38

26th September 1580

Money for the bellringers thirteen shillings and eight pence, to toll upon the dread news that your lordship’s son George Banstock has perished a hero upon Drake’s great undertaking. May the Lord rest his soul.

Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

It is with heavy heart that I set out to clear up the mess in the ruins of the old abbey. Our last male heir is gone. George, my favourite of the boys, is dead. Now all hopes rest upon my Lady Banstock and the babe inside her. God grant that it is a boy.

I send for Master Seabourne and his servant, Kelley, to help me clear up the altar at the old abbey as I do not want the manor servants making more of it than it is. We find the cell much as I left it but the chapel is another matter.

The altar is covered with fur and dried blood from some animal, which we soon see is a cat, its body straddled upside down over a simple cross made from two boughs tied with string. It has three black paws and one white, and I recognise it as belonging to the wise woman Jennet Dawtry. Not just a wise woman but the village midwife, and as good a Christian as the rector, I say.

Also on the altar is a girdle, a simple woven thing, only recognisable by virtue of it being formed of the leftover threads of her trade.

Kelley picks it up between finger and thumb. ‘Is this…?’

‘I think it unlikely Mistress Isabeau would leave something of her own here,’ I say. ‘Such would condemn her.’

‘She would not – she did not,’ says Seabourne. His colour is high, whether with shame or anger, I cannot tell. ‘She is a true Christian and no witch.’

‘I suspect the one person we can be certain did not leave this here is Mistress Isabeau,’ I say, ‘but someone who wished to impeach her. Anyway, this cat is recently killed, and the seamstress has been chaperoned day and night since we returned from London.’ I take the girdle and wrap it in my bag. ‘Best we clean up the mess and burn the poor cat.’ Its jaws, gaping wide, cry its agony endlessly.

Seabourne nods. ‘Certainly, we three should clean up this abomination. And get the Reverend Waldren to speak cleansing prayers over the chapel.’

With Kelley sent off to fill his bucket from the abbey well, Seabourne speaks to me in murmurs.

‘This is not witchcraft, Master Vincent, but pretence. I have studied the science of sorcery.’

‘To cast suspicion upon the Frenchwoman, certainly,’ I say. ‘She is a sinner, but I know she didn’t do this. We must ensure that the village agrees.’

‘Then, who?’ He examines the cross from which the carcass of the cat sags. It is tied on with twine, and a pitiful sight, its belly opened and its congealed entrails hanging loose. Kelley returns with the water.

‘I have some reason to be concerned about Mistress Agness.’ I take a cloth and start to wash away the bloodstains from the defiled altar.

Kelley assists me. ‘She visits the laundrywoman and asks about Master Seabourne.’

‘She does?’ Seabourne, gathering some pieces of broken timber from the charred panelling to build a fire, looks up.

Kelley gestures to me to stand back, then sluices the altar with green well water. ‘I thought at first she had a kindness for Allen Montaigne, your body servant. But I think not.’

‘Agness has—’ I take a deep breath and explain the doll’s discovery to Kelley.

Seabourne looks across the carnage at me, wrinkling his nose at the stink. ‘She is deranged. Could she have done this, as well?’

As Kelley goes for more water, I gather another handful of wood to build a fire in the fresh air, beyond the stink of death and blood.

‘There is no real intent or knowledge here,’ Seabourne says, as he carries the crucified cat out of the building at arm’s length. ‘It is the ill-informed facsimile of someone making mischief. To cast suspicion upon Isabeau.’

I build a small pyre and he lays the cat carefully on it, even though it was just a beast. I manage to catch a handful of dried grass with my tinderbox, and take the girdle from my bag to catch the flame. By a combination of blowing and adding tinder from the hedge we soon have a blaze going. The stench of burning meat drives us back into the chapel where Kelley is still scrubbing the blood from the altar.

‘It is a shame about the cat,’ I muse. ‘Her kittens are the best ratters in the village; we were to have two for the dairy.’ I sniff. I can still detect the stench of decay in the rushes below the altar. I crouch down and uncover the stiff remains of five bloodied pieces of meat. Kelley stops his work, and stands beside me, his mouth open. It takes me a moment to recognise the furled ears, shut eyes, and tiny open mouths. They are unborn kittens, ripped from their mother’s belly.

Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir