September 13th 1650
To my dearest Rose,
Today, the weather is like always- quite bleak and chilly. My cell is as dank and dark as ever, with the light coming in through the small window becoming less and less evident. It’s getting harder to keep on writing these letters to you, but I am so glad that I was able to sneak this paper in here without being caught. I hope that one day these will find their way into your hands.
This afternoon, it is my time to be tossed into the holy water. I have never swum before. Floating or sinking, I will either be killed or just drown. Truthfully, I’m afraid to say that I’m not bothered by the thought of death anymore. Hell, over the past few weeks I’ve gone through what no one so innocent should ever have to experience. The horrendous sensation of every imperfection on my flesh being repeatedly prodded and stabbed still haunts me whenever I hear a distant scream. From the very moment those crude monsters broke down the door of our small, lonely shack, my animosity for every dedicated Puritan out there has never died down. Oh, how can they attribute such a terrible accusation on an old, fragile widow because of their own fearfulness and hysteria? What have I done to be treated so terribly by god; by the sovereign?
Nonetheless, please don’t take this as a threat to stop treating people as any decent person would. A good society is built on the values that the bible has passed on to us, and sadly, the king is not the best demonstrator of them. I will not, in any situation, regret using my accumulated knowledge of herbal medicine to help those sickly people that were in so much pain. I hope that you grow up to share the same opinion. Please do believe me when I tell you that I have nothing to do with the devil, and neither do any of those tortured women set out to entertain the blood-thirsty public.
Your Mother, Margaret