‘It’s insanity at its finest,’ Eliza thought, ‘There’s no reasoning’.
Eliza flinched as the clinking of the locks echoed throughout the room. She wiped down her skirt and stood with a steady smile, preparing herself for anything, even the end.
The croaky door opened, and a castle guard stepped into view. He looked different than the guard that brought her there.
This new knight was taller and gave an intimidating front. He looked older than the original, with a dark-brown beard, tanned skin, and an unreadable expression.
“Morning, please follow me.” He announced, and Eliza’s mouth stumbled over words.
The new guard’s voice was strong, but she instantly felt safer in his presence. His voice had a foreign accent from somewhere she did not recognise, and she wondered if he was French.
‘No, French people don’t sound that way,’ Eliza thought, ‘They all speak with ‘vees’ and ‘vats’ and ‘Oui, je suis française, stupid fille.’.
He gestured for her to follow him outside, and obediently she did. A younger guard stood outside the dungeon, impatiently tapping his foot.
“Thomas, there’s no need for that.” The older guard warned, narrowing his eyes at the young man.
Thomas scoffed, folding his arms. The other knight took hold of her wrists, fastening the rope tying them together.
Eliza stared over the two knights, noting them both. Thomas was younger, with ruffled blonde hair and an oversized piece of armour.
A suffocating feeling raised in her throat, while her stomach felt like a bubbling pot. She wobbled on her feet, as the fear-induced nausea doubled.
“I feel faint, I feel like I will vomit.” Eliza said, groaning with the ache.
To her surprise, the knight laughed lightly. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder while pushing her along, his eyes scanning her for a trace of illness.
“Unless you are dying, you will be fine.” The guard replied, with a professional front. Thomas groaned at them, tapping his foot louder than before. His failed attempts at appearing intimidating were laughable.
“I am dying,” Eliza scoffed, “That is why I am here, is it not?”.
She received a greater laugh from that, whilst being marched down the hall. Eliza stumbled over her feet, her stomach sickening her.
“Will you two make haste?” Thomas said, tapping his foot. “You move slower than a snail with five left feet.”.
Softly, she giggled at that. Her mind urged her to correct him, to say that snails in fact did not have feet.
Eliza did not know what age Thomas was, but he was young, not much older than her.
He and his mother lived across from where her father lived, who had been more devasted than anyone at the news of Thomas’ father’s at-war death.
As prideful and headstrong as a man could be, her father had lamented, but all-in-all a true man.
“We are behind you, Thomas.” The older knight sighed, prompting her to move along.
“Who are you?” Eliza asked, turning to him. The older guard gave her a stern look.
“Edward, Captain Edward.” He answered, smiling, and turning away.
Edward pulled her along the corridor, and Eliza found herself humming a tune from her childhood.
The song was a French lullaby, and she did not speak French, so she spent her days wondering what it meant.
Edward’s eyes narrowed towards her, as he shook his head. They reached the end of the hall, as Thomas’ feet skipped up the steps.
He trailed her up the stairs, stomping his feet against the brick. Thomas walked ahead, occasionally turning around to sneer at them or grumble. The same court men that had been there two days ago were back, and similarly to Thomas, they glared at her.
Eliza fake-smiled at them as widely as she could, which made them stare even more. As they got closer to the castle doors, she could hear commotion from the village, a sound she had never thought she would miss as much as she did.
Edward paused at the castle doors, letting out a muffled groan. He looked sick, pressing his free hand to his chest, and wheezing. It sounded inhumane, and her costly concern grew.
“That is sickening, and would you hurry up? You do not have the plague, and frankly, we do not have long before the trial begins.” Thomas mocked, strutting through the open castle doors.
Eliza’s blood boiled, as she bent down to meet the coughing guard, watching him with a flare in her eyes.
“Are you alright?” Eliza asked worriedly, all hints of laughter and remark gone, replaced by a furrowed look. Edward took a smooth breath, shakily rising to his feet.
“Excuse me?” He asked, a caution in his tone.
Eliza smiled, and stood back up.
Edward’s eyes widened, as he shakily gripped onto the restraints behind her back.
“Unless you’re dying--.” Eliza tauntingly whispered, being cut off by Edward’s silencing glare. He tugged on her restraints, before straightening his own posture.
“Very amusing.” Edward sighed; sarcasm forced in his tone.
“Thank you.” Eliza giggled, as he escorted her out of the doors. Daylight dawned on her face, and that same nausea sunk into her stomach again.
She still did not know where she was walking to, and internally, she dreaded it. There was a tense uncertainty within the air, and even her knightly escort turned stiff.
The town was bustling and loud, with all the villagers standing in a crowd. They took a left, and Eliza’s fear multiplied. Creating a map within her mind, she plotted out the town.
The merchant stalls, countless homes and hard-knocking barrels were ahead. Edward pushed her along, passing all three.
Groups of people stared at her from afar, and she stood up on her toes. Eliza’s heart sunk, as her eyes met the distance. The lake was ahead, with a chair hanging overhead by rope, accompanied by crowds of people.
There was an arch of wood over it, and a man tugging the string, pulling the chair to surface.
The ducking-stool trial, an unreliable tool for proving witchcraft.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Eliza thought, ‘I should have known.’.
There was no way to win; if she sunk, she proved innocent, if she floated, she proved guilty.
The idea was that witches could save themselves from sinking due to witchcraft and sorcery, that they could not drown.
Marching on, Edward pushed her through crowds of people. Whispers surfaced overhead, and snarling faces met her. The foul taste of rotten breath hit her, which was bearable compared to the rotten faces.
“Witch,” One man grumbled, “Get what ‘ye deserve.”.
Eliza was too wrapped inside her thoughts to answer, unable to give a weak smile in response. Her eyes flickered to the floor, while Edward’s blurred announcements filled her ears.
“Out of the way.” Edward warned, side-stepping through the crowds. “Make way, make haste.”.
She wondered what it was that made The King despise her, made him want to see her in nothing but swirling flame. Eliza knew she never fit his agenda, his ideas of perfection; she was everything he sought to abolish.
He did not want young girls educated, but Eliza had a good education.
He did not want young girls to voice their opinion, but she was outspoken.
He did not want young girls to be independent, but she was independent, she had to be. For her father, at least.
That sent a sinking in her heart, the thought of him. Her own selfishness had been what had left her father deserted, she felt that she betrayed him.
The memories flashed back, of him sitting at their table in misery. He covered it well, but she knew he never truly recovered from the loss of her mother.
It haunted him, and he blamed himself. On the rare occasions he spoke of it, he lamented that he should have agreed to flee the town, even if it risked everything.
“Miss Spinner?” Edward said, narrowing his eyes at her. He must have noticed that she dazed off, lost in her
own thoughts and feelings.
Eliza nodded on the brink of tears, and that said it all.
“I’m fine, or I wish I could be.” Eliza mumbled. Her scarce voice, ghostly face and lanky figure was drained to the maximum, as if already dead.
Edward cleared his throat, as they reached the podium. His eyes were dull and off-scene, like he was rethinking it all.
Reaching the end of the crowds, she saw the scene ahead. A masked man stood with his hands gripping the rope, and there was a wooden stand to her far right.
Thomas was there, bantering with a fellow knight. The crowds were behind her, the ducking-chair ahead, and the stand to her left.
A glimpse of light caught her eye, from the far-right stand.
King Richard and Queen Grace sat on a wooden platform, higher than any other spectator. Richard sat with his eyes scanning the trial, his hands gripping his knees.
Grace was an awkward distance from him, twirling a stand of faint blonde hair in her finger.
“Elizabeth Spinner, this is your trial for accusation of witchcraft and threat against His Majesty.” The anonymous knight spoke.
“I would never have guessed.” Eliza groaned, and the entire crowd gave a gasp. Edward shot his elbow into her back, but a light laugh came from him.
She searched amongst the crowd behind, examining each person. The faces were familiar, but she searched only for one. Her father was nowhere in sight.
‘He would not be able to come,’ She reminded herself, ‘He could not bear it, to see this.’.
Then, one familiar face stuck out among the rest. She had to blink twice to make sure, but it was. The Queen’s ladies-in-waiting sat on the left of the royal’s platform, on three confined seats.
Lucie Benson, her childhood friend, sat on the seat closest to the end. Her blonde hair blew in the wind, tied into a bun. Formal as ever, her dress was in top-notch shape, glimmering with majestic patterns.
Eliza smiled, and the maiden met her gaze. Lucie looked alarmed, locking eyes with her. The girl mouthed a few words, but they were blowing away in the wind.
She and Lucie had met when they were young, when Lucie had moved into the far-side of town, after leaving her home in France.
The two formed a quick friendship, Lucie as the girl who was adored by all, and Eliza as the girl that trailed after her.
Lucie taught Eliza basic etiquette and how to style a gown, Eliza taught Lucie how to speak English and read it too.
Eliza helped her see the brighter side of the world, while Lucie helped her see the finer side of life.
Shaking her thoughts away, Eliza turned back to the masked man, who had been speaking nonsense.
Eliza flinched, as a man began tying up her hair. He clipped it into a small bun at the back and pulled a hair cover over, before untying her wrists and grabbing hold of her shoulders, guiding her to The King’s platform.
She was expected to beg for mercy, to cry out and state her innocence. They had set their expectations too high, in that case.
Richard glared down at her, awaiting her testimony. Eliza took a long breath, watching the rustling grass at her feet.
“This trial is not reliable, none of this is,” Eliza stated, whisking her head to the crowds. “Do you truly base your beliefs on what this man says? Have any of you seen a spell-casting with your own eyes, or a curse being placed upon anyone?”.
Richard rose to his feet, standing at the edge of his platform. The crowds sucked in sharp breaths, and no one dared give her an answer.
“Curses have been made,” King Richard declared, waving his arms to the people, “They will continue to cause our suffering unless we abolish their source.”.
Eliza squinted her eyes, focusing on the lake. There was a spine-chilling tension, one she was glad to end.
“Then it appears that we are all mistaken,” Eliza announced, turning to the crowd, “If it is the source of the town’s curse that we need, look no further than the man you call King.”.
The King’s fist clenched. He sat up and cleared his throat. “I have shaped this city into a greater nation than it ever was, I am not a curse, but a remedy.”.
“You’re sickening.” Eliza spat, shaking her head.
“Perhaps, but better that than a fool.”.
“This trial is not foolish, to you?”.
“Why would it be?” King Richard asked, strolling to the front of his high platform, “If you float despite the chair’s restraints, your own vile sorcery has saved you, and you are therefore a witch. However, if you sink, you are innocent, and shall be treated as such.”
The crowd began to speak again, whispering to one another about who was right or wrong. Eliza smiled over at The King, nodding, before raising her hand again to speak.
“And if I sink, just how shall I be treated, Your Majesty?” Eliza queried, spiteful challenge gleaming in her eyes. The King said nothing, shifting his gaze to his wife.
Queen Grace’s face was drained, as she avoided his eyes. Her shoulders were clenched, as she refrained from any objections.
The crowd spoke again, and people began to point at The King. For once, he did not have a justified answer.
“You will live.” He growled back, squinting his shaded eyes. “Is that not fair?”.
He was lying, and she needed a way to prove it. Averting her eyes, she turned to the trialling chair. It caught her eye.
The legs were lanky, flaking at the sides. Her arms gave an uneasy shiver.
“It is not fair if it is untrue.” Eliza stated, “Mary Stanley sunk on her trial. She struggled and was close to drowning, in fact. Did she live?”.
She watched his eyes go alert, widening at the pupils. The crowds echoed through the air. Mary, the woman executed days before, had been critically injured in her trial. She struck the water, then had sunk for good. Moments after, she arose again, gasping for air.
The crowd’s whispers grew, as an unnerved Richard nodded to the knight clutching her shoulder. With a nod, the knight marched her along.
A striking wind brushed Eliza’s face, as the river and podium ahead sent shivers down her spine. Her cheeks were flushed, and eyes off-centre towards the lake.
“May we start the trial, Your Highness?” the gruff man asked. The King hesitated for a second, giving her a final glare. He waved a response.
Eliza had no more spite left within her, all replaced by suffocating fear. Her heart was pounding, and her slight fingers gripped at her blouse, clutching the locket beneath it through the linen.
She placed a shaking foot onto the wooden platform, pushing herself into a stand. The wood croaked beneath her, as Eliza wobbled.
The crooked old chair was ahead, in the grip of a masked man. Eliza clutched her flushed arms, eyes transfixed on the chair.
Turning her back to the crowds, Eliza met his harsh gaze. He gestured to the wooden seat.
Eliza gripped its handle, sitting down on the wood. The sight ahead of her was nothing but river. Her knees trembled, like they would collapse.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It would have been a crime to let them see her cry. Reality struck as rope was wrapped three times around her forearms, before being tightened, scratching at her skin.
A grunt came from the knight, as he tugged on the rope. Eliza froze, as she was raised into the air. A rope was being tied around her waist, breathlessly attacking her ribs.
A clunk came from behind, and Eliza had been raised feet above the podium. The chair wobbled in the air, as waves of nausea hit her.
Her arm’s ached as her head spun, pounding like she had been struck with a hammer.
A splash of ice-cold water struck her, harsh enough to burn. Eliza flinched, gripping the chair’s handle.
Staring into the sky, the blue visions swam above. Freezing water blazed her shins, tracing her trembling knees. Her skirt turned an ebony shade, drenched in the frigid waves.
Eliza focused on the sound of her own breathing, as messed up and short as i
t was. She hitched a breath and shut her eyes.
Her corset protected her waist, from the shocking waves, and the pneumonia. Slowly, she was lowered down, waist-deep in the waves.
The chair froze. He did not lower her or test her. Eliza opened her eyes wide, and she wished she had not.
The rope clenched onto her waist, and her arms were trapped within the restraints.
The hold on her got tighter, and by an inch she was raised from the water’s grasp. It was not over, not at all.
Her chair dipped in the air, drooping her feet into the water. They were turning blue, emphasized by the pale. Eliza shivered and longed for a blanket, as goosebumps graced her arms.
Her heart sunk in her chest each time the chair dipped, and it sunk entirely when the chair was loosened.
With a crash, the old chair struck the waves, sending a fleshy pain into Eliza’s leg. The frozen water attacked her arms, like slashes of a blade.
Her whole body submerged underneath the waves, as flesh-eating bubbles bit at her ghostly face.
The drifting waves of the water blazed her skin, as her breath caught in her throat.
‘Swim,’ Her mind said, ’Swim away, get out.’.
Bewitched Page 3
