by Unknown
But before he could close his eyes he heard the creak of the floorboards in the corridor and the wavering flicker of a candle flame illuminated the doorway.
‘Luke?’ said a gruff voice.
‘It’s nothing,’ Luke said shortly. ‘Only the old dream.’
His uncle nodded.
‘Well, you’d have to be made of iron not to have thought of them tonight. I know they were in my thoughts – and it wasn’t I . . .’ He trailed off. Luke turned his face away from the candlelight, knowing what his uncle had been about to say. It wasn’t William who’d hid beneath the settle as his mother and father were butchered before his eyes. It wasn’t William who’d stuffed his father’s neckerchief into his mouth to stifle his sobs, and watched as the blood ran down the walls and pooled on the rough boards, and the wavering shadow waxed high and black against the wall.
And you never saw his face? they’d questioned him afterwards. Luke had shook his head again and again, wishing there was a different answer, wishing he’d had the courage – not to save his parents, for he was wise enough, even as a child, to know that was not in his power and never had been. But the courage just to turn his head, to peep out and see the face of the man who’d sucked his father’s life from his mouth and vomited it, red and clotted, against the walls of their little house. But he had not. He had just lain, stifling his whimpers, mesmerized by the rise and shiver of the Black Witch’s shadow in the firelight, and the only clue he’d been able to give them was the cane that had rolled across the floor to lie against his leg, the cane with the ebony shaft and the silver head in the shape of a coiled snake. He’d lain there, trembling, as the hand in its black glove had groped closer and closer to his leg, like a monstrous black five-legged spider, creeping across the floor towards him.
And then – like a miracle – it’d found the cane and gripped it. The shadow against the wall straightened from its hunch and stood. Turned on its heel. Left.
The Black Witch had left Luke an orphan. It had left him with the knowledge of his own cowardice, his own powerlessness in the face of evil. And it had left him the dream.
‘I’m fine.’ He spoke more shortly than he meant to. ‘Leave me be.’
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of, lad.’ His uncle stood in the doorway, the candlelight soft on his face. His voice, usually so loud, came low to Luke’s ears. ‘A man can’t be held a coward for his dreams.’
‘I’ve an early start. I promised Minna I’d shoe Bess ’fore she left.’
His uncle said nothing, only sighed. Then he nodded.
‘G’night, Luke. Sleep well, lad.’
I’ll try, Luke thought as he turned his pillow to the cool side and closed his eyes. The shadow rose up, wavering and black, and he fought down the fear that gripped him. You’re not a child any more. His fingers gripped the bedclothes. You’re a man. You will kill this witch and be done with it. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, for God’s sake.
And then? Back to the forge. Back to real life. Back to the hope of finding the other witch. The Black Witch.
The dawn light was still thin and grey as he made his way across the cobbled alley between the house and the forge. Ice crackled in the puddles of smut-black water and his breath made clouds of white in the frosty air, but people and children were already up and about, making their way to their places of work, running errands, emptying the night slops into the street. He could hear the carts rumbling their way to Spitalfields market, or maybe to Smithfield’s, or Billingsgate, or others, further afield. From close at hand he could hear the muffled bone-shaking thump-badabadabada as the drayman rolled his barrels of beer off the cart and across the cobbles into the cellar of the Cock Tavern.
London was awake. Spitalfields never really slept anyway.
Luke unlatched the door of the forge, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes with cold fingers, and turned to the fire, pulling out the clinker and building it up again from the grey ashes of the day before. As he picked up the coal shovel, he winced, feeling the throb of his wound and the pull of the dressing beneath his shirt.
The forge was hot and roaring, and he was in a muck sweat from the heat of the fire and the effort of working the bellows, when he heard the clip-clop of hooves, and he turned his head to see a skinny girl astride a large bay mare coming into the courtyard.
‘Morning, Minna.’
‘I’ve to be at the dairy by six,’ Minna said without preamble. ‘Can you get her done in time?’
‘Yes, if you work the bellows.’
‘But I’ll get smuts on my dress! Who’ll want milk from a girl what looks like she’s bin up a chimbley?’
‘Do you want her shod or not? There’s an apron on the wall.’
Minna looked over at the stiff, dirty smith’s apron hanging by the door and gave a gusting sigh that blew the dark curls off her forehead. Then she rolled her eyes and pulled it down, winding the laces twice round her middle to make them meet.
‘The things I do for you, Luke Lexton.’
‘The thing I do for you, Minna Sykes. I could’ve been abed another hour if it weren’t for Bess and her shoe.’
‘It weren’t my fault she threw it off,’ Minna said pertly as she began to work the bellows.
‘No?’ Luke shoved the metal back into the heart of the blaze and watched it flicker from red to gold, then back. ‘Whose fault was it then? You’ll have to pump those bellows harder.’
‘Oh for the love of . . .’ Minna gritted her teeth and then winced. ‘Ow.’
‘Is that tooth still hurting you?’
‘Yes. Lucy give me a teaspoon of laudanum last night and I slept, but it’s back throbbing fit to bust today.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t take that stuff.’
‘What – laudanum?’ Minna’s face showed her surprise. ‘Don’t be such an old woman, Luke. If it’s good enough for Her Majesty it’s good enough for me, ain’t it?’
‘It’s not safe. Haven’t you seen the opium addicts down at Limehouse?’
‘A’course I’ve seen the opium addicts. But it’s laudanum, Luke, practically no more than weak gin – they give it to babies!’
‘And what happens when you can’t afford it no more, eh?’ He pulled the horseshoe out of the fire and looked at it again. ‘Nearly there.’
‘Then I’ll beg it off Lucy.’
‘What happens if Lucy says no?’
‘Then I’ll go without! For gawd’s sakes, Luke, stop fussing and shoe the bleeding mare.’
Luke said nothing. He pulled the shoe out of the fire and looked at it again.
‘It’s ready. You can stop.’
Minna gave a sigh of relief and came over to stand by Bess’s head as Luke hammered and bent the shoe, curving it to fit the shape of the one Bess had thrown yesterday. The ringing sound of the hammer was clear and true, filling the small space, driving out the evil whispers of the night before. Minna said something and he cried, ‘What?’ above the din.
‘I said,’ she shouted, ‘you’ll be as deaf as William in a year or two!’
Luke only laughed and carried on. It was true, but he could think of worse fates than ending up like his uncle: hard of hand but soft of heart, and deaf from the constant hammering.
At last the shoe was close to the right shape and he stood, holding it in the big pincers.
‘Let’s try it against Bess’s hoof. Come on now, old girl, come on.’
She was used to being shod and let him back her towards the forge and pull her hoof between his leg. But as he bent over to put the shoe to her foot, the wound on his shoulder gave a great stab, making him catch his breath and stop. Bess felt his pain and gave a little whinny, shaking her mane.
‘Are you all right?’ Minna asked curiously.
‘Nothing.’ He shook his head and bent again.
‘‘What’s that under your shirt? I can see something – have you hurt yourself?’
‘I said, it’s nothing,’ he said shortly. Minna gave him a look, but subsided. Then the hot metal bit and the smell of burnt hoof filled the morning air. Bess gave a little protesting snicker at the sharp smell, but he lifted it away before she could feel the heat.
‘It’s good.’ He plunged the shoe into barrel of rainwater, hearing the hiss and bubble as the hot shoe hit the cold water. ‘But you shouldn’t work her so hard, Minna. Her hooves are fit to split.’
‘That’s why I’m getting her shod, ain’t it?’ She stood, watching, as Luke fitted the shoe to Bess’s hoof, hammering it on, turning the nails flat.
‘She needs a holiday, poor old lady,’ he said as he released the foot.
‘I need a holiday an’ all.’ Minna pulled on the bridle and yanked Bess towards the waiting milk cart outside the gate. ‘And I ain’t going to get one, so less of the bleeding heart for the horse, thank you.’
He watched as she backed Bess between the shafts and hitched her up. Then she clicked her tongue.
‘Thanks for shoeing her, Luke.’ She put her hand towards her skirts where her purse hung. As she fingered it Luke could see from its lightness that it was empty, or near enough. He could have told that even without the way she chewed at her cold-chapped lips as she asked, ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Another time.’
‘I ain’t taking no charity, Luke Lexton.’
‘It’s not charity.’ He feigned irritation, showing his black hands, covered with soot from the forge and the hot metal. ‘I want to get cleaned up. Pay me another time.’
She smiled, bright and wide, relieved.
‘I owe you one.’
‘You owe me more than one, Minna.’
‘And I’ll give it yer, one of these days. Bye, Luke.’ She grinned, clicked her tongue to Bess and then they clip-clopped up the lane, towards the City and the dairy.
Luke was still standing, watching the lane, thinking, when he heard footsteps behind him and his uncle came through the gate.
‘She works that horse too hard,’ William said.
‘I know.’ Luke rubbed his hands on his apron and turned back to the yard, ready for the day’s work. ‘I told her. But she works herself too hard and all.’
‘Did you charge her for the shoe?’
‘She’ll pay.’
‘No she won’t. You’re too soft-hearted.’
‘It’s not her fault. How’s she supposed to make a girl’s wage stretch to cover four mouths?’
‘I know, I know.’ William shook his head. ‘And her dad’s as useless as they come.’
‘He’s not long for this world, neither.’ Luke thought of the last time he’d seen Mr Sykes, sitting in his own piss in a corner of the hovel Minna called home, with his youngest two running around his feet, noticed only when they came too close to knocking over his bottle.
‘There’s many a better man than Nick Sykes rotted their brain with moonshine,’ William said. ‘She should sell that horse, get a donkey, use the money for the little’uns.’
‘She never will,’ Luke said with certainty. ‘You know Bess was her dad’s, back when he were a drayman. In Minna’s eyes she’s just borrowing Bess until he’s fit to work again.’
‘And that’ll be sometime west of never,’ William Lexton said with a sigh. Then he turned to the forge. ‘Come on now, enough gabbing. We’ve got work to do before I lose you.’
‘Lose me?’
‘Well, you can’t work here and do your task for the Brotherhood, can you?’
‘But—’
‘It’s not going to be easy, Luke. I tried to tell you last night, but you were too full of yourself to listen. No, no –’ he held up a hand as Luke began to protest ‘– I know. And I would have been the same at your age. But these are no ordinary witches, Luke. John Leadingham’s told me a bit about this family. The son’s thick as thieves with Sebastian Knyvet. They went to school together, spent half their boyhood round at each other’s houses, from what I can make out.’
‘And who’s this Knyvet bloke then?’
‘Who’s . . . ?’ His uncle gave him a look that mingled surprise and irritation. ‘Do you listen to anything I tell you? I tried to tell you all this last night. He’s one of the Ealdwitan. And you know who they are, don’t you?’
Yes. Luke knew who they were. The witch elite of England. The ruling council. If they only ruled the witches – that would be one thing. But their tentacles reached into every place of power in the land. Half the MPs in the House of Commons were Ealdwitan and a good measure of the peers in the House of Lords too. If there was a prospect of money or power they were there, to get their share of the pie, and more.
‘Aloysius Knyvet is one of the Chairs who head the Ealdwitan. Sebastian’s his eldest son. Now do you see why I said this was a fool’s errand?’
‘So they’ve got friends in high places.’ Luke shrugged. ‘They’ve still got skin that burns and flesh that bleeds, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but it’s getting to that skin or that flesh. And that’s easier said than done. At least you’ve got an advantage, though I don’t know how far it’ll help. You’ll have to be careful not to let on. If you once show what you are, that you know what they are . . .’
Luke turned away. He hated being reminded of what he was. A witch-finder.
No one knew where the ability had come from. William thought he had been born with it, and that perhaps Luke’s father had had the same ability but had never known it, or had kept it secret through fear. John Leadingham thought that it had been gifted to Luke the night he watched his parents die – that that one searing experience had burnt the gift into him, so that never again could he look on a witch and see an ordinary man or woman. Except, as Luke himself often wondered, he could not be the only person to have seen a witch, nor even the only person to have seen a witch kill. But he was, as far as he’d ever heard, the only person who saw them for what they were, as clear as others saw black from white. Even in the street he could see them, dressed like ordinary people, walking and talking like ordinary people but with their witchcraft shimmering and crackling around them, marking them out as clear as night from day.
Sometimes it was nothing but a faint gleam, soft as a dying ember. Other times it was bright; bright as a gas-lamp, bright as a flame. When they cast a spell the magic flared and waxed, as the candlelight guttered and waxed in the draught from the door. Then it waned, fading back, leaving them dimmer than before.
It had taken him a long while to understand that others did not see witches as he did. It had taken the Malleus even longer to believe what they had found – a child who could see witchcraft – no need to test and prod and accuse. His word alone was enough.
‘We’ll have to get you inside the household somehow. A servant or summat. John Leadingham’s looking into it.’
‘I can’t be a servant!’ Luke said, horrified.
‘What! Too proud to sweep a floor?’
‘No! I don’t mean that. I mean, I wouldn’t know how! How could I be a footman in some great house? I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do – I’d get the sack before my feet had touched the ground.’
‘A footman no, but there might be something else. You’re too old for a boot-boy, but a garden hand maybe. I don’t know about London, but John says they’ve got a great rambling place in the country with a hundred acres and more. There must be work for a man there.’
‘What if they’re not in the country? Don’t the gentry come up to town in the autumn?’
‘I don’t know.’ William shook his head. ‘You’re asking the wrong bloke, Luke. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. If there’s a chink in their armour, John Leadingham’s the man to find
it. By fair means or foul, we’ll get you into that house. And after that . . .’
After that, it would be up to Luke.
‘I’ve got a plan.’ John Leadingham tapped the side of his nose as they walked down the narrow alleys, tall warehouses towering either side of them, their top storeys disappearing into the shrouding murk. Luke could hear the lap of the Thames on the mudflats and the bellow of a horn as a ship made its way downriver in the thick yellow fog.
‘What is it?’ Luke asked, but John shook his head.
‘Ask me no questions, young Luke. You’ll know soon enough, but for the moment I’m still working out some of the finer details. Now . . .’ He stopped at one of the furthest warehouses – a tumbledown wooden structure that looked as if it might just slide into the Thames mud at any moment – and drew a key from his pocket. ‘You’re not squeamish of a little blood, are you?’
‘No,’ Luke said, but his stomach twisted, wondering what awaited him inside the warehouse. He thought of the nights when William came home with blood on his hands and shook his head, pale-faced, when Luke asked him questions about what he’d done. Would it be a witch, captive, awaiting trial?
The door swung wide and the stench of blood that flooded out made him take an involuntary step back, but John Leadingham strode inside as if he hadn’t noticed.
Luke found himself standing tense, his muscles ready to fight or fly, as the gas-lights flared out across the warehouse. But then he laughed, the noise sounding strange and light with relief in his own ears.
‘Pigs!’
Carcasses swung from hooks in the beams and there were bones stacked by the door out to the wharf. And not just pigs, he saw. There were sides of beef over the far side, and sheep too, stripped of their wool and skinned, with sharp grinning teeth and staring, round eyes.
‘Well, what else did you expect? I’m a butcher, ain’t I?’ John swung the door shut with a dull thud of rotten wood and took off his coat. ‘It’s an abattoir.’
‘Why’ve you brought me here?’
‘Because I’m not sending a sheep to the slaughter – pardon the pun.’ He pulled on a bloodstained apron and picked up a knife. ‘You can fight, Luke, I’ve seen it. Even better if you’ve got a bit of beer in you. But you can’t kill. That’s a different skill completely – and one you need to learn, and fast. I’m not saying you should gut this girl like a stuck pig, of course not. I’m hoping you’ll get the job done a good deal more subtly than that. But the fact is, you may find yourself in a tight corner, and carrying a knife and knowing where to stick it can take you a long way.’
