THE CASE OF the Belvoir witches had a profound impact upon Jacobean England. It was said to have prompted the Act of Parliament ‘against sorcery, and other diabolical practices’ passed in James’s reign.1 According to James Howell’s Letters, compiled in the mid seventeenth century, ‘King James, a great while, was loath to believe there were witches; but that which happened to my lord Francis of Rutland’s children convinced him.’2 This was overstating the case: James’s conviction had already been formed long before the Flower women had been brought to trial, and by 1619 he was becoming increasingly sceptical about the existence of witchcraft. Nevertheless, the Belvoir trial had been one of the most high-profile and unusual in the history of the European witch craze. In contrast to the thousands of cases rooted in disagreements between members of a local community, it had involved one of the foremost aristocratic families in England, and its tangled web had extended to the heart of the royal court. It may not have been a coincidence that one of the most notorious plays about witchcraft, Doctor Faustus, was republished during the year of the Flower sisters’ trial, and again in 1620. The Belvoir witch case therefore seemed to have reawakened interest (although not necessarily belief) in a phenomenon that was otherwise rapidly fading from view.
The execution of Margaret and Phillipa Flower also created a heightened awareness of witchcraft in the Bottesford area. The Reverend Charles Odingsells, rector of Langar in the Vale of Belvoir, preached two sermons in 1619 warning his parishioners against any dabbling in magic of any kind. Odingsells was the chaplain of Emanuel Scrope, later Earl of Sunderland, who – like Francis Manners – was a closet Catholic. The prelate was therefore keenly aware of the religious tensions that existed in the local area, and he pointed to witchcraft as a symptom of these. He decried the ‘false prophets’ who claimed to be able to foretell the future or cure illness by magical means. Their powers, he said, were rooted in evil because Satan ‘can by Gods permission, moove and trouble the spirits, the bloud and humors of mans bodie, and so cause strange imaginations and phantasmes in the phantasie; whereby it comes to passe that men and women thinke they see many strange & uncouth things which indeed they see not. For hee [Satan] will so strongly delude the inward phantasie, as that hee will even palpably deceive the outward sense.’
Odingsells went on to instil fear in his parishioners by highlighting how easily the Devil could take other forms in order to lure vulnerable people to his cause: ‘[Satan] may by Gods permission, either assume a true body, or make of the Ayre and other Elements, fayned, counterfeited bodies, as of Men or Women, of Birds, or Beasts, and other living Creatures, so per fascinum [by witchcraft] hee hides and clokes that thing which is present, and makes another thing seeme to be there, which indeed is not present.’ He ended with a somewhat weary admonishment which indicates that he had attempted to dissuade the local people from consulting witches and cunning folk in the past, with little success. ‘I have heretofore disswaded you of this Parish of Langar, from running to them that use charmes, and are good at words (as they call them here in the Valley). I have forbidden you to resort to such. But how comes it to passe, that you wil not obey? . . . Let none bee found among you that useth witchcraft, or a Regarder of times, or a Marker of flying or Fowles, or a Sorcerer, or a Charmer, or that counselleth with a Spirit, or a Soothsayer.’3
But for every person who clung tightly to their magical beliefs, there was at least one who was determined to stamp out witchcraft in all its forms – indeed, the two approaches were by no means contradictory. One contemporary described the terrifying mob mentality which incited thousands of people across the country to hunt down suspected witches and not rest until they saw them dead. ‘When men are once so bewitched as to thinke, who can live in safety while witches remaine: they run with madnesse to seeke all meanes to put them to death, and not onely them, but all such as are suspected . . . For they holde that witches should bee put to death, and not onely that, but are inflamed with a wonderfull rage and fury to have it accomplished.’4
According to a contemporary of the Flower sisters, there was ‘no small multitude [of witches] swarming now in the world’.5 But in fact, such convictions were becoming increasingly rare. That fact, together with the involvement of the Manners family, would have intensified public interest even further. The sources hint at a level of public unease about the execution of Margaret and Phillipa Flower. Determined to stamp this out, the authorities turned their attention to three other Leicestershire women ‘of the like grade in life’ whom they accused of conspiring with Joan Flower and her daughters.6 Anne Baker of Bottesford, Ellen Green of nearby Stathern and Joan Willimot of Goadby were accused of practising black magic to help carry out the Flower women’s evil designs against their neighbours. Given that they were arrested so soon after the Flowers, it is possible that Margaret and Phillipa had named them during the course of their confessions. George Gifford admitted that once a suspected witch had been apprehended, her interrogators would put her under intense pressure until she implicated others of her profession: ‘They examine witches to know whether their spirites have not told them how many witches be within certaine miles of them, and who they be.’7 The fact that many suspected witches would, perhaps in hope of a reprieve, name other women who had conspired with them meant that the net often widened at a terrifying rate.
James I himself had emphasised the importance of seeking ‘a number of guilty persons’ confessions against one that is accused’ in order to secure a reliable conviction. The testimony of ‘one infamous person’ should not, he said, ‘be admitted for a sufficient proof . . . For who but witches can be proofs, and so witnesses, of the doings of witches?’8 Jean Bodin agreed: ‘Although accomplices do not constitute necessary proof in other crimes, nonetheless fellow witches denouncing or giving testimony against their accomplices constitute sufficient proof to pass sentence, especially if there are a number of them. For it is quite well known that only witches can testify about being present at the assemblies which they attend at night.’9 The arrest of Anne Baker, Joan Willimot and Ellen Green was therefore as much about hammering a nail into the Flower sisters’ coffin as it was about ensuring that all other suspected witches in the area be apprehended. If the authorities could secure and publish further evidence against the Flower women (the more shocking, the better), then the whisperings of the sceptics could be silenced once and for all.
The three women are depicted on the frontispiece of the Belvoir witches pamphlet and conform exactly to the stereotypical image of a witch. Wearing long skirts and shawls, and with caps on their heads, each of them appears both elderly and poor. Anne Baker and Ellen Green both carry a staff, while Joan Willimot (who was apparently the eldest) rests her crooked frame on crutches. They are all ugly, with long noses and pointed chins, and Joan Willimot (who, like Joan Flower, was a widow) has what appears to be a small beard – perhaps intended as an indication of her age. Anne Baker and Ellen Green have a cat and a dog respectively as their familiars, while Joan Willimot is flanked by a small black dog and an owl on her shoulder. Like the Flower women, all three had a reputation as cunning folk.
Anne, Ellen and Joan were interrogated over a period of 18 days, between 28 February and 17 March 1618. The pamphlet that records their interrogation does not make it clear whether they were taken to Lincoln Castle or questioned in their native Leicestershire. However, the fact that some of the same men who had examined the Flower sisters were employed makes the former seem more likely. Moreover, their first interrogator was Alexander Amcotts, a local Justice of the Peace and member of a Lincolnshire gentry family from Aisthorpe, which was just seven miles north of Lincoln. He was later joined by Samuel Fleming and Sir Henry Hastings. Many different witnesses and victims would be named in the course of their examination – all of whom are recorded in the local parish records – which proves the extent to which fear and suspicion had taken hold in the area.
Joan Willimot was examined first, on 28 February and 1 March 1619. Although she confessed to being a cunning woman, she was careful to insist that she had only ever used her powers for good. She admitted that she had been a close confidante of Joan Flower, and that the latter had complained about the Earl of Rutland’s treatment of her daughter Margaret. ‘Joane Flower told her that my Lord of Rutland had dealt badly with her and that they had put away her Daughter, swearing to be revenged.’10 Joan Flower had apparently not been able to exact this revenge against the earl himself, but confided to Joan Willimot that she had ‘spied my Lords Sonne [Francis Manners] and striken him to the heart’ with a ‘white Spirit’. Upon hearing this, Joan Willimot had been so concerned that the previous Friday night, she had sent her familiar (which took the form of a woman whom she called ‘Pretty’) ‘to see how my Lord Rosse did’. Her familiar had reported that the young boy ‘should doe well’.11
The authorities used this evidence in their interrogation of Anne Baker the following day, over which they took a great of trouble. This may have been because Anne, described as a ‘spinster’, was thought to be a ‘black witch’ who had caused harm to her neighbours. She was also the only one of the three to live in Bottesford, and so was most likely to reveal telling details about the Flower family. But Anne’s testimony was filled with outlandish claims about spirits and familiars, spells and visions – most of which focused upon her own witchcraft, rather than that of the Flower women. Members of the local community had accused her of murdering two children from different families with similar spells to those employed by Joan Flower, such as burning their hair and nails. Anne strenuously denied this, pleading that she had tried only to cure the children. Neither did she admit to murdering a local woman, Elizabeth Hough, or rendering Anthony Gill incapable of fathering a child.
Only on the second day of questioning, which was conducted by Samuel Fleming alone, did Anne Baker confess to knowing anything relating to the Earl of Rutland’s son. According to her testimony, about three years before (in fact it was six), upon returning from a trip to Northamptonshire, the wives of Mr Peate and Mr Dennis – who lived in or near Belvoir Castle – told her that the elder of the earl’s sons, Lord Henry, was dead. They also corroborated Margaret and Phillipa Flower’s statement that the young lord’s glove had been buried in the ground, ‘and as that glove did rot and wast, so did the liver of the said Lord rot and wast’.12 Since Peate was named as one of Joan’s lovers, it can be reasonably supposed that his wife’s report was motivated by a desire for revenge.
On 17 March, six days after the sisters’ execution, Joan and Ellen were interrogated by Sir Henry Hastings and Dr Samuel Fleming. At first, Joan gave them little more than the incoherent ramblings of a confused and no doubt terrified old woman. Perhaps in an attempt to draw a contrast with her own ‘good’ magic, she spoke of local men and women who were possessed of evil powers. But her interrogators forced her back to what had happened at Belvoir. Eventually she confessed that she had met Joan and Margaret Flower on Blackborrow Hill a week before their arrest. From there they had walked together to Joan Flower’s house, where she had seen the latter’s two familiars: a rat and an owl. Joan Flower told her confidante that these spirits had assured her she would not be condemned. She then picked up some earth, spat upon it and worked it with her finger before putting it in her purse. Turning to her guest, she told her that although she could not bring harm to the Earl of Rutland, ‘yet shee had sped his Sonne, which is dead’.13
By contrast, Ellen Green could not be made to prove that justice had been served on the Flower women, for she made no mention of them in her testimony – despite the insistent questioning of her interrogators. Instead, she told of her own pact with the Devil, which she had been persuaded to make by Joan Willimot when the two women met in the Wolds – a remote and hilly landscape in the east of the otherwise flat countryside of Lincolnshire. After being ‘sucked’ by two spirits – a kitten and a ‘moldiwarp’ (mole) – she claimed that she had begun her evil work by taking revenge upon several members of the local community and bewitching them to death.14 Ellen was the only one of the three women to confess that she ‘gave her soul to the Divell to have the Spirits at her command’, and that she used her powers to do evil. Later evidence suggests that she was of unsound mind and genuinely believed that she had magical powers.
Despite confessing to witchcraft, there is no record of any proceedings against Anne Baker, Joan Willimot and Ellen Green after their interrogation had been completed. Their role as cunning folk ought to have been enough to condemn them, and in Ellen Green’s case she had provided ample testimony of her involvement in malevolent magic to seal her doom. If they had been put on trial, then it would have been in Leicester, rather than Lincoln. This makes it impossible that they were dealt with as part of the Lent assizes, because the judges had already heard cases at Leicester by the time they reached Lincoln in early March.
Another possibility is that once they had given evidence in the Flower case, these women were no longer considered useful and were released. But the fact that they were still being examined several days after the Flower sisters’ trial suggests that they may have held interest for the authorities in their own right. The most likely scenario is therefore that they did undergo some formal proceedings against them, but that they escaped condemnation. Given the interest in the Belvoir witches, if their alleged confidantes had also been put to death, surely this would have been recorded by the contemporary pamphleteers.
The notion that the three women escaped punishment is supported by newly discovered evidence which suggests that Ellen Green was still alive some 15 years after the Flower sisters were hanged. Sir Richard Napier, the renowned physician who treated the Earl of Rutland’s younger son, kept a casebook of the treatments that he had ministered during his long career. This still survives in the Bodleian Library today. Among the entries is one written in April 1634 which attests that Napier had treated a woman named Ellen Green, who was ‘troubled in her mind, haunted by an ill spirit, whom she saith . . . speaketh to her’.15 Given that Napier was known to the community of Belvoir thanks to his earlier visit, it is highly likely that his services had been enlisted for Ellen. But a physician of his standing would have commanded a considerable fee, surely far beyond the resources of Ellen herself. Is it possible that Cecilia Manners, or perhaps her stepdaughter Katherine arranged and paid for Napier’s intervention? Unless further evidence comes to light, any such notion must remain speculative. But it does present a tempting proposition of the Manners family or some other powerful patron performing a penance for the part they played in bringing about the deaths of the Flower women.
Despite the best efforts of the interrogators in Lincoln, there remained doubt about the validity of the Flower women’s conviction. There is even some suggestion in the contemporary records that the Earl of Rutland fell foul of the king as a result of his involvement in the trial. A letter from one Roger Richards to Countess Cecilia, written some 14 or 15 years later, reminded her of the case of those ‘dambned witches when I did my best and faythfull service and preserved his Honour from danger of a premunire’.16 It is not clear what service Richards performed, but it is interesting that his master had been at risk of condemnation under the statute of premunire, which forbade any subject to appeal to a foreign or ecclesiastical court if the jurisdiction belonged to the king’s courts. Had Francis perceived a risk that the Flower women would not be found guilty and therefore appealed to what he saw as a higher authority? There is a note among the accounts of the Privy Council, dated 4 July 1619, regarding an application for a pass for a gentleman named Ralph Hansbie ‘to goe to the Archdukes’ Courte upon speciall busines for the Earl of Rutland’.17 The archduke was Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor, a fervent Catholic and witch hunter. No further details are given, so the purpose of the mission remains a mystery.
Perhaps in an attempt to downplay the premunire affair, the author of The Wonderful Discoverie was at pains to stress that the earl had conformed to the due processes of the law: ‘To his eternall praise [he] proceeded yet both religiously and charitably against the Offenders, leaving their prosecution to the law and submitting himselfe, and deplorable case to the providence of God.’18 Moreover, he apparently withdrew from the examinations before they were concluded, and ‘left them [Margaret and Phillippa] to the triall at Law, before the Judges of Assise at Lincolne’.19 In addition, far from the earl earning the king’s disapproval, there is evidence to suggest that James may have been inspired by the Belvoir witch trial, and that it reinvigorated his flagging interest in the persecution of witches. In 1620, a schoolmaster named Peacock was arrested for plotting to influence the king by witchcraft. Alarmed by this threat to his own security, James immediately demanded that Peacock be thrown into the Tower of London and interrogated under torture.20
In the immediate aftermath of the Flower sisters’ trial, the household at Belvoir struggled to return to some semblance of normality. In July 1619, Cecilia sought refuge in Tunbridge Wells, which would rise in popularity as a spa town during the following century. Judging from the family accounts, she stayed there for some time, because at £100 (equivalent to around £10,000 today), the bill was considerable. But it seems that this visit was more than a means of assuaging her grief. The accounts attest that she went to Tunbridge Wells ‘for Barrenness’, the waters there being celebrated for relieving that most feared condition among aristocratic wives.21 Three years later, she was still seeking similar means to fall pregnant. The state papers contain a grant ‘to the Countess of Rutland of licence to go to the Spa, with as many servants as she pleases, and 100l. in money’.22 Spa was a fashionable resort in the Netherlands, famous throughout the world for the healing properties of its spring waters. Many members of the English aristocracy flocked there for either leisure or specific cures. That Cecilia, who was reluctant to stray far from Belvoir, should make such a journey is a testament to her increasing desperation to solve the impending dynastic crisis by falling pregnant.
It would all be in vain: she and her husband were blessed with no more children. The future of their estate lay in the fragile hands of their only surviving son, Francis. But on 5 March 1620, the young boy finally lost his battle. The earl and countess’s ‘sweet young heir Lord Roos’ followed his brother to the grave.