To Snare A Witch

by Jay Raven

  And that wasn’t an end to the ordeal. Slumber was denied him. Whenever he started to fall asleep, head tipping forward into a semi-coma, the guard rattled the cell bars with a sword, the metallic clattering cutting through his fatigue and bringing him trembling back to consciousness.

  It was an effective and merciless torment. And so clever, Jack had to concede. Torture was illegal – banned by Parliamentary decree – yet this inhuman assault on him was as cruel and harmful as any beating, slap or stabbing. And although his pain was real, there was not a single bruise or wound to show for his suffering.

  “All it takes to end this is a simple signature,” Thomas Gaunt told him day after day. “Confess, confess your infernal sins. Admit that you have struck a covenant with the Devil. Spare yourself these agonies.”

  And Jack's reply was always the same: “Never.”

  Sometimes he hallucinated, imagining that Elizabeth was standing before him, bathed with light, holding out her hand, whispering: “Endure, my darling, don’t give in, don’t abandon hope. I will save you. Even now I am harvesting what I need…”

  A bang made him jump, the bowl clattering to the floor. The outer gate to the dank cellblock opened with a rusty screech. Footsteps and voices echoed far away, each moment coming nearer.

  Leaning shakily on his elbow, Jack tried to sit up on the cot. He gasped as his weakened muscles strained. He swayed, dizzy. Then cruelly the chains holding him shackled to the stone wall yanked viciously, forcing him back on to the filthy straw-filled mattress. If he’d had any moisture left in his body, he would have sobbed like a child.

  “My Lord, I wasn’t expecting you,” a voice whined. “There is no news. Nothing has changed. The prisoner remains defiant.”

  “That is why I am here,” a louder, deeper voice said menacingly. “To find out why. You promised me he would crack in less than a week. This ridiculous delay is intolerable.”

  “We have experienced some problems, unexpected setbacks.” The whine rose higher. “Only temporary, I assure you. Nothing that cannot, with a measure of fortitude and guile, be successfully resolved. He is stronger of mind and body than we anticipated. Even so, his spirit must be close to snapping.”

  “It had better be, or I swear you and your master will pay. I want results. And I shall have them soon, or you will answer for it.”

  Sir Henry Cruttendon strode into view, his flaming torch throwing harsh light into the inky corners of the dungeon. Matthew Stiles padded after him.

  “I want to see the prisoner,” the Earl boomed, “I will converse with him alone.”

  “My Lord, is that wise?”

  “I said alone,” said Cruttendon, batting away the other man with an angry wave. “Go away, trembling troubadour. Get out of my sight before I remember just how loathsome and incompetent you are and do something about it.”

  For a moment the assistant inquisitor seemed about to argue, then wisdom prevailed and, bowing, he backed out then fled into the darkness.

  “What is the matter?” Jack whispered challengingly as the Earl approached. “Is your diabolical design for me not going exactly as you foresaw?”

  Sir Henry smiled frostily at the jibe, placing his face close to the iron bars of the cell. “It is delayed, certainly, but nothing that cannot be rectified. Your destruction is merely taking longer than hoped,” he countered. “It is of no great concern.”

  It was Jack’s turn to smile, forcing his dry lips into a grimace. “You cannot put me to death without a confession of witchcraft, we both know it. The King would never allow you to murder one of his most decorated officers.”

  “You will confess – sooner or later," Cruttendon promised. "It is inevitable. You will admit to being one of Satan’s servants. You will sign the paper.”

  “Yes, but how long will that take? Weeks? Months? Years? How much patience have you got, My Noble Lord?” Jack’s gritty eyes held the Earl’s predatory glare. “You fear to torture me properly. I cannot die in your custody. So what can do you? Truly, my Lord, just what can you do to make me capitulate?”

  The goading provoked a reaction, but not the one he expected. Sir Henry sighed, as though savouring a fond recollection.

  “Perhaps I can describe the luxuries I enjoy every day – the rich food, the warm fires, the plentiful grog,” he suggested. “Better still, I could have a table set up in here and you could watch me dine, smelling the succulent food, knowing that you could never taste it, that the best you can hope for is an occasional bowl of that pig swill.”

  The noble pretended to consider the idea, placing the flickering torch into a holder on the wall. “Or even more amusing, I could have a bed set up here and you could witness my nightly diversions… with your bride.”

  Jack wasn’t aware of leaping to his feet, rage flooding through him. All he knew was the agony as the chains yanked him back and he tumbled to the floor with a crash.

  “It is a lie!” he yelled. “You lie.”

  Cruttendon shook his head contemptuously.

  “She is most energetic, a spirited filly,” he reported. “Who would have thought such an unsullied and virtuous maiden could learn so many tricks in such a short time?”

  “It is a filthy lie. She would not!”

  “Such soft skin, lips so moist and kissable. Full, firm breasts. And such vigour. She quite wears me out.”

  Jack’s head spun. He desperately needed to believe that the old man was fantasising, that what he said were falsehoods. Yet, as he studied the noble’s hard, certain expression he could see only a sneer of triumph; no deception. It was true! Oh God, it was true!

  “The deluded trollop thinks she can save your skin by letting me fondle hers, but she is woefully mistaken. She is simply keeping me warm and sated until you crumble. It is a pitiful sight to behold. Each night she implores and weeps, and succumbs – pleasuring me in any number of ways that would make a whore blush.”

  Jack swore at him, threats and curses exploding in a torrent of barely coherent abuse. Although his body was depleted and ravaged, he knew at that very moment he could rip the Earl apart with his bare hands if given the slightest opportunity. Only the bars and chains offered Cruttendon any semblance of safety.

  “I will kill you,” Jack promised. “I swear I will see you dead. I will bathe in your blood.”

  The noble feigned deafness, slowly walking away from the cell, knowing the damage was done, the wound as deep and painful as any razor slash.

  He turned, shrugging. “The child is so naïve. She honestly thinks her desperate rutting can save you. And while I dangle hope – any shred of hope – she crawls back between my sheets. Well, Captain Tyler, brave, defiant Captain Tyler, what think you now? Are you determined to drag out this ordeal for weeks and make your loyal wife suffer such degradation every night? Will you be the cause of her disgrace and suffering? Or shall I summon Assistant Inquisitor Stiles with quill and ink?”

  For the first time in his life, Jack felt helpless, torn, defeated. He shook, rage and despair mingling, self loathing filling every void. Damning images filled his mind, tormenting and accusing him.

  “Bring the parchment,” he answered, his voice breaking into a sob. “Bring the accursed parchment, damn you.”

  Intery, mintery, cutery corn,

  Apple seed and apple thorn...

  Elizabeth looked around, checking that none had seen her approach through the rustling trees, before letting the hood fall about her shoulders. Cautiously, she pushed at the cottage door. The latch lifted without protest and she darted inside, careful not to drop the tight cloth bundle in her grasp, its contents more precious than gold.

  There was no light, save the pale moonlight shining weakly through the small window. She waited several moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom, staring around at the long strands of herbs and wildflowers hanging from the dusty rafters, then moved slowly across the room to admire the simple clay jars, each filled to the brim.

  The air was musty, unpleasant
ly pungent, and a chill had entered the walls. Apart from that the cottage still felt occupied, as though the occupant had merely popped out on an errand. Sadly, Elizabeth knew differently.

  It had been weeks since a fire had last burnt in the grate and, pushing away thoughts of what had happened to the hovel’s tenant, she laboured to clear away the ash and clinker, grabbing what remained of the twigs and branches in the firewood basket and arranging them in a circle, each leaning inwards. Underneath, she placed a pile of dry leaves and fragments of perished linen in an easily combustible mound. They lit without difficulty and flared up, the growing flames lapping around the kindling.

  Checking on the fire’s progress, Elizabeth recalled earlier years. Happy summers spent in this very home, sitting, listening enthralled as the old maid regaled her with tales of forest creatures and wild legends, and taught her young charge recipes and rhymes, harmless childish whimsy. Later, as Elizabeth grew older, replacing these simple lessons with instructions in other, more exacting, skills and arcane knowledge.

  The fire took with a low roar, its illumination spreading across the simple kitchen, and Elizabeth looked down at the floor and gasped. The soggy bundle was curled and deformed, partly decomposed. She hadn’t seen it in the darkness and had been lucky not to step on it. The animal had been dead some time and, nudging it cautiously with her toe, the corpse tipped over, a trail of maggots pouring out.

  “You poor little mite,” she muttered. “You didn’t deserve this. This was no way to die.”

  She could easily imagine what had happened. The cat had been trapped inside the cottage when its owner had vanished. Unable to escape, the animal had gone mad with hunger and thirst, mewing and crying before it weakened. Examining the inside of the door she saw the claw marks, frenzied lines dug deep into the wood, each desperate trough coated in blood. No matter how it struggled, the creature was doomed.

  It made her mind drift to another victim, and she trembled as she pictured Jack. Just as trapped. Future just as grim.

  “No time for doubts, or second thoughts,” she told herself sternly. “What has been set in motion must be played out.”

  The large pot was heavy, so solid that she struggled to lift it from its place on the side of the hearth, its copper bottom almost dragging on the coarse flagstones. It took three attempts before she manhandled it on to the metal tripod over the flames, and let go, the giant container wobbling alarmingly as it crashed on to its brackets.

  Puffing with exertion, she made four long trips to the well in the garden, to fill the wooden bucket and return to empty the water into the deep pan. Despite her fear and tension, fatigue overtook her and she slept for nearly an hour, awakening to find the water boiling excitedly.

  Good, it was ready.

  Unrolling the cloth bundle she’d carried for days, she set out the bizarre array of items haphazardly across the linen. It had taken so long to gather them, and at such risk and suffering. Yet, she thought with sad wonder, they looked insignificant, small, and worthless – mere junk, not even interesting enough to be regarded as trinkets.

  Despite this, she knew their true value, as ingredients; the most wondrous components. With a little skill, courage and esoteric knowledge, these elements could be combined in the most perilously potent way.

  First, she picked up some herbs, flower petals, and blossoms, followed by handfuls of seeds and spices. Into the pot they went to infuse and distil. Then, as the liquid changed hue and thickened, Elizabeth started to recite the words she’d been taught, the ancient lines whispered in awe and hope.

  Slowly at first, then growing faster, the cauldron began to knock, the metal flexing and creaking.

  “That’s right, my fine friend,” she coaxed. “It is time to come to life. Awaken, I command you. Fizz and splutter. Swirl and rage.”

  The pan shook violently, splashing some of its sticky broth over the side. The soupy lake within churned, and for a fleeting second Elizabeth could picture an image within it, an old woman screaming and thrashing, disappearing below its surface.

  Elizabeth cursed, face contorting into a scowl. The glimpsed scene was an echo of the beginning of this tragedy, the first link in the chain of injustice and infamy set in motion by her enemies. Well, soon she’d forge her own links, and the circle of fate would turn. And those who meddled in things they little understood would pay with their very souls.

  She picked up the first item from her bundle – a shard of fingernail. Dropping it in, she visualised the indignity she had undergone to obtain the fragment. As the cauldron moaned and buckled, the nail melting in a flash of popping flame, she remembered Cruttendon’s roaring laughter as he had commanded her to nibble at his wrinkled stumpy fingers, trimming the yellowing talons with her teeth.

  “Make a good job of it, girl and maybe I’ll let you nibble on something else,” he’d promised lewdly.

  He’d laughed, unaware that as he forced his fingers into her mouth, he was unwittingly giving Elizabeth the first intimate item she needed for her alchemistic collection.

  Nail dissolved, the next ingredient went in – a snippet of brittle grey hair from his head, then a wiry curling follicle from lower down on his frame. Both lengths frazzled in the mix, dancing madly as they disappeared, each giving off a fleeting puff of green smoke.

  Pausing, she smelt the brew, wrinkling her nose at the distinctive odour – storm clouds, wild mushrooms, wet fur and decay; overlaid with the unmistakable smell of sulphur. It was disgusting, but strangely alluring.

  She recited more lines, the incantation wafting around the room with the smoke, and picked up the first of the three vials from the cloth. The first contained spittle – frothy, flecked with phlegm. Holding it upside down, she grunted in annoyance as the gooey liquor refused to budge, sticking stubbornly to the sides of the glass.

  After slapping it hard on the base without success, she sighed and simply dropped the tiny bottle into the simmering soup. The glass popped, disgorging its slimy treasure.

  For a moment, the pan’s surface appeared to retch, the potage heaving and twitching. This time the fleeting image it created made her whimper – a young girl, face down, pinned and bound, being defiled by a fat, panting, red-faced monster pressing down on her back.

  A single tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away, telling herself she’d had nothing to rebuke herself about. She’d had no choice. It had been necessary to keep the beast distracted. He’d had to be fooled, kept so engrossed in his cruel depravity that he didn’t notice as she gathered her vital keepsakes.

  She opened the last two vials – Cruttendon’s blood and thin, milky seed. These most vital of all liquids had been most challenging to harvest, putting her at most peril of discovery and punishment. The Earl kept watch on her constantly, never letting down his guard for more than an instant, and gathering them had taken all of her cunning and determination.

  Ironically, she had assumed that the sample of his discharge would be the most straight-forward to collect. Each night the semen ran down her leg, its warm, cloying stickiness making her shudder. However, Sir Henry didn’t want her giving birth to his off-spring, and insisted she cleansed herself while he observed. The medicinal bath waters washed away all risk of pregnancy, but also flushed away the very essence she required. Even the alternative, holding his seed in her mouth after he had forced her down on his manhood, proved impossible. He made her swallow, delighting in this final indignity, enjoying the sight of her gagging and retching.

  That was until the night his housekeeper had inadvertently blundered in on them, and he had turned momentarily to angrily chastise the servant, and Elizabeth had seized her chance, spitting the foulness into the vial, before hiding it far under the mattress.

  Collecting the blood sample had proven just as tricky. Each night, she listened to him slumber, satiated, his bestial snore reverberating around the bed chamber. When she was sure he was deeply asleep, she would bring out the blade – the knife she reproached herself for
not using that first time he’d violated her.

  She didn’t need much blood – a few drops, the same amount that his evil witch-finders extracted when they pricked their victims with pins and needles. But each time she pressed the knife against his bare arm, he’d moan and turn over restlessly, causing her to panic and quickly hide the weapon.

  There was only one option left to her. No matter how defiled and soiled she’d feel, she had to make him sleep much deeper than he’d done before. So the night before, instead of sitting immobile, meekly allowing him to make his boorish advances, she took the initiative – straddling him, gripping tight, urging him on, demanding he take her time and time again.

  He’d chortled, wheezing as he moved inside her, whispering in her ear: “See, my pretty whore. I knew this was your true nature. It only took my embrace to unlock your wanton lusts. Well, my rutting wench, amaze me. Show me what a dirty, filthy, licentious doxy you can be. Drain me dry.”

  The ordeal went on for nearly two hours. She feared she’d made an appalling miscalculation and that the old goat had inexhaustible stamina. Then, just as she was about to despair, he gave a vulgar moan, let his head fall back on to the silk pillow and yawned, eyelids closing. He was instantly in a semi-coma.

  His snores were louder, more guttural than usual, his body inert and spent. Even so, she sat for nearly fifteen minutes checking that he was indeed dead to the world, before producing the blade.

  For an instant, the words dead to the world tempted her. Why not just do what she had originally planned more than a week ago and pull its razor’s kiss across his throat? It would be the most fitting revenge. Watching his crimson life force ooze from his body would be a sight that filled her with joy beyond measure. She weighed up the attractions before cautioning herself that it wouldn’t save Jack from the gallows, or help her in her other disturbing mission.