Face Down under the Wych Elm (14 page)

Dismay suffused her features as Lady Appleton read the short message. “It seems we will be staying at an inn for the rest of our sojourn in Maidstone."

"What has happened?"

"Why, Jennet,” Lady Appleton teased her. “I thought you would be pleased. ‘Tis much more respectable for me to stay at the Queen's Arms while Nick remains in his own house."

"But why, madam? What possible reason could he have for turning you out?” To her own surprise, Jennet felt offended at the snub.

"The best of reasons. He has another guest, one who would prefer, I do think, to avoid my company."

"Another woman?"

"Aye.” Lady Appleton was smiling, but Jennet did not see the joke.

"What woman?"

"The only one who has a right to dictate to him,” Lady Appleton said. “His mother."

In Maidstone, cloth was sold at the schoolhouse. Winifred Baldwin did not spend long examining the offerings. She was convinced Nick had wanted her out of the house for some reason, and that did not sit well with her. Besides, she felt it her patriotic duty to disdain these so-called new draperies.

"Cursed foreigners,” she muttered, glaring at the assortment of grograms, mockados, and sackcloth produced by Maidstone's newly acquired community of Dutch cloth workers, men and their families who'd fled the oppression of Catholic overlords in the Low Countries. “What was wrong with good English broadcloth, I'd like to know!” Nose in the air, she gave a disdainful sniff and went on her way.

Once, men of Kent had made naught but broadcloth and a few of the short cloths called manikins. Now everyone seemed bent on variety. Winifred was already in ill-humor when her route took her past the Queen's Arms. She stopped dead in her tracks at what she saw there. Toby, the servant Nick had sent with her to carry her purchases, almost ran into her, but she scarce noticed.

That woman
was just dismounting from one of those newfangled sidesaddles in front of the inn.

"What is she doing here?” Winifred muttered.

"Lady Appleton came for the Assizes,” Toby said.

She turned to glare at him. “And how do you know that?"

"That was what Master Baldwin told the cook."

"And why should he tell the cook anything about Lady Appleton?"

"Because she was his guest here just a few days ago, madam."

"What?” Winifred's voice rose in tandem with her agitation.

Realizing at last that he'd said more than he should have, the lad turned beet red and attempted to recant his statements. Winifred would have none of it. She seized him by the earlobe to bring his face close to her own.

"Tell me everything you know, you poxy knave, or I will carve your heart out and eat it for supper."

"What happened?” Before Susanna could hide the damage, Nick seized her wrist to lift and examine her hand by the flickering flame of the nearest candle. They were in her chamber at the Queen's Arms, alone for the nonce. A few minutes before Nick's arrival, Jennet, Fulke, and Lionel had descended to the common room below to search out some supper.

Making light of her injury, Susanna allowed him to cradle her hand while she gave him an edited version of the mishap at Edgecumbe Manor. When she stopped speaking, Nick scowled first at her and then at the ugly, peeling skin.

"Are you certain it was an accident? Remember what happened to you in London two years ago. You got too close to the truth for someone's comfort and were attacked."

"I remember.” It had been thanks to Nick she'd survived. And he'd only known to come to her rescue because Winifred Baldwin had caught sight of the man following Susanna. She'd told her son. Susanna shot him a cheeky grin. “I wonder—do you suppose your mother ever regrets having given the warning that saved me?"

"This is not a matter for levity, Susanna.” Nick glowered at her. “You've set yourself a thankless task. Put yourself in danger."

She dismissed his worries with a careless flick of her uninjured hand and crossed the room to a window seat. “Come and sit down beside me, Nick. I have more to tell you. The most important thing is that I believe the charges against Lucy and Constance were copied from a pamphlet written about the witch trials last year in Chelmsford."

"A pamphlet?” His brow still furrowed, he was unable to hide his concern, but neither was he able to resist her invitation. He joined her at the window, bracing one hand against the wall, one foot at the base of the bench, as if he would make of himself her protective shield.

"Yes. A pamphlet. You know the sort. Badly illustrated with woodcuts. The likeness purported to be Mother Waterhouse could have been any woman in a kirtle and an old-fashioned gable headdress. The facial features, in particular, were indistinct."

In spite of his worry for her, his lips twitched. “How did you come to notice the similarities? Cheap print is not your usual reading matter."

She smiled back. “No. Although I must admit that I went on to read the entire account once I'd opened the pamphlet and begun. I came by it when a chapman carried copies into Kent and Jennet bought one. Indeed, I still might not have known anything of it if Rosamond had not, on one particular day in late April, suffered an upset stomach from eating too many sweets."

At Nick's look of confusion, Susanna smiled again, but now the expression was bittersweet. She had not realized until this moment just how much she missed the pleasant domesticity of Leigh Abbey. And Rosamond, too, certes.

"When Rosamond came to live with me, Jennet offered to relieve me of the daily reading to the maidservants. I put no restrictions on her selections, thinking it unnecessary."

Bewildered, Nick stared at her. “You read to your maids?"

"Reading aloud to the servants is a ritual my grandmother taught me to observe when I was very young. In this way a gentlewoman can improve the minds of her retainers and at the same time give painless instruction. Grandmother favored manuals on various aspects of household management and stodgy religious treatises translated from Latin. She would have been shocked at Jennet's choice of reading material."

She had been passing the open door to the small parlor, Susanna remembered, when her attention had been caught by a few ominous words: “And also that he should kill a man, and so he did."

Instead of continuing on to her stillroom, she'd quietly entered the room. Jennet had been sitting by the window, a book on her lap and a cluster of maidservants at her feet.

"I was reluctant to interfere,” she told Nick when she'd described the scene to him. “The pamphlet, titled
The Examination and confession of certain Witches at Chelmsford in the County of Essex
, could scarce improve anyone's mind, but neither did it seem likely to do harm."

"I should think it would frighten impressionable young servants."

"They enjoy being afraid. As Jennet continued to read, something about a cat turning itself into a toad, Grace and Hester, the two new girls I am training, shivered and clung to each other in an ecstasy of delighted fright. Doll the dairy maid, Joyce the laundress, and Martha the maid of all work, were less demonstrative but seemed equally engrossed in the story. None of them noticed I had joined them until I spoke."

She paused in her story to wonder how Hester was managing. Susanna had hoped the young woman, tall and rawboned and still growing into her body, would make a good nursery maid, but she'd shown little enthusiasm in her dealings with Rosamond.

"Go on,” Nick prompted, putting an end to Susanna's woolgathering.

"Jennet defended her choice by claiming the reading material was a cautionary tale. She pointed out that the maids could not guard themselves against evil unless they were taught how to recognize it. Then she turned my own words against me to remind me that I have often said that all knowledge is good."

"How did you deal with that argument?"

"I did not have to. Lavinia took care of the matter."

For a moment, he looked blank. “The cat?"

"Yes.” Lavinia was a long-haired white feline, a descendant of the remarkable Bala, a cat Nick had brought back with him from Persia. “She chose that moment to streak across the room. Grace screamed in fright. Joyce threw her apron over her head. I was hard put not to laugh, but I made my voice and my expression as stern as I could and told them they had naught to fear from cat or toad. Indeed, I pointed out that the cats at Leigh Abbey do only good and that we would soon be overrun with mice and other vermin if not for their vigilance. Then I sent them back to their duties and suggested Jennet find another book to read on the morrow. She was most put out with me."

"You are too easy on her. She gets ideas above her station."

"Jennet is my friend as well as my housekeeper,” Susanna reminded him. “And I can scarce blame her for her choice when I had myself already broadened the curriculum to include a sprinkling of almanacs, herbals, and tales of chivalry. I should have realized that Jennet, unsupervised, would be drawn to even more popular works, the sort that appeal to her avid interest in anything scandalous."

"You did not, I perceive, convince any of them, not even Jennet, that they had naught to fear from witches."

"No. There are some things a master cannot command from a servant. It seemed more productive to make sure I had an adequate supply of blessed thistle.” At his questioning look, she clarified, amused for some perverse reason by the sudden hint of alarm in his eyes. “It is thought to ward off evil when pinned to one's clothing.” She shrugged. “I also ground a small portion of galingale to powder, in case anyone asked for some. Many people believe that burning it can break a spell or ward off a curse."

"For God's sake, Susanna! Do not speak of such things."

"Nick, you worry too much."

His expression turned thunderous. “And you, beloved, do not worry enough."

Constance and Lucy might have been accused of crimes against God and State, but that did not excuse them from attending church services. On the Sunday before the Assizes were scheduled to begin, they were hustled out of their cell and into the interrogation room, along with the rest of the poor unfortunates awaiting trial.

Two other women charged as witches were there. Their names had been flung at Constance during one of her interrogations, as if she should know them both. Agnes Bennett of Boughton Monchelsea was a widow. She had been accused of being incited by the instigation of the devil to use enchantments and potions to destroy a child, a boy who had died instantly upon being bewitched. Or so they said. And so Agnes herself said, now. After months of imprisonment and countless questionings, she had become convinced that she was a witch.

"Confess,” she urged Constance with a high, hysterical cackle. “They will feed you well if you do."

"The food you speak of came from a generous gentlewoman.” That same gentlewoman had paid the fee to exempt Constance and Lucy from being chained to the wall like animals.

But Agnes was beyond listening to reason. “Confess. Confess. And be saved."

"Confess and die,” Lucy muttered.

The other woman accused of witchcraft was named Cecilia West, a spinster, but the charge against her was not bewitching to death. Her victim, the daughter of one William Loppam of Bethersden, was not dead. She had despaired of her life after being bewitched, but had recovered. Celia would be sentenced, at worst, to a year's imprisonment. She had already discovered the way to survive it. She agreed with everything anyone asked of her, save only that she was in league with other witches or the devil, and stayed silent the remainder of the time.

When all the prisoners had been assembled, Adrian Ridley conducted services, railing against witchcraft in his sermon. It occurred to Constance as she listened to him that the difference between charms and prayers was very slight. Both used Latin phrases similar to those in the liturgy, incorporated holy names, and based their effectiveness on the power of God.

Even the bedtime prayer taught to children could be interpreted as a night spell. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” she murmured, “bless the bed that I lie on."

A little later, back in their cell, she shared her insight with Lucy. Her cousin had been much more cheerful since Lady Appleton's food baskets started arriving. She chuckled to herself at Constance's comment.

"What amuses you?"

"That you still think common sense can save us. ‘Tis not whether or not I am a witch that condemns me. Know that. ‘Tis my adherence to my faith."

"Then convince them you have given up your faith. It is not as if you have refused to attend church all these years.” Lucy had always given the appearance of conforming, until charges of witchcraft had been made against her. Since then, she'd seemed to take unmitigated delight in reminding people she had once been a nun. She'd crossed herself at least a dozen times during today's services.

"The Catholic Church sanctions the use of written charms. There is no wickedness in attaching holy words about a person's neck, provided they contain nothing false or suspect. Have you never heard of Pope Leo's amulet? ‘Tis worn against harm in battle and relies upon the repetition of the names of God and three paternosters."

"What I have heard is that using the name of Jesus to drive away the devil or prevent witchcraft is condemned because ignorant people might come to think of Christ as a conjurer.” Constance's voice was sharp with irritation.

Lucy warmed to the argument. “Do you discount the effect of all charms, then? Is it more foolish to wear a cross and make the sign of it than to tie a bit of rowan inside your clothes with red thread to ward off evil? Your friend Sir Adrian would have it that any combination of herbs is magic and to be avoided, but I warrant you he'd accept a healing potion quick enough if he thought he was dying."

"He is not my friend."

Lucy snorted and said no more, leaving Constance to brood in silence. Her thoughts remained on Adrian, on his betrayal. She'd believed she could trust him. She'd even thought, briefly, that he admired her as a man admires a woman.