Grace was paraded up the lane towards Ashcomb, Reverend Walters and Barnaby Younger at the head, followed by a jeering mob led by George Shears. Some villagers joined the throng, pushing to the front, braying and shouting, some throwing stones, the milkmaids and farmhands following, Alice holding the baby. Joseph Harper put an arm around his wife and they turned away, walking back towards the farm, their heads bent. Will Cotter sank to his knees in the garden of Slaugh Cottage, his hands covering his face as his legs gave way. Then he stared up at the sky and muttered a quiet prayer that his wife in heaven would receive his daughter in her arms.
The air crackled with dry heat as the crowd disappeared up the hill, but their voices could be heard, the ragged excited shouting. Then a lone man with a walking stick hurried down from the farm; Ned Shears had been clearing out a barn and he had not heard the news of Nathaniel’s death until much later. His face knotted in anxiety, he limped forward a distance from the crowd, doing his utmost to catch up.
In Ashcomb, the troupe paused while Grace was put into a horse-drawn cart. Her hands were tied in front of her. Her dress was unkempt, smeared with mud and her face was dirty, streaked with tears, but she made no sound. The crowd gathered, more shouting, then Nancy Shears, baby Agnes in her arms, hurled an apple that hit Grace hard on the shoulder, but she did not flinch. Her eyes were on Gabriel, clutched tightly in Alice’s arms. She wanted only to see her son, to keep her eyes on his face right up to the end.
Then a shrill cry split the crowd’s roar and Bett White elbowed her way to the front. She gripped Reverend Walters’ wrist with an iron grasp. ‘What is going on here, Reverend? What befalls my Gracie?’
He looked at her scornfully, then turned away. ‘She has admitted to being a witch. She has been tried and is guilty.’
‘What rubbish and what offal!’ Bett screeched. ‘Let her go – she is my granddaughter and she is gentle as the rain from heaven.’
‘We have work to do,’ Younger said. ‘Get out of the way, crone, or I will return for you afterwards and you will be tried for a witch too.’
An apple was flung through the air and it hit Bett on the back of her head. She turned and another caught her in the stomach. She keeled forward and George Shears barked a laugh. He could be heard saying, ‘Waste of good cider apples,’ before he sniggered again.
Bett scrambled to her feet, rushing back to her cottage, sweeping up several stalks of fresh lavender in her fists, then she scuttled back to Grace. She pushed the flowers beneath her granddaughter’s nose for a moment, wafting the blooms so that Grace could smell them, then she pressed the stalks in her hands, folding her fingers around them. She leaned towards Grace’s ear and hissed, ‘Let the scent of the flowers be the last thing you smell before your eyes close. May the lavender calm you and send you to sweet rest, my Gracie.’
Then Bett was elbowed backwards as the crowd began to move again; two of the men urged the horse-drawn cart forward and the mob moved as one. Barnaby Younger called, ‘Let us take the witch to the top of Long Lane. There is an elm tree where the crossroads stand as a boundary between the two counties. Let us deal with her there.’
Bett was left behind, gaping as the horde paraded through Ashcomb. Minutes later, she stood alone in the street, a flat hand on her heart, and she cried out a long yell of anguish. Then she saw a man limping towards her, waving his hand, calling out. It was Ned Shears.
Grace felt the cart bump and rattle beneath her on the dusty lane, but still she kept her eyes on Gabriel. He stretched a hand towards her; he wanted her, and she watched him struggle in Alice’s arms, reaching out. Grace prayed from her soul for a long life for him, for children, love, blessings. The lavender was still in her hands; she inhaled the scent and hoped it would calm her heart. It was beating like the wings of a bird. She ignored Alice’s smile, the satisfied curve of her lips; Grace had eyes only for her son. Around her, the air had become cool on her skin; her dress was ripped, she had lost her cap and kerchief, and her pale hair blew about her face. She knew there were people all around staring and watching, sullen and angry faces, loud voices that pounded in her ears and yelled insults, unpleasant words, but she kept her gaze on Gabriel.
The sun was setting now; beyond a stone wall, the hills and fields were immersed in a deep pink light, the sky shot with vermillion and azure like the bright colours of an artist’s palette. Grace muttered to herself, ‘It is the end of the day. There will be no more days now.’ She thought about her son, his birth, the few months spent with him in the cottage, how every moment she had breathed since then had been for him and he had filled her waking hours with joy. She wished it could be enough. But it was not: she had hoped for a future; she had believed in a time where she would see him grow into a fine man, marry, have children of his own. She had wanted to see his face on each new day, share something special, a moment, a smile, a word. There were so many future memories that would slip through her fingers now and she could not hold onto them. She crushed the lavender stems in her fingers and the scent of the flowers drifted upwards.
Then the cart stopped. The journey had been a quick one – time had seemed to move more rapidly than the wheels of the cart. A rough hand dragged her to her feet and she found herself standing upright in the wagon. Below her, faces stared; Grace did not know who they were, but she sought out Gabriel again, who was at the back, in Alice’s arms. His eyes were still on hers.
Then Reverend Walters and Barnaby Younger were standing in front of her; she could smell the rank odour of their breath and sweat on their clothes. The rector produced a Bible from beneath his robes and held it out. ‘Do you confess to your sins, Grace? Do you wish to be forgiven for the evils you have committed?’
Grace turned her face away, leaning to one side, straining to see her baby.
The rector began to speak, his voice a low drone. ‘And if a man borrow ought of his neighbour, and it be hurt, or die, the owner thereof being not with it, he shall surely make it good. But if the owner thereof be with it, he shall not make it good: if it be an hired thing, it came for his hire. And if a man entice a maid that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely endow her to be his wife. If her father utterly refuse to give her unto him, he shall pay money according to the dowry of virgins. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ The rector closed his book with a thud and addressed the crowd. ‘So spake the Lord. Exodus, Chapter 22, verse 18.’
Grace felt something rough being coiled around her neck; it was the coarse end of a rope, tied in a noose. Her legs became weak and buckled beneath her; the strong arms of Barnaby Younger held her upright.
Reverend Walters spoke to her again. ‘Are you sorry, Grace, for the evil you have done, for the death of Nathaniel Harper, for all the other transgressions you have heaped upon the community in Ashcomb due to the vile deeds you have committed in the name of witchcraft. And do you renounce the Devil, with whom you have lain to conceive a child…’
Grace’s mouth was dry, her tongue was stuck, but she raised her voice to cry out, ‘The father of my child is no devil – it is Nathaniel Harper. Ask George Shears. Ask Ned. They passed by the garden…’ Then her words were lost beneath the hollering of the crowd.
Someone threw an apple and it hit her in the chest. She slumped backwards and was hauled immediately upright. She felt the rough rope of the noose pulling against her throat and she thought she would faint.
The rector began to speak, but she didn’t hear his words for the blood thudding in her ears. Her eyes closed by themselves and opened again.
Reverend Walters put his mouth next to her ear. ‘Did you understand what I just spoke to you, Grace?’
Grace shook her head, her eyes glazed.
‘You will be hanged from a branch of the elm tree until you are dead. Your body will be taken to the most distant corner of the churchyard and you will be buried with no obsequies or prayers. No one will visit your grave there, nor will they be allowed to place flowers…’
Grace shook herself from her daze and met the rector’s eyes. ‘No flowers? No prayers? Then how will I enter Heaven and meet my God?’
She heard a hollow laugh from Younger, who stood next to her, his fingers circling her arm. ‘Heaven is not for the likes of you. You belong in the other place to suffer eternal torment.’
Grace’s brow puckered, confused. ‘Then shall I never be at rest?’
‘This is what you merit, given your sins and transgressions,’ Younger replied quickly.
Grace sought Reverend Walters, her eyes desperate and filled with tears. ‘How then will I meet my mother and, in time, be reunited with my son in the kingdom of Heaven, as you have oft spoken?’
The reverend turned away from her, showing her the back of his cloak as he descended from the cart without another word.
Grace shrieked after him. ‘How will my spirit fare?’
Reverend Walters ignored her, his shoulders raised.
Grace called out again. ‘Have mercy on my soul, or how will I rest in peace?’
Younger’s eyes closed. ‘I fear it is too late for mercy. Grace Cotter, you are a witch and, because of the evil you have committed in this life, you will now…’
Grace did not hear the rest of his words. She inhaled frantically, desperate to breathe the calming scent of lavender. Above her, several crows hovered and she glanced up. One settled in the branch of the elm tree above her head; a loud croak rasped from its beak, then another crow came to rest close by, watching. Grace leaned to one side in an attempt to see Gabriel once more, but she couldn’t find him in the crowd. She saw George Shears grinning at her; Jennet Bryant was staring, her mouth open. Francis Barnes bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. Then she noticed Alice walking away, Gabriel folded tightly in her arms, passing a man with a stick who limped as fast as he could up the hill. Then Grace was pushed hard, her body falling sideways through the air, the rope tightening around her neck, stopping her breath. She closed her eyes, thinking of Gabriel, wishing she could hold him once more in her arms, kiss the softness of his cheek, breathe the damp sweetness of his hair. Grace desired with all her heart to be back home in Slaugh Cottage, just one more time.
She heard Younger’s voice shout, ‘From this day forth, Long Lane will be known as Wychanger Lane, as it is here that we have hanged a witch.’
Then all was gone.