“My mother thought you should have enough for the next few days. I will return and bring more supplies toward the end of the week.”
Ruth came forward, slowly at first, her gaze pinned on the ground. She looked up at Christian and flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you for helping my family.” She then lowered her gaze again and slunk back to the others.
Christian flashed a smile as he looked toward the children with their arms full of provisions. Joy filled his heart, and his chest tingled. The expressions on the children’s faces would stay in his memory for a long time.
“This will be very helpful,” Ellen said. “We are used to finding what we need in the woods. The girls pick berries and collect eggs. The boys hunt for rabbits, squirrels, and birds. They catch fish in the ponds and smaller lakes and often bring mushrooms home. Ruth and I find nettles, dandelion leaves, and red clover. The woodland is full of things to eat, and we can find nuts, plants, and leaves everywhere.”
“That’s good. I came up here yesterday and brought blankets, some more cups and plates, and a pale for water.” He turned to the boys. “There’s also a hunting knife and some baskets in there.”
The boys looked at each other and grinned.
“How can we thank you?” Ellen asked.
“No need. Clara said we needed to make sure you got enough nourishment and put on some weight.”
He glanced at Clara, and she beamed a smile back. She had created the goodness he felt by allowing him to be a small part of her mission to serve others.
The children ran around, getting to know the grounds.
“Even with all the commotion they seem cheerful,” Christian said to Clara.
“They are a grateful lot and don’t require much.” She put her hand on his arm. “Christian, I would like to spend the first night here with them. I want to make sure they get settled in and understand how important this is.”
He reached out and pushed some of her hair behind her ears. The tender look in her eyes gave him hope.
“I will leave one of the horses here and come for you in the morning, then.” Christian mounted his stallion, took the second horse in tow, and rode off.
✽✽✽
Abigael sat in the parlor at Steen Estate and flipped through the pages of the witch-finder’s manual. Her uncle had brought it by only days before. Already, she had read the text four times. It was eye-opening how many ways one could know a witch from a God-fearing woman, although some of the methods sounded senseless. She had laughed loudly as she’d read about women sailing on eggshells down the stream or how some rode broomsticks through the air to a foreign country. A large, hooked nose was also suspicious, as the nose was reminiscent of the beak of a bird of prey, thus the hag could fly.
Perhaps it was true. She could believe troll women wanted to destroy society. Many of the loud-mouthed women in Berg looked like old crones. They did not take care of themselves and had rude, abominable manners. What did they hide behind those hideous kerchiefs and filthy faces?
She expected to hear from Christian any day. The love potion—combined with her natural good looks—would make her irresistible to the master of Ivershall. She could hardly wait for the day when he would whisk her away from her boring, lonely life at Steen Estate.
Abigael walked up the stairs, sat down at her writing desk, put the manual to the side, and pulled a piece of paper out of the desk drawer. She stared into space, tapping her lip with her pointer finger. She had gone through all the details in her mind many times and had come up with a perfect plan.
Writing was not her forte. The words needed to be sound and comprehensible. Moreover, the message had to be a call to action.
Finally, she felt the strength to put her thoughts into script. She would not sign the letter; it was not necessary. Randi would make sure to deliver it in secret.
Abigael stroked her belly and hummed a lullaby. Her failure to become a mother was part of her past, gone like the leaves from the trees in autumn. She was so close. This time, she would hold a wonderful bundle of love in her arms. Soon…very soon.
CHAPTER 16
✽✽✽
ANGUS HILL DRAGGED his feet as he walked back to the inn, having spent another endless day trying to shape and motivate the villagers in Berg. Sometimes, he felt as if he had taken on a task too arduous for only one man. He rubbed the small of his back and let out a long breath.
What he needed was a proper doctor to come and calm his nerves and cleanse his blood with leeches. In England, he had a qualified and trained physician who made house calls. His doctor would always prescribe the right medicines and give proper advice such as sleep and restoration. How Angus longed to take that guidance now and have a day without care. A spoonful of the doctor’s special syrup in warm water was what he needed.
The wretched little village of Berg had no doctors, only a traveling barber-surgeon who made a rare appearance every now and then. There were a few cunning women and healers, and he had learned from experience to stay clear of them. More often than not, they turned out to be witches and troll people.
Angus was thirty-five summers old. Many of his associates were already gone, having died from smallpox and fevers. He had been to visit some of them and had seen how they’d suffered until they’d drawn their last breath.
The exposure to illness was prevalent during his childhood in Suffolk. Young folks were prone to diseases, and Angus had been no exception. Measles, whooping cough, and consumption were maladies that crept into most households, especially in the larger towns.
Angus had suffered from constant nosebleeds. The unpredictable dripping from the nose in any situation was embarrassing for a young boy. His mother had pulled down fresh spider webs from the corners of the ceiling to cure him. She had placed the web on his nose and sang verses composed of words he did not understand. When fever took hold of him and shook his limbs, she made him swallow a spider to cool down. His fear of those creepy, little insects had not vanished as he had hoped it would when he had grown into adulthood.
The picture in his mind of the day they took his mother away was impossible to erase. Angus had been only seven summers old, a small boy with questions about life and a fear of death. His mother had been dragged out of the house calling Angus’s name, yelling that someone must take care of her boy. But no one had.
Later, he had heard that his mother had been hanged on a Friday. They had called her a witch, found her guilty of magical, wicked skills. After that, Angus shut away the memories of sitting on his mother’s lap, of her stroking his hair and rocking him to sleep. She had been a witch, and nothing could change that.
He stopped in the street and sighed. He did not know any of the villagers who passed by, although some seemed to recognize him. They tipped their hat or nodded as they walked past. Women usually looked the other way or turned down another road when they saw him coming. It dawned on him he had never had anyone he could call a friend.
As a sixteen-year-old young man, he had met the Witch-finder General Matthew Hopkins, and Angus’s life had changed. The puzzle pieces of his world had been put into their right place. The great man had filled the gap of ignorance that had been Angus’s burden since his mother had been taken away. Hopkins had taught Angus about why women are more prone to witchcraft than men. The simple truth was that because females are inferior to males, they choose diabolical magic, hoping to increase their power.
The walk up the stairs felt more difficult tonight, his feet heavier than normal. Angus stopped halfway and caught his breath. At the top of the landing, he noticed something barely visible tucked under his door. Well across the threshold, he put his bag and walking stick on a chair in the corner and then returned to pick up the letter.
“Hmm,” he said. “No signature.”
He sat down by his desk and read the message.
Mister Hill, Wytche-Finder Executive. It has come to my attention that a certain woman distributes concoctions and uses wytchecrafts and magic on
Berg dwellers. Her name is Siren. She has a newborn. It is all very mysterious. I quaver to think who the father could be. For dread of her wrath, I cannot make my identity known. I am certain the Wytche-Finder will understand.
Angus leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and frowned. Could it be the woman who worked for Clara?
He tugged at his beard. The letter was specific and described a perfect specimen. The writer had solid proof of witchery, which was good. Everything went faster and easier with proof. Witnesses were usually easily attainable and could be pressed and coerced to tell the truth. When Angus sought out a witch, he would get his witch.
The handwriting looked like a woman’s doing. He gasped. What if Clara found out about her assistant and had to write this letter anonymously for fear of retribution? Poor Clara.
Angus often wondered about how much longer his health would allow him to continue his work. Praying was redundant. He did not have faith that saying words into the air would make a difference. If there was a God in the heavens, why should he answer troublesome and nagging folks far away. Clergymen Angus had known with their theatrical sermons and procedures were all a sham, baboons in flamboyant attire who knocked over the holy water because their noses were held too high. He was better than any of them.
He had met some—like Clara Dahl—who believed in receiving answers from an almighty God.
“Clara,” he said, mumbling low. Now, that was a woman worth listening to. The only female he admired.
Angus opened the black leather bag he had next to the desk. He lifted out a pouch, placed it on the desk, picked up the items inside one by one, and put them on the table.
A ring, a cross on a chain, a small knife. Then there was Bess’s recipe book. She was his favorite witch so far, different from the rest. He stroked the white-silk-covered book and then carefully placed it next to the other trinkets. Lighting a candle, he mumbled some words. “I will get…” No, he was too tired to do it properly. He rubbed his eyes and gathered the items into the pouch. Then he placed the small sack back into the leather bag.
Angus walked to the window and looked out on the street. Most of the villagers were home, old men carving by candlelight, crafting bowls out of hunks of wood, women worrying about having enough food for the next day, whole families huddled up in one bed.
The alehouse on the first floor still had customers. Some had finished their last cup and stumbled out the door. They tripped over their own feet and sang sad songs.
His mouth went dry as a plan emerged in his mind. Angus Hill, witch-finder, had a marvelous idea. Would it not be a rare opportunity to learn how a young woman behaved when she was a witch-in-making?
He put his hand on his chest, his heart racing beneath his fingertips. The thought of having a female close enough to study was both thrilling and terrifying. He needed time to let the inspiration sink in and to solidify a plan. Then he would act upon it.
He methodically went through his belongings in the room and made sure everything was aligned and in order before bedtime. A brown scapular was folded neatly on the nightstand. He did not know how to use it properly, but now and then, he put it on his head and felt the protection of the hood encircle him. Dealing with witches was life threatening, and a shield like that meant certain promises. He did not understand what but chose to believe it was good.
✽✽✽
Next morning, dark circles had formed under Angus’s eyes when he checked his image in the small looking glass he carried in his black bag. He had tossed and turned during the night. The bed was uncomfortable, and a thought had disturbed him. Who was the man he had seen with Clara a couple of days earlier? He kept seeing the scene inside his head as he walked down the stairs to have breakfast, and it gave him grave concerns.
The innkeeper’s wife came running when Angus crossed the floor to sit at his regular table by the window. The woman knew how to treat an important guest.
“Good morning, Mr. Hill.” She put a bowl of gruel and a cup of ale in front of him.
“Is it a good morning?” he said sourly. “I had not noticed. Now, leave me.”
The woman scurried away, and Angus turned his attention to more important matters. From his table, he could watch the road outside and at the same time eavesdrop on random conversations inside. His occupation—and vocation—meant always being attentive to every piece of news he could pick up. He possessed a rare talent for separating vital information from random chit-chat. Then again, he was the witch-finder; why should he not be proud?
He pushed the untouched bowl of gruel aside, finished his drink, and put a coin on the table. Winther awaited his presence shortly by the village hall. The bailiff’s influence as the village leader might lend credibility to Angus’s purpose.
Little girls were at the well, pulling up buckets of water. Across the way, young boys carried baskets of wool to the merchant. Angus puffed out his chest and sauntered down the middle of the road, one hand on his hip, the other hand knocking his walking stick into the ground with every contented step. The children of Berg would have a future because of him. They would always be grateful and remember his name.
The bailiff stood by the crossroads when Angus arrived. The man knew enough English to speak with Angus without an interpreter.
“Good day, Mr. Hill.”
Angus squinted at the sun.
“The minister should be at the church right now.” Winther started walking. “He usually prepares his sermon around this time, so let us proceed. The promenade will do us both well.”
Angus moved in alongside the bailiff. “I received your message that my original manuscript was stolen from the printer’s.” He made a fist with his free hand. “The hours I spent preparing that script. How come they never found the culprit?”
“The bailiff in Fredrikstad said the thief must have had a key. There were no damages to the shop itself, and only your manuscript and a few printed booklets were taken.”
Angus frowned. “Why would someone bother to break into the shop without stealing other books, printing tools, or money from the drawer? Obviously, my manuscript was the most valuable text there, the only item more important than money. You said no one saw anything?”
Winther shook his head. “The apprentices were working late that day. They have questioned each one of those young men. There was something about a misplaced key that turned up again, and a window left open.”
“Argh.” Angus stopped and banged his stick with full force into the ground. “It’s abominable. If none of the apprentices will admit to being at fault, how can we find out who did it? The master printer is probably elated that his entire shop was not vandalized.” He stopped in the middle of the road. “It just dawned on me; the thief could be an admirer of my work. Maybe he stole the guidebook for his personal use.”
“Perhaps. I say, it was a good thing you had a first printing done already. At least, there are a few copies of your manual to show for all your effort.”
“Yes, there are a few booklets in circulation.”
“Indeed, there are.” A skeptical look washed over Winther’s face. “Now, what are your plans with the minister?”
“He will make up for what I have lost. It may be a while before I can order another printing.” He paused in front of the large church door. “Ah, here we are.” He pushed the door open and entered.
✽✽✽
Herr Salve was standing at the pulpit, practicing for Sunday’s sermon, but he stopped immediately as two men came through the front door of the church. The witch-finder and the bailiff? They walked up the aisle as if they owned the place. How peculiar for them to show up here in the middle of a weekday. What did they want?
The bailiff waved. “May we have a word with you?”
“Let me come down from here.”
Herr Salve dropped his notes, and a piece of paper soared through the air and landed on the floor in front of Angus. The witch-finder stepped on it.
Herr Salve sighed and bent down to p
ry the paper out from underneath the man’s boot.
“Are you well today?” Angus asked, speaking slowly. He continued past Herr Salve, up the aisle, until he reached the first row. There he stopped and turned around, leaning a hip against one of the pews.
“What do you mean?” Salve’s hands were shaking, and he hid them behind his back.
“You normally stumble through your sermons. You slur and mumble.” He let out a short, snorting laugh. “No wonder when you…” Angus touched his lips with a cupped hand and tipped his head back.
“That is not fair. You do not know anything about me and my struggles.” He looked at the bailiff. “Winther, what is this about? You know where my heart is. I serve the Prince of Peace.”
“And I the king of Denmark-Norway,” the bailiff answered stiffly. “He stands above simple Sunday sermons, weddings, and funerals. Our sovereign has universal power.”
Angus came back down the aisle and put a hand on Herr Salve’s shoulder. “Good man, you have a large gathering every Sunday. I desire that you make a few announcements for me. You may have heard my manuscript was stolen in Fredrikstad. I need my message spread to the people of Berg, and where else do they all come other than here?” He swung his arm around as if presenting the building.
Herr Salve looked up toward the ceiling and sighed. Give me strength. Folding his arms across his chest, he swallowed hard and addressed the witch-finder. “I am a licensed minister in this church. I cannot spend my precious time as the shepherd of this congregation delivering witch announcements and advice on pestering other parishioners. My responsibility is to teach from the Bible.”
“Well, it will practically be the same thing.” Angus spoke low, his teeth showing. He straightened up, and his tone turned more forceful. “If you do not do this, we will let your superiors know about your little problem, and you know what will happen then. You will lose your ministry, and your family will starve. Think of all those little ones at home, their big blue eyes staring up at you.” Angus leaned in, his voice soft again. “What would you tell them?”
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 21
