Four Women of Salem: Bridget (excerpt)
by Jamie K. Wilson
(this is a work in progress and will almost certainly have errors.)
Prologue
Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony, Summer 1688
A linen handkerchief, though liberally soaked with the scent of lily-of-the-valley, could hardly compete with the stench of the gaol. When the leather-hinged door creaked open, blended odors of sweat, vomit, human excrescence, and the unmistakable but indescribable smell of fear wafted into the crisp spring air. Cotton, gasping a little, backed away from the opening, almost stumbling into Sibley, who grinned. "Bit much, what?"
"No more nor less than what God has ordained for this wretch. Hell's torments shall be far worse." Cotton, in getting his breath, spoke even slower and more sonorously than usual.
Sibley nodded, biting his pipe stem with a wicked smile. Salem Farm's most prolific hunter made an excellent guide into the wilder areas of Essex County, Massachusetts Bay Colony. Sibley had been a scout during the horrible times of the War with King Philip the Indian, and today often sold game in the marketplaces of Boston, Ipswich, and Salem Town. It had been lucky chance that Cotton met him; lost and alone in an unsettled part of Essex, he'd resigned himself to death by starvation, cold, or the Indian devils when Sibley had shown up, walking his trap lines. After getting Cotton back to Boston, he'd stayed in town a bit, sometimes attending Cotton's church, the Second Boston.
The sound of an angry woman cursing in a devilish tongue, mixed in with struggling, grew closer to the gaol-door. They were bringing the Irishwoman forth. Cotton took his place before the door, preparing himself as a man of the cloth to save the woman's soul.
As the gaol was small, he didn't wait long. Goodwife Glover soon appeared, her chains and her appearance of frail old age belying the strength with which she struggled. Cotton stared at her for a moment, appalled. She certainly looked a witch; her matted flame-colored hair crawled with vermin, and her ragged clothing had no distinct color, being uniformly gray and brown with dirt and less-pleasant things. In his earlier visits she had at least been cleaner. The smell of gaol came with her, and Cotton almost choked.
"Woman - " he paused for breath as he felt the Devil trying to take his tongue - "Woman, do you repent of your sins, confess to being a witch, and remand your soul to God?"
The wizened, filthy face cocked to one side, peering at him with old and rheumy eyes. <I am not a witch, you filthy cocksucker priest of a pagan religion. I am a good Catholic woman consigned to living with sinners and devils in this hellish land, and I'll see the face of the Virgin soon enough and be freed of you all.> (author note: someday I'll find a Gaelic speaker to translate this for me into Irish!)
One of the men, an Irishman, holding the old woman gasped, jerking his hands away for just a moment. Cotton looked at him. "What did she say?"
Grimly, the man stared at her. "She said no."
"Just no?"
He looked about. "Sir, there are women. I cannot repeat her blasphemy in their presence."
Cotton nodded. "So be it." Turning to the woman, he said, "May the Lord God have mercy on you soul." He stepped back as the men loaded the witch into the open-back cart, fastening her chains to the ring in the front and then stepping away, wiping the odor of her from their hands and breeches. The ox-driver lashed his whip, and the cart slowly trundled through the muddy streets of Boston Town, lurching across ruts and puddles.
Cotton mounted his own white mare, nodding at Sibley. They parted ways here, Sibley to return home, Cotton to follow alongside the cart and ask twice more of the witch would she redeem her soul. He guessed not. The woman had been unrepentant these last six months, tormenting the Godwin children without mercy. It was likely she'd go to her black master in less than an hour, and her soul would be lost to the Lord Jesus Christ forever.
Black mud splashed up from the streets to stain the sides of Cotton's white mare and his boots. Boston Town in 1688 was prosperous enough, but still carried the raw marks of a town too new and wild to be truly graceful or elegant. Split boards over wattle and daub formed the walls of most buildings, though here and there red brick made at the new brickyards stood forth. A couple of houses were built of the gray stone that marked this part of the world. Though it was illegal for fear of fire, some roofs were thatched rather than shingled, but mostly tarred wood shingles graced the rooftops. Here and there, birds made nests in the eaves, or against warm chimneys.
The execution procession traveled through narrow streets, occasionally cobbled, mostly mud or mud strewn with straw. Often, townspeople stopped to stare, the witch in her cart standing straight and scornful, the great man of God on his horse beside her ready to wage war with the Devil for her soul. The gallows had been raised on the outskirts of Boston, near enough to the pauper's field that transporting the witch's body there would be no great task. When she drew close enough to see the rope, the witch's knees buckled, and she sank to the floor of the cart. Cotton nodded. So it should be. Perhaps he would redeem her soul despite all.
A crowd had gathered at the base of the gallows, the typical sort, pious and sober citizens flanked by drunkards, dallyers, and women but one step removed from witchcraft themselves. Cotton marveled at them, as he always did; the cruellest taunts and jibes were always cast by the wicked women, though it seem they should be quiet and respectful as one of their own went to meet her Master. It was but another proof of the work of the Devil, and another proof that Christianity would prevail ultimately, though the struggle be harsh and long.
As the gaoler and his helpers unchained the woman and bound her hands behind her back with a rope, Cotton dismounted and approached. "I am bound by God and my duty, woman, to give you another chance. Do you repent of your sins, confess to being a witch, and remand your soul to God."
The woman looked at him dully, then shook her head. "Not - witch." Her pagan tongue made hash of the word - weisch. "Catholic."
One of the dallyers laughed. "What's the difference?" His companions, sober and otherwise, laughed and cheered. "Hang her!"
The cry was taken up by much of the crowd. "Hang her! Hang the witch!" One overly-eager fellow threw mud at the witch, splattering Cotton and the gaoler in the process. Cotton turned slowly and gazed into the crowd, which quieted and backed away. One of the benefits of being a respected clergyman and the son of a famous father, he thought.
He nodded at the gaoler. "Prepare her." His sermon would be short today, he thought; he'd already preached it on Sunday at any rate.
The crowd roared as a whip cracked and the cart lurched toward the gallows, where the executioner Goodman Winkler, a farmer on other days, awaited. As was customary, the cart was driven to where its back end was under the gallows crossbeam, and the condemned woman moved to where the rope could easily be draped round her neck. The executioner climbed into the cart, and adjusted the knot to just under the witch's ear, where it would with luck snap her neck quickly with the drop.
Cotton stopped his horse next to the cart. From his vantage, he could look directly into the witch's face. The executioner stood waiting to put a hood over her head.
"I am required by God and His Majesty to ask you a final time - do you repent your sins, woman, and confess to witchcraft?"
The witch looked directly at him. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were a startling shade of green and that her aging face had once been that of a pretty woman. She didn't bother to try answering him this time, though; she just spit, hitting him full in the face. Calmly, Cotton wiped off the spittle with his linen handkerchief.
The crowd settled, their raucousness giving way to a dread anticipation. Cotton was known for his brilliant sermons, though he was as yet only a young man. He did not intend to disappoint today. There were souls that needed saving in the crowd, though the witch was beyond help.
"Friends." He paused for dramatic effect. He had struggled with a terrible stutter as a teenager, but in overcoming it he found that speaking slowly, with long and carefully timed pauses, not only gave his mind time to work out the words, but also captured his audience's attention. "Friends, we are gathered today to witness the fate of one who hates all of God's works. A witch - "
The crowd roared, and Cotton held his hands up, palms out, to silence them. "A witch, a poor unredeemed soul. Friends, let us have quiet and peace, for this is a time to mourn our failings, not celebrate the death of one of the enemy."
He ignored the witch when she snorted. "For we have failed, friends. We have failed this woman and we have failed God. Our Lord God has blessed us with this vast new world, with the land we stand on, from which we can bring forth the fruits of our labor, upon which we can erect His houses, and where we can raise our children to worship God in the plain way, the correct way, left alone by those who would do our cause harm. We are truly blessed!"
He paused for breath, then continued. "But in return for our blessings, we have grown away from the beliefs that brought us to these broad and fertile shores. Our children fall away from the church. We give in to the sins of drunkenness, of lust, of greed. Yea, as God gives us freely, with both hands, we gather those gifts to our bosoms and hoard them, thinking not of charity or of the church, but only of finery, of large houses, of furnishings imported from England, of amassing land and money and shops. We are become a land of shopkeepers, not the land our forefathers dreamed of. Their vision was of the City on the Hill: the beautiful and virtuous place where our brethren suffering under the heels of Catholic rulers might look to, and model their own homes after. It is our destiny to inherit the earth, brothers, for we are the meek.
"Yet we are become the proud. We are the sinful, the wicked and the unjust tyrant. And God abhors this. To humble us, he releases the savage brute of the forest upon our farms and towns. Our brothers and sisters in Christ are fallen to the vicious scalping-knife of the heathen savage. And now, friends, our Lord God has released the witch into our midst, that the sinful may be winnowed out and the wavering have their last opportunity to embrace God.
"'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' It is our holy duty to eradicate the witch, and as a holy duty it behooves us to hang this poor misguided woman in silence, in humble worship of God, with the knowledge that her sisters are yet among us and must be rooted out. For only when the evil have been removed from where they corrupt our roots may our beautiful City on the Hill become reality."
Cotton urged his horse toward the witch, who stood with the noose around her neck. Her eyes held a sort of defiant desperation. He asked her yet again, praying that she would repent at the last. "Woman, dost thou confess to being a witch, and at least save your sacred soul?"
"My soul is safe. Look to thine, priest." And the old woman looked away, toward the clouds that puffed lightly across the sky.
"So be it. May God have mercy on you, woman." He nodded at the executioner.
A hood was dropped over the witch's face, and the rope pulled fairly tight around it. Her legs buckled again, but the executioner caught her and held her stable against himself. When he was satisfied with the positioning of the rope and the hood, he nodded to the cart driver, who cracked his whip. Again the oxen lurched, the cart moved, and the witch dropped out the back with a jerk. It was a clean execution; by the angle of her neck, the executioner had done his job well. Goodwife Glover's neck had snapped, and she dangled dead, feet no more than a few inches from the ground. After an initial wail, the crowd was silent, watching her sway from side to side, a gruesome pendulum creaking the heavy tree branch it was suspended from with every swing up. The bright sun was suddenly darkened as a cloud passed before it.
"So pass all enemies of God and His church."
On his way back into Boston, Cotton was joined by Samuel Parris, a Harvard man with aspirations of becoming a clergyman. Parris had been in a couple of the classes Cotton had taught as an upperclassman, and never showed a great deal of promise in academia; indeed, it had been a relief when he went to seek his fortune in Barbados. He had been devout enough, though, and was a talented and persuasive speaker. Pity his mental acumen had not been up to the task.
"It was a good hanging."
Cotton nodded. "As hangings go."
"I hear you were involved in the case."
"I examined the Godwin children, yes, and interviewed the witch herself twice."
"I've an interest in witchcraft, myself. I've read your father's works, and heard you had a few monographs on the subject?"
Cotton smiled. "It is a sin to be proud, but we are all sinners, are we not? I'm working on a book I hope will be equal to some of my father's lesser works, and as it happens, I'm including the Godwin case. You may read what I have so far, half-finished though it is, if you would come by the Second Boston Church this evening."
"I would be honored, sir." Parris was silent; Cotton waited for him to continue. "I've a question, though. How does one determine, scientifically, whether a woman is a witch or simply distracted?"
"There's not much science to it. Precious little work has been done on catching a witch before she acts. And how would one go about it, anyway? What passes between an individual and Satan is as private as what passes between yourself and God. It eventually comes out, but the beginning is secret."
"But you, sir, have done work with possessed persons. How can you tell what is possession and what is - oh, an illness of the mind, or self-delusion, or simply fancy?"
Cotton nodded. Parris was not quite as unintellectual as he'd surmised; at least, he asked good questions. "It is often difficult, and takes a good deal of experience. The best rule of thumb, however, is to try everything, and if nothing works, assume witchcraft. Speak with a doctor about possible illness, query the afflicted person's nearest companions to see if perhaps he has a grudge he may be acting out. If the doctor can find nothing, if the afflicted has no enemies, and especially if the afflicted is from a godly household, then probably a witch is involved."
Parris nodded, then, glancing down another street, pulled up. "Thank you. I fear we must part ways here, as I have an appointment."
"To discuss the position at Salem Village, perhaps?"
"You are well-informed, Reverend."
"I am involved." Cotton thought a moment. "If you would take a word of advice?"
"Eagerly, sir."
"Forget the Salem posting. For at least twenty-five years, since I was but a babe in arms, the villagers have been embroiled in squabbles and feuds. They have had three pastors in the last seven years, and drove each of them away with pettiness and hatred. It would take a remarkable pastor to bring the community together in some semblance of holiness."
Parris's face went from eager to flat. "I appreciate the advice, sir."
"Good luck." The men shook hands, and parted. Cotton knew his advice would be ignored. It was no more than he'd expected, but it would be remiss not to give warning. Salem Village was tinder, waiting for the devil's flame. Cotton's father Increase had often used it at seminary as an example of a difficult situation for a minister. The leading family, the Putnams, were an unusually argumentative lot, and had brought dozens of suits against the Nurses, the Porters, Salem Village newcomers, Salem Town, Essex County, and Massachusetts Bay Colony. Increase had once said it was a wonder they did not try to sue the king himself.
Cotton knew Mr. Deodat Lawson, Salem Village's most recent minister, personally. Mr. Lawson had often written Increase in frustration at not being able to mediate village disputes, and often found himself embroiled on a side in battles that were none of his doing, simply because he was the minister. In particular, Cotton remembered the argument about Mr. Lawson's ordination, just last year. Cotton did not think highly of Mr. Lawson; he was a long, gangly fellow as clumsy with people and learning as with his big feet. Yet he felt rather sorry for the fellow, caught as he had been between the two factions of Salem Village, a divided house that would not stand long.
So now the ministerless Salem Village was considering Samuel Parris. Well, they probably deserved one another. He dismounted and entered Parson's Ordinary, where Mr. Samuel Sewall awaited, no doubt already having a good meal. Cotton smiled as he spotted Sewall. His belly had grown no smaller in the several months since they had last met.
Sewall stood, nearly knocking over his bench. "Hail, Cotton! How'd the execution go?"
"Clean, poor devil. She went fast. Didn't repent, more's the pity."
Samuel clapped him on the back as he sat. "Can't save 'em all, my boy. Here, have a bit of this venison roast here. Excellent, excellent. And Goodwife Parson says there's cranberry cake to follow."
Cotton sat and served himself, making certain his ale was well-watered. Across the room, several men were making merry, laughing uproarously at something the shortest one said. Cotton frowned as he recognized several of them. "Who's that at Brattle's table?"
"Eh? Pemberton, you know him, and then Levett and Smith."
"No, the, ah, diminutive storyteller."
"Oh, him. Burroughs. Minister up Maine way. He went to Harvard with you, didn't he?"
Cotton scowled. "Yes. I remember now. One of the devil's own. Doesn't he preach in Casco, where the Popish heresies worship in the same house as Puritans? M-monstrous."
Sewall shrugged and stabbed another bit of venison, dragging it over to his plate. "Folks up Casco way are all getting slaughtered anyway."
"Proof that the Devil is in it. And all the more reason to have God's word preached properly. Casco's citizens deserve an even chance of redemption, and they won't get it with the ungodly teachings of Burroughs." He glared across the room.
At Harvard, Burroughs had been a gadfly. It was his arguments that had allowed the Devil access to Mather's tongue, confounding it so that he couldn't get out a clear word. How Burroughs had ever matriculated was a mystery, though Dean Levett had certainly been on his side. Burroughs did have a clever tongue, though, and had often been able to pose excellent arguments for his fallacious and heretical beliefs. A good argument, however, was also the Devil's way of subverting the righteous. Mather would have been happy to continue the rest of his life without seeing Burroughs again. He drained his cup and rose.
"Already leaving?" Sewall tugged at his sleeve.
"I find some of the company here less than appealing. Perhaps we can meet later in my office. I'd be pleased to have you for dinner."
Across the room, Burroughs had taken notice. He spun around on his bench to face Mather, hands clasped loosely between his legs. "Cotton Mather! Haven't seen you since college. Hung a witch today, did you?"
Cotton stared at him with distaste. The man was a savage and looked it. His long hair was tied back loosely with a leather cord, and he wore leather breeches and jacket. His shirt was undyed wool, patched and travelstained. He carried a rifle, even now in Boston. The only sign of civility about the man was his cleanshaven chin, though that was ruined by the wolfish grin that had always been a trademark of Burroughs. His skin was darkened by the sun almost to the point of Indian red, and he sported several small scars on face and neck.
"Burroughs. I wish I could say it's a pleasure."
Burroughs clasped at his chest. "What! I'm wounded. Old friend, I thought you'd be pleased to see me. That was one hell of a sermon you preached yesterday. All that fires of hell and witchcraft must be stifled. Funny, I don't think I ever met a witch. The one you hung today looked more like a little old helpless woman."
Cotton clenched his fist, willing the Devil away from his tongue. "She was a witch, Burroughs. If you'd seen the afflictions of the Godwin children -"
"Oh, yes, I heard all about that. Terrible, just terrible. The Godwins, they disliked old Goody Glover. Something about the daughter stealing linens from them?"
"That is accurate, but does not negate the witchcraft."
"Oh, maybe not, maybe not. But just suppose for a moment that the Godwins had a grudge. You know, didn't care for Glover. So they talk about the Glovers, what awful people they are, Papists and all that. And they do it in front of the children, impressionable little creatures, and bright too, from what I've been told. So when something goes wrong, and the children start having fits, the Godwins assume it's Goody Glover, who I think said she'd get revenge. So they ask the children if it's Goody Glover. Well, by now Glover and the Devil are the same person to the children, so of course they start accusing Glover. Could that, just maybe, be what happened." He stood, seeming taller than his five and a half feet. "Could it be that you hanged an innocent woman today?"
"N-N--" Cotton stopped a moment, taking a deep breath. "N-nonsense. My research was impeccable. I exh -" he paused, then continued slowly, "I examined the children carefully. They were quite clear. It was Goody Glover. Besides, poppets were found that Glover identified as models of the children."
Burrough's smile had vanished by now, replaced with an intensity of expression Cotton recognized. It was the same one he'd always assumed when preparing to argue something into the ground. "But isn't it true that Glover spoke little or no English? She was Irish, was she not? How did she identify the poppets?"
"There was a translator."
"An honorable man? A church man?"
"A sailor. He attends my church when he's in Boston. I've no reason to disbelieve him."
"You refer, then, to Kelley. A good man, I suppose. That is, if good men offer to save accused witches in return for their daughters' virginity."
Burroughs turned to his companions. "You see, Mr. Mather did not do enough research. Goody Glover's daughter would not sell to Kelley that which he wanted in addition to her laundress services. Miss Glover is quite a pretty red-haired Irish flirt, you see, tempting to even a good Puritan like Mr. Godwin. Imagine how a sailor, nine months to sea, feels upon looking at such a lass, smiling and charming him, speaking his own native tongue even, and yet never once allowing him to touch her. I'd guess, gentlemen, that Kelley, in a fit of pique, decided that he'd help Goody Glover along on her way to hell. The poppets, according to young Miss Glover, were dolls Goody Glover had made of scraps for children she knew, including the Godwins. She didn't give them to the Godwins for obvious reasons, so still had them. She identified the dolls as belonging to the children, not representing the children." He bowed as his tablemates hummed, a rare applause. "What think you now? Could an innocent woman have been hanged?"
Burrough's friends started stamping their feet, old Pemberton foremost among them. "Shame! Shame!"
Mather shook his head and clapped his hat down over his white wig. He would get nowhere with these gentlemen today. Even had they not hated him and his father, their reformist attitudes identified them as ones who would weaken the Church, bring it down to be no better than Papistry. They were eating and drinking loudly, several rounds in front of Burroughs by now. "You are a damned liar, Mr. Burroughs." His retort was drowned out by the conversing of Burrough's dinner companions, all loudly discussing the validity of Burrough's points and ignoring Cotton. Burroughs grinned and lit his pipe, puffing at it to catch the spark. And then he pointedly looked away from Cotton and into the fire.
Cotton walked outside, wishing he were strong enough to not wish ill upon Burroughs. After all, the devil would eventually call to his own. Burroughs, one day, would be able to light his coal without using a sparker. It was sad, really. When he arrived home, Cotton knelt and prayed for Burroughs' soul, and the soul of the old woman who had died that day unrepentant. He refused to consider that she might have been innocent. God would never allow that to happen, not to his chosen people nor especially to the man he'd chosen to lead those people. And then he rose to write his sermon for the next Sunday.
Chapter One
Massachusetts Bay Colony, Salem Town, 24 September 1691
Bridget Bishop straightened her scarlet bodice, tightened the strings that laced her sleeves on, and turned from side to side to examine herself in the looking-glass. For a woman of her advanced years, she had kept very well. Her bosom was high and firm, her waist trim, and her ankle well-turned. She had a number of grey hairs, that was true, but they blended well with her ash-blonde locks, and she kept yellow dye on hand to cover them little by little as they appeared. Her face was fairly unwrinkled, white and pure because she avoided the sun, and she still had all the teeth in front, though the ones in back were beginning to go.
No matter, though. Goody Bishop had no trouble snaring husbands, despite the rumors of her murdering her first husband Thomas Oliver, and she was happy enough with sickly ones, for it left her free to engage in liaisons with the young lovers she craved. She picked and chose among them, fancying a dark Spanish sailor one week, then a fresh-faced Dutch farmer lad the next. She delighted in the pleasures of the flesh, dancing and drinking and loving.
One final check, kilting up her outer skirt to show her scarlet petticoat, and she nodded, satisfied. A twig served to brush her teeth, some fresh mint leaves to freshen her breath. The servant girl -- what was her name? Abigail? -- was caring for Thomas, making calves eyes at him and looking at Bridget with loathing. It was time to put the fear of Goody Bishop into the lass.
"Abigail!' she shouted out into the hall. The girl came quickly enough, though her carriage bespoke insolence.
"Ma'am."
"I am going out. Care for Thomas." She smiled, not a very nice smile. "Be certain you take care of his needs, but also be aware that I have seen the way you look at him. I do not intend for some little sniveling girl to take my place in this household. Let me catch one hint, one breath suggesting that you have done something inappropriate, and girl, I shall have you in prison quicker than you can spit. Is that clear?"
Abigail's eyes were round and frightened. She nodded, bobbing a quick curtsey.
"Excellent. I shall be back anon. And remember, you don't know when I shall return. Mark well my words of warning." Bridget whispered past her, her silk skirts shimmering around her. That should do well enough.
She stepped out of her front door and smiled in satisfaction. Noyes, that fat turd, was trimming his lawn. Excellent. "Good morning, Neighbor Noyes."
He could hardly ignore a direct address, and touched his hat to her. "Goody Bishop."
"How grows your lawn this fine day?"
"Well enough, well enough."
"Then I didn't curse it, then, did I?"
"More like the goodness of our Lord preserved it for me."
Bridget raised her hand to her bosom in mock shock, noting with amusement how avidly Noyes watched her fingers touch her bare skin. "How remarkable, that our Lord should care about so paltry a thing as your lawn, yet allow the storm lately that swept three of our fishermen out to sea."
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Goody Bishop." He motioned toward her bosom. "Should you not cover yourself more appropriately in public? Do you not fear censure?"
She leaned toward him intimately, ensuring he had an excellent view of her breasts. The cloth gaped away from the nipples, and she knew perfectly well he could see them. "I fear nothing on this earth, neighbor, not you, not the court, not the wild savages of the forest. Indeed, I do not fear the Lord God himself, nor do I fear the Devil. Why should I fear such a silly and empty thing as censure?"
She turned away from his red face and walked, whistling, down the street. An excellent start to what promised to be an entertaining evening. She nodded to gentlemen she passed on the street, strangers and acquaintances alike. Several were men she had been intimate with once or again, and she enjoyed the varied reactions she received, from embarrassment to avoidance to pleased looks at her appearance. Oh, the secrets she knew!
It was delightful to walk the bottom of a society. That was where everyone tucked away their sordid little stories, the things they would or could not tell anyone. She had become rich by investing in John Alden's little forays with the Indians. She had grown wise by sleeping with ministers like John Cotton. And she had been happy from the beginning.
And now she knew enough about any family here to destroy them, or elevate them. It made them fear her, men and women alike. It brought her power.
The tavern door was wide open on such a pleasant night, and men smoked their pipes in the doorway, parting politely to let her pass. She nodded and smiled, making her way into the dim interior and toward the fire. Patrick was there, dear, dear boy. He was a farmer in town to sell his pigs. He had blonde hair, curling eyelashes, and something large hidden deep inside his codpiece. She planned to find out, tonight, just how large it was.
He smiled at her when she sat next to him, and ordered her a flip. "How goes, dear Bridget?"
"It goes, it goes." She smiled charmingly at him. "My husband is still sickly, my servants unruly and rebellious, and my neighbors obnoxious. But you are here, and that makes it all much better."
Patrick blushed, the color spreading across his fair cheeks in the firelight. "I am pleased to please you, madam."
"Oh, you do, you do. Shall we have dinner as well?"
Patrick nodded, and they passed the next half-hour most agreeably, though their loud laughing drew disapproving looks from many of the other patrons, including one of the damned ministers. Bridget simpered and waved whenever anyone looked her way, and otherwise made sure to avail Patrick much of her well-exposed bosom and pretty ankles. When she sneaked an intimate touch on his upper thigh, she discovered to her satisfaction that he was well endowed indeed, promising a pleasant interlude later.
And then her evening was spoiled. "Goody Bishop. 'Tis that surprised I am that you've the gumption to show yourself here."
Bridget sighed and turned. "Why, Goody Hammond! What a pleasant surprise! Have you met Goody Hammond, dear Patrick?"
The young man hastily rose and bowed at the woman behind them. Oh, she was angry tonight! She was so ugly when angry, too. Her face was a blotchy red, a scowl twisted her face to the side because of a weak muscle in one cheek, and her forehead was so beetled together she resembled a walnut. When Goody Hammond opened her mouth, she also noted that she was missing three front teeth on the bottom, which would explain the spittle flying when she spoke. "Goody Bishop, if I weren't a good Christian woman, I would show you what a pleasant surprise this is! You and your whoring ways!"
Bridget blinked at her innocently. "Why, is Goodman Hammond still abed, then!"
"Aye, he is this threemonth past, and well you know it! Viper! Witching daughter of Satan!"
Bridget shrugged and took another drink of her flip. Clearly Goody Hammond was not going to calm down soon. "He'll get over me. It. Eventually."
"You gave him a disease!"
"Everyone knows he courts those filthy girls down at the dock, Goody Hammond. I don't carry diseases, and I didn't sleep with your husband. He had the clap before I ever touched him, and I'm not such a fool as to risk catching that."
Goody Hammond turned to Patrick. "You know how they treat the clap? They lay your dick over a rock, and clap it with a shovel to break up the rocks blocking your peehole. First you hurt because you can't piss. Then you hurt because you're pissing through a black and blue dick. Do you want that, young man?"
Patrick swallowed hard. "But you heard her. He didn't catch it from her."
Goody Hammond bent low. "You can't know her all that well, boy. Is she really worth the chance?"
Patrick looked at Bridget -- or at her bosom -- and sighed. "I'm sorry, Goody Bishop. Sorry." He bowed, picked up his hat, and fled.
Bridget stared after him, open-mouthed, then turned to Goody Hammond. "You -- bitch! Just because you can't keep your husband happy in your own bed, you must interfere with mine!"
Goody Hammond smiled smugly at her, arms folded over her flat bosom. "If you were a good Christian, Goody Bishop, it wouldn't be at issue, then, would it?"
Bridget sputtered. Though, like the ladies of the French court, she prided herself on keeping calm to prevent wrinkles, she felt her face twisting of its own accord, knotting and gnarling like the bole of an old oak. "Bitch! May your husband die, may his penis rot and fall off, and may you wither into a bitter old woman! By God and the devil, I hope it happens!" Rising, she threw the flip mug into the fire, where it sputtered and sparked, and she left before the hot tears of frustration could flow down her face. Be damned if she would cry in front of this lot.
She didn't notice the looks cast her way as she left, the signs to ward off evil eye, the mutters at the bar. And Goody Hammond didn't faint until Bridget was long gone.
They were burying Goodman Hammond the next week. The whispers grew louder and longer, and the most often-used word was the dangerous one: witch.
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