Manyon’s office was large and well furnished. On the walls were portraits of several men of his ilk; uncles and grandfathers in varying fabrics and fashions, their high foreheads and beaky noses very like the magistrate’s. There were other mounted paintings, and several framed maps. As Manyon drew up seats and poured malmsey wine, I examined a fine portolan chart that showed the Mediterranean and Black Seas in clear and accurate detail, but became vague as the mind of the artist wandered north, towards the icy and unknowable coasts of Scandinavia. It was a lovely object, done on canvas, like a painting.
Rutherford looked at ease. He accepted wine from Manyon and passed a cup to Esther, who shook her head with muttered thanks.
‘We wait only upon my clerk,’ Manyon said, glancing at the lantern clock. ‘Mr Rutherford, would you be so kind as to discover what delays him?’ The witchfinder nodded before retreating to the staircase.
Manyon studied the papers while I sipped my wine and Esther fretted, but before long, the magistrate looked up. ‘I knew your mother, my dear,’ he said, kindly, to Esther. ‘She was a gentle woman, and a great beauty. She was darker than you, much more like to your brother, but – if I may say so before we begin – the daughter, as in many cases of two quite different types from the same stable, is every bit the equal of the mother.’
‘I give you thanks,’ said Esther, turning pink. She was unused to effusive praise.
Having softened her, Manyon continued. ‘When Mr Rutherford and my clerk return, we will be ready to proceed. Do you know what to expect from a statement like the one you are to give today?’ Esther shook her head. ‘Have you ever given evidence before?’ Again, she said she had not. Manyon nodded. ‘Well, that speaks in your favour in a case like this, I suppose,’ he said. ‘It is not unknown for people to make repeat allegations, and, of course,’ he said, sighing, ‘the more often the boy cries wolf… Acts of maleficium are, in addition, notoriously difficult to prove, so it is essential that we test – carefully – the motivations of the complainant.’ This brief speech confused me – I did not know whether to be relieved that Joan and her mother might be spared, or concerned at what I felt was a darker hint towards the possibility that Esther might have a grudge against the women. There was a warning in his words: don’t waste my time.
Esther nodded. ‘Of course.’ But the magistrate’s shift to a more serious tone had clearly unsettled her.
I intervened. ‘Sir, if I might ask you, have any statements been collected from the accused women?’ I called them ‘statements’ deliberately. I harboured a fear that Manyon might call them ‘confessions’ already, though Joan’s mother had been in their custody only a few hours.
Manyon, who had been studying Esther, looked over. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We aim to have our evidence complete before any questioning takes place. We will send in the searchers, obviously, and each woman will undergo a physical assessment.’
‘Of what type?’ I said, suddenly discomforted as I thought of Joan, wherever she might be. It revolted me to think of someone removing her clothes in a dingy room while others prodded at her.
‘Our midwife – who is well trained in these things – will look over the body of the accused, searching for certain signs, which might indicate communion with imps, familiars, spirits, or the Devil,’ said Manyon. ‘It’s a standard examination. And will be done respectfully.’
‘And after that it is decided whether or not there is sufficient evidence to move to a trial?’
‘Yes. Although it may take time, not just to collect the evidence, but to bring the case, depending on how much the assizes are disrupted by the war. It is not clear whether they will sit in Norwich this summer. Many Justices over the country are being forced to sit the trials themselves, and at their own expense, if their communities bring enough pressure to bear. And I should warn both of you, it is becoming rarer for juries to convict in cases of witchcraft.’
‘Why is that?’ I said, curious.
Manyon gave a cynical smile. ‘Perhaps we are moving into more enlightened times,’ he said, ‘or perhaps people are becoming wiser to the many reasons such accusations are made. Not that I mean to impugn you, of course,’ he said to Esther, swiftly. ‘We consider each case carefully and on its merits.’ He looked at the door, frowning. ‘When we are empowered to do by prompt and diligent clerks, in any case.’
I cleared my throat, nervously. ‘I should tell you, Magistrate, that I do know the Gedge family, mother and daughter, and I find it hard to believe—’
Manyon held up his hand. ‘I must beg you to wait, Tom,’ he said, looking round again. ‘I am an old man, and my memory serves me little better than a sieve. Until we have the proper tools to write your words down, I would ask you to hold on to them. Now, where is that boy?’
Further seconds passed, and finally Manyon stood, an expression of stern displeasure on his face. Just as he started towards the door, it opened and Rutherford moved back into the room alone. ‘Magistrate, unfortunately Timothy has been detained.’ I assumed Timothy was the clerk. ‘He ought not to be much longer, but, if you would permit, I would be happy to—’
‘No,’ Manyon barked. ‘We must have the proper procedure followed. The clerk of the court writes the testimony. We will wait.’ He turned to Esther. ‘In the meantime, my dear, would you be kind enough to accompany Mr Rutherford to the cells and provide formal confirmation of Joan Gedge’s identity?’
‘Joan has been apprehended?’ I said, surprised and concerned.
‘Oh, yes. Constable Dillon is an efficient man. It was from the Gedge girl that we learnt of your father’s malady, as she came to the town this morning, looking for a medic. Dillon took her straight away. Your mule,’ he added, ‘is in our stables here. You may collect it at any time.’ I nodded, distracted by my conscience: Joan had been trying to help us, and now she was locked up. What could I do?
Rutherford had extended his arm to Esther, but before she could rise, I said, ‘I will accompany my sister.’
‘I would prefer to speak to you alone,’ Manyon said. ‘About the other matter.’ I took this as a reference to Chrissa Moore’s claim against my father. I hesitated. I had no desire to send Esther into a gaol on her own. But then, if I did not, I might not have a chance to bring Manyon round to my way of thinking, that my father could never be guilty of so sordid an act.
Esther rose. ‘I will be fine, brother,’ she said, a little shakily. Then, straightening her skirts, she added, ‘It is a simple enough task, and Mr Rutherford will protect me, I am sure.’ This was met by an ingratiating smile from the witchfinder, who held the door for Esther and bowed to us, before leaving the room after her.
Manyon was silent for a few seconds, then indicated to the flagon to ascertain whether I would take another cup. I wanted none, but nodded. As I had learnt as a soldier, sharing cups bred intimacy, and from there came knowledge.
As the magistrate poured, he inclined his head towards the door and spoke in a friendly tone. ‘Your sister seems a young woman of quiet courage.’
I took back my cup, nodding. ‘Yes. Esther is… what many people would describe as meek, but…’
Manyon sipped his wine, then said, ‘Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi.’
Deep rivers flow quietly. I wondered whether Manyon was testing me. ‘Yes, sir. When she was younger, around the time girls become cruel to one another, she sought friendship with some maids in the village – girls her age, from some of the better families. There was one girl in particular, a much bigger saddler’s daughter, not too gentle, and Esther was afraid of her. She told me how the girl would mock her, call her a little mouse fart, and then pretend friendship with her immediately afterwards – you know how girls are.’
Manyon nodded, wincing. ‘I have daughters,’ he said. ‘Excuse me: please continue.’
‘On this one day, Esther came home weeping, with scratches down her face, and I asked her what had happened. She said they had been playing near the old oak on the common, and the girl had come upon a bird’s nest fallen to the ground. There was one uncracked egg, and the older girl decided to smash it, to see whether there was a live chick. She thought it would amuse the others to torture it, or some such thing. Well, Esther would not have it. She stood over the egg and refused to move, and when the girl tried to shove her away, she fought her.’ I swelled with pride at the memory of my small sister, a girl who wept if she could not remember her psalms and would not kill chickens for a meal, bearing her battle scars, clutching her rescued, speckled egg, her eyes brimful with tears as she recounted her tale.
She had been ashamed, I remembered, until I had taken her in my arms and told her what I felt she needed to hear: that it was no sin to defend the helpless, and that God would see her deed and recognise it as His own.
‘Did the egg hatch?’ Manyon seemed genuinely interested. I thought it a skill, to appear fascinated when one was not.
‘It did,’ I said, recalling my surprise. ‘It was a jackdaw. A clever thing. It fledged in our barn and then hung about for several years. I had to feed it.’ I chuckled. ‘Esther was too soft to forage for worms.’
‘What became of it?’
‘One day it flew away. We never saw it again. She was cut to the quick.’
‘Would that all girls could be so feeling,’ Manyon said, ruefully. He looked again towards the door. ‘What do you think of Rutherford, by the by?’
I thought of Rutherford’s pretty face and solicitous manner. I knew my own face tended to tell the story of my heart, so made a concerted effort to keep it neutral now, and shrugged. ‘I do not think of him,’ I said. ‘I’ve had no dealings with him.’
Manyon’s gaze became even more penetrating. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said. ‘I remember a boy with a speaking countenance, one who would have answered that question with a looser tongue.’ When I merely smiled, he continued. ‘He is my nephew, you know. My wife’s brother’s son. Not my blood, but deserving of the opportunity I have given him as my assistant, if only through the call of family. He gets on well enough. A clever man. He was pious as a boy, I remember. Meant for the Church.’
‘He isn’t so pious now?’
Manyon took a sip of wine and raised an eyebrow. ‘His experiences have, perhaps, removed the shine from the path of the Lord, but I believe he remains a servant of God. He has trodden a hard road. He married, as young men do. She was a beautiful girl, Anne. John was devoted to her.’
‘Was?’
Manyon confirmed the inference with a nod. ‘She swelled with child. The baby came. A boy. But the mother faded with childbed fever. Dead within the sennight.’ He pushed the cup absently about in a small circle. ‘And so, John gave the infant to a wet nurse, a woman of the Fens. It was the only thing he could have done. Yes,’ he said, nodding to himself, ‘the only thing. One does not stop to think that…’ He glanced up at me.
Despite myself, I was caught up in the tale. ‘Think what, sir?’
‘That women can be capable of such things. I know the Good Book tells us. I know that the serpent came first to Eve, and that evil moved in her first, but still…’
‘The woman hurt the child?’ I asked, wincing inwardly. Rutherford was a preening fool but nobody deserved that.
‘No. It died from simple neglect,’ said Manyon, with professional brutality. ‘She buried the corpse in the grounds of her cottage. But she continued collecting her fee from John for several months, with reports of the child as bonny and thriving. There were several others. When they were discovered it was thought John would lose his mind.’
I struggled to imagine Rutherford as a grieving father, but sympathised with him. The thought of entrusting a child to one of the rough-looking wet nurses I had seen on the streets of Norwich stirred anxiety in my stomach. It reminded me of Chrissa Moore, her claim, and what grief might come of it. ‘A great shame,’ I said, carefully. ‘And such wickedness.’ I felt more than this, but Manyon was playing on my finer feelings, and I preferred to show no susceptibility, at least until I knew what he wanted.
‘Yes. But he throws himself into his work. And he is good at it. He saw the woman hanged for her venality, as was right.’
‘A man should be skilled in his profession,’ I said, in delicate agreement. I had seen both men and women hang, and we had all heard of burnings, though thankfully I’d never witnessed one. I questioned whether such dire measures were necessary to prevent crimes driven – for the most part – by need. I was unusual in that, I think.
‘And what of you?’ Manyon said, with more jocularity. ‘You’ve fought for Parliament, but this skirmishing won’t go on forever.’
‘We can only hope, sir,’ I said. ‘I have seen enough of war to satisfy the most bloodthirsty stomach.’
Manyon nodded gravely. ‘And yet you volunteered for the Bands?’ The Trained Bands were the county militia. When Parliament had raised their colours against the King, I had signed up as a volunteer. It was not my choice. My reasons were not something I wanted to discuss with Manyon, and though I felt uncomfortable letting him think I had noble motivations, I nodded.
‘I did, and until my colonel releases me, I will serve to the best of my ability. But I hope for an end to it. It’s no way for men to live.’
Manyon agreed. ‘By God’s will. So, what comes after?’
‘My father wished me trained in the law.’
Manyon heard the equivocation and frowned. ‘But?’
‘Entry to the Inns of Court would require study at one of the universities.’
‘Surely that’s no barrier for a young man of your intelligence?’
The magistrate was good at flattery. He would be most effective in politics, should he ever decide to leave the quiet life of a rural Justice and stand for office. ‘Father sent me to a tutor to prepare me for the examinations,’ I admitted, and Manyon’s face lifted in recognition.
‘Yes, I remember, now. Fellow in Buckinghamshire country? Christ’s, Cambridge, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And he let you down in some way?’
I coloured. This could not be further from the truth, but I had no wish to share the whole tale with the perspicacious magistrate. The shame I had brought on my family was mine to bear, but that did not mean I had to publicise it. Yet I could not lie. That would be worse, somehow, shame piled upon shame, now that my father was unable to upbraid me for it. ‘The failure was my own,’ I admitted, finally. ‘Mr Milton was not to blame.’ And yet, still, despite admitting responsibility for the breach between us, saying the man’s name left a foul taste in my mouth. I moved on. ‘And now, well, there are no longer the funds.’
Manyon said, ‘It is good that you have the honour to speak of past faults so. Very well,’ he said. ‘Consider your plans. Tend to your father first, and look to your duties, but it may be that once the war is over, I can help you get on.’
‘That is very kind, sir.’
Manyon waved his hand. ‘It is no more than I ought to do, being an old friend of your father’s.’
Mention of my father brought back a corrosive guilt: not only how I had left him defenceless in an empty house, or how near I had come to seeing him before he was struck down, but worse, of how – and how often – in the past, I had let down his trust. But it was not the time to think of that now.
‘Speaking of your father…’ The magistrate’s face was mild. I waited, my nerves on edge. ‘The matter of Chrissa Moore is one of some delicacy. I have not talked with her at length, but…’ Perhaps he heard something on the stairs before I did, or perhaps the wording troubled him, because he trailed off. Before I could urge him on, Esther and Rutherford returned, accompanied, finally, by the clerk, a young man whose dull eyes and anxious manner spoke of an illicit visit to the tavern. Manyon regarded the clerk with irritation.
I glanced at Rutherford, discomforted by the confidences Manyon had shared. I, and every other person I had met, knew many who had lost children, although none in this exact circumstance. I was looking for evidence of his grief, something that might justify the unyielding nature he covered with all that politeness. Perhaps a bow in his shoulders, or a hint of melancholy in the set of his mouth. He did not notice my scrutiny, because he was watching Esther, his expression unreadable. It was not admiration, at least not overtly. It was almost wistful.
Following his gaze to Esther, I saw that she shook, her small hands clutching the front of her cloak against the cold. I rose, and paid for it in pain through my thigh, but moved towards her. ‘Sister, are you well?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes had a red glare about them.
‘Move to the fire,’ I said, shepherding her. She came without complaint, standing in the crook of my arm and letting the flames warm her.
Rutherford sat and took up his cup again. ‘The young lady identified Joan Gedge,’ he reported to Manyon. ‘And it is pleasing to see a young woman of such proper sensitivity and godliness. The cells have affected her, that’s clear, but she has done her duty.’
I ignored him and spoke to Esther. ‘You saw Joan?’ She nodded. ‘Was she well?’
When she answered, it was in a cowed whisper. ‘She wouldn’t say a word to me. I stood for such a long time and…’ I spun her about and looked at her face, cursing my own clumsiness. Her face glistened with tears.
I looked round at the other men. ‘I would see my sister home as soon as possible. I must ask that we move on to her statement.’