fourteenth century, a time when the black death (bubonic plague) swept through Europe wiping out whole communities. As the cause was unknown, it was concluded that Devil worshippers and heretics were conspiring to destroy Christendom.
Then came the period known now as the ‘Burning Time’. A mass hysteria that swept through Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It is claimed that thousands of individuals were tried and condemned to death, mostly by being burned alive after being tortured to extract a confession. But this may have been only the tip of the iceberg, as not all executions were recorded or even legally sanctioned. Sometimes whole villages were wiped out in one purge.
Witch-hunt hysteria continued among those who left Europe for the new colonies; reference the witch trials of Salem in 1692.
The last wave of official executions occurred in Europe in the early eighteenth century, but it had largely dissipated by the 1740s. The last legal execution of a witch occurred in 1782 in Glarus, Switzerland—not far from where the witch craze had begun in 1428. The last known witch burning in Europe took place in Poland in 1793, but it must have been an illegal act as witch trials were abolished in that country in 1782. However, that by no means put an end to the persecutions. Attacks by mobs or vigilantes continued into the nineteenth century in Western Europe.
The twentieth and twenty-first—yes,
twenty-first
—centuries saw outbreaks of killings in places such as India, Mexico and Croatia.
I had no idea of the extent of the problem. In fact I believed it to be something well buried in history.
It seems the Burning Times are far from over.
Seven
Afternoon of Monday, 27 November
New Moon
T HE SKY IS GROWING DARK earlier each day, the year fading with the light as November draws to a close. Sally is eager to pull the curtains against the frosting air as the afternoons are eroded by encroaching twilight. Trees stand bleak, their branches stripped clean by the autumn blast. Always a cold wind this time of year, the locals tell her, blows straight across from Siberia, nothing in the way to stop it. She believes they’re kidding her.
It has been three weeks since Sally took possession of the cottage. It’s her domain now, has become a part of her; it lives inside her skin as she lives within its walls. The three weeks have slipped by almost unnoticed, yet she feels as if she has been here forever. She’s feeling great, sleeping longer, resting more deeply. It may have something to do with those Bach drops Abbie gave her. Or perhaps it’s the country air. She doesn’t always think about Jonathan, not the way she thought she would. And when he does appear at the edge of her mind, she turns away from him. There are too many things to do with Jonathan that she doesn’t want to remember.
A few business contacts, via George, have given her enough work to get started, and if her clients are happy the word will soon be passed around. A game of darts down at the Green Man, a friendly gossip and a cream cake in Ruth’s teashop, a plea for help to run a stall at the Christmas bazaar: the village has accepted her. Strangers smile and say hello as they pass in the street. Especially the women. She has found the library and arms herself with a pile of fiction against the long winter nights. And no, she’s not bored, although she’s not sure where all the time goes. Some of it is spent in wool-gathering, no doubt,or talking to Cat as they take their long walks through the woods. The little pathway through the copse is wearing deeper as both she and Abbie tread the fallen leaves. Sally knocks only briefly at Abbie’s door nowadays, and doesn’t wait to be asked before entering. In turn, Abbie shouts ‘hello’ from outside Sally’s kitchen as she struggles free of her muddy boots.
And the little spring and the women who creep in, sometimes in the dead of night, to steal its water? If they come and go, she
Then came the period known now as the ‘Burning Time’. A mass hysteria that swept through Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It is claimed that thousands of individuals were tried and condemned to death, mostly by being burned alive after being tortured to extract a confession. But this may have been only the tip of the iceberg, as not all executions were recorded or even legally sanctioned. Sometimes whole villages were wiped out in one purge.
Witch-hunt hysteria continued among those who left Europe for the new colonies; reference the witch trials of Salem in 1692.
The last wave of official executions occurred in Europe in the early eighteenth century, but it had largely dissipated by the 1740s. The last legal execution of a witch occurred in 1782 in Glarus, Switzerland—not far from where the witch craze had begun in 1428. The last known witch burning in Europe took place in Poland in 1793, but it must have been an illegal act as witch trials were abolished in that country in 1782. However, that by no means put an end to the persecutions. Attacks by mobs or vigilantes continued into the nineteenth century in Western Europe.
The twentieth and twenty-first—yes,
twenty-first
—centuries saw outbreaks of killings in places such as India, Mexico and Croatia.
I had no idea of the extent of the problem. In fact I believed it to be something well buried in history.
It seems the Burning Times are far from over.
Seven
Afternoon of Monday, 27 November
New Moon
T HE SKY IS GROWING DARK earlier each day, the year fading with the light as November draws to a close. Sally is eager to pull the curtains against the frosting air as the afternoons are eroded by encroaching twilight. Trees stand bleak, their branches stripped clean by the autumn blast. Always a cold wind this time of year, the locals tell her, blows straight across from Siberia, nothing in the way to stop it. She believes they’re kidding her.
It has been three weeks since Sally took possession of the cottage. It’s her domain now, has become a part of her; it lives inside her skin as she lives within its walls. The three weeks have slipped by almost unnoticed, yet she feels as if she has been here forever. She’s feeling great, sleeping longer, resting more deeply. It may have something to do with those Bach drops Abbie gave her. Or perhaps it’s the country air. She doesn’t always think about Jonathan, not the way she thought she would. And when he does appear at the edge of her mind, she turns away from him. There are too many things to do with Jonathan that she doesn’t want to remember.
A few business contacts, via George, have given her enough work to get started, and if her clients are happy the word will soon be passed around. A game of darts down at the Green Man, a friendly gossip and a cream cake in Ruth’s teashop, a plea for help to run a stall at the Christmas bazaar: the village has accepted her. Strangers smile and say hello as they pass in the street. Especially the women. She has found the library and arms herself with a pile of fiction against the long winter nights. And no, she’s not bored, although she’s not sure where all the time goes. Some of it is spent in wool-gathering, no doubt,or talking to Cat as they take their long walks through the woods. The little pathway through the copse is wearing deeper as both she and Abbie tread the fallen leaves. Sally knocks only briefly at Abbie’s door nowadays, and doesn’t wait to be asked before entering. In turn, Abbie shouts ‘hello’ from outside Sally’s kitchen as she struggles free of her muddy boots.
And the little spring and the women who creep in, sometimes in the dead of night, to steal its water? If they come and go, she
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