Extract from Let Her Speak Her Name

Sarah Lienard-Smith

Letters pertaining to Anne’s fate pass from palm to palm over the first five days of September. First, the King writes to Richard Bancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who breaks the royal seal with a sigh, blaspheming softly under his breath as he scans the scrawling writing of the royal scribe. He has neither the time nor inclination to receive and question a supposed demoniac, nor does he wish to repeat the seemingly endless speculation and debate that he endured three years ago in the case of Mary Glover. He leans back in his chair, massaging the bony bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Who should he call for?

He runs through a list of possible names, rejecting each one, before a solution glints at him, like a sixpence glimmering from the bottom of a fountain. Harsnett. He has the stomach for it, and the patience; he will know how to wring the truth out of her. He picks up his quill, sharpens and floods it with fresh black ink, then begins to set down his instructions.

Harsnett arrives at Lambeth Palace two days later, under a heavy black cloud that splits open into a thunderstorm as the porters are bringing in his bags. John Asheley sees him to his antechamber, then to his usual study, which is kept how he likes it: a desk devoid of all personal touches save for a large silver cross, surrounded by tall pillar candles. On the desk, Asheley has placed a stack of documents that require Harsnett’s approval; he has ordered them by the most pressing, though he needn’t have bothered. Harsnett will work through them all in one night, with the efficiency of a hackney horse, always pushing steadily on, on, on, his gaze blinkered, never glancing back.

Harsnett is a shrewd man with an acerbic wit. He retains the sharp, strict demeanour that served him so well as a headmaster, before he tired of shouting at schoolboys to sit up straight and became a Chaplain. If you displease him in any regard, you know about it soon enough, yet he is known for being generous in his own calculated way. Most of the Chaplains distance themselves from the staff, expecting to be waited on wordlessly, but Harsnett makes a point to ingratiate himself with the household through steady, planned bribery. He understands the benefit of a listening ear pressed against a closed door, and when he returns to his parish, he leaves plenty of ears and eyes behind at the Palace, ready to update him on his return.

Asheley is no exception, though he maintains a wary distance. He knows there is usually a price attached to the Chaplain’s gifts, and it is not always an easy one to pay. Today, however, there are no unusual offerings. Harsnett asks for wine to be brought, some vellum parchment, some ink. Asheley bows and is halfway out of the door when Harsnett calls to him.

‘Come back after supper, before you retire,’ he says, without smiling. ‘I have a use for you.’

Asheley had been sent to Lambeth Palace when he was little more than a boy. His father, a tailor, had once worked for the King, and by chance had been recommended to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Archbishop had suggested sending the boy away to learn the workings of a prominent household.

His mother, who had kept the accounts, had taught him his numbers. They would sit together in the workroom, surrounded by scissors, ribbons, and rolls of cloth. Garments hung like theatre drapes, muffling the sounds from outside. Nearer the ground were the linens and woollens, in the cheaper colours, midnight blacks, slate greys and navy blues, then slightly higher were the velvets, taffeta, satin, damask, in cream and pale yellow. The most expensive silks hung up high, out of reach, the colour of flames, cornflowers, violets.

She showed him how to add and subtract in the leather-bound writing tablet, wiping it clean and handing it to him to try for himself. His father was often away, but his mother took the inventory when he returned, adding up how much of each material had been used, how complicated each design was, and who to send the bill to. She haggled with cloth merchants for the best price, inspected supplies to ensure they were stored properly, and not spoiled by damp or moths on the ships. She did all this while managing the household, coaxing the best work out of the serving girls through encouragement, gentle teasing, and laughter. Occasionally, she would scold them, if the bread hadn’t risen or the pastry had crumbled, rolling up her sleeves to show them how it should be done.

And so he learned how to talk with people, how to get them to do you a favour; that a few carefully chosen words of encouragement can garner better results than a lashing of sharp criticism, no matter how well-deserved.

His father had wanted him to take over the family trade, but he lacked the patience or the skill with a needle. He was a good strong boy, and eager to please, and so when they had sent him away, they had told him he would be valued, no matter what work he was set to. His mother had hugged him tightly and told him how proud she was, and to say his prayers each night. He had swallowed back his tears, then, and promised to send word when he could.

Even now, each time he passes through the yawning entrance at Morton’s Tower, he remembers his first glimpse from the cart, gazing up at the red-bricked gatehouse, a soldier peering down from the battlements above. It was winter then, and it had rained steadily for the best part of a month; his boots had let in rainwater during the journey, so he had arrived squelching and leaking, leaving small wet footprints on the flagstone floors.

The air was sharply scented with Christmastide spices, and a stream of bright banners fluttered in the draught from the gate. For a moment, he forgot the long and difficult journey, he even forgot his sore and soaking feet, and all that he had left behind – his mother, his father, his brothers and his bed – and thought that perhaps he might like to stay in a palace after all. Then, as they approached the servants’ quarters, which smelled of unwashed linens and sweat, he met rows upon rows of eyes, boys of all ages, older ones with mean stares and set jaws and younger ones with bruised arms and downcast eyes, and he thought: perhaps not.

The household steward had sized him up, checked his hands, his teeth and his hair, and pronounced his sentence: two months in the kitchens. The cook was a French man, harried and verbose, who had shoved a spattered smock into his hands and sent him off to pluck the chickens.

For the first few nights, he had cried himself to sleep, muffling his sobs with the coarse blanket. But he had quickly learned to fear sleep as much as sleeplessness, for in dreams his mother came back to him, smiling and gentle, and when he woke, he had to grieve their separation all over again.

Eventually, his memories of home had simply faded away. His work was demanding, rough, and exhausting. He would often be at risk of falling asleep where he stood, at the end of a gruelling day, by the hearth, trying to dry out his shirt so he would not catch cold.

He had worked his way through most of the Palace jobs, spending time as a stable hand and as a porter, a footman and an under-butler. One day, when his period of appointment was nearly finished and he was to begin receiving wages, he had been caught in one of the Chaplain’s studies, using the writing tablet to add up the stock in the cellars.

He had jumped up, apologising, and had been about to wipe it clean, but the Chaplain had stopped him, grasping his hand, and had asked, who taught you that? Asheley had told him of his mother’s lessons, explaining that he was adding up the bottles and dividing them by the number of guests that were to stay that month, so he could tell the cook how many more to order. The Chaplain had scrunched up his face in bafflement, like someone trying to piece together the clues in a riddle. He had pushed the writing tablet into Asheley’s hands and told him to go to the household accountant at first light for an apprenticeship.

And that was that. He hadn’t had to pluck a chicken or chop firewood since that day.

It is almost midnight when Asheley returns. Harsnett is finishing his supper, set on a tray, when Asheley enters the room. He barely leaves it to take his meals, preferring to have them brought to him so that he can sustain himself without breaking concentration. Now, he sits comfortably amongst his papers, wiping ink-stained hands on a cloth. The servants have set a perfume pan atop the small fire, so the room smells both savoury and sweet: frankincense, lavender and herbs mingled with the fresh bread still left on the dinner plate.

Harsnett barely looks up from his leisurely grooming, polishing grease from his rings. Asheley bows, then straightens, hands clasped behind his back. On the desk, a fat keychain glitters in the firelight.

‘Asheley,’ Harsnett says. ‘I am glad for your presence. I must ask for your assistance on a matter of importance.’

He waits. Harsnett does not usually ask for his assistance, he instructs. Asheley is a step above the servants, yes, but nowhere near the Chaplain’s level.

‘A young woman, Anne Gunter, has been brought here for questioning,’ Harsnett says. ‘She is from a long gentry line, recently settled in North Moreton. She is implicated in a witchcraft trial, as the primary accuser.’

Asheley knows Harsnett’s stance on witchcraft; he is sceptical to the core. He doubts Satan himself could make him a believer, even if he leapt out of the fire and licked him all over. Harsnett would probably wave it away as an apparition of a troubled mind, or blame it on bad ale.

‘As you most likely expect, I believe she is an imposter.’ Asheley nods. ‘The Archbishop has called for an investigation, under royal supervision.’

Royal supervision? Surely the new king has more pressing matters to attend to. The Queen would not have become entangled in such small village squabbles.

Harsnett registers Asheley’s surprise. ‘King James cares greatly for his subject’s sufferings,’ he says. ‘Especially when witches are involved.’

‘The King suspects fakery?’

A pause. ‘He has not given an opinion one way or the other. He has only advised caution, and asked us to pay particular attention to the girl’s demeanour once she is separated from her family.’

Asheley frowns. ‘Girl?’ He had been imagining someone old and grey.

‘She is a young woman of 20,’ Harsnett says, leaning forward in his seat, his fingertips pressed together. ‘Which is why I would like you to lead the questioning.’

They have reached the crux of the matter. This is the task that he has been called in to perform, to agree to carry out to the best of his ability. Yet there is a creeping undercurrent to the conversation that he does not entirely comprehend.

‘Would William Avery not be more suited to the role?’ Avery is a lawyer, a stony-faced bulldog of a man, practised in interrogations. He could get a confession out of even the most hardened criminal.

Harsnett’s smile spreads slowly, like butter melting on warm bread. ‘Avery does not have the qualities that I wish to employ in this instance,’ he says.

The reality of what the Chaplain is suggesting dawns on him like cold rainwater trickling down the collar of his shirt. He wants him to gain her trust, possibly even court her, convince her to tell him the truth, then report it back.

Asheley has helped to extract information before from prisoners, through various methods of deception. He has pretended to be a co-conspirator, a servant wishing to overthrow his masters, and gained their confidence, only to betray them in court. He has encouraged boasting, grand stories, and let them brag about terrible crimes, before verbally tying them up with rope of their own making.

When he has felt a flicker of guilt during these instances, he has snuffed it out with ease. These men have been widely known to be crooks, accused of the worst kinds of criminal behaviour. He has tricked them before, yes, but they have tricked and harmed others first. He has always felt that he has acted for the greater good. Can he, with his hand on his heart, say that the same will be true in this case?

‘Women.’ Harsnett is smiling now. ‘Weak of the mind, weak of the flesh. You are a good-looking man, Asheley, if a little rough around the edges.’

‘I understand she is from a gentry family, sir.’

‘And your people are no tavern keepers,’ he says, waving away Asheley’s concerns.

Asheley bites his tongue. His uncle keeps a tavern in Colchester, though it serves no purpose to point it out.

‘It is purely a matter of right and wrong, Asheley,’ Harsnett says. ‘Do you understand?’

A nod.

‘We must get the truth out of the girl.’

Another nod. Then—

‘Will they kill her for it?’

Harsnett examines his papers.

‘That will depend,’ he says slowly, ‘on the King’s will. His Majesty is not the ardent witch hunter he once was. Of late, he considers false accusations the greater threat.’ He clears his throat. ‘Morally and spiritually speaking, of course.’

Unease gnaws away in his stomach. This seems a tricky business to him. Surely, a young girl must be harmless enough. What if—

But he stops himself. His place is not to question, only to carry out his task. 

Harsnett watches him closely, his expression shadowed in flickering candlelight. The guards refer to him as Bancroft’s henchman, a ruffian in gentleman’s clothes. If you looked at him in the daylight, when he has his amenable, pliable manners on, you would write it all off as bad jokes. At midnight, staring into his baleful, flint-grey eyes, Ashley understands exactly what they mean.

To hear Harsnett speak, you would think that he never considers his own fortunes. His only concern is the Archbishop’s vision – one that must be advanced towards, inch by inch, on hands and knees, even if this requires crawling through the mud. He speaks of duty in blurred phrases, like smudged ink: ‘we must do this’, ‘we have been nudged towards that’. It is always the Archbishop’s will, which is, in turn, God’s will. His reasoning is clear. If it is ordained, it must be right.

‘I will speak plainly. There are three possibilities here. One, the cause is supernatural. If this is the case, the devil must be cast out by any means necessary. Luckily,’ he smiles wryly, ‘I do not think it will come to this. Two, the cause is medical, and the girl is found to be suffering from some malady which explains her symptoms. In this case, a remedy may be found. Three,’ his chin dips downwards, his gaze skewering, ‘she is a fraud, and must be punished accordingly. We must not be taken in with speculation and hearsay. If her demonic possession is found to be counterfeit, she must be made an example of.’

Asheley nods gravely, standing up to take his leave.

‘And Asheley,’ Harsnett calls, just as he is about to slip out of the door. He spins on the spot, like a marionette on strings.

‘God bless you.’

Asheley makes a start on his task at dawn. He visits the kitchen and asks for Mercy, the serving girl who usually brings Anne her breakfast. There are wolf whistles from various directions, echoing across the flour-topped tables and off the herb-strung walls, and Mercy steps out into the corridor as requested, her cheeks burning red. He is sorry to subject her to this public embarrassment, though not sorry enough that he doesn’t grin back at the stable hand, who makes a lewd and enthusiastic gesture as he follows her out.

Mercy is a milk-faced girl of sixteen, her face framed by mousy wisps of hair that escape from under her cloth cap. He makes a point to enquire after her health, and that of her family, before launching into his request, but this merely sets her more on edge. When he states plainly that he would like to assist her in attending to Anne, where appropriate, in the interests of gaining her trust, she exhales sharply, pressing one reddened, chapped hand tightly to her chest. He wonders, momentarily, what she thought he was going to say, as it is clear that she has something else on her mind, but decides that it is not his place to pry.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘That’s no problem, no problem at all.’ If she is morally perturbed by his proposal, which amounts, in fairness, to entrapment, she does not show it, and he considers, on reflection, that he has saved her one task from a no-doubt long list of daily drudgery.

He stops and scratches one of the kitchen cat’s ears; it stretches softly, flexing its claws and yawning, displaying a set of miniature fangs. He glances over his shoulder, apprehensive; he’s been told off one too many times by the cook for domesticating his mousers. He seems to think that if the cats are shown affection, they will stop being cats, and forget that it is in their nature to hunt and kill.

How is he supposed to go about this business? He is not sure which approach to take. For his whole life he has learned from the wisdom of others; if you need to know how to salt beef you ask in the kitchens, if you need to fix your boots, you ask the cobbler. There is no one he can consult for advice in this instance; no one to teach him how to make a demoniac fall in love with him. Should he court her? Her father is a gentleman, but that is no guarantee of good manners or intelligence in a woman. The picture he has of her in his mind shifts with disorientating speed as he recalls what others have said about her. One moment, she appears as a screaming, wailing banshee, another, as an invalid confined to a gloomy bedchamber, the windows shuttered, her anguished face pale and delicate as a dog rose. 

He asks Mercy what she is like. She shrugs. ‘Ordinary,’ she says. ‘She eats three meals a day, she says please and thank you, and she needs her chamber pot emptied, same as anyone else, if you pardon my meaning.’

‘And her fits?’

Mercy’s lips quirk downwards and she moves past him to fetch the ale jug.

‘She hasn’t had one since she has been here,’ she says. ‘I hear they were terrible, but such things often are. It can stop quite suddenly; it was that way for my cousin.’

He turns to her, amazed. ‘She was bewitched too?’

‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘Hysteria. The disease of the mother. She was in agony, shut up in the darkness with it for the best part of a year. Then one day she woke up, threw open the shutters, and she was right as rain.’

Mercy brings him the tray, as promised, and takes him up to Anne’s chamber. She enters first, holding firewood, which she sets down at the hearth, bending down to sweep up the ashes and start the tedious work of re-building the fire.

The morning light is pallid, filtering weakly in through the window, as though the sun has risen reluctantly, against its will. If Anne is surprised to see him, she does not show it, but seems to observe him from far away, as if she is watching a play that she only half believes in.

Anne’s face is wide and flat and pale, and makes him think of a spade. She sits rigidly in her seat, her back held straight. The parting of her hair is severe, and her dark strands fall with a snaking wave. In the jaundiced light from the window each strand seems to have an undertone of pewter.

He knows, from Harsnett, that father is a gentleman, and even in her present situation, deprived of her freedom, she retains an air of refinement. Still, he sees how she smiles at Mercy as she enters, how she murmurs her thanks as the girl goes about her tasks. When she sees he is watching her, her face drops back into cool composure, and she stiffens, like a dog who has been showing its soft belly and then thinks the better of it.

He looks down, away from her face, and sees that the skin around each fingernail is bloodied and sore, the skin peeled away in strips, although she has placed her hands neatly in her lap. Slowly, deliberately, she tucks her nails under to hide them.

For a moment he thinks she must be frightened of him, but when he looks at her face, he sees that she is not. She is tired, and her skin looks sallow, but not afraid. He is about to introduce himself, but she says: ‘You are no servant.’

She is looking at his hands, hands that are smooth and soft and stained with ink. He has not thought to scrub them; he has barely thought about their condition for over a year now. He used to, of course, bandaging them after a long day at the stables, extracting splinters by candlelight after chopping firewood. They still bear the burn marks from his days in the kitchen but these have faded so much that they’re a pale silver, the skin fully healed. 

He smiles at her. ‘You are correct,’ he says. ‘I am not a servant. Not anymore. I have not been one for many years, since I started my accountancy training.’

‘But you are bringing in my breakfast.’

He glances involuntarily at Mercy, catching only a glimpse of her mirthful face before she turns back to the fire. Her shoulders twitch as she starts to pile up the firewood.

‘Yes,’ he says slowly, as if humouring a child. ‘I am bringing in your breakfast.’

He feels a stab of annoyance grip his chest; is he not supposed to be asking the questions? He sets the tray down on the table, slightly too hard; the dishes clatter and the bread rolls mutinously off to one side.

‘Well, I will leave you to eat,’ he says snappishly, ‘and then I will return.’ An unexpected benefit: there is no need for him to pretend to be a servant, at least, not now.

She blinks at him, nods again, keeping her hands still in her lap. Mercy is finished with the fire; she rises, wiping soot-coated hands on her apron. Anne watches them leave the room, waiting until the door is almost shut before she dips her head, her lips moving wordlessly, offering a pious, silent grace. He’s not sure whether it’s performed for the benefit of her soul, or to make an impression on his.