Side Chapter 3: A Day in the Life of the 'Black' Witch of London

On a warm summer’s day, in the back allies of London’s Silver Street, I sit beneath a small church window. As I enjoy the coolness of the shade, I fiddle with a heavy mortar and pestle in my lap and then reach into my canvas bag to run my hand across Sir Mouser’s back. [1] Sir Mouser cannot walk long distances as he once did. So for the past several months, I have been carrying him in a canvas bag that loops around my neck.

As for his wife, Lady Mouser, she is not of this world any longer. A year ago, she ate a funeral bell mushroom that sprouted on an old log. We were out searching for a particular mushroom called King Alfred cakes that can be used to kindle a flame. She smelled something and ate it before I could do anything. I later found out a local woman had emptied a pot of grease over them that same day.

Since then, Sir Mouser never leaves my side for more than an hour or so. If I go out and leave him alone, when I return, he will have a dramatic case of melancholia and persistent ‘meowing’ until he deems I have paid him the attention he feels he is due. [2]

I do see their sons and daughters from time to time. They will seek us out to spend time with us on occasion but leave when they realize we do not have food. Fortunately, most of them have been employed as stable hands, and now spend their days hunting rats and mice as mousers like to do. It is wonderful that they have found homes; it makes me quite happy.

Removing a second canvas bag from my waist, I set it in the dirt to my left. This bag contains a combination of goods I managed to lift from carts and stalls by sleight of hand and silvery speech: licorice, rose petals, water, and turpentine.

I place the rose petals in the mortar. The pestle grinds against the mortar as I listen to an older man speak through the church window that leads into the church’s vestry. [3]

A chair squeaks as he moves around the room, sweeping the little vestry. “Farewell to the days of clean slices wrought by sword and pike,” he says in a shaky voice, worn down by the harshness of time. “And let us give welcome to the age of muskets. Now are the days of gaping holes, shredded flesh, and shattered bone.”

‘Doth a knightly person wield a musket? Nay, they do not.’ I shake my head. ‘Muskets! Loud, bulky, dull, I prefer the sheen of cold steel over tarnished, noisy sticks.’

“If possible, the pellet should be removed from the patient’s body,” he states in a low voice.

I whisper to myself, “Because the pellet could have adverse effects upon the patient, yet it can be more dangerous to remove than to merely leave it be.”

My rose petals properly mashed, I add a piece of licorice root to the mortar and then chew on the remaining pieces of root while listening. ‘Licorice root, a rare treat.’

Inside he raps his finger against his desk and then affirms, “Though the pellet could have adverse effects upon the patient, it can be more dangerous to remove than to just leave it.”

I nod. “Aye, and the physician may elect to remove the pellet if it is in: the shoulder, thigh, legs, foot, or the arm.”

“The physician may choose to remove the pellet if it is in one of the following areas: shoulder, thigh, legs, and the arm. In most other areas, it shan’t be recommended for removal unless life-threatening.” Some more squeaking from inside as he shuffles through some notes. He then says, “Rossalia is a disease on the rise in mainland Europe. [4] As physicians, we shall be the ones the people will look to for advice.”

‘Nay, I do not believe anyone shall look to a girl, me especially, for advice on such things. Many would see their graves before that, and for their stubbornness, they are welcome to them.’

I huff, add a few touches of turpentine to the mortar, and then return to grinding the root.

The sound of a letter being open comes from within the vestry and goes quiet for a few minutes. I then feel the vibration of his feet against the hardwood on my back as he approaches the window. “Girl, thou speaketh in the London fashion?” he questions.

I stop. This is the first time he has ever acknowledged my presence. I know that he is aware I am here, but I know little of this man other than he is an old physician.

Over the past few years, the use of London Parlance has been discouraged, and there have even been royal decrees against its use. This is because speaking in London Parlance, or the ‘London Fashion’ is essentially a subtle manner of protest against the nobility. So asking if I speak in London Fashion is the same as asking my opinion on the Queen and the ruling nobility. Most people have either abandoned it or swap between it and the Queen’s English depending on who they are speaking to... But I do not, I shall resist even if I am the last.

“Aye, I favor it,” I reply.

He scoffs. “Problems with the nobility also, I presume?”

I do not answer him, but nod.

“It is fine, girl.” He clears his throat, and then says, “On the morrow, I shall be leaving for The Tower of London. I am afraid it may be quite some time until I am seen again.”

“Then I wish thee well. I pray it is not as it sounds and that thee art meant to be imprisoned.”

A moment passes without another word.

‘So it sounds as if he is to be imprisoned in some way.’

Extending his arm, a piece of vellum flutters in the breeze. “I received this notice this morn. Furthermore, I have also penned the recipe requested by note. I shan’t inquire why thee wouldst ask for such a thing…” Pulling the vellum sheet back, he asks, “Thou can read, correct? I presume it was thee that carved the message into a piece of bark?”

“Aye, that was indeed I.” I take the thick sheet of vellum and then remove a piece of bark from my pouch. Drawing a penknife, I carve the recipe into it before reading anything else.

I store my items away and flip the vellum over to read what he wished to show me.

“By order of Her Majesty the Queen, the woman who frequently introduces herself by the name ‘Black’ is wanted for crimes against the nobility and presumed blasphemous acts of witchcraft.

Age: Thought to be around 16 years of life.
Hair: Red - Possible Scott Origin.
Eyes: Light Green.
Height: 5 feet, 0 inches.

Both Black and her suspected familiar, a black cat missing an eye and an ear, are to be reported upon notice. Confronting Black without a guard is not recommended.”

At the bottom, there is a sketch of a girl with her face obscured behind a cowl.

I raise the paper to return it to him. When he takes it from my hand, I then remove a flat piece of timber and bind it atop the mortar to keep anything from leaking. Placing the mortar in my canvas bag, I then gently lift it and allow Sir Mouser to readjust himself. “I thank thee, I have learned much these past few months.”

I turn and begin walking toward Silver Street.

“Aye, though, it was not long, thou shall be the last student of Dr. Atslowe,” he says from behind me. “Best wishes, and good luck, girl.”

I nod and turn onto the familiar streets where I have spent my entire life running from street to street. “Let us make for Cripplegate, Sir Mouser, it is only a mile and I have business there.”

“Meow,” his muffled cry retorts.

“Oh, hush. It is important.”

Some time passes until Sir Mouser and I arrive in Cripplegate, where we then descend deeper into the more disreputable parts of the city’s squalor. I watch the sky making certain we do not walk below any open window. ‘There is nothing sadder than someone emptying their chamber pot over thy noggin. A hard-learned lesson.’

I step off into an alley, watching my back to make sure a raptor does not sneak up while I am distracted. [5] Removing the mortar from earlier, I drop it into a container of water and mix it together. I scrutinize the light red water for a moment, shake my head, and add more turpentine to the mixture.

‘It is a tad watered down, but it is the best I can do with what I was able to scrounge. I hope it will suffice.’

Checking my back once again, I proceed deeper into Cripplegate. When I reach a familiar dark alley, I check my hands to make sure my illness is not acting up and then scratch Sir Mouser behind his ear.

I walk forward and into an alley of recognizable beggars. “Black!” a youthful boy’s voice yells.

A lad of around twelve with a hole burned through his right ear sprints over. [6] I wave and then state, “I shan’t be operating under that name further. I will return to using one of my past nicknames instead.”

“Ah, well, which one is it then? Sink or Roach?” the boy asks.

Pursing my lips, I ponder which would be less known among the beggars. I shrug. “Sink, I suppose.”

He nods, fiddling with the hole in his right ear.

“Thou shouldst not touch it, or it shan’t heal properly,” I say, wagging my finger at him.

“It itches. I cannot help it! ...But thou art the doctor, I guess.” Forcing his arm to his side, he asks, “Doth thou bringeth the medicine?”

“That I did. Doth thou acquire what I asked for?”

“Aye. Was a bit strange, but I shan’t question it.” Raising a worn and tarnished earthenware urn, he states, “A vagabond wandered in with it from Swindon! He said ‘tis from before cremation was prohibited.’ I bartered the aqua vitae thee concocted for it!”

I remove the jar of water. “Aye, then if that be the urn, here is the lice remedy. Though, as a boy, thou couldst simply cut thy hair.”

He shakes his head. “‘Tis for mammy, not for me.”

“It is good then. Thou hast fulfilled their part of the bargain. Tell thy mamma that she should remove any knots from her hair, run the remedy through it, and after thirty minutes or so, wash it out. Repeat this for a week. If the lice persist, find me and I shall concoct a more potent remedy.”

Nodding, he turns and runs off; if he does not hurry, someone may follow him home to steal the remedy from him. “Fare thee well, Sink,” he says, disappearing around a corner.

I leave the alley. A vagabond does attempt to follow, but I know these streets better than any. ‘That vagabond, I presume, he was the one from Swindon. Wanted both the aqua vitae and the earthenware, it seems.’

Finding a particularly crowded square, I slip into an alley to assure I am not being watched. I pull up my dress, yank my shift, adjust the bum roll, and drop the urn into a bag tied on the inside of my hoop skirt. [7] The bag has two cords that run and tie around my torso just above the bosom. This keeps them from weighing down the skirt, meaning I can stash lots of things beneath my skirt.

‘Aye, try to reach for it now. Thou shall be a fopdoodle amongst fopdoodles if thee try.’

Two hours later, enough time has passed that I return to Cripplegate. I pass by some men filling holes, stamping the ground, and other such roadwork. In England, the law requires all men to perform a certain amount of roadwork, but the nobles rarely end up doing any themselves.

I open a rickety door into a small empty plot of land hidden behind fences. This place holds around forty small hovels thrown together by the unlicensed beggars, highwaymen, ruffians, and vagabonds. The fences are, of course, so people outside do not have to see the squalor within.

Moving to the back right hovel, I knock and then enter. The stiff air hits my face as I raise my hand in greeting. “Good morrow, Old Woman Eleanor.”

Sitting in a rickety chair in the corner of this hovel is Old Woman Elanor. She wears a dusty green hoopskirt, wimple, and bodice, and then a white chemise over under the bodice. Though Old Woman Elanor is not actually an old woman, she is also not a young one.

Old Woman Elanor has wrinkled skin and tired eyes but one would be mistaken if they think of her as feeble. She and I are of the same ilk, meaning we endure in a city that does not desire our existence. That being said, she is far cruder, lewder, and more indelicate than I.

Reaching to her side, she pulls a fan from the string of her bodice and begins fanning herself. “Eleanor is more than fine, Black,” she says with a huff.

“It’s Sink now.” I pause, waiting until she is about to speak, and then add, “Old Woman Eleanor.”

Her fan closes with a snap, and she casts it toward me like a spear. I duck, watching as the fan flies through a hole that is just the right size for it. ‘Ah, I see she still has not fixed the hole from last time.’

“Back to Forever Single Sink, are we?” she says with a forced smile.

I shrug. “Ah, that I am.”

“Not even going to humor me?”

“I have many names, several that are worse than, ‘Forever Single.’ Besides, if someone does not knoweth my real name, then they may call me what they wish.”

She sighs. “Then I suppose I will just use whatever name I please.”

“Aye.” I look through the hole the fan flew through a moment earlier. “The sun shall fade soon. May we conduct business?”

The reason I visit Old Woman Elanor is that she is a fence or ‘mover’ in her own words. She purchases anything regardless of its origins and then moves it to someone else who then does the same. This continues until the item finds its way to a buyer.

She pulls a second fan from the side of her bosom and fans herself. “That’s what I do, Sink. Just show me what thou hast, and then I shall say what I feel like offering depending on my mood.”

My eyebrow twitches, names are one thing, but my funds for bread and ale are another.

She smirks, seeing my stiff expression.

“Then I pray thy mood is immeasurable, Lady Elanor.”

“Ah, didst thou bring any more of that, what was it called, ‘Stones of Immortality?’”

“That was what I was trying and failed to make. What I had was just Paracelsus’s laudanum. Furthermore, nay, I do not have anymore, and I doubt I shall ever have the ingredients to concoct such a thing again. I had to substitute my own ingredients to even craft what little I did.”

“Well, that is a shame the client praised it highly. Perhaps I may supply thee with ingredients in the future?”

“Perhaps, but I am more interested in learning than concocting the same things repeatedly. Besides, I have only just begun to dabble in alchemy. My teacher stated that physicians and alchemists are beginning to work together, so I am dabbling in both.”

“Oh,” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “A shame, I was going to pay handsomely too.”

“Well, I did not know I would be paid handsomely!“ I wave my hands. “I believe we may be able to come to an agreement!”

She laughs. “Well then, we shall discuss that once I am sure I can get the ingredients. Now, tell me, what is it thou hast managed to borrow from the rich today?”

I raise my hand and my voice, saying, “Aye! Today I bring thee a silver candleholder, a book on the humors penned in Latin, and a farthingale crafted of whalebone.” [8]

“A farthingale? Should thou not keep that one for thyself? Is it not time for thou to seek a husband?”

Dropping my hand, I shake my head. “Nay and I desire for thee to stop moving the conversation in that direction.” I reach into the bag and rub Sir Mouser’s ears. “Besides, I already have a companion.”

“Meow,” Sir Mouser reacts to my touch.

“Sir Mouser, is it?” She clicks her tongue. “Are the men the problem?”

“I admit I have never laid eyes upon a man that has made me want to swoon. I believe I am simply not the type for such things.”

“But, I have seen the wanted signs, and thou art beautiful enough that if they lay with an important enough gentleman, thou could perhaps be protected or taken away from this place.”

My mouth drops.

She grins and adds, “And these people are low enough that I am certain they would not mind if thou bed some women as well. That is the problem, is it not?”

“N-nay! I can appreciate both men and women, but… that is not the problem!” I turn to leave. “The items are in the usual location; I shall retrieve the coins from there.”

“Well, if ending up like me is not a concern, then do whatever thou wish. Farewell to my longest and youngest customer. Try not to end up in Bridewell or at the gallows; my business could not bear such a loss!” [9]

Leaving the dusty squalor in a hurry, I exit the city through the quiet Bishopsgate and travel northeast through the sparse nursery gardens of Spitalfields. There I enter a tiny stone hovel veiled as an outbuilding of a burnt down building and hidden amidst a scrap of trees. The little hovel is a simple eight-by-eight room with a dirt floor, a roped bedstead, a straw-filled mattress, and a humble brick hearth opposite the bed.

I place my canvas bag on the bed and poke at the sleeping mouser within.

Sir Mouser wiggles out and takes his usual position at the end of the bed. Tossing some black charcoal into the hearth, I crouch and use an iron poker to prod the ash around the charcoal until old hidden embers surround it. I add some twigs around the charcoal and then gradually build the fire with larger and larger pieces. Rubbing my hands together, I sigh and then remove the mortar I made the lice remedy in earlier. With the urn and mortar in hand, I walk to Sir Mouser and take my place next to him.

“Shan’t be cold for much longer now, Sir Mouser.” His big eyes look up at me. Smiling back, I lift his paw, dab it in the remedy, and then press it against the outside of the urn.

“...Moa,” he says with clear irritation.

I laugh and pull his paw away, revealing the perfect outline of his little foot. “From now on, every time I am able to procure more ingredients, we shall draw upon this little vase.”

He tilts his head and blinks.

Nodding, I explain, “Over the coming months, it shall be filled with memories from our time together, and…” I sigh. “...and then someday I shall find the perfect place for it to rest.”

“Meow?”

I sigh, rinsing his paw in some water, and then dip my own finger in the mixture. “Now, let us start with two memories that come to mind: the day of my ninth birthday and the time I ran away from the convent to visit Lady Mouser and thee in the church.”

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[1]. Mortar and pestle: a set of 2 simple tools used to prepare ingredients or substances by crushing and grinding them into a fine paste or powder

[2]. Melancholia, formerly the psychological condition known as depression.

[3]. Vestry: a room or building attached to a church, used as an office and for changing into vestments.

[4]. Rossalia: is the mid-16th century name for scarlet fever. Later changed in the late-17th century.

[5]. Raptor: a robber, plunderer, abductor, ravisher.

[6]. Ear-boring: A policy where able-bodied beggars would have a hole burned through their ears; remained in force until 1593.

[7]. Shift: Historically, a chemise was a simple garment worn next to the skin to protect clothing from sweat and body oils. Women wearing underwear at the time was frowned upon.
Bum Roll: A roll of padding tied around the hip line to hold a woman's skirt out from the body in the late 16th and early 17th centuries.

[8]. Farthingale: a hooped petticoat or circular pad of fabric around the hips, formerly worn under women's skirts to extend and shape them. The more expensive 'bum roll.'

[9]. Bridewell: Palace for housing of homeless children and for the punishment of "disorderly women".