“Do come back soon. Again, I am sorry about the young woman. I hope she is well.”
“I only wanted to help. There’s something different about her. I can feel it.”
No reason to elaborate. By the look on Dorthea’s face, she also desired to lend a hand to someone in need. When the older woman leaned forward with open arms, Clara willingly embraced her newfound friend.
“If it’s meant to be, your paths will cross again.”
A comfortable warmth filled Clara’s body, grateful not to be all alone. She stood up and curtsied. “I have enjoyed our conversation but need to walk back to the village now.”
“You are always welcome here, dear. Any time.”
Clara nodded absently. Despite Dorthea’s kindness and her welcoming words, a tightness in Clara’s chest seemed to warn her of danger ahead.
✽✽✽
That evening, Clara found Peter at the tavern. How good to it was to have him near. As always, Peter exuded safety and stability. He took her to a quiet table in the corner where they could speak in private.
“I’ve just come from Christiania,” Peter said. “Your presumption was correct. Angus Hill jumped ship there and is headed southward toward Fredrikstad.”
“Why couldn’t he return to England where he came from or better yet, just disappear? That man is a threat to any society.” Clara shivered. Hill’s notorious reputation preceded him. The witch-finder pretended to be pious and good, but Clara knew better. Evil lurked beneath his benign demeanor.
“The talk is that he still feels there’s much to do in this country. How did you ever guess he would be coming this direction? Why wouldn’t he go straight to a larger town, like Fredrikstad?”
“From what I know about him, he needs to start in a smaller village, where he can control people’s minds and get them to accept and even believe in his wicked notions. That way, he becomes a figure of importance.”
“And the more victories he has, personal or not, the fuller his coffers will be.” Peter rubbed his fingers together.
Clara bowed her head and let out a long breath.
A maid came by the table, and Peter asked her to fetch two cups of thin ale.
“I have heard the meals here are good,” he said, addressing Clara once the maid had gone. “Are you hungry? They have fresh bread and cheese and serve a couple of meat and fish dishes.”
“No, thank you.”
Clara looked around at the people in the room. The alehouse was also known for not-so-palatable gatherings. Men and women came to socialize with friends and neighbors, often gossiping about events and politics. Some came to get drunk. After they had emptied a few cups, some had to be removed for disorderly behavior while others fell asleep in their chairs, snoring loudly.
The atmosphere was cheerful; guests and travelers seemed to be enjoying themselves. Still, Clara sensed trouble. Observing the villagers, she could not help but fear. What would their future be like when Angus Hill arrived and started singling out certain women as witches. How many of the visitors in the alehouse would be affected by his deeds?
Clara leaned forward. Her eyes started to sting, and she choked up. “More women to hunt down, more families to tear apart, more horror to—” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Peter reached across the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “There is no help in tormenting yourself. You have a plan, remember? Let’s take one thing at a time.” He offered Clara his handkerchief.
“So it starts again.” She wiped her cheeks and handed the handkerchief back.
“Are you sure you want to continue?”
Clara nodded. “But I am not looking forward to it. I promised my friend Bess I would find her recipe book if Angus still has it, but my primary goal is to save lives and prevent Berg from experiencing the horror the residents of Rossby endured.”
The maid brought the drinks, and Peter helped himself to a large swallow.
“Where are you staying, Peter?”
“Here at the inn.” He pointed to the ceiling. “I have a room upstairs.”
“How long will you stay?”
“You need my help right now; therefore, I will linger for a while.” The look in his eyes was truthful and without reservation. “Do the people in Berg know anything about Angus?”
Clara bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ve tried to listen to people talking in the village but haven’t heard anyone mention his name.”
“How would they react if they knew a witch-finder was coming? Would they know what to expect?”
Clara let out a heavy sigh. “They would probably respond similarly to the way the people in Rossby acted. Most folks do not fathom what they are up against or what a man like Angus Hill is capable of. People will always expect bad things to happen to others, not to themselves. At this point, they would never believe that any of their loved ones may suffer at the hands of an English witch-finder.”
“What about this area? Have they had any witch trials around here?”
“I have not dared ask around yet, as I am new to the village and do not know who to trust, but I think I met someone recently who I can ask.”
A commotion of loud voices and laughter made them turn their heads. At the next table, a man with a beard wet with ale beat the wood with his tin cup. His beverage splattered around, but no one seemed to care.
“It was a witch, I tell you,” he yelled.
Another man pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. “I’ve heard they’re sending someone to take care of the witch problem.”
“A man who hunts witches? Who is he?” A hunchbacked man leaned on the table.
The bearded man picked the meat out of his teeth with his fingernail then spat the particle of food onto the floor. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “Don’t care, either, so long as he gets rid of them female creatures ruining our honest day’s labor here. Just last week, as the wind was working its way up the valley, I was out in the field getting our lambs to safety, while the missus was inside making tallow candles from mutton fat. The little ones were running around her legs. Next thing, all the candles were on the floor, broken.”
The crowd got louder, nodding and concurring their support with grunts and mumbles.
The bearded man held his palms out. “Wait, wait, there’s more. Same day, my big toe started hurting fiendishly. I asked the barber what it could be, and he told me I had gout, whatever that is. Who else, other than a witch, would have placed two such hardships in our way within hours of each other? Now, I have problems walking, and we have no candles to sell. Somebody did this to us.”
Several other men started talking, all of them at the same time, obviously eager to tell similar stories.
Clara pulled Peter’s arm. “Let us leave. I have heard this all before.” Even in a small village superstition was widespread, and someone like Angus Hill could easily influence the townsfolk to turn their fear and anger toward women who could not defend themselves. No matter. Clara was determined to fight the widely held belief in mystical influences.
CHAPTER 4
✽✽✽
CLARA AND PETER spent the morning cleaning out the small house in her back yard. The log cabin was empty except for a cast-iron stove in the far corner of the room and a steep, narrow staircase that resembled a ladder right inside the door. Clara had been told that no one had lived there for a couple of years.
“Not entirely true.” She swept the rough floorboards to remove mouse droppings. She even used the broom in the corners by the ceiling, where spiders had spun intricate webs, and a small swarm of wasps had built their nest.
“Watch out, Peter!”
He ducked and opened the door and the two windows as she tried to chase them out, waving the broom in the air. Clara went back into her cottage, fetched a jar of honey, and placed it on the windowsill.
“Are you sure you did not invite the wasps?” Peter laughed and closed the door.
“Quite sure.”
He picked
up his bag from the corner of the room. “I have an appointment with a member of the village council. I will speak about trading goods but at the same time fish for information. Can you finish up here?”
She nodded. “May you have a fruitful meeting. I wish you luck.”
“I may need it. Until later.” He turned and headed toward the door.
Peter always employed tact in any situation, treating both gentlemen and paupers with respect. No doubt, he would be helpful to her cause.
Clara looked around the room. Seating would be necessary for the children, especially with cooler days to come. Drafts along the floor could cause illness, even fatality. Clara did not have to be a prophetess to think such thoughts. More than once, she had seen people die from a runny nose, chest pain, or bouts of coughing. Being cold seemed to enhance the chance of acquiring such afflictions.
She had paid a neighbor to chop down a tree. One tall fir tree split lengthwise then cut in half made four sturdy half-logs. Placed on small parts of tree trunk with a wedge carved on top, they made nice benches for her students. The neighbor had said he’d drop the finished pieces outside her gate. Clara had gone out to check for them when Christian Ivershall came riding up. She wiped her hands on her apron and adjusted the skirt. How handsome he was. He was not wearing a hat, and when he drew nearer, he pushed his hair back, and her eyes met his.
“Good day, Clara. I was curious to see your school.” He dismounted and loosely wrapped the horse’s reins around a tree. “My mother has conveyed to me your enthusiasm to teach the children of our village to read.”
She tried her best to contain a joyous bubble that seemed to well up inside at the sight of his charming grin, and she offered him a pleasant smile in return. “It’s not a proper school, but it’s coming along nicely.”
“I spoke with the bailiff earlier today. He told me about a hard-bargaining young woman who wants to teach even girls to read,” he said, a playful pitch to his voice.
A small giggle escaped her. “Did he, now? Well, I understand I am going against the grain here, but I am hardly the first woman who wants to teach others to read.”
He had a bemused smile and a positive look in his eyes like his mother always did. Not the usual belittling attitude she received from many men when she shared her thoughts on education.
“My neighbor made some benches.” Clara pointed to the stack of logs. “But they’re still in pieces, I’m afraid. Do you have time to help me carry them into the cabin?”
“Gladly.” He picked up one of the half-logs. “Tell me where you want them.”
Clara grunted with effort, the muscles in her back and shoulders straining, as she lifted two of the end pieces. She walked in front of Christian, leading the way to the cabin behind her cottage. She quickly moved her foot out of the way as she dropped one of the logs.
“Leave it,” Christian told her. “I’ll get that one and the rest next trip.”
He steadfastly carried the rest of the bench pieces for her. Clara held the cabin door open for him, admiring how he made such a heavy job look so easy. Together they assembled the benches. She looked around and smiled. The result was as she had planned, and she now had a proper place to teach.
“Are you thirsty?”
He nodded.
“Why don’t you sit down on the grass while I fetch something to drink?”
“A rest and a thirst-quencher…that sounds good.”
She hurried to her cottage. What could she serve him? He was a nice gentleman—perhaps a friend—on the other hand, he was the Lord of Ivershall. She rummaged through the kitchen cabinet. No apple cider, no ale, no special beverage. She paused for a moment and closed her eyes. Christian had come to visit her. No need to fret. She would serve him water as she would any friendly person who came by on a warm summer’s day. Balancing two cups and a jug with water on a tray, Clara walked back outside.
Christian sat on the grass, his long legs stretched out, watching the small house. She walked slowly, enjoying the sight of him.
“I have been here before. When I was a little boy, your new schoolhouse was used for certain council meetings. I remember waiting for my father one time, probably sitting about where we are right now,” he said.
Clara handed him a cup and filled it with water. “You must have been a very patient little boy.”
“I kept myself occupied and made armies out of stones, pinecones, sticks…anything I could find.” He emptied the cup, leaned back on his elbows, and crossed his legs. “How about you? You must have waited for your father many times, too.”
“More times than I can remember, but I did not mind. I enjoyed going with him when he visited people, and I used to watch how he cared for our parishioners.”
“Sounds like we both had fathers we admired and learned from.”
She nodded. “I wanted to be like him. He was always concerned with the happiness and welfare of his little flock.”
“I know what you mean. My father truly cared for the people of Berg.”
He held his cup out to her, and Clara filled it up again.
“Helping children of our village to read and write is following your father’s legacy,” he told her.
“I suppose it is.” Her cheeks grew warm. If Christian knew what her real goals were, would he feel the same way? How did the master of Ivershall feel about witch-hunters? She took a small sip of her water and changed the subject. “Your mother is wonderful.”
“That she is. She is the sunniest blossom in our garden. Oh, that reminds me…I must go. I was supposed to help her with some planting today.”
He got to his feet. Clara stretched out her hand, and he helped her up.
“Thank you, Christian, for lending your time…and strength.”
“You’re welcome. I’m happy to help.”
She walked him to the gate. “Farewell. Please give your mother my greetings.”
“I will.”
He mounted his black stallion and rode off.
Clara watched until he had disappeared around the bend of the road. She sighed, sauntered into the cottage, and looked around the room. The floor needed a good sweep. She’d just reached for the broom when she heard shuffling and giggling outside her front door. She looked out the window. A group of children of different heights stood on her front steps. She quickly counted the lot. Three boys huddled together. Two had their hands in their pockets; the third wiggled a stick in his mouth. He seemed to be chewing on it.
Clara opened the door. “Hello, may I help you?”
In the front stood a young woman in her mid-teens, and two little girls with braided hair peeked out from behind her skirt. The older girl took charge and addressed Clara.
“Good day, miss. We heard it was possible for children to come here and learn to read. If so, we want to join your class.” Her straight hair hung over her shoulders. She tucked it behind her ears and looked at Clara with clear blue eyes.
“This is wonderful. I have not started yet, but when I do, you are all welcome to join. I will teach reading, writing, and numbers. You will also learn about other things to help you prepare for work and—”
“Most of us already work,” the oldest girl interrupted. “The boys herd cows and sheep. Even the little ones help with milking and laundry at one of the homesteads. We don’t need reading to do our chores, but my older sister and I talked about this, and we decided it would be good to learn.”
“Well, I am Clara Dahl. You may call me Clara. Would you like to come in?” She turned and went back into the kitchen and pulled the bench from under the window and closer to the table so everyone could have a seat.
The youngsters filed inside, and Clara closed the door behind them.
“Come, children, gather around the table. But first, tell me your names.”
“I am called Ellen. The boys are Ole, Hans, and Nils.” The oldest child pulled the little girls closer and put her arms around them. “These two piglets are Anne and Todne. And then there’s Ruth, o
ur oldest sister, but she is rather shy and chose to stay home.”
Clara nodded along as Ellen spoke. She was impressed with the way the girl had brought her family in hopes they would receive an education. Their clothes were a bit ragged but clean, and the girls’ dresses hung loosely on their thin bodies. The boys needed haircuts and shoes on their bare feet. Other than that, they seemed healthy and in good spirits. She watched as they all took a seat.
“Ruth. That’s a pretty name.” Clara looked around at the children and smiled. “You all have pretty names.”
The little girls put their hands in front of their noses and giggled. The youngest lifted her chin and glanced toward the kitchen table.
Maybe they were hungry? Clara picked up the plate with barley cakes she had baked in an iron pan over the fire that morning. “Would you like one?”
She held the plate out in front of the children who greedily emptied the lot.
They seemed famished. Why had their parents not come with them?
Clara put the empty dish back onto the table. What else could she serve them? She opened the cupboard and took out a bowl of dried strips of meat. She placed it in front of the youngsters. “Go ahead. Please have some.”
The meat was gone in no time.
Clara feared the answer to her next question. “Are your parents supportive of you spending a few hours a week here?”
“We are orphans,” Ellen answered. “We had a grandmother for a while, but my sister and I take care of our family now.”
Clara’s heart sank. No wonder they were hungry. How brave these older sisters were to care for their siblings, even wanting them to learn to read.
“I am sorry to hear that. I commend you for taking care of your family. But what about Ruth? Do you think she would like to learn to read?”
“She says she doesn’t need to learn. Besides, our sister seldom goes into the village. She has us run errands.”
Clara’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Why is that?”
“She is bashful and a bit timid, but she takes very good care of us. She only meets people if they need a midwife.”
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 4
