The Ten Best Witch Historical Fiction Novels – by Anna Mazzola

Witches are, in the perhaps unfortunate words of Grazia magazine, ‘hot right now’, both on screen and in books. Stacey Halls’ The Familiars is spending its third week in The Times bestselling fiction list, Laura Bates’ YA debut, The Burning, is making waves, and A Discovery of Witches is now an international bestseller and a TV series.

Several other recent novels feature witchcraft including Caroline Lea’s superb The Glass Girl (set against the backdrop of the 17th-century Icelandic witch trials) and E.C. Fremantle’s brilliant thriller The Poison Bed. “‘Witch,” says one of her characters. “That’s what happens to women who don’t do as they’re told.”  Each novel uses witchcraft to highlight the misogyny and fear of women’s sexuality that remain relevant today, together with the terrible power of false accusations. As Willow Winsham says in her fascinating book Accused: British Witches Throughout History, ‘if anyone could be a witch, then literally everyone was suspect.’

A coven of other witch books are due out in the coming months including Katie Lowe’s haunting debut, The Furies, Carla by Laura Legge, Her Kind by Niamh Boyce, Remember Tomorrow by Amanda Saint and Witchery by Juliet Diaz, which will explain ‘how to connect with the power of your inner witch’. There is, it seems, something potent in the air.

Here, in no particular order, I list ten of my favourite witch-based historical novels, followed by several others that have been strongly recommended.

1. Corrag, Susan Fletcher 

It is 1692 and Corrag, a wild young girl from the mountains of Scotland, has been condemned to death for her role in the Glencoe Masscare, accused of witchcraft and murder. In her filthy cell she is visited by Charles Leslie, a young Irishman with his own motives for questioning her.

As Corrag begins to tell her story, an unlikely friendship develops between them that will change both their lives. Compelling, atmospheric and exquisitely written.

2. The Witchfinder's Sister, Beth Underdown

Beth Underdown’s clever debut is a historical thriller based on the life of the 1640’s witchfinder Matthew Hopkins. Alice, Matthew’s fictional sister, is forced to return to her childhood town of Manningtree where she becomes entangled in her brother’s crazed pursuit of what he believes to be justice. Underdown brilliantly weaves fact with fiction to illustrate the disturbing paranoia and obsession behind the Essex witch hunts.

3. The King's Witch, Tracy Borman 

Historian Tracy Borman’s debut novel tells the fascinating story of Frances Gorges, a healer who is dragged to the court of James I, a man who has already condemned many for treason and witchcraft. There she becomes enmeshed in a world of intrigue and betrayal - and at great risk from the twisted machinations of Lord Cecil, the King's first minister.

The follow-up, The Devil’s Slave, is out June.

4. The Vanishing Witch, Karen Maitland

In Lincoln during the reign of Richard II, Caitlin, a dark-haired widow arrives in John of Gaunt's city with her two beautiful children. At first, Caitlin is considered a godsend, helping merchant Robert of Bassingham care for his sick wife. But when Robert's wife, and then others, die seemingly unnatural deaths, the accusations of witchcraft commence. Masterful storytelling.

5. The Familiars – Stacey Halls

17-year-old Fleetwood Shuttleworth, desperate to survive her latest pregnancy, crosses paths with Alice Gray, a mysterious young woman who agrees to become her midwife. When Alice is accused as part of the Lancashire witch trials, Fleetwood takes huge risks to try to save her – and her own unborn baby. But is Alice all that she seems?

Fast-faced, twisty and immense fun.

6. The Witch of Blackbird Pond – Elizabeth George Speare 

In 1687 orphan Kit Tyler arrives as a stranger in colonial Connecticut and feels entirely out of place. When she forms a friendship with a Quaker woman called Hannah Tupper, believed by the colonists to be a witch, Kit is forced to choose between love and a sense of duty. Old, but gold.

7. Circe, Madeline Miller 

In this epic and magnificently written novel, Miller retells the story of the mythological witch Circe. Increasingly isolated by her immortal family, Circe turns to humans for friendship, leading her to discover a power forbidden to the gods: witchcraft.

We follow Circe from the halls of Helios to exile on the remote island of Aiaia, where she learns to harness her power.

8. Witch Child, Celia Rees

In 1659, after 14-year-old Mary sees her healer grandmother hanged for witchcraft, she escapes to Massachusetts Bay Colony with the help of an unknown woman. Through Mary's journal, we learn of how, though Mary hopes to make a new life among the pilgrims, she, like her grandmother, quickly finds herself the victim of ignorance and prejudice, and once more she faces important choices to ensure her survival. A powerful read for all ages.

9. The Glass Girl, Caroline Lea

The Glass Girl is an atmospheric and beautifully written debut set against the backdrop of the 17th-century Icelandic witch trials and sagas. Rósa is sent to join her new husband in the remote village of Stykkishólmur, where the villagers are deeply wary of outsiders.

As she grows increasingly isolated, Rósa's suspicions grow. Her husband buried his first wife alone in the dead of night. Is her own life in danger?

10. The Poison Bed, E.C. Fremantle

In 1615 Lady Frances Carr, considered by many to be a witch, is accused of murder and imprisoned, together with her newborn baby and a wet-nurse. As Frances tells the story of her life with her first husband and manipulative uncle, and of a society full of superstition and lies, a picture begins to form. But her husband Robert Carr has his own story. Which one will save its teller? A twisty, perfectly paced thriller.

Witchy 'To be Read' Pile 

A host of other witch and witchcraft-related books have been recommended to me and I set out here a few of those which are going on my towering ‘to be read’ pile:

Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks. In 1666 villagers turn to sorcery, herb lore, and witch-hunting.

The Daylight Gate, in which Jeanette Winterson creates another view of the Pendle Witch Trials.

Lolly Willowes, Sylvia Townsend-Warner’s first novel about a young woman who believes she has sold her soul to the devil in return for freedom from her tiresome family (fair enough).

Widdershins by Helen Steadman, based on events from the Newcastle Witch Trials of 1650.

The Magpie Tree by Katherine Stansfield, exploring the relationship between witchcraft and foreigners in 1840s Cornwall.

Witches Trinity by Erika Mailman, set in Germany in 1507 when a visiting friar suggests that witchcraft is to blame for the failing crops and famine.

The Witches of Eileanan by Kate Forsyth, a historical fantasy trilogy in which the young Isabeau leads a horde of persecuted witches.

The Witches of New York by Ami McKay, a mystery set in Manhattan in 1880.

The Heretic's Daughter by Kathleen Kent, set in Salem in 1692.

The Boy Who Drew The Future, by Rhian Ivory. Set in present day and 1863, when the last witch in the UK was swum in Sible Hedingham, Essex. You can read more about it here.


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Anna Mazzola is a writer of historical crime and Gothic fiction. Her second novel, The Story Keeper, is a tale of superstition, dark folklore and missing girls on the Isle of Skye.

https://annamazzola.com
https://twitter.com/Anna_Mazz

Cabinet of Curiosities by Charlotte Wightwick: Manuscripts, Magical and Remarkable

As its Halloween, it is almost obligatory that I should write about things that go bump in the night. This year, I’ve been enjoying my spooky fix via Sky’s Discovery of Witches – a TV series featuring witches, vampires and demons, based on the All Souls trilogy of books by Deborah Harkness. I first read – and greatly enjoyed - the books some years ago, and have to admit to rather mixed feelings about the TV series. The actors are generally great (although personally I’m not sure about all the casting choices!) and the cinematography and locations are beautiful. But, as is inevitable with any adaptation, they’ve had to leave things out, or at least not give them the prominence they receive in the novels.

In Harkness’ books, the Twilight-style romance is leavened with a real passion for history. The protagonist Diana has a non-magical career an academic historian, and her love for the subject – or rather, that of Harkness (herself a professional historian before she turned to novel-writing) really shines through. In particular, significant time and space within the novels is devoted to loving, meticulous descriptions of the illuminated manuscripts Diana studies (and which cause her such supernatural trouble – her discovery of a bewitched book kicks off the plot).

The only other place where I’ve read such bewitching (excuse the pun) yet accurate descriptions of medieval manuscripts is in Christopher de Hamel’s wonderful Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts (if you’ve not yet read it, it is worth getting your hands on the hardback version for the beauty and quality of the reproductions.) Taking one manuscript per century between the C6th and C16th, de Hamel walks his readers through what it is like to see, feel, touch and smell the reality of these rare and precious objects, as well as explaining the historical and social conditions in which they were created. It is accessible, scholarly and passionate; beautiful and illuminating all at once, as perfect and jewelled as the manuscripts he describes. 

So, my item for the Cabinet of Curiosities this month? Definitely a medieval manuscript. But I’m torn. My personal favourite from de Hamel’s book is the fourteenth century Hours of Jeanne de Navarre, with its stunning and intricate gothic illuminations. But I do wonder if I might be allowed Diana’s fictional, magical Book of Life, explaining through alchemical imagery the origins and destinies of vampires, witches, demons and humans?

Well, it is Halloween, when the veil between the mundane and the magical is supposedly at its thinnest, so maybe, just maybe…

'Accused of witchcraft and murder in 1518 and 2018' by Karen Maitland

New Mexico, 1920.

'Melita, the day after she was rescued

from hanging as a witch.'

Photo: James George Wharton

I was horrified, but sadly not surprised, to read of the terrible ordeal of a mother and daughter in Jharkhand State, India who, in February 2018, were dragged from their house by relatives, had their heads shaved and were paraded naked around the village, accused of having caused the death of a family member by witchcraft. Of the many cruelties perpetrated upon these two women, one that stuck out for me was the shaving of their heads. Why do some people fear women’s hair so much that they either demand to cover it up or cut it off?

From ancient times, in many cultures, cunning women and ‘witches’ were thought to be able to double the potency of any spell, curse or cure by unbinding their hair. Witches were believed to be able to whip up a storm that could sink ships simply by shaking their hair lose. To bind or cut a woman’s hair was thought to bind or sever her power, like weakening the mighty Samson by shearing his locks.

At the height of the witchcraft trails in England and Europe, Inquisitors were advised to shave the head and bodies of any women or man accused of witchcraft before integrating them. Jordanes de Bergamo in 1470 refers to this practise, and aside from helping to break their prisoners’ spirits, it was advocated for three reasons –

1) The ‘witch’ might conceal amulets or charms in his or her hair to render them immune to the pain of torture.

2) The devil himself might hide in their hair and instruct the accused how to answer in order to deceive the interrogators. This belief also extended to those deemed to be possessed. Their heads were not shaved, but they were made to wear wigs. When fits or ravings took hold of them, their wig would be snatched off and pushed into a flask in the hope that the demon had been pulled off with the wig and was now sealed in the bottle, rather like catching a wasp or spider in a pinch of paper.

'Examination of a Witch' by Thompkins H. Matteson, 1853
Collection of Peasbody Essex Museum

3) But in England the reason mostly commonly given to justify shaving the head and body was so that the cunningly concealed devil’s marks, such as moles or birthmarks, would be exposed.

Today is not only International Women’s Day, but also the 500-year anniversary of the birth of another woman who also found herself accused of witchcraft, Sidonie of Saxony, Princess of Calenberg-Göttingen, Duchess of Brunswick-Lüneburg, who was born 8th March 1518.

In 1545, a marriage was arranged for her to Duke Erich II of Brunswick-Lüneburg (1528–1584), a man ten years younger. Although the couple seemed to get on well at first, perhaps Sidonie should have guessed he was unlikely to remain faithful for long, since he had broken off his engagement to Agnes of Hesse to marry her.

Sidonie, from a painting by Lucas Cranach, 1550

Erich’s mother, the Duchy’s regent, had converted the family to Lutheranism, but when Erich began to rule the Duchy, two years after his marriage, he reconverted to Catholicism. Much to his annoyance, Sidonie maintained her Lutheran faith. The marriage soon began to buckle under the weight of financial pressures and childlessness, and Sidonie started to believe her husband was trying murder her. In 1555, a merchant told her brother Augustus that Erich had ordered poison from him to do away with her.

Erich did not bother to conceal the fact that he had installed a very young mistress at Calenberg Castle where he was now living. Sidonie had previously refused to allow ‘the whore’ into their home and in turn Erich banned the duchess from the castle. But in 1563, the duke barely escaped with his life when a fire broke out under his bed, and he accused his wife of trying to kill him.

From 1564, Sidonie was more or less kept prisoner in her own home. Then in that same year, Erich became extremely ill. His hair and nails fell out and his body swelled. A physician, Dr Cornelius Mertens, swore before witnesses that the duke had been poisoned.

Erich, circa 1573. Artist unknown

As soon as he recovered sufficiently, Erich had four acquaintances of his wife arrested for witchcraft and attempted murder. Under torture, three confessed to planting some kind of explosive device under his bed, and then afterwards, with a fourth woman, Godela Kuckes, they swore they had brewed a harmful substance intended to kill the duke. Godela Kuckes confessed without being tortured, but a few days later, having been kept in solitary confinement, she was found dead by the prison guards with a broken neck. It was rumoured she’d been killed by the devil himself, though whether that devil was Erich or one of his henchmen we will probably never know.

The other three conspirators were burned at the stake as witches. But the deaths did not end there, for Erich had a further 37 people who he claimed to be involved executed, some by burning. On 30th March 1572, Duke Erich assembled nobles and authorities from Hannover and Hameln and publicly accused his wife of witchcraft and of attempting to murder him. Given what had already happened to the 41-other accused, Sidonie was justifiably terrified.

The duchess managed to get away and travelled to Vienna to beg Emperor Maximilian II for help. Maximilian ordered that an investigation should be carried out and the evidence heard at the imperial court. All witnesses recanted their testimony against Sidonie and she was eventually declared innocent of all charges. Elector Augustus gave her the monastery of the Poor Clare’s at Weissenfels and she lived there until she died on 4th January 1575, aged 56. At her request, she was buried in Freiberg Cathedral.

On this International Women’s Day, it is wonderful to celebrate the achievement of women, but perhaps reflect that for some, like those two women in India, attitudes have not changed much in 500 years. World wide we still have a long way to go.

'WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN' by Karen Maitland

When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain? (Shakespeare's Macbeth)

Often when you visit a place for one reason, you stumble on something far more interesting. Recently I decided to visit Widecombe-in-the-Moor, in Devon, because like most people I’d grown up with the famous ghost song about Widecombe fair. You know the one -

Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare.
All along, down along, out along lea.
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Widecombe Church being hit by a lightning ball

But on entering the beautiful St Pancras Church in the village, I became intrigued by the old wooden boards on
the wall telling of freak accident which happened there in the 17th century. The church is a large one for such a small and remote village and this is because the parish covered a huge area, with people having to travel many miles across the moors from isolated farms to attend services. So, services were often held in the afternoon and one afternoon in 1638, without warning, lightning struck the church, damaging the tower and a lightning ball sped through the congregation killing four people and injuring around 52 others.

The boards in the church tell a terrifying story. One man was hurled against a pillar so violently, his head was smashed and his whole brain fell out into the pew behind him. Coins were welded together in one person’s pocket from the heat, but their owner was left unharmed, while other people received horrific burns. It must have seemed like the Day of Judgement or, as many claimed, the work of the devil. The villagers were left in a panic – should they stay in the church or flee outside into the storm where worse might be waiting? Little wonder that those who wrote the account took the opportunity to remind parishioners that you never knew when death might strike.

According to legend, supernatural thunderbolts were not unknown in those parts. Villagers from outlying homes had to carry the dead many miles over the coffin-roads for burial at Widecombe. On the way they were in the habit of resting the coffins on broad flat rocks known as coffin stones. On one occasion a funeral party, on its way to Widecombe, rested the coffin on one such stone on Dartmeet Hill, but the deceased had apparently been so wicked in life a thunderbolt struck the coffin splitting the stone beneath in two and the broken stone can still be seen today.

An early account of the disaster at
 Bongay showing black dog or shuck

Probably because they were the tallest structures, churches seemed to particularly prone to these lightning balls. At Bongay, Suffolk parishioners were in church one morning in 1577, when a lightning ball ran the length of the church passing between people and killing some instantly. One man who survived was hit in the neck and was described afterwards as being ‘all drawn up together and shrunk up like a piece of old leather scorched in a fire.’ Some in Bongay said the fireball took the form of a demonic black dog or black shuck, an occurrence which was ascribed to the devil.

St John the Baptist Church at Danbury Hill, Essex, was badly damaged by lightening in 1402, when the devil entered in the church in the form a grey friar who apparently terrified the parishioners by lewdly exposing himself to them. While in 1613, the lightning ball which tore through the church in Great Chart, Kent was said to be like great fiery bull. It killed a miller and burst out through a wall. Again this was said to be the devil’s work.

Although in many religions and cultures, storms and lightening were seen as the retribution of the gods, strangely the British more frequently ascribed them to the Devil or his servants – the witches. Perhaps this is because either the horned image of the devil was a demonised form of the pre-Christian gods or because churches were so frequently the target of the strikes.

1555 a church being struck by lightning

In 1489, Molitor wrote – ‘tempests, hails and poisoned air are not the work of some malicious women, but purely the movements of nature or the toleration of divine will that allows the Devil to afflict us.’ But by the sixteenth and seventh centuries, when the witch hunts were in full spate, any destructive storm was blamed on Satan or more frequently on witches.

These unfortunate women, and occasional man such as the 70 year old Reverend John Lowes tortured by the witchfinder,Matthew Hopkins, were frequently charged with raising storms in order to destroy ships at sea by shaking out their hair or loosening knots they had tied in string. The witches of North Berwick were accused of christening a cat with devilish rites and flinging it into the sea bound to parts of a dead man, with the intention of raising a storm in order to sink the ship on which James VI was returning from Denmark. The small fact that there was no storm, only an annoying ‘contrary wind’ did not stop them being charged.

1555 A witch raising a storm to sink a boat

But kings themselves were not above making use of these powers. In 1563, Eric XIV, King of Sweden is said to have employed four witches in the army he raised against the Danes. He recruited them because they claimed to be able to raise a storm by beating water in a pond with an iron rod until it rose into a rain cloud, which could then be controlled to produce lightning, rain, or hail as desired.

But there is also an ancient belief in the ‘royal storm’, a sudden and violent storm that occurs at the death of a great king or leader, when the heavens themselves grieve his passing. Ironically there was such a ‘royal storm’ when Oliver Cromwell died, but royalists claimed that was caused by the devil triumphantly claiming his own.

Painted 1470. House protected by
an oversized houseleek

Incidentally, should you wish to protect your house from a lightning strike, you might want to follow medieval advice and grow a houseleek on the roof.

Protection Against Witches - Celia Rees

I was visiting an old house outside Machynlleth, in North Wales, when I noticed a pair of old shoes in the hearth. The guide said that they had been found while work was being done on the fire place. Explanations as to how they had got there, or why, were vague. They had been 'forgotten'; they were abandoned because they were 'worn out'; just 'left' for no apparent reason; they'd belonged to a child who had out grown them. The shoes were worn but not unwearable. Shoes were not lightly discarded. My grandfather had a last upon which he would repair the family's shoes. The heels on the shoes were uneven. One was more worn than the other and one was built up. They were small, but not a child's shoe. They probably belonged to a small woman with one leg shorter than the other, or perhaps a deformed foot. She would have walked with a distinctive gait, favouring one leg more than the other. Such shoes are rare survivals. They were worn until they fell apart. So, why were these here? I didn't believe for a minute that they had been left, forgotten or abandoned. They had been placed in the hearth deliberately. They were an example of an apotropaic object. Apotropaic meaning having or reputed to have the power of averting evil influence or ill luck (OED); from the Greek ἀποτρόπαιος averting evil (ἀποτρέπειν to turn away, avert). These kinds of objects are usually found in old houses, above or near doorways, chimneys, or in the roof space. Shoes are common. Perhaps they belonged to someone who spent a lot of time by the hearth, tending the fire, doing the cooking, looking after the house. Perhaps she could not move far, anyway, because of her lack of mobility. Perhaps the idea was that, in death, that person would continue to protect. Seeing something like this brings alive one of the least accessible areas of history, that of folk belief, magic and, in this case, the power of witchcraft.

In the past, such belief was not just common, it was literally part of people's lives. Rather more macabre than a pair of old shoes, mummified cats were sometimes built into the fabric of buildings: above the hearth, in the chimney, between the walls. They didn't get there by accident. They were deliberately placed at entrance and exit points, or in the body of the house, put there to protect the occupants, to ward off evil, to keep the witches away. 

The witch bottle is another of the apotropaic objects sometimes found in old houses. The one seen here is a 16th or 17th century Bellarmine or Bartmann jug, so-called for the bearded face seen on the stoneware vessel. An example found in the bed of Westminster Abbey's millstream during excavations in 1904 was described its collector, Edward Prioleau Warren as:

“stoppered down with a cork; upon opening it, and washing out the contents, there was found within it…(i) a small piece of cloth or serge, formerly red, cut carefully and neatly into a heart shape, and stuck full of brass round-headed pins, each pin bent; and (ii) a small quantity of hair, ostensibly human, and small finger nail parings. I think there can be little doubt as to the nature of this deposit inside a corked jug…It is a malevolent charm, the intended victim of which was a woman, and it is perhaps permissible to surmise that the depositor and evil-wisher was of the same sex. Perhaps a maidservant who had a grudge against her mistress, and who could easily obtain the clippings and prunings of her toilet...”

His interpretation was one of malevolence, but it is just as likely to have been a counter-charm placed to ward off witchcraft. It is possible that the contents were collected from the witch him or herself, so that the bottle actually contained the witch, such as the one found in Penelope Lively's The Ghost of Thomas Kempe, or the bottle collected by Margaret Murray and now in the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford. 

This bottle is described as a "Small glass flask of bilobed shape, silvered over the inside and stoppered. This is reputed to contain a witch, and the late owner, an old lady living in a village near HOVE, SUSSEX, remarked, “they do say there be a witch in it, and if you let un out there’ll be a peck o’trouble."

As, indeed, happens in The Ghost of Thomas Kempe. I  don't know if Penelope Lively had this bottle in mind when she wrote the book, but I find these kinds of objects both fascinating and evocative. They suggest a deep and abiding fear of and belief in witches. They are found in all kinds of buildings, from the grandest houses, to simple dwellings which would indicate that such belief was ubiquitous. From the highest to the lowest, no-one was exempt.

Bad Eggs by Karen Maitland

I was in Diss in Norfolk recently and came across a monument with this intriguing inscription.

‘Matilda, Daughter of Robert Fitzwalter, The Valiant, Lord of the manor of Diss rejected the advances of King John. The angry king sent a messenger with a poisoned potched-egg whereof she died.’

Digging around a little more I found an essay written about Diss in 1805, quoting an older account, which makes the whole business appear even more dastardly.

 

‘About the year 1213, there arose a great discord between King John and his Barons, because of Matilda, surnamed the Fair, daughter of Robert Fitz-Walter, whom the King unlawfully loved, but could not obtain her nor her father's consent thereunto; Whereupon (and for divers other like causes) ensued war throughout the whole realm; the King banished the said Fitz-Walter, among others, and caused his castle called Baynard, and other his houses, to be spoiled, which being done, he sent a messenger unto Matilda the Fair, about his old suit in love, and because she would not agree to his wicked motion, the messenger poisoned a boiled or potched egg, against she was hungry, and gave it unto her, where of she died in 1213.’

 Of course, the question is, why did Matilda eat the egg knowing it had been delivered by the king’s messenger? Was the King in the habit of sending her boiled eggs in case she felt peckish? Was there a traitor in the household who gave her the egg without telling her its source? Or did she deliberately eat the egg as an act of suicide to spare her father any further trouble? 

The story reminded me of reminded of something I learned about when was working in Nigeria. In the 14th Century in Yoruba Empire, the Alaafin or king could not be removed by voting him out so, once a year at the festival of Orun the religious leader would practise divination to determine if the Alaafin was still in favour. If the results were negative, the Alaafin would be presented with an empty parrot’s egg, with the words ‘the gods reject you, the people reject you, the earth rejects you,’ a sign that he and all his council must commit suicide.

Of course, eggs have longed linked to death as well as life. In Britain sailors would never say the name on board ship and referred to them as ‘roundabouts’, and children were warned that when they’d finished eating a boiled egg, they must crush the eggshell or a witch could use it to row out to sea and sink a ship. It was considered unlucky to bring an egg in or out of a house after sunset and to dream of an egg was a warning someone in the house would die.

In 1583, in Wells-next-the-sea in Norfolk, fourteen men were drowned ‘by the detestable working of an execrable wtiche of Kings Lynn, whose name was Mother Gabley.’ She apparent caused a ship to sink by boiling eggs in a pail and mashing them. And as late as 1904, a mother accused a neighbour in the Scarborough Court of causing the death of her baby by bewitching the child by boiling and mashing eggs.

 Perhaps just the sight of this egg was enough frighten poor Matilda to death. Or maybe the King John was innocent, after all, and she just ate a bad egg!