Witch Trial

Based on a true story

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

Mary Gater Bradbury had known he would come for her. Had known it because Ann Sussex hated her with every fiber of her being. Because Ann had wanted Thomas for herself, and he had chosen Mary. Had married her. And there was nothing more dangerous in 1635 than a woman scorned.

The rumors had started weeks before the witch hunter arrived, though few voices spread them. Mary was popular in Hillmorton. Ann, with her sour disposition and sharp tongue, was not. It didn’t matter. The rumors reached the ears of the hunter. And now, here he stood, his guards at his side holding the manacles with which they would bind her.

“Stand down,” Thomas growled, putting every ounce of his Captain’s steel into the words. “My wife is no witch, but the victim of a jealous, selfish woman.”

“Stand aside, Captain,” the witch hunter said, no hint of compassion in his graveled voice. “Her guilt or innocence will be decided at trial.”

Mary took her husband’s hands, her eyes meeting his. “Do not fight them, Thomas. Do not throw your life away. It will not save me.”

She turned back to the men before her, looking straight at the witch hunter. Though only twenty, she held her back straight, refusing to quake before him. “I am innocent sir. I submit to trial.” She held out her hands and swallowed her terror as the manacles closed over her wrists.

Three days she awaited trial. Three days in which her husband was allowed to visit only once. He whispered to her that this witch hunter never found anyone innocent. All died at his word. Mary comforted him, hiding her own despair, her own certain knowledge that they would never have the life they had planned together. That the child she believed grew in her even now would never be born. She wept after he left, unable to keep up her façade of strength.

Yet when the trial began, she again stood strong, unwilling to break. Knowing that if she did, Thomas would take up arms and would die as well. She couldn’t bear that thought, not even to save her own life.

Though no evidence was presented against her, not even Ann’s testimony as Mary’s accuser, realizing what she had done, recanted, the witch hunter found Mary guilty and sentenced her to hang immediately, the gallows already built and waiting. Her legs gave out beneath her, fear overtaking her despite her resolution to remain strong.

As her guards reached for her, taking rough hold of her arms, a voice rang out. “Hold.”

Startled, Mary, shaking uncontrollably now, watched Hillmorton’s mayor approach the witch hunter, grasping a large stack of papers.

“This travesty of justice must not continue,” Mayor Harding said. “I hold more than a hundred letters written by the good people of Hillmorton, myself included. These attest that Mary Bradbury is no witch. You will not execute her.”

Mary’s legs would have given out beneath her again had her guards not held her firm. Could this be reprieve? Would she live? But the witch hunter merely turned shrewd eyes on the mayor and the townspeople now intently watching him.

“I will review your letters and think on this. We will delay the execution until tomorrow. Return the witch to her cell.”

Not a reprieve, then. Not a true one. Just a show before her execution tomorrow. Mary could not hold back her sobs as once again her guards dragged her away. All she could see was Thomas, surrounded by the friends who had stood up for her, looking devastated, as though he would weep as well.

That night, as Mary lay awake, unable to set aside the roiling fear that ate her up from inside, a commotion drew her attention. She rose from the hay on which she lay and stood on her toes to look through the tiny, barred window of her cell.

Torches burned in a hundred hands as shouts rose for the witch hunter to come out to face the crowd. Mary’s lone guard, eyes wide, glanced at her once and ran to join his fellows in defence of their master.

No sooner had he disappeared, than Thomas slipped through the door. Somehow, he bore the key to her cell. He opened it and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest.

“What is happening, Thomas?” Mary asked, unable to process the obvious intent of the townspeople and her husband.

Thomas pulled away and took her hand. “We must flee, now. I will explain when we are safe.” Pulling her with him, he whispered, “Run.”

Mary ran beside her husband. Ran for her life, as the witch hunter and guards confronted the mayor and the townspeople. Tears of gratitude at their love, their loyalty, poured from her eyes. Thomas hoisted her up onto Flicker, her own mare, then leapt onto Fireheart’s saddle and they raced away into the night.

They didn’t speak until both riders and horses were safe aboard a ship, sailing for America.

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While “Witch Trial” doesn’t have a “Halloween” vibe, it’s a story about a real Salem witch, who just happens to have been related to me. I decided I wanted to publish it as close to Halloween as possible.

This story came about due to my brother-in-law Kevin’s research into our family history. Thank you, Kevin, for the true story of Mary Gater Perkins, which I have embellished to create this fictionalized account of her arrest, trial, and escape.

I am a direct descendant of Mary (11 generations). She was apparently tried as a witch in Salem but rescued and spirited away to another colony by her husband, Captain Thomas Bradbury, after her execution was delayed by the presentation of more than 100 letters written by neighbors in her defense. (My maternal grandmother was a Bradbury.)

I placed her trial in Hillmorton, Warwickshire, England, where she was born on September 3, 1615. Mary lived to be eighty-five, dying on December 20, 1700, in Salisbury, Essex County, Province of Massachusetts Bay, British Colonial America. She was the niece of an Archbishop of Canterbury (though I don’t know which one) and had 11 children during her long life.