know her so well, would detect the waver in her voice.

‘Who gives you the right to judge me?’ she says. ‘Who gives these men the right to judge me? I answer to God alone. He will judge me. He alone knows the truth in my heart. I will answer to none other.’

‘A pretty speech, madam, but a sentiment that holds no sway in a court of law, as we have all learned of late.’

He turns to Ponder. ‘You may begin, sir.’

Ponder calls for his first witness. A young woman enters. She is short and fleshy with the dour, sensible garb of a servant. She holds her head high and simpers, as though she knows all eyes are on her and is ready for it. It takes me a moment to realise it is Charlotte.

I should not be surprised. I knew she had played her part in this from the moment the captain of the Watch asked her to name us as she stood mute and mouse-like in the doorway of our chamber. She has never forgiven Lizzie for giving me the place by her side that she believed rightfully hers. She has never forgiven me for taking it. These things are no secret. She speaks them every day in her petulant looks and spiteful words. But I had thought her loyal, if not to me then to Lizzie.

Ponder gives the room no time to settle. ‘What is your name and occupation?’

‘My name is Charlotte Stoker. I am maid at the house of Mistress Poole at West St Paul’s.’

‘And how long have you lived there?’

‘Eight years, since I was twelve.’

‘Mistress Stoker, I would like you to tell the jury what you have told me, regarding your mistress.’

‘Which part, sir?’ Charlotte whispers, causing snorts and laughter in the gallery. She is as demure and lovely as a girl on her first maying. My fingers curl in anger as I wait for the lies.

‘Tell us about your mistress’s relationship with a certain gentleman.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She clears her throat. ‘Mistress Poole has a taste for certain company. More than is seemly.’

‘Which person in particular?’

‘Some time ago she did meet with Pastor Kiffin, in secret. She was very intimate with him.’

‘Did you ever see them together?’

‘Yes, I saw them.’

‘Where did you see them?’

‘I saw them several times in our front parlour and once when I was down by the river. I saw them go into an inn and take a room there.’

‘And what exactly did you see?’

Charlotte flushes. ‘I saw them in sin.’

‘Did you see them performing adulterous acts? It is important that you are clear and specific.’

‘I did, sir. I saw them together, kissing and touching.’

Lizzie is staring vacantly at the floor.

‘And when did you see these things?’

‘It was about two years ago.’

‘And did you report this to your master at the time?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Why not?’

Charlotte shifts from foot to foot. ‘I don’t know. I did tell some others, at the church.’

‘Is this the only time you have seen your mistress engaged in such sinful behaviour?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You must tell us what you know, every part of it. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

I hold my breath. I know what is coming.

‘I know she has committed shameful and licentious acts with one other.’

‘And who is that person?’

‘It is Ruth Flowers, who is sitting there.’ Charlotte points at me.

I feel a hundred eyes turn on me. Like Lizzie, I stare at the floor.

Charlotte’s words come tumbling out. She has prepared her act well.

‘I have seen them many times, kissing and holding hands like sweethearts. Ruth was nothing but a kitchen girl when she first come, but the mistress made her maidservant and ran off with her to set up house like husband and wife, leaving us poor servants to look after the master in his last days.’

‘Living like husband and wife, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. They share a bed, even now in London, and are most licentious together. It is no secret. They do not try to hide it.’

‘And have you seen them committing these lewd acts?’

‘I have heard them and spied them naked together. The Watch found them just so on the night they were arrested. You can ask the captain. I know what it is they do. Everyone knows.’

A man in the crowd makes a bawdy comment and there is laughter, the crowd rippling.

‘Thank you, Mistress Stoker. But now we come to a more serious accusation. Murder. Please tell the jury what you told me of your suspicions.’

Charlotte squirms. ‘But you said I wouldn’t have to—’

‘It is important and you are sworn to tell the truth.’

Charlotte glances at Lizzie, her mouth hanging open as though she cannot find the words. Then she looks to the crowd. I follow her gaze and find Margaret there, seated at the front against the barriers. She looks stricken, eyes wide with panic. She clutches at a soiled rag. She is crying.

Ponder softens his voice. ‘God knows you are doing the right thing and He will bless you for it.’

‘It is a rumour, sir,’ Charlotte says, ‘but many people say that Elizabeth Poole killed her own mother.’

So, this is the murder charge I have been so afraid of. I am relieved it is nothing worse. Charlotte told me the story of Lizzie’s mother and how she disappeared. No one knows if she lives or dies. I have heard it from Lizzie’s own lips. Lizzie may blame herself, but I know it was not her fault. The woman was sick in body and mind. Only God knows her fate. There is no truth in the charge.

‘And where did you hear this rumour?’ Ponder asks.

‘It is common among the servants hereabouts. And once I heard Margaret say it, when she was weeping and in her cups.’

Margaret freezes, holding the rag halfway up to her eyes.

‘And who is Margaret?’

‘Our cook, sir. She sits yonder.’ Charlotte points.

‘And have you ever heard your mistress speak of it?’

Charlotte glances sideways at Lizzie, who sits silent and unmoved.

‘Once, when I first came to the house, I overheard Margaret and her whispering. They spoke of someone who had died, of a body. I’m not certain who it was they spoke of, but I believe it was Mistress Poole.’

‘So you believe the rumour is true?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

Ponder pauses, letting the crowd whisper and gossip.

‘There is one more thing I must ask you,’ Ponder says. ‘Your mistress has been found to have the marks of the Devil upon her body. Have you ever seen her receiving strange company, imps or dark creatures or such?’

‘No, sir, but if I did, I would cast them out.’

‘Tell me,’ again Ponder wheedles, ‘do you believe that your mistress is a witch?’

‘I believe she has the power to bewitch people, sir.’

‘Thank you, Charlotte. That will do.’

Charlotte is taken from the room. As she passes, she slips me a sly look. She has the better of me and she knows it. I want to spit at her, to set about her with my teeth and nails, like a wild cat. Behind all her play-acting coyness, she knows exactly what she is about. I wonder who has paid her off, what riches she is promised, to betray her mistress in such a way. For her greed and her petty jealousies, she will see us both hanged.

Chapter 41

William Kiffin enters the courtroom with his wife upon his arm, the picture of respectability. It is the first I have seen of him since the day he abandoned Lizzie all those months before, but he has changed little in that time. He is as handsome as ever. It must pain Lizzie to see him, when she is so reduced. But she does not look at him and sits with her head bowed, her lips offering up silent prayers, as though he is not there.

Ponder has Kiffin swear by the book that he claims to live by, and wastes no time in pleasantries.

‘Pastor Kiffin, this jury has heard an account of your sinful and unsavoury relations with Elizabeth Poole. You are a religious man, are you not, with a congregation of men, women and children who look to you for moral and spiritual guidance? Pray tell us what you have to say of these accusations.’

Kiffin puffs out his chest, as if he is about to preach. ‘I believe it is Elizabeth Poole who is on trial, not I.’

Ponder smirks. ‘Indeed, sir, but we must have the truth of it from your own lips. What was your friendship with Elizabeth Poole?’

‘Elizabeth was a special case in my flock. I believed that she needed more guidance than most. She came to me first to ask for supplementary ministry. I believed she was devout and seeking a spiritual life.’

‘So you became her pastor?’

‘For a time.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘At Devonshire Square, along with many others.’

‘Did you ever visit her at her home in West St Paul’s?’

‘I visited on several occasions and met her father and other members of the household. The servants worshipped with us too. That is no secret.’

‘Did you ever meet Elizabeth Poole alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever meet Elizabeth Poole at an inn by the Thames and take a room with her?’

‘Yes. For the purpose of spiritual discussion in privacy only.’

There are snorts and catcalls from the crowd.

‘Did you ever engage in adulterous acts with Elizabeth Poole?’

‘The Lord knows my heart in this matter, sir, and he knows that I am devoted to my wife.’

‘Why then, Pastor Kiffin, did you expel Mistress Poole from your congregation in May 1647 and soon afterwards write to her, expressing tender and intimate feelings?’

Ponder pulls a single sheet of paper from his pocket and brandishes it like a flag.

I know only too well what is in that letter. It splintered my own heart not so long ago. I remember tucking it safely back between the leaves of my mother’s book – the book that is now in the possession of Mason Ponder.

Ponder begins to read: ‘“My dearest Elizabeth, I do not write to excuse my actions, but to beg that you heed my warning . . .”’

I have to listen to every last word of it, as if it were not already branded into my heart. But what pains me more is knowing that as this piece of paper condemns Kiffin it condemns Lizzie too. I had my chance to destroy it. I wish I had taken it.

When Ponder is finished, he slams down the letter before Kiffin. ‘Tell me, Pastor Kiffin, this is your hand, is it not?’

Kiffin darts a look at Lizzie. His face turns red. He looks to his wife, who has covered her mouth with her hands. ‘It is.’

‘The Watch found this letter among Elizabeth Poole’s belongings. Tell me how such a missive came to be there.’

Kiffin gathers himself. ‘Early in that year I began to hear rumours about Elizabeth. People were saying that she was sinful and licentious. They accused her of fornicating with strange men. Members of my church came to me and asked that I eject her from the congregation. I did as I was asked.’

‘Did you attempt to ascertain the truth of these rumours?’

‘I did. I spoke with Elizabeth myself and, although she denied it, I felt that she was not truthful.’

‘Come, come, sir. From this letter it seems to me that you knew the rumours were true. You knew because you were one of the men. Is that not so, Pastor Kiffin?’

‘The letter – the letter was meant as an explanation—’

‘Is that not so?’ Ponder thunders.

Kiffin falls silent. The crowd falls silent. Lizzie shuts her eyes.

‘I was one of the men.’

A great gasp goes up from the gallery.

‘Wait,’ Kiffin says. ‘I must explain myself.’

‘Please do so.’

Kiffin turns to the jurymen. ‘The Lord knows, my flock knows, my wife knows that I am a godly man and a truthful one. I have proved my honesty here today.’ He uses his sermonising voice. ‘The Lord compels me to speak now, not to clear my name or save my reputation, but so that the truth may be known to all. The truth is that I am a man, plain and simple, and I am powerless against the forces of evil that plague this land. The truth is that this woman,’ he points to Lizzie, ‘is a whore of the Devil. I saw the Devil in her when she first came to me, and had to try to help her. The Lord brought her to me that I might save her. That is why I paid special attention to her, why I gave her ministry whenever she required it. But the Devil’s manipulation was too strong and, God forgive me, I fell. I fell from His grace and was seduced. She is not natural. She has ways and means to tempt a man and drive him half out of his wits. The Lord knows my intentions were good. He knows I am not to blame for the evil magic she worked upon me. That is why I expelled her. I could not have such evil among the good people of my congregation. I had to send her away so she no longer had hold over me or any under my protection. God forgive me my sins. She is a succubus, a harridan. She is a witch!’

When he stops, he quivers with emotion, just as he does in Sunday worship. Such is his passion, his eloquence, that the crowd is in awe.

But I am not. I know him for the fraud he is. I can take no more. Before I know it, I find my own voice. ‘You are a liar! You are a liar and a coward!’

Then the bailiffs are upon me, dragging my chains until I have no choice but to sit. I weep in my anger. I weep with frustration, letting the rage out of my heart. Why doesn’t Lizzie stand up and scream with me? Why does she sit so still and accepting?

I shout at Kiffin over and over until the magistrate orders me gagged. As the bailiff ties the bit into my mouth, Lizzie looks to me at last. Her eyes are deep pools of sorrow and love, but her face is calm, almost serene. She reminds me of the ancient paintings of the Virgin Mother I used to see in the cathedral in Ely when I was a child. She looks like a martyr. She looks like a saint.

As Kiffin is dismissed, the gallery erupts with chatter. There are calls of ‘Hang the witch!’ and ‘Send her back to Hell!’ The magistrate is forced to call order to the room. He consults Ponder, then asks Margaret Small to take the stand.

Margaret looks around the room like a startled animal, eyes darting between Lizzie and me, as if we can do something to help her. At least she is not part of Charlotte’s plot. I can tell by her shock that she has not been coached for this by Ponder or anyone else. She loves Lizzie as if she were her own child. She will not betray us.

A bailiff brings Margaret up before the magistrate and Ponder swears her in. She is unsteady on her feet and a stool is brought for her.

Ponder circles, his stick tapping the floorboards. ‘Mistress Small,’ he says, ‘how long have you known Elizabeth Poole?’

‘Since she was born.’

‘And what is your relationship to her?’

‘I have been cook, and kitchen maid before that, at Master Poole’s house since he was wed.’

‘And what is your opinion of Elizabeth Poole’s character?’

‘She has always been a good mistress, sir. Even when she was a child she was kind and good and always quick to make up after an argument.’

‘And were there many arguments in the household?’

‘Oh, no. Mistress Lizzie has a quick temper but she’s always quick to make amends, if ever harsh words are said.’

‘And what say you to the charge of witchcraft?’

‘I say that is not possible.’

‘But we have found the Devil’s marks upon her.’

‘I have known her since she was a babe, sir, and there are no such marks upon her.’

‘Are you saying that I am a liar?’

‘Oh, no – no, of course not, but I never saw such marks.’

‘And when was the last time you saw Elizabeth Poole unclothed?’

‘Not for a good many years, I’d say.’

‘Not for many years,’ Ponder repeats, and pauses, allowing his insinuation to settle. ‘Did you ever see her acting strangely, performing rituals or receiving strange visitors?’

‘Never. She has always been a singular sort of girl, but nothing ungodly.’

‘Singular? How so?’

‘Set apart, on account of her quick moods, I would say, sir. She was always a difficult child, but very dear to me.’

‘Please go on, Mistress Small.’

Margaret is flustered. Her eyes flick to Lizzie. ‘She was an excitable girl and changeable, more so after . . .’

‘After what?’

‘After the loss of her mother. But any girl losing their mother so young would be so.’

‘She is unsteady? Wilful?’

‘I just meant that she is . . . she is . . .’

‘She is unstable in her mind. This is a woman who has a weakness in her. A weakness professed in her own words, spoken aloud before a court of law at the trial of Charles Stuart. Put down in print. It is this weakness that allowed the Devil to take her. Is that not so, Mistress Small?’

‘I – I—’

‘I turn to the testimony of William Kiffin. We have heard from that godly gentleman the tale of how he tried to save her from this fate. He is your pastor, is he not?’

‘He was for a time, sir.’

‘And do you believe he is a good man?’

‘I did, until he turned Mistress Lizzie out and abandoned us all.’

‘And what do you think of him now? Do you believe him?’

‘No. My Lizzie is no witch.’

‘But we have had a confession from the man himself. See how he sits before us now, a good man, eager to undergo scrutiny and speculation so that the truth might be heard and justice done. Why do you not believe him?’

‘I think he is false.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You call him a liar without proof. That is a serious accusation.’

Margaret’s face is blotchy and swollen. Her eyes swim with tears. ‘I only know what I know, and I know nothing of any witchcraft.’

‘Mistress Small, you are a godly woman, are you not?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you believe, as the scriptures tell us, that we will answer for our sins on the Day of Judgment?’

‘Of course.’

‘And do you know that it is a sin to lie before God?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. We have already heard from Charlotte Stoker the rumour surrounding your previous mistress’s disappearance. What do you know of this rumour?’

‘It’s just a rumour, and Charlotte Stoker is an ungrateful girl. Mistress Lizzie has been nothing but kind and charitable to her all these years.’

‘Your loyalty is admirable, but you have been known to speak of this rumour yourself. Do you believe it to be true?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why would you say such a thing? Remember, God is listening, Margaret.’

‘I . . . I don’t remember.’

‘Do you remember the night of Mistress Poole’s disappearance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell the jury what happened?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. It was a normal night, the mistress was unwell, and we had all gone to bed. When we awoke, she was gone. She could not be found. We never saw her again. It was a long time ago, and my memory is not good.’

‘And so the story goes . . . I want the truth, Margaret . . . the truth.’

Margaret shivers under Ponder’s gaze.

‘Remember, the Lord is watching you now. This may be the most important moment of your life. This is your chance to prove yourself a true Christian, a true servant. We must have the truth, and if you lie, you will be damned for all eternity.’

Margaret starts to blub. Through her tears, she chokes the words, ‘But she is my Lizzie . . . my Lizzie . . . I raised her like my own . . .’

Ponder pounces. ‘And where was her mother?’

‘Her mother was a weak and useless thing, always sick, no strength for such a lively child. She was no good . . . no good at all. But Lizzie never meant it. It was an accident . . .’ Her shoulders shake as she covers her face with the rag.

Thin shreds of foreboding twine down my spine and sit twisted in my stomach.

‘What was an accident? You must tell us, Margaret. Remember, the Lord is all-seeing . . . He already knows.’

‘Lizzie thought she was helping . . .’

Ponder puts his hand upon Margaret’s head, like a priest of the old faith. ‘Margaret, all will be well if you tell the truth.’

Margaret raises her eyes and looks longingly across the room to Lizzie. Lizzie meets her gaze. Very slowly, she gives Margaret a single nod. That one small action speaks louder than any words. In it there is permission, and truth, and forgiveness. Margaret calms herself, breath slowing, as if comforted. Then Lizzie looks away.

‘Mistress Poole was abed all that day,’ Margaret says. ‘The physician had been in and given her henbane to help her, but it didn’t work and she moaned all night long. Lizzie couldn’t sleep and went in to her mother to give her a dose. She didn’t know that henbane is a dangerous herb. It can kill as well as cure. Lizzie bade her drink too much, and the poor woman died in the night. It was not murder . . . It was a mistake, sir, such as anyone might make.’

‘A mistake – or a calculated act to rid herself of a burdensome mother?’

‘She was barely more than a child. She didn’t know what she was doing.’

Ponder’s cheeks twitch. ‘Go on,’ he says.

‘Lizzie came to me. I didn’t know what to do. The poor child was so distraught, saying she would hang for it. But I had an idea to rid us of the body. We hid her in a barrow and took her all the way to the river. We tied her down with stones . . . I never told a soul until now . . .’ Margaret doubles over on the stool. She rocks back and forth, back and forth, whispering, ‘God forgive me . . . God forgive me . . .’

After this it takes Ponder only moments to seal Lizzie’s fate. I am dimly aware as he turns testimony into truth with his slippery tongue. He talks of the Devil’s work, speaks of heresy and witchcraft, says she is an unholy and unnatural thing. He talks of enchantments and poisons, as he poisons the room with his words.