Being cautious had become Clara’s pattern in life, but some things had to be said. “I have met accused women before. Each one was blameless of the crimes they were indicted for. Yet, they were charged and oftentimes put to death. I felt you needed someone to believe in you.”
“But why?”
Clara pushed the chair back and stood up. “I don’t want anyone to think you’re a witch.”
The silence lasted for a minute or two. Siren stared out the window. Suddenly, she turned to Clara and blurted out, “I can read and write some. My family was educated.”
Clara thought a moment and then smiled. “I think I know how to help you blend in. The villagers don’t know you. You ran off when the milkmaid came, so she probably did not get a good look at your face. The two men who picked you up saw a wild woman wearing torn clothes, her countenance partly hidden under tousled hair.”
Siren looked down on her dirty gown. “Pretty much what I look like now.”
“But they saw a woman who had occupied the summer barn without permission—a trespasser—not a troll woman. I know you yelled at them, but unless you gave them another good reason to think you are a witch, they may not bother looking for a common thief.” Clara tipped her head to the side. “Pull your hair back.”
Siren narrowed her eyes but did as she was told and grabbed the grimy tangles with both hands.
Clara smiled. “You are a beautiful woman, Siren. When we clean you up, I don’t believe anyone here in Berg will recognize you. When will you deliver the infant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we should keep you safe here. You have a very protruding belly and will probably give birth before long.”
Clara swung her arm in a circle. “Stand up and turn around, please.”
With a perplexed look Siren got to her feet and did as she was told.
“You are about my size, only rounder about the waist. I will get you something to wear.”
“What are you planning?”
Giving Siren a place to stay could be useful to Clara’s plans. Yes, the young woman was crass, and her manners were not those of a gentlewoman. Still, behind the unruly behavior Clara spotted a bright and sharp person. She was certain of it.
Clara’s idea might work. At least, she was willing to give it a try. She touched Siren’s shoulder and smiled. “More about that later. But since I will be rather occupied the next while, I would like you to be my assistant.”
CHAPTER 5
✽✽✽
CLARA STRODE ACROSS the village square. She had met Peter earlier at the inn, and they had discussed their impression of the people of Berg. How would the villagers react to a witch-finder in their midst? Surely, not everyone judged their neighbors and blamed them for unfortunate happenings? Hopefully, most would be appalled at the thought of harming innocent women.
Clara paused for a moment, put her purchases on the ground, and rubbed her neck. The weather had turned sultry, and a cool breeze ruffled the leaves of the large oak tree filled with chirping sparrows.
The basket with supplies from the grocer’s was heavy. Peter was resting at the inn and would have helped her, had she asked, but she did not want to bother him. Why had she thought it possible to hurry home with such a load? She had intended to buy a couple of things but had gotten carried away. In addition to the items she’d picked up at the grocer’s, her basket also held a blanket she’d ordered from a seamstress on Market Street. A small bed in the corner of the cottage belonged to Siren now. It had a straw-filled mattress, and Clara had already given Siren a bedsheet and pillow. The blanket would be a nice surprise.
Soap and water had not been the only contributions to Siren’s change in appearance. Her natural beauty was evident once her hair was washed, combed, and her stunning features not hidden behind dirt and grime. She seemed to have straightened her posture and gained confidence while staying in the cottage. Even the change in her behavior was worthy of praise.
Four or five men sat on the grass with a fried chicken plucked to pieces on a brick and empty bottles of ale scattered around. Clara’s stomach rumbled, and she picked a fresh roll from her basket, sat down on the edge of the grass, and took a large bite.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two men on their way out of the blacksmith’s shop.
“Man’s name is Angus.”
Clara froze at the man’s gruff statement. Pretending to adjust something in her basket, she cast a surreptitious glance toward the two men standing in the doorway.
“Aye. The witch-finder will be speaking outside the village hall at noon.” One of the men pulled his floppy hat down farther on his head.
His comrade spat on the ground. “Ah, he’s not wasting any time. I heard he just arrived. Should be interesting to hear what the man has to say. I don’t believe we have many witches around here, but you never know. Good thing someone understands how to get rid of them.”
Clara jumped to her feet. She picked up her things and hurried home, her heart racing. The day had come.
✽✽✽
Clara raced up the steps to her cottage then paused and leaned her head against the door for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. After several seconds, she drew a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. Siren was sitting at the kitchen table darning socks. Clara closed the door softly behind her.
“Hello, Clara,” Siren said cheerfully. “I have soup in the kettle. Do you want some?”
Clara put the basket with groceries on the floor and sat down next to Siren.
“You look pale—as if a shadow of a ghoul followed you home,” Siren said. “What’s wrong?”
Clara swallowed hard. “The witch-finder Angus Hill is in Berg. I am going back to the village to hear him speak and would like you to stay put here at the cottage.” Her voice trembled.
Siren pushed the darning away. “We could go together.”
Clara closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again. How could she help Siren understand? “I want you safe so no harm comes to you. Let me find out what is happening first.”
“I am not running away anymore.” She got up and stirred the soup.
Clara followed and put her hand on Siren’s shoulder. “You spent months in the woods, hiding and trying to survive.”
“That was different; at least I was in the forest and free to choose for myself. I don’t want to be confined within these four walls.”
Clara wanted to beckon her to stay, but the girl was willful. “You are right. I will not dictate what you should do, but I can caution you to be careful.”
“I will stay, Clara, but only because I am fatigued today.”
“Good.” Clara leaned over the pot of soup. “I will have some when I return. It smells delicious.”
Clara put a coif on her head and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She gave Siren a quick hug then left the cottage. With steadfast steps, she made her way on the dirt road toward the village. Siren had a point. Clara could not keep the young woman locked away. Siren required a loose hold, or her contrary nature would cause her to rebel. She had to be free to come and go as she pleased.
“And I must try not to worry so much,” Clara murmured.
The walk to the square took a quarter of an hour. Today, she hastened her pace. Usually, the view of blossoming fields along one side of the road made Clara linger so she could listen to the humming of the bees and breathe in the scent of clover, bluebells, and daisies. But today, Clara looked straight ahead, not wanting to miss out on the witch-finder’s speech. She followed the dirt path to the crossroads east of Berg where the road from the capital Christiania merged with several other trails. From there on, the road grew increasingly crowded. She had expected a gathering in the village center. No doubt, everyone who could get out would come to hear the witch-finder speak. Berg was small, not a place prominent people came to visit. Angus’s arrival would bring more excitement than the villagers had seen in ages.
As she had guess
ed, Clara arrived to find the square in front of the village hall already full. Market stands with wares had been pushed back, and people shuffled forward toward the entrance of the hall.
Clara found a place on the side, close enough to hear but hopefully, far enough away not to be seen by Angus or his translator. She had not planned on what to do once Angus arrived in Berg, but she was not up to meeting him yet. She stretched her neck to see if she could spot Peter or Christian but did not see either of them. There were other faces she recognized. How would they react once the witch-finder presented himself?
A group of people came out from the village hall and stood on the landing at the top of the broad stone staircase overlooking the crowd. Bailiff Winther and his wife were there. Mrs. Winther took up some space, and as she swung around, she bumped into the minister, causing him to stumble. He grabbed the railing and stepped down onto the first step. The poor minister looked sad and miserable every time Clara saw him, and today was no exception. He stared into the distance with a doleful gaze, and he did not seem to sense the presence of his parishioners who had come out to greet the witch-finder.
Other men stood on the lower steps, probably councilmen who had agreed to let a man who persecuted people speak to the villagers. Clara would have liked Dorthea’s support, but standing for a long time and being in such a large gathering would be too much for her.
Then he stepped out and faced the crowd. Clara stopped breathing for a moment and stared at the man who had already caused so much sorrow. And sure enough, a step behind him came his interpreter, John Pywell. Clara knew them both. The time she had dreaded had come. As Angus Hill took the center spot wearing a long black cape over his ruffled shirt and waistcoat, Clara leaned against a nearby table.
The thin, little man with the tall-crowned hat gave her shivers. She crossed her arms around her belly, hoping the horrid, knotted feeling would pass. But it did not.
The interpreter’s appearance had not changed since Clara had last seen him the year before. Lanky and straight-backed, he stood still and silent, observing and watching, never showing emotion of any sort.
A hush glided across the square as the witch-finder opened his arms.
“Good folks. What is…?”
He turned and frowned at John Pywell. “Come closer,” he scolded. “Why are you not translating?”
John put his hands behind his back and stepped up next to the witch-finder.
Angus called out even louder. “Good folks of Berg. What is a sin? Who knows? You? How about you?”
He pointed randomly at people in the crowd. One of them, a middle-aged woman, stopped chewing on a piece of dried fish and stared wide-eyed at the witch-finder. A young man bowed his head and stared at the ground.
Angus employed an oratorical style, wherein he tried to make the listeners feel inferior, and he established authority. His words got people thinking but only long enough for them to be open to his opinions and admonitions.
Without waiting for answers, he continued. “Some sins were written on the two stone tablets the prophet Moses carried down from Mount Sinai. You know the lot…stealing, lying, and so forth. Our church father, Martin Luther, teaches this in his Small Catechism. It’s child’s learning, really, but I do not expect any of you to have read about or have even heard about the sin I’m going to discuss today. Let me teach you that some sins go further.”
People in the crowd grimaced and looked at each other.
“What is he talking about?” a woman next to Clara whispered.
A man beside the woman frowned and put a finger to his mouth, and another lifted his shoulders and pursed his lips. But there were many who gawked, their eyes fixed on the witch-finder.
“What is a sign that shows heaven’s ill favor? It is illness. Who caused this illness?” Angus put up a skinny white hand. His fingernails were long, like talons. “No, don’t say it. Think for a minute. Who is to blame when your cow refuses to give milk or when someone in your household returns from fishing and the fish refused to bite? Which one of your neighbors could have caused that to happen?”
He started pointing at people in the crowd again. Few, if any, looked in his direction when he did.
He put his arms up in the air and shouted, “You may not think you have witches in your neighborhood, but I am here to tell you to think again. When I was a poor lad in England, the vision of the famous Witch-finder General Matthew Hopkins’s work gave me a purpose in life. I followed him, learned from him. I was his chosen one, and to this day, his legacy is what I intend to keep intact.”
He had lowered his voice, and many people in the crowd stretched their necks, and some held a hand behind an ear as if to hear better.
Angus pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and waved it around. “I have already received a few names of suspicious individuals in this area. I am here and will keep you safe. You are not to worry about witches anymore.”
He put his hand out to John Pywell. “Give me the manuscript.”
The interpreter took a small stack of papers out of the witch-finder’s bag. Angus grabbed the papers and hugged them to his chest.
“I have here in my hands a manuscript penned by myself. An excellent guide that tells of my expertise, experience, and knowledge of witch hunting.” He thrust his shoulders back and nodded. “A well-written handbook, and, yes, I am the author.”
His voice took on a bloodcurdling sound. “There are those who are inclined to tempt others. Some take evil by the hand and purposely lure their fellow beings away from the good path. They beckon and ensnare until you are locked in a cage from which you cannot escape.”
The last sentence was spoken in a hissing, rasping whisper. Theatrical, Clara thought. But Angus Hill spoke as if he could feel the snake of evil slithering toward him. Even though Clara stood in the open village marketplace, she felt trapped in a corner. The congregation seemed transfixed. All eyes were on the witch-finder, except for those of a couple of younger children who had fallen asleep in their parents’ arms, too young to understand the grave nature of Angus’s words. But then again, who had understood what he said? Clara looked around at the simple villagers whose main concern was feeding their families.
John Pywell’s translation was clever. Clara knew how difficult it was to interpret another language, especially if the speaker was as fired-up as the witch-finder was. Angus spoke for long periods, forgetting to pause. The interpreter even managed to mimic Angus’s voice and convey both the horror and enthusiasm in the witch-finder’s message.
His voice turning sharp, the witch-finder concluded his speech. “Beware. Do not let any witches get away.”
Then he bowed and walked down the stairs, followed by the bailiff and other councilmen. A moment later, the minister stole away, too.
The villagers stood motionless, as if they needed a minute to get back to reality. As the crowd dispersed, Peter found Clara.
“There you are. I was looking for you. I went by the bakery earlier. Cake?” He held out two small cakes, handed her one, and took a large bite out of the other one.
“Oh, Peter, I could not eat right now. Look at him. It must be frustrating to have so much to say and be dependent on someone to translate.”
Peter shook his head. “I guess. But he has a talent for keeping a crowd attentive.”
Several villagers pushed forward to get close to the witch-finder. Some reached out, as if wanting to touch him. They tried to ask him questions. John Pywell shoved them away, while Angus stuffed his manuscript back into his bag and walked off, ignoring the underprivileged villagers and heading toward the members of the village council.
Clara looked back at the dispersing crowd. How had they identified with the witch-finder’s message? A well-dressed lady with a generously proportioned hat decorated with peacock plumes approached Angus. Clara frowned. Where had she seen her recently? Oh, yes! The young woman Clara had met in the doorway at the bailiff’s office. His niece.
“Angus Hill! What a p
leasure!” The woman flashed a beaming white smile. “How nice to finally meet you.”
Angus took her by the right hand and bowed deeply. He leaned over as if to brush her knuckles with his lips but pulled back at the last moment and straightened.
“Miss…?” He greeted her, pulling one corner of his thin lips into a fake half-smile.
“I am Abigael Steen.” She looked as if she belonged in a crystal palace, her flawless complexion too perfect for being out among dust, dirt, and cobblestones. She tipped her head. “You know my uncle, the bailiff?”
“Ah, yes. Your uncle is Bailiff Winther.”
“There he is.” Abigael stretched out her hand toward her uncle. “As you can see, Mr. Hill, I am with child. I want my son to grow up in an environment safe from evil and wickedness.”
Angus nodded. “I am here now, madam, and can assure you I will take care of that.” He pulled his shoulders back and let out an awkward laugh. “My reputation precedes me wherever I go. This village will be safe and free of witches before the summer is through.”
Clara looked at Peter, lifted her eyebrows, and sighed. Then she caught sight of Christian on his horse on the other side of Market Street. He nodded when their eyes met.
“I’ll be right back, Peter.” Clara lifted her skirts, intending to cross the square to meet Christian.
“Excuse me,” the witch-finder said. “I see someone I know.”
Angus’s words stopped Clara in her tracks. The witch-finder flipped his long cape back on his shoulders, pushed Abigael aside, and charged toward Clara.
Even with the noise and bustle of the crowd, Clara thought she could hear the spurs on his knee-high boots clank against the cobblestones as he strode confidently in her direction. Behind him, John Pywell hung back, probably happy to have a break. What an occupation, translating for a witch-finder.
She quickly occupied both her hands by removing her shawl and holding it in front of her. She could not bear touching him when he came to greet her.
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 6
