Ady smacked his lips as if he was tasting the name. “No, can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“How about Matthew Hopkins? Hill claims he was tutored by Hopkins.”
Ady’s eyes widened. “Ah, now that’s a name I know. Hopkins has been dead some years now, but if Hill was associated with Hopkins, it is bad news.”
Clara nodded. “When Angus Hill speaks, he quotes scriptures from our Holy Bible. I have looked them up. The words are there.”
“I assume he has accused people. Let me ask you, Miss Dahl, do you believe those blamed were guilty of witchcraft?”
“Certainly not.”
“Interesting. I am glad to hear we are on the same side in this matter. I assume I may speak without reservation. Witch-mongers will tell you that a witch is a murderer, that she has marks on her body set there by evil forces, and that she has imps. These things are not true.”
“Imps?” Dorthea frowned. “What on Earth is an imp?”
“An imp…” Ady scratched his head. “How can I explain it? Some believe that fallen fairies have turned into mischievous beings, and these ugly familiars want attention from humans. The so-called witches are known to have a familiar, an imp that has taken the shape of a cat, dog, rat, or another kind of animal.”
Dorthea shivered. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Some of our old churches and cathedrals have carved creatures on their structures, and I have seen old artwork with grotesque beings like that,” Clara said.
Ady emptied his cup again. “Those are gargoyles. Similar to the imps but meant to protect people. They have been said to inspire both artists and writers. To answer your question, Miss Dahl, I explain in my first book that these things are not written in the Holy Bible. Nowhere does it say that a witch has an imp, that she will sink or float when tested in the water, or that she can inflict any disease or infirmity. The scriptures explain about soothsayers and false prophetesses, not about people who fly or do magic tricks.”
“The problem is that the villagers believe the witch-finder when he speaks of these scriptures,” Clara said. “Unfortunately, many seem convinced he proclaims the truth.”
Ady nodded. “He and many others will twist the facts. There is a general ignorance of the scriptures or a neglect to search and ponder them. Tell me, does this witch-finder quote the Holy Scriptures by saying a sorcerer shall burn, rebellion being as the sin of witchcraft, and not to let witches live?”
“He does.”
“Misinterpretation. That’s what it is.” Slowly accentuating each word, Ady banged his finger several times on the table. “A person has no power to kill by witchcraft or fly in the air. The Bible does not say that she can hurt corn or cattle. No, take it from me, young lady, despite all the accusations, these women are innocent.”
Dorthea smiled at Clara and nodded, as if urging her to continue.
Clara let out a short breath and went on. “Most folks seem to be afraid when something unforeseen happens…things they do not understand and cannot explain. Many have an urge to blame someone for their trials and problems. These accusations develop into fantastic and improbable stories.”
“Let me quote something from my first book,” Ady said. “There was one man in King James’s time who called himself the king’s most excellent Hocus Pocus. He was called thus because when he played tricks, he used to say, ‘Hocus pocus’, along with other words, to blind the eyes of the beholders. You know, Clara, it is quite common for magicians to use special magic words as they dexterously work their trickeries for entertainment. Jugglers and conjurors use both actions and words. People are blinded to what lies behind the illusions, thus they are amused. But what I so avidly want to impress by my writing is that this has nothing to do with being a witch. The words used by these entertainers are only for games and enjoyment. A magician is not a witch, so why should we consider that it is the other way around?”
Effortlessly, Ady put her beliefs into words. He even did so in a pleasant manner, always buoyant and friendly.
Dorthea had the maid clear the table and bring in the dessert, a pudding made from sago with raisins and almonds.
Ady leaned back and patted his belly. “Dorthea, once again, you have presented an excellent meal. This is the reason I cannot visit too often. I’d get fat.”
“Nonsense,” Dorthea said. “But I am pleased you enjoyed it. We grow much of our vegetables and grain, and our cook does wonders with any ingredient she is given.”
“How about you, Miss Dahl, do you do wonders in the kitchen?”
Clara bit her lip. Oh, no. Not that question. How mortifying. Her lack of interest in cooking should not become a subject of discussion here. “I am afraid not.”
Fortunately, Dorthea came to her rescue. “It will come. Even though I have a cook, I join her in the kitchen and take part in the baking and cooking now and then. It’s satisfying.”
Marna brought a tray of glasses filled with raspberry cordial.
“Clara, would you share your plans for teaching the children in the village?” Dorthea asked.
Clara tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes were on her, his face creased in a smile.
“I have spent the last while preparing. Christian has even helped me with the classroom interior.”
Dorthea widened her eyes. “He has?”
Christian shook his head and laughed. “No, no, this is all Clara’s doing. I just helped her carry the logs for the benches into the classroom in the cabin.”
Ady’s companion, who had been very quiet throughout the dinner, cleared his throat. “What kind of school, Miss Dahl? Are you saying you will be teaching?”
Ady pointed at him. “Cecil is a professor, you know. Very knowledgeable.”
The conversation appeared to be heading in the direction all conversations about female teachers tended to go. Clara grew tense.
Christian put his elbows on the table. “Now, Clara, here, is doing a wonderful thing. She knows how to read and write and voluntarily teaches some of the village children. We are so grateful to her as we have no other teacher here at the moment.”
Clara relaxed a bit. She gave Christian a grateful look.
Grinning, Cecil rolled his eyes. “I would like to hear about your work here, Miss Dahl. I find it fascinating that a woman even wants to teach. And you believe it will make a difference if girls are given the same chance as boys to have an education?”
“I agree,” Ady added. “Do tell.”
These were good people. No need to hesitate and worry about sarcastic or rude comments. Why not cease the opportunity to explain her opinion on education? “I do. We can all contribute in this world, and literate women can play a greater role.”
Christian placed his hands on the table. “Only if they are given that chance. Many things will have to change before we see female leaders and commanders. We have a long way to go, I’m afraid.” He stood up and lifted his glass. “But I am for it. Gentlemen, a toast. We need look no farther than around this table to find excellent examples of women who have much to offer society. These two could outwit any of the men I sit in council with. I am certain of it.”
Ady and Cecil arose and tipped their glasses with Christian.
Dorthea clasped her hands together. “What a wonderful evening this has been, having all of you here, and thank you for your praise, Christian.” She held out her hand to Ady. “Help me up, my friend.”
Christian came around and pulled Clara’s chair back, and they followed Dorthea and the two Englishmen into the hallway.
Ady turned to Clara. “Miss Dahl, I appreciate your remarks this evening. You appear to be an educated woman. That is unusual but intriguing.”
Clara curtsied. “Intriguing, how?”
“I wonder how you became such an accomplished scholar. In my country, women are not teachers, and only females of the privileged classes are allowed some degree of education.”
“What do they study?” she asked.
&
nbsp; “Mostly needlework but also music and dancing. They need to be sociably presentable. Some learn to read a language or two if they are diligent and patient enough.”
“This is what I want to change, by giving women an opportunity to read more books.”
Ady pointed at her and smiled. “You, my dear, have many interesting thoughts in that pretty head of yours.”
She rubbed her fingers on her skirt. Remain calm. A compliment was always acceptable. Still, it was belittling that a man should speak to her as if it was a miracle that she—a mere woman—had opinions and knowledge. Why were men always surprised to discover she had views on more than embroidery and dance steps? That both husband and wife could have the freedom to learn and grow was important to her. If she should ever be someone’s wife, it would be a union with a man who would respect her views and be pleased to be her husband as well.
Dorthea clasped her hands together. “I think it’s marvelous. And you, Clara, are just the right person to encourage women to read. Now, let’s withdraw to the parlor.”
Clara put her hand on Dorthea’s arm. “I should be going home.”
“Yes, of course.” Dorthea nodded to her guests. “I will join you in a minute.”
Ady bowed and bid Clara farewell, followed by Cecil.
Dorthea stroked Clara’s cheek. “Thank you for coming, dear.”
“It’s been a lovely evening.” Clara curtsied. Her thoughts lingered on the conversation with Ady. When she was younger, her father had encouraged her to read writings from philosophers of olden times. The works of Aristotle were an interesting study until she came to the part about his views on the female race. She had felt inclined to protest against the ancient Greek, to shout her disagreement with his findings. We are not nature’s mistake. A woman is not an incomplete male. We are not meant to be ruled and subjugated by men. But every day, she faced the problem of many men who still shared Aristotle’s viewpoint.
“Thomas and Cecil are spending the night here. I can take you back to your cottage.” Christian stood in front of her, holding her shawl. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes, please.” She let him wrap the shawl around her shoulders then turned to Dorthea and curtsied. “I have learned so much this evening. Thank you for introducing me to Mr. Ady. I am encouraged that someone like him stands up against the ridiculous and dangerous witch hunting obsession that surrounds us.”
“You are welcome.”
Christian opened the front door for Clara. The northern summer evening weather was light and mild. A soft mist floated gently toward Dorthea’s garden. It would give life-strengthening moisture to her beloved flowers.
Clara waited patiently while Christian pulled the wagon from the shed.
“Not on the back of your horse this time?” she asked with a wink.
He smiled broadly. “I thought I’d take you home properly. Maybe we’ll ride horseback another time.”
He gave her his hand and assisted her into the wagon then climbed aboard himself, taking a seat beside her on the bench. He guided the horse down the lane in a slow walk. Sweet, wild strawberries with white flowers grew pretty on the roadside. A doe with two fawns stood motionless in the green field as they passed.
Clara breathed the air, crisp and floral. The small lake reflected the warm colors of the sun sitting low in the sky. Occasional circles formed on the calm water every time a trout, perch, or perhaps a pike touched the surface. Christian owned this land.
“Do you often think about the fact that you own all these fields and the forest beyond?” Clara asked.
“Every day.”
His eyes were soft when he answered, as if they had an inner glow. He meant what he said. The way he said it gave her hope that respect and commitment were important to him.
“You must be proud. I have never seen such a large estate.”
“Not proud. I mostly feel awe and a sense of responsibility. My father had me schooled and spent time teaching me himself. He wanted me to learn to take care of both our land and those connected with it when my time came. That transition happened too soon. Now, I wish he was still here to guide me.”
Clara recognized the feeling. Mother had been a sweet memory in Clara’s life, a toddler’s reminiscence of a loving parent. Father had been gone the last couple of years. Only having faith stronger than a wish and conviction deeper than hope had allowed her to go on. She chose to believe in a reunion with her loved ones. She gently touched his arm. “Maybe your father still guides you.”
“Well, I hope to meet him again one day.”
“I feel the same way about my parents.”
She secretly gave him a sideways glance. His eyes were on the road, his strong hands firmly holding the horse’s reins. She’d been looking forward to spending time alone with him, but now that he was here—sitting right next to her— bashfulness crept up on Clara. Why did she pull away from lengthy eye contact? Scholarly conversation usually worked when she felt shy. Maybe she should try that? But would he want to discuss his views and philosophies with a woman?
She leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “What do you think about autocracy and the present power of our king?”
She caught Christian looking at her. Long lines outside the corners of his eyes deepened when he pulled a charming smile.
“Are you interested in politics, Clara? I noticed you paid close attention to the conversation during dinner.”
His tone of voice was neither teasing nor condescending. He seemed intrigued.
She smiled back, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, to the extent that I want to understand how it functions and which rights the common man or woman has. We cannot avoid it. Politics affects our lives and dictates how we should live them.”
“That it does. Where did you attain your knowledge of political views and legislations? I discuss many matters with my mother but have found that these issues are mainly discussed by men.”
“I went to Copenhagen last autumn to visit my uncle Jacob. He serves in our king’s court. We spoke about politics, and he sends me letters with news from the Danish capitol.”
He nodded and gave her a contented smile. “Well, to answer your question, the power of our king can become a threat to the nobility. Our civil servants—”
“Like the bailiff?”
“Yes, men like the bailiff, officers, even the minister, have had their positions strengthened.”
He slowed the horse as they approached the village. A couple holding hands crossed the road in front of the wagon. The woman had a flower tucked behind her ear. Clara moved a little closer to Christian.
He smiled. “Are you sure you want to hear more?”
She nodded eagerly. “Tell me why the bailiff and the others have higher status now.”
“Well, when the king gathered together representatives of the nobility, clergy, and prominent citizens only last autumn, noble families lost some of their privileges. The king no longer wanted the nobility to hold main political position while they shunned their military responsibilities. Besides, they were exempt from paying taxes, and the king needed to fill his empty coffers.”
“But the changes did not happen overnight, did they?”
“There are still adjustments, and these may vary from town to town. It takes time to change the organization of society. Decisions are made, and laws are passed in Copenhagen. We have no authority in that sense. Letters and documents convey the message.”
He was patient and courteous. None of her questions seemed unimportant to him. As he drove across the square, a man called out a greeting. Christian raised his hand and nodded. The gap between rich and poor was everywhere. There would always be servants and leaders. To understand how they all fit together in society was important to her. Then she would process their conversation and teach the children.
“I have noticed that many of these civil servants have more than butter on their bread,” she said.
“Hah, they do. Some have progressed swiftly in so
ciety by building up lucrative careers through the acquisition of woodland, sawmills, mining, shipping…”
“And marriage?”
“You’re correct, Clara. Many men have filled their coffers by marrying wealthy heiresses.”
She touched his arm and gave him a thoughtful expression. “Your father passed on before these new changes.”
“He did. But he had already prepared a future for Mother and me. I learned from him to be ready for anything, that being prepared can mean the difference between life and death. I am grateful to him for that.”
“Here we are.” Christian brought the horse to a halt and kindly helped her down from the wagon.
“I am most grateful,” she said and curtsied.
He tipped his hat. “My pleasure, Clara.”
He climbed back into the seat, then clicked his tongue, turned the horse around, and drove off. Dust swirled up from the ground as the back of the wagon grew smaller in the distance. Soon, Christian and the wagon were gone.
Clara danced up the steps and into the cottage. The feeling was a welcome breather from her habitual agonizing, a condition she had gotten used to. She would not have minded if he had chosen to ride his stallion so she could have had her arms around his waist as he took her home.
She sat down, elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands. Christian or Peter? She pushed the thought and the vision of both men aside. What would happen in Berg now with the witch-finder in the village? The conversation at Ivershall had been enlightening. Was it possible to implement any of Thomas Ady’s thoughts into her work in the village?
The sun was setting, and she opened the door to watch the colors changing. The sky was still fair and pale with tones of blues graduating to rosy red toward the horizon. Had she been one of those needlepoint women Ady talked about, she could have embroidered until bedtime without even lighting a candle on a summer evening such as this one.
Birds were chirping in the thicket behind the cabin. Just like Clara, the blackbirds were still up, making plans, not ready for bed.
She sighed. Tomorrow was a new day. She needed to be rested enough to stay focused. She put on her nightshift and crawled into bed. The house had been empty when she returned from Ivershall. Siren had made it clear she did not want anyone to watch over her, that she needed time to herself away from the village. Where was she? Every night she was away Clara prayed for her safe return. Siren had not ceased to be a mystery to Clara, and she had not been able to quell her anxiety over the possibility that the young woman could be in danger. And what would happen if Siren went into labor while out gallivanting in the woods? What if—?
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 11
