Agnes enjoyed a comfortable life-style. Her bed was a solid four-poster with thick curtains which she could draw in the winter to keep out the draughts. Her windows were filled in with glass and she could open them in the summer to let in the sweet night air. Her bed linen was of good quality and smelt of lavender, and there were woollen rugs on the floor. All these things were the result of quarterly payments of money from an unknown donor presented to her by an attorney who came out from Marchester. They always drank a herbal infusion together and ate sweet cakes, and he asked her if there was anything she needed. She always said she had everything she wanted, so he nodded and went away, leaving a bag of money on the table. He never told her where the money came from and she assumed it was from someone who cared about her but who had never acknowledged her. Sometimes she wished she knew more about the mystery surrounding her birth, but obviously she would never find out now. When other people talked about their relatives she used to feel left out, but now she was glad she had no elderly parents to look after or aunts and uncles to visit. She felt as if she was floating in her own comfortable space where she could get on with the job of studying the properties of plants and healing people.
The tapping of the branch was preventing her returning to sleep so she got up, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and went over to the window. She drew back the curtains. The weather had certainly changed. Dark clouds now scudded across the face of the waning moon and a summer storm was building up. Good, she thought. Her garden needed rain and the water butts would fill up nicely.
She went back to bed and drifted back into sleep. When she woke up the night had gone and the pale light of a troubled dawn illuminated the furniture in her bedroom. Unaccustomed to a disturbed night’s sleep, she felt uneasy. Something was wrong. Something was missing. She splashed some water on her face from the bowl on the washstand, put up her hair under a neat white cap, and pulled on her dress. As she slipped her feet into her shoes, she realised what was missing. Ambrose hadn’t come in. Usually he was inside the house well before the dawn. He always lapped up the plateful of milk she left out for him before padding up the stairs and jumping up on to her bed. There he’d curl up and sleep soundly until she stirred. Then, purring loudly, he’d come to her for his early morning welcome.
She went downstairs and saw he hadn’t drank his milk. She wasn’t particularly worried. He was a good hunting cat and maybe his hunting activities had taken him further afield than usual. At any moment, she thought, he’d come jumping in through the little window she always left open for him in all weathers.
She put some kindling wood on the fire and blew on the smouldering log until it burst into flames. Then she heated some milk and poured it over some stale bread, adding honey. She sat down to eat it, but her appetite had gone. Was she sickening for something? In that case she would have to make herself a lemon balm infusion, which she knew had a calming effect on the body. The Prior had sent her down a bush which he’d brought back from France the previous year and she loved the delicious delicate flavour of its leaves. She pulled the shawl round her shoulders and went out into the garden to pick some sprigs.
Outside the wind was creating havoc in the flowerbeds and it caught hold of one end of her shawl and whipped it off. She ran down the path to retrieve it; and then she saw Ambrose. He was dangling from a length of rope tied to a branch of the rowan by the gate. With a cry of despair she ran to him. The rope was tied tightly round his neck and he hung stretched out like a rabbit caught in a snare. His eyes were staring wildly and his mouth was drawn back in a grimace of pain, revealing his sharp pointed teeth. Nailed to his soft, velvety underbelly was a piece of wood with letters scrawled on it. HANG THE CAT. HANG THE WITCH.
She tried to untie the knot round his neck but it was too tight. In a panic she ran back to the house and picked up a knife. With this, she cut him down. Then she sat down under the tree, cradling Ambrose in her arms like a child. For eight years he’d been her devoted companion. They had shared everything together. No human being had ever got as close to her as Ambrose had.
With tears streaming down her face, she got up and carried him into the house. She eased off the rope round his neck, flung the piece of wood with its evil message on the floor, and laid him out on the table on a clean cloth. Then she closed his staring eyes, pulled his mouth shut and stroked his beautiful velvety coat.
‘Ambrose,’ she whispered, ‘my darling Ambrose. Who did this to you?’
Gradually time passed, the rain began to fall, gently at first, then with greater intensity. She wept for her cat, until she could weep no more. Slowly her grief gave way to anger. She didn’t care what people thought about her. Let them call her a witch if they wanted to. They were all ignorant peasants, anyway. But why should anyone want to hurt a beautiful and harmless cat?
* * *
An hour later, Jane knocked at the door and found Agnes still stroking her dead cat. She gave a horrified cry and rushed over to her friend.
‘Agnes, what’s happened? When? How did it happen?’
Agnes looked up, her face distorted with grief. ‘Go away, Jane, and let me be. The devil came here last night and killed Ambrose. He seized hold of him and hanged him up on a tree. What am I going to do without him?’ And she rocked backwards and forwards, locked in her grief.
Jane put her arms round her, and Agnes didn’t draw away. Then Jane looked down and saw the piece of wood on the floor. She bent down and picked it up.
‘It wasn’t the devil who did this; it was a human being. As far as I know the devil doesn’t write messages. Agnes, you are in terrible danger. This is a warning. You must leave your house immediately. Come home with me. You’ll be safe with my father. He has no time for witch-hunts. Let me get you your cloak.’
Agnes stopped rocking and stared at Jane. ‘Nobody is going to frighten me into leaving my home. I am going to bury Ambrose, and then I shall carry on doing what I’ve always done – make up my herbal remedies. I won’t be terrorised. I’ve done nothing. I know I’m not a regular churchgoer, but I have my own service books and I worship God in my own way. I go to Mass on the blessed feast of Christmas and on the day of Our Lord’s resurrection. For the rest, I can’t abide the ignorant, superstitious gossiping of the other members of the congregation. Does that make me a witch? I don’t think so. I have no knowledge of the black arts, I have no truck with the devil. I lead a simple and, I hope, useful life. Why have I suddenly got so many enemies? Jane, I am going to find out who murdered Ambrose if it’s the last thing I do; and I won’t leave my house. Will you help me bury him?’
Together they dug a deep hole by the rosemary bushes. They lined it with the heads of marigolds and sprigs of sweet marjoram. Then they wrapped Ambrose in an embroidered linen pillow case and lowered him into the grave. With the wind tearing at their skirts and the rain splattering great heavy drops in their faces, they filled in the hole. Then Agnes tied two pieces of wood together and made a cross and set it up at the head of the grave. Together they stood there praying silently.
When they’d finished they went back to the house. Agnes built up the fire and they brushed the raindrops off their clothes.
‘We’ve got to talk,’ said Jane as she took the beaker of hot lemon balm infusion from Agnes. ‘We’ve got to find out who’s started this persecution. Can you remember who’s been to see you over the last few days? Can you remember what they wanted? You must think carefully. Someone wants to get rid of you. All this witch nonsense is just a smokescreen.’