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Authors: Leonard Tourney
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a large brood to care for—lived in Colchester. Susan had thought of running away. Then Ursula, a quiet girl like her-
self, had made signs of friendship, bringing her nosegays, which Ursula had found in the meadow, and once a funny black kitten, who had unfortunately died the same day. As Susan continued to describe her relationship with Ursula, it was clear the Crispins’ servant had taken the place of an older sister for Susan.
“What of Brigit?” Matthew asked.
“Oh, she was not yet come. Then I was the only servant. Philipa Carey had died of the fever a week before I came.”
“So you became friends—you and Ursula Tusser.”
“Oh, we were that!” Susan exclaimed in a little transport of happiness at the recollection. “Of nights we would walk together in the pasture behind the houses. Ursula had most wondrous ways with animals. She knew the names of herbs and plants, their powers to cure and hurt. All she had from her own mother, she said, who was a cunning woman in her town. The birds would fly to her outstretched hand. Foxes came at her beckoning. Once I saw her charm a little snake so that it coiled and uncoiled its silver sheen, coiled and uncoiled again. Oh, sir, she did indeed play most wondrously with the snake, and she showed no fear of it at all, nor it of her.”
“Yet she bewitched you at last,” Matthew reminded her.
The thin smile of happiness faded. Susan’s face turned gray at the memory. She was vague about just how Ursula had bewitched her and why. The bewitchment itself was murkily described. She had not been lamed or made sick; she had not been driven to do something against her will or to feel passionate longings for forbidden things; she had not been inflicted with ghastly visions or threatened by demons or specters—until now, at least. But she reaffirmed her charge, nervously yet with conviction. Bewitched she had been. Brigit Able too.
Matthew listened, asked questions, allowed the girl to take her story where she would. At the same time, he sensed the lie. Sensed it the way a spectator at a play, viewing the imitation of life, is caught up by the tale but at the same time recognizes it as the concoction of the poet’s fancy. Susan
Goodyear’s bewitchment was fanciful. She had lied at the trial and was lying still to protect the first lie.
Matthew imagined the jury—their sense of Ursula’s guilt a foregone conclusion, heady with their power of life and death, and eager to get to their verdict—greedily gobbling up the lie and savoring it. Bewitchment . Why, the very word caused a tingle in the spine, a reverberation in the brain. It was all clear to Matthew now what had happened and why. Neither Susan nor Brigit was clever, but they knew well enough how to get themselves out of trouble. Representing themselves as Ursula’s victims, they had in truth been her accomplices, to what degree Matthew could not determine. The wonder was that Ursula, seeing herself betrayed by her friends, had not in turn denounced them.
He would have liked to tell Susan that he knew she had lied and was lying still. But he knew his accusation would serve no useful purpose. A confession would do Ursula no good now. She was dead. If the truth were known, the circle of guilt would only be enlarged, increasing the gallows fodder and enriching the hangman. What concerned Matthew now was the apparition. He asked Susan why she thought the specter had appeared to her master. To revenge itself on the house? He asked her if she feared the specter would appear to her.
The girl shuddered at the very suggestion and turned pale. It was obvious her conscience was uneasy, her fear well motivated. She had betrayed a friend, lied under oath before God. About the apparition she would say nothing. She had seen nothing, heard nothing. With her lips she denied the existence of what her expression affirmed. Matthew glimpsed the depth of her terror.
Feeling her
self, had made signs of friendship, bringing her nosegays, which Ursula had found in the meadow, and once a funny black kitten, who had unfortunately died the same day. As Susan continued to describe her relationship with Ursula, it was clear the Crispins’ servant had taken the place of an older sister for Susan.
“What of Brigit?” Matthew asked.
“Oh, she was not yet come. Then I was the only servant. Philipa Carey had died of the fever a week before I came.”
“So you became friends—you and Ursula Tusser.”
“Oh, we were that!” Susan exclaimed in a little transport of happiness at the recollection. “Of nights we would walk together in the pasture behind the houses. Ursula had most wondrous ways with animals. She knew the names of herbs and plants, their powers to cure and hurt. All she had from her own mother, she said, who was a cunning woman in her town. The birds would fly to her outstretched hand. Foxes came at her beckoning. Once I saw her charm a little snake so that it coiled and uncoiled its silver sheen, coiled and uncoiled again. Oh, sir, she did indeed play most wondrously with the snake, and she showed no fear of it at all, nor it of her.”
“Yet she bewitched you at last,” Matthew reminded her.
The thin smile of happiness faded. Susan’s face turned gray at the memory. She was vague about just how Ursula had bewitched her and why. The bewitchment itself was murkily described. She had not been lamed or made sick; she had not been driven to do something against her will or to feel passionate longings for forbidden things; she had not been inflicted with ghastly visions or threatened by demons or specters—until now, at least. But she reaffirmed her charge, nervously yet with conviction. Bewitched she had been. Brigit Able too.
Matthew listened, asked questions, allowed the girl to take her story where she would. At the same time, he sensed the lie. Sensed it the way a spectator at a play, viewing the imitation of life, is caught up by the tale but at the same time recognizes it as the concoction of the poet’s fancy. Susan
Goodyear’s bewitchment was fanciful. She had lied at the trial and was lying still to protect the first lie.
Matthew imagined the jury—their sense of Ursula’s guilt a foregone conclusion, heady with their power of life and death, and eager to get to their verdict—greedily gobbling up the lie and savoring it. Bewitchment . Why, the very word caused a tingle in the spine, a reverberation in the brain. It was all clear to Matthew now what had happened and why. Neither Susan nor Brigit was clever, but they knew well enough how to get themselves out of trouble. Representing themselves as Ursula’s victims, they had in truth been her accomplices, to what degree Matthew could not determine. The wonder was that Ursula, seeing herself betrayed by her friends, had not in turn denounced them.
He would have liked to tell Susan that he knew she had lied and was lying still. But he knew his accusation would serve no useful purpose. A confession would do Ursula no good now. She was dead. If the truth were known, the circle of guilt would only be enlarged, increasing the gallows fodder and enriching the hangman. What concerned Matthew now was the apparition. He asked Susan why she thought the specter had appeared to her master. To revenge itself on the house? He asked her if she feared the specter would appear to her.
The girl shuddered at the very suggestion and turned pale. It was obvious her conscience was uneasy, her fear well motivated. She had betrayed a friend, lied under oath before God. About the apparition she would say nothing. She had seen nothing, heard nothing. With her lips she denied the existence of what her expression affirmed. Matthew glimpsed the depth of her terror.
Feeling her
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