Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  One of the clerks noticed Hazel staring. ‘It’s called “Witch Walking”,’ he said. ‘Those prisoners will not be allowed to eat, rest or sleep until they confess their sins or give up one of their so-called sisters. It’s a very effective method pioneered by the General himself.’

  A flush of anger heated Hazel’s blood. With an effort she managed to suppress it, but when she turned to the clerk she saw he was frowning. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, her anger curdling into fear.

  ‘I’m not sure. For a second there you seemed to be . . . glowing.’

  ‘Glowing?’ Hazel forced a smile. ‘Why, whatever can you mean, sir?’

  ‘Oh, must be nothing – a mere trick of the light.’ He glanced at Hopkins. ‘Come, the General is waiting.’

  Hopkins had paused at the foot of the walkway, inhaling deeply like a man enjoying a summer breeze; all Hazel felt was cold air, heavy with the smell of damp stone and misery.

  They followed Hopkins along the walkway, round and round, up and up, past locked doors and grim-faced guards, until they reached halfway between the floor and ceiling, and the people below were barely visible in the gloom.

  Hopkins stopped outside a door guarded by two soldiers and took a key from his pocket. ‘This is the first time I’ve spoken to Murrell since putting him in the Oven. I wonder if he’s feeling more forthcoming now?’

  ‘No one can stand the Oven for long,’ one of the clerks said. ‘He’ll break sooner or later.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we’d do well not to underestimate our opponent.’ Hopkins turned to Hazel. ‘William, I want you to set up your table in the corner and transcribe my conversation so I can peruse it later. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  ‘Good.’

  Hopkins unlocked the door and beckoning them through. Hazel faltered at the threshold. This could be the moment her endeavour failed – if Murrell gave her identity away then she’d be captured and no doubt killed.

  If that happens I’m not going down without a fight.

  The cell was small, windowless, and lit with three guttering torches. A stone bench ran along one wall. Tied to a chair in the middle of the room sat a man wearing a filthy horsehair tunic. His face was hidden behind a curtain of black hair, but Hazel recognized him instantly: this was Nicolas Murrell, and she was shocked at how thin he looked.

  There was no sign of Bramley, which meant Murrell might not know about her presence. So, hoping to stay out of sight, Hazel crept to the darkest corner, perched on the bench and set up her writing table as quietly as she could.

  On Hopkins’ cue one of the guards picked up a bucket of water and hurled the contents at Murrell. The force nearly tipped the chair over, and left Murrell gasping for air.

  What should I do if they start to hurt him? Hazel thought, laying out some parchment with trembling hands. I can’t hope to rescue him, but can I really sit here and watch his mistreatment? It was a decision she hoped she would not have to make.

  Whistling between his teeth, Hopkins sat on a stool in front of his prisoner and drew a curved blade from his pocket. Hazel tensed as he leaned forward and used it to sweep Murrell’s hair away from his face.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘There you are.’

  ‘My gracious host.’ Murrell’s voice cracked, as if he had not spoken for a long time. ‘How nice of you to arrange this visit.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the least I can do.’ Hopkins put the knife away and laced his fingers over his stomach. ‘So,’ he purred, ‘how are you finding the Oven?’

  Hazel began to transcribe, struggling to keep her handwriting steady.

  ‘I find the solitude rather soothing,’ Murrell replied mildly.

  ‘You lie! I once left a prisoner in there for two days, and when I let her out she tried to throw herself off the roof.’

  ‘De gustibus non est disputandum,’ Murrell said, looking up at the ceiling.

  Hazel didn’t understand the words, but she noticed Hopkins’ lips twitch with irritation.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘The Oven is intolerable for anyone, even a man as sick at heart as you.’

  ‘Yet here I am, hale and hearty.’

  ‘Hale and hearty? You don’t look it, Nicolas.’

  Hazel could not help but be impressed when, despite his bonds, Murrell managed a carefree shrug.

  ‘Ah, such bravura! Such studied insouciance!’ Hopkins smiled. ‘It doesn’t fool me, of course – I know how you suffer in the heat and the dark. And so you’ll be pleased to know that I’m here to offer you some respite.’

  Murrell raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? There’ll be conditions, I assume?’

  ‘Naturally. You’ll have to answer all of my questions honestly, completely and without reservation. Do that and I’ll put you in a room in the White Tower with a bed and enough space to stretch your legs.’

  And so began an interminable half-hour as Hopkins bombarded Murrell with questions. How many witches had he commanded in his Coven? Where are the rebel safe houses in London? What demon had he treated with when he’d travelled to the Underworld?

  Through it all Murrell just stared at the floor and uttered not a single word.

  ‘I know you had Wielders in your Coven – I even know their names,’ Hopkins said, getting up and walking behind Murrell. ‘David, my trusty informant, told us all about them.’

  So David has been talking, Hazel thought, flexing her aching fingers. Is he doing so willingly, or is he being tortured too?

  ‘Lilith Kilbride,’ Hopkins continued. ‘A Frost Witch you were particularly close to. So far she has eluded us, but we’ll find her sooner or later. And then there was a White Witch, a healer, called Hecate Hooper.’

  Hazel bit her lip. It felt strange to hear her mother’s name spoken by Hopkins.

  ‘She ended up a victim of your dark deeds,’ Hopkins said, putting his hands on Murrell’s shoulders. ‘Stolen into the Underworld by a demon. Still . . .’ He shrugged. ‘One less Wielder for me to worry about, eh?’

  Not if I get her back, Hazel thought.

  Hopkins squeezed Murrell’s shoulders hard enough to make him wince. ‘But she had a daughter. You remember her? Of course you do! Her name is Hazel. She’s a Fire Witch, dangerous, and I want to know where she is.’

  Startled by the mention of her own name, Hazel pushed a bit too hard on the quill and snapped the nib. Ink spilt all over the parchment. She grabbed a blotter to soak it up.

  ‘This is your last chance to cooperate,’ Hopkins said, walking back in front of Murrell. ‘If you don’t, it’s back to the Oven and this time I’ll leave you there until you dry up like a slug on a skillet.’

  Murrell cleared his throat as if preparing to speak. Hazel held her breath.

  ‘Yes?’ Hopkins urged.

  Murrell spat on to Hopkins’ boot and grinned up at him.

  Hopkins grabbed a fistful of Murrell’s hair and jerked his head back. ‘You may not have broken yet, but I’ve plenty of time to twist you and turn you until you snap.’ He let go and gestured for the guard to open the door. ‘Pack up your things, William. This interrogation is over.’

  Hazel looked up from the parchment to find Murrell staring directly at her. Her heart raced when she realized that he knew exactly who she was – and if the wry smile he gave her was anything to go by, he’d known from the moment she’d walked into the cell.

  As the guards moved in to untie him, Murrell opened his hand and let something drop to the floor. Hazel nearly let out a cry of relief.

  It was Bramley, bright-eyed and unharmed, nimbly dodging the boots of the guards as he slid towards her with his belly flat to the ground. The moment everyone’s attention was elsewhere, Hazel bent down, picked him up and slipped him into her pocket.

  15

  HOPKINS CONFIDES

  ‘I hereby remove all legal hindrances and let my Witch

  Hunters govern themselves in their duties.’

  Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell addressing Parliament
, 1645

  Surrounded by an angry black cloud, Hopkins dismissed his clerks and prowled all the way back to the Tower of London. Hazel followed. She had to use both hands to carry her desk and writing equipment, but she could feel Bramley’s weight in her pocket and it lifted her heart higher than it had been for days.

  You did it, my clever little mouse! she thought. I’ll never scold you again.

  Hopkins climbed up to the ramparts and looked moodily out over the city. Dawn was breaking and the salmon pink sky heralded another balmy day in London.

  The manic energy he’d exuded before the interrogation had been replaced with a brooding preoccupation; Hazel put down the table, slipped her hand in her pocket to give Bramley an affectionate squeeze, and waited.

  ‘Look out there, William,’ Hopkins said. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘I see the city, General. Houses, churches, the river . . .’

  ‘What else? Down there, in the streets.’

  ‘Er . . . people?’

  ‘People, yes. About six hundred thousand of them, all packed inside these ancient city walls.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘And while Lord Cromwell fights the rebels in the North they are my responsibility.’

  ‘The people are lucky to have you, General,’ she said, quickly lifting Bramley to her shoulder and letting him crawl into her hair.

  ‘The people fear me and call me tyrant – they don’t understand that everything I do is to keep them safe.’

  Hazel edged closer, wondering why Hopkins was opening up to her like this. He’s tired and disappointed by what happened with Murrell. And perhaps he doesn’t have anyone else he can trust to talk to.

  ‘What of your colleagues within the Order?’ she asked.

  ‘Careerists to a man. They resent me – a mere country lawyer raised above my station – and covet my power and closeness to Lord Cromwell. I’m always looking over my shoulder, William. Always.’

  Hazel decided to push him a little further. ‘You never married, General?’

  ‘Oh, I was married once. I had a son too, about your age. Plague took them both. To my regret I wasn’t with them when they passed.’

  ‘I’m . . . sorry,’ Hazel said softly.

  ‘It happened. And I am left behind.’

  Despite who Hopkins was, despite all the terrible things he was responsible for, Hazel could not help but feel a stab of pity for him – the pain she heard in his voice mirrored that which she felt at the loss of her mother.

  ‘I’m married to the Order now, for my sins.’ Hopkins gathered himself, standing up straight and clasping his hands behind his back. ‘And so are you, William! You did well back there.’

  ‘I’m happy to serve,’ Hazel said, feeling the lie come smoothly. ‘Actually, General, I’d like to ask you a favour, if I may.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s just I’ve not had a chance to tell my father that I’ve been accepted into the Order. He’ll be so proud. Can you spare me for an hour or two so I can go and give him the good news?’

  Hopkins considered, ‘I have an important job for you to do later, but perform it to my satisfaction and I’ll give you leave to see your father this evening. Now go to your room and rest. I’ll send Anthony when I need you.’

  ‘Yes, General,’ Hazel said, suppressing a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’

  16

  A MOUSE’S TALE

  Ward off plaguey vapours by chewing tobacco, rue or angelica. Cures for Common Folk by Rachel Kellehar

  Hazel rattled back to her room with the table under her arm. After closing the door she sat down and placed Bramley on the desk.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she said, running her hands over his fur. ‘Oh, Bram, I missed you! I’m never letting you do anything like that again.’

  ‘I’m fine, no need to fuss.’ He puffed up with pride. ‘Did rather well, didn’t I?’

  ‘Right now, little mouse, I believe you can do anything.’ Hazel grinned. ‘What did Murrell say about me going to the Underworld to rescue Ma?’

  Bramley held up a paw. ‘All in good time. First I need something to eat. I’m starving.’

  Deciding it was the very least he deserved and realizing that she was also hungry, Hazel dashed to the kitchens on the ground floor and loaded a plate up with bread, cheese, hot cuts of meat, and the two nicest apples she could find.

  When she returned, her dormouse-familiar was fast asleep on the blotter with his tail curled over his head. Hazel woke him, then cut up the apple.

  ‘So,’ she said after they’d eaten, ‘now you can tell me what happened.’

  Bramley sat up on his hind legs and began. ‘It was a dark and stormy night, and the rain fell in torrents—’

  ‘No it didn’t! It was a perfectly nice evening. Now come on, mouse, don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘You’ve got no imagination, that’s your trouble,’ Bramley muttered. ‘So, after you let me go, I made my way across the bridge, moving like a tiny shadow past the guards. While I waited for someone to open the door a beady-eyed seagull was watching me, probably wondering what dormouse tastes like. Luckily a troop of guards came out and I sneaked inside before he got a chance to get me.’

  ‘Were you scared?’ Hazel asked, eyes wide.

  ‘Of course! And you’ve not even heard the half of it. Next thing I had to do was find out where they were keeping Murrell, so I overcame my fear and found a guardroom.’

  ‘How did you stay hidden?’

  ‘I stayed close to the walls –’ he flattened himself to the desktop and used his back legs to wriggle forward – ‘and moved all the way like this.’

  ‘Clever mouse!’ Hazel said, hiding a smile behind her hand.

  Bramley continued in hushed tones. ‘In the guardroom were some scraps of food, so, braving the risk of discovery, and despite the fact I don’t very much care for it, I managed to fortify myself with some cheese.’

  Hazel rolled her eyes.

  ‘I was hungry.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘And then, a stroke of luck! The guards started talking about a “top secret prisoner”. They must mean Murrell, I thought from my vantage point in a milk jug. I waited for ages, and then an order from Hopkins came through, saying they were to prepare the “top secret prisoner” for interrogation straight away.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I did my special creeping walk along the floor, climbed on to one of the guard’s boots and held on for dear life as he marched off to carry out the order.’

  ‘So you rode all the way to where they’re keeping Murrell?’ asked Hazel in awe.

  ‘I did – on the roof. And would you believe there’s a garden there? It belongs to Hopkins and he tends it himself.’

  ‘Hopkins has a garden at the top of the Island? How strange.’

  ‘It’s quite nice, in an orderly, regimented kind of way. Anyway, the place where they’re keeping Murrell is this tiny little room with no windows, and when the guards opened the door I dashed inside.’ Deciding to keep Hazel in suspense for a while, Bramley began to gnaw on a slice of apple.

  ‘Bram!’ Hazel said, tapping him on the nose. ‘Hopkins might call for me any moment, so come on.’

  ‘All right . . . So, this room was terrible – roasting hot – and Murrell was all crouched up and shaky, but as soon as he saw me he snatched me up and said, “I know you, you’re hers!”’ Bramley looked up at her with his bright black eyes. ‘He meant you, and I was terrified because he hates you, and one squeeze and he could have killed me.’

  ‘Did you explain what you were doing there?’

  ‘I couldn’t. He kept me in his hand while the guards grabbed him and marched him to that cell and tied him to the chair. Luckily they left him there alone – either because he scared them or because he smelt so horrible – and we got a few minutes to talk.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I managed to tell him you were here, disguised as an apprentice, and you needed to speak to him about Hecate. Then the guards came
back so I hid in his hand.’ Bramley climbed up her arm and rubbed against her neck. ‘He hid me until you were leaving, then he let me go.’

  ‘And he didn’t give me away . . .’

  ‘You were right – as much as he resents you, he’d never betray a witch to the Order. But I have to say, I doubt he’ll agree to help us without getting something in return.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Rescue, of course – what else?’

  ‘But he knows that’s impossible,’ Hazel said, tugging nervously on a strand of hair.

  ‘He’s also got nothing to lose, so he’ll probably demand it anyway.’

  ‘Well, whatever the case may be I need to talk to him properly. At least Hopkins is committed to keeping him alive, so we’ve got time to find a way . . .’

  The door opened and Hazel managed to sweep Bramley into her pocket just as Anthony poked his head in.

  ‘Hello, William,’ he said. ‘The General wants you right away.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Hazel replied. ‘Coming.’

  There was an unusual hush in the corridor as they hurried towards Hopkins’ office. Hazel saw two men – one middle-aged, the other old and stooped over a cane, both wearing long black cloaks – conferring together at the top of the stairwell.

  ‘Who are they?’ Hazel whispered.

  ‘They’re Grandees,’ Anthony replied. ‘The old one is known as the Spymaster – he’s terrifying. There’s to be a meeting with them all right now. That’s what the General wants you for.’

  They hesitated on the threshold of Hopkins’ office. Light streamed through the floor-length window, silhouetting Grimstone – tall, severe, hat tucked under his arm, and Hopkins – head bowed, feet firmly planted, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘And Stearne?’ Hopkins was saying. ‘Is he gracing us with his presence at the meeting today?’

  ‘Captain Stearne’s not been seen since your conversation yesterday.’ Grimstone drew a letter from his pocket. ‘Although my spies intercepted this – a dispatch from him to Lord Cromwell.’