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Widdershins
The Newcastle Witch Trials Trilogy, Book #1
by Helen Steadman
* Only today at 99p on Kindle *
Publication Date: April 8th, 2022
Publisher: Bell Jar Books
Pages: 300
Genre: Historical Fiction / Biographical Historical Fiction
Did all women have something of the witch about them?
England, 1650. Jane Chandler is an apprentice healer. From childhood, she and her mother have used herbs to cure the sick. But Jane will soon learn that her sheltered life in a small village is not safe from the troubles of the wider world.
Scotland, 1650. From his father's beatings to his uncle's raging sermons, John Sharpe is beset by bad fortune. Fighting through personal tragedy, he finds his purpose: to become a witchfinder and save innocents from the scourge of witchcraft.
Widdershins tells the story of the English women who were persecuted and the Scottish witchfinder who condemned them. Based on the little-known Newcastle witch trials, where fifteen women and one man were hanged for witchcraft on a single day in August 1650.
This is the first book in the Newcastle Witch Trials Trilogy. Based on real witch trials in the north east of England, the trilogy tells the story of three women's struggle for survival in a hostile and superstitious world.
Praise for Widdershins:
'A dark and wonderful novel, rich in historical details, herbal lore, traditions and superstitions. Steadman's clear-eyed storytelling and colourful period voice give life to a vibrant cast of characters drawn against the backdrop of tragic historical events. A compelling and memorable tale!'
~ Louisa Morgan, author of A Secret History of Witches
~ Louisa Morgan, author of A Secret History of Witches
'Infused as it is with aromas of rosemary, fennel and lavender, even the healers' herbs do not mask the reek of the injustice that sits at the heart of Widdershins. Powerful and shocking.'
~ Wyl Menmuir, author of The Many (nominated for the Booker Prize)
~ Wyl Menmuir, author of The Many (nominated for the Booker Prize)
'A compelling tale of two young people whose destinies are intertwined, a witch-hunter and a witch. But is she really a witch? This meticulously researched account of a bigoted man's inhumanity to women in the seventeenth century will make the modern reader grateful to have been born in an enlightened age.'
~ Mari Griffith, author of The Witch of Eye
~ Mari Griffith, author of The Witch of Eye
‘Under Oath’
John Sharpe
The justice leant over his bench. ‘Is this true, Kirstie Slater? Did you walk three times widdershins around the graveyard on All Hallows’ Eve?’
Kirstie opened her mouth but nothing came out.
‘Answer me, girl, for it is a simple question, but let me make it easier. On All Hallows’ Eve, were you near the kirk?’
Kirstie swallowed. ‘Yes sire.’
The clerk scribbled a long time for someone recording only two words.
The justice continued. ‘And might you have walked around the kirkyard?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘A simple yes will suffice. How many times did you walk around the kirkyard?’
Kirstie shut her eyes and counted on her fingers. Perhaps the numbers wouldn’t stand still in her head long enough to be counted, requiring the use of her digits also.
‘Well, Kirstie?’
She peeped at Ethel Murray. ‘I don’t know, sire.’
The justice frowned at the mendacious maid. ‘Was it more than once? For instance, did you pass the kirk door?’
‘Sire, I’m trying to recall walking around the kirkyard. Being under oath, I don’t want to err and risk my immortal soul.’
Kirstie glanced at her father, who nodded. No doubt, the miraculously recovered man had counselled his daughter to be chary with her answers. Chary so that the justice couldn’t give her words another meaning and chary so that she didn’t imperil her soul, but justice would be served – of that, I was certain.
‘How many times, Kirstie Slater, how many times?’
‘More than once, sire.’
‘More than once.’ The justice held out a finger and then thrust out a second. ‘So, at least twice.’ He thrust out a third finger and tapped each finger in turn. ‘Perhaps thrice? Think carefully, Kirstie Slater, for you are under oath. Did you pass around a third time?’
Kirstie pressed her hands over her eyes. ‘Really, I… I can’t be certain, sire.’
‘You’re certain that it was twice. Yet, you can’t be certain that it wasn’t thrice.’ The justice consulted a scroll. ‘Fortunately for us, John Sharpe watched you make three turns around the kirkyard. When he made himself known to you, he said that you “jumped a foot in the air”. Do you recollect this?’
Kirstie blinked. ‘I was surprised by little John Sharpe, but…’
Little John Sharpe, indeed. I opened my mouth to object but Uncle James pressed his hand on my knee and gave me a stern look, which closed it.
‘And did you jump in the air, Kirstie?’
‘Well, not a foot in the air, sire but he gave me a start, leaping out from the tree.’
‘The reason John Sharpe was able to surprise you is that you were passing the wrong side of the oak. I put it to you, Kirstie Slater, that you were walking widdershins around the graveyard – on hallowed land. How say you to that charge?’
‘No! I was only gathering elderberries.’
The justice smiled. ‘Really? But your whole village is thick with elderberries so why venture to the graveyard?’
Kirstie’s chin quivered. Her own words were tying her in knots. It might go better for her if she remained silent, but she kept her eyes on her father, took a faltering breath and continued.
‘Because those berries are the biggest.’
‘So, you went hunting for berries from the witch tree? Not just any berries, but those growing lush in the graveyard, made fat by the flesh of innocent souls resting in sanctified ground. Not content with this macabre harvest, you walked widdershins three times around the kirkyard. To what end?’
Kirstie’s shoulders heaved. ‘J… just that I wanted the juiciest berries for cough bottles. There’s a hard winter coming that will clog many chests.’
‘You were gathering witch berries to make a curative linctus? Not content to accept God’s will, you determine to interfere with His intent by creating and administering your foul brew to innocents?’
Kirstie’s father closed his eyes and moved his lips. Was he praying for her? Or making a charm against me?
The justice glared at the accused. ‘Girl, attend when I speak!’
She flinched and then murmured her apologies.
‘Kirstie, how are you so certain that a bad winter is coming?’
‘Well sire, because I read the signs and they tell me what to expect.’
‘You “read the signs”. What signs are these? Might anyone read them?’
‘Yes sire, anyone with a mind to.’
‘I see. Please furnish me with instances of these signs.’
I sat up. So many examples to give. Which might save and which condemn?
Kirstie pleated her shift between her fingers. ‘Well sire, the holly trees are bending under the weight of berries, the onions have put on their warm coats, the squirrels are nesting low and the cows’ necks have thickened. All these are sure signs of a hard winter coming.’
Kirstie tried to catch the eye of her neighbouring farmers. If she hoped one would nod in recognition, she was sorely mistaken, as none would meet her eye. Findlay examined the toe of his boot and Reid gazed past her. Uncle James shifted in his seat and I heard him utter a soft prayer.
‘So, you look to flora and fauna for signs to predict something that only God should know?’ The red in the justice’s eye had swallowed much of the blue and his eyes blazed. ‘So that you can interfere with His mighty plan?’
Despite the cold room and Kirstie’s scant shift, sweat trickled down her face. A definite indication of guilt.
‘No! Please sire, you make it sound worse than it is. Everyone keeps an eye out for signs to prepare for what’s coming. Just as dandelion seeds aflying when there’s no wind is a sure sign of rain coming.’
Kirstie looked to the women. She could expect nothing from Ethel Murray, but Goodwives Findlay and Reid should be grateful to her. Would they come to her aid? Would she remind them of help given and gratefully received? These weak and foolish women had fallen prey to Kirstie’s interference in God’s will, but she was on trial, not them.
‘Kirstie Slater, I put it to you that you were picking bewitched fruits made gross by the blood of the dead in an effort to commune with the devil, there to gain illicit knowledge to concoct your foul wares.’
The justice pointed at Kirstie and she trembled before his unwavering stare.
‘I put it to you that you are a diabolical dabbler, interfering in God’s great work. I put it to you that by walking widdershins three times around the kirkyard, you were opening up a hole into hell so that the evil one might make his approach and lie with you, to fill your belly with imps.’
At this, the justice slammed his hand on the bench, making Kirstie flinch. It even made Uncle James sit up and he had God on his side.
‘I put it to you that you are both witch and willing servant to Satan. That you give him suck and in return he gives you arcane knowledge.’
Helen Steadman
Helen Steadman mainly writes historical fiction set in the north east of England. She recently completed her fifth book, Solstice, the final part of the Newcastle Witch Trials trilogy. The series was inspired by a little-known witch hunt where fifteen women and one man were hanged in 1650, resulting in one of the largest mass executions of witches on a single day in England.
Helen enjoys carrying out in-depth research, and to help her get under the skins of the cunning women in her witches trilogy, she trained in herbal medicine. Prior to writing The Running Wolf, which tells the tale of the Shotley Bridge swordmakers who defected from Germany in 1687, she trained in blacksmithing and made her own sword.
After voyaging around the Farne Islands, Helen is completing a novel about the life of Grace Darling, the heroic daughter of a nineteenth-century Northumbrian lighthouse keeper. She is also still grappling with the goddess of love in a Greek myth retelling about Aphrodite.
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