"Is everything satisfactory?" Winston asked, waiting at the cell's threshold as Matthew inspected his tools and the magistrate tested the firmness of the cushion with the palm of his hand.
"I believe it is," Woodward decided. "One request, though: I'd like a pot of tea."
"Yes sir, I'll see to it."
"A large pot, please. With three cups."
"Certainly. Mr. Paine has gone to fetch Jeremiah Buckner, and should be returning presently."
"Very good." Woodward was loath to sit down yet, as he didn't fancy these surroundings. In his career there'd never been an equal to this set of circumstances. He heard the rustling of straw, and both he and Matthew saw Rachel Howarth rise up from her repose. She stood at the middle of her cage, her head and face hooded by her garment.
"Not to be alarmed, madam," Winston told her. "Your court is about to convene." She was silent, but Matthew sensed she was well aware of what was in preparation.
"There'll be no disruptions from you, hear?" Green warned. "Mr. Bidwell's given me the authority to bind and gag you if I must!"
She made a sound that might have been a bitter laugh. She said, "Aren't you feared to touch me? I might conjure you into a frog and stomp you flat!"
"Did you hear?" Green's eyes had widened; he looked from Woodward to Winston and back again. "She's threatenin' me!"
"Steady," Woodward said. "She's talking, nothing more." He raised his voice to address the woman. "Madam, I would suggest to you that such claims of ability are not helpful to your position."
"My position? What position?" Now she reached up, pulled back her hood, and her fiercely beautiful face was fully exposed, her black hair dirty and wild, her amber eyes aflame. "My position is already hopeless! What lesser depth can there be?"
"Mind that tongue!" Green shouted, but it seemed to Matthew that he was trying to make up in volume for what he might be lacking elsewhere.
"No, it's all right." The magistrate walked to the bars and peered through them into the woman's face. "You may speak your mind in my court. Within reason of course."
"There is no reason here! And this is not a court!"
"It is a court, because I have decreed it so. And as for the matter of reason, I am here to find it. I am going to be questioning witnesses who have some knowledge of your activities, and it will be for your benefit if you don't attempt to make a mockery of the proceedings."
"A mockery," she repeated, and she laughed again. Some of her fire, however, had been extinguished by the magistrate's calmness of tone. "Why don't you go ahead and pronounce me guilty? Put me to the rope or the stake, or whatever. I can't receive a fair trial in this town."
"On the contrary. I am sworn before the law to make certain you do receive a fair trial. We are holding court here because my clerk has been sentenced to three days—"
"Oh?" Her gaze fixed on Matthew. "Have they pronounced you a warlock?"
"Three days," Woodward repeated, shifting his position so that he stood between the woman and his clerk, "for a crime that does not concern you. If I were not interested in the fairness of your trial, I should have you taken to some other location and kept confined. But I wish for you to be present and hear the accusations, under the tenets of English law. That does not mean, however"—and here he lifted a finger for emphasis—"that you will be suffered to speak during the questioning." He had to pause for a moment, to clear his ravaged throat of what felt like a slow, thick stream of phlegm. He was going to need the acidity of the tea to get through this day. "Your time to speak will come, and you shall have all the opportunity you need to refute, explain, or otherwise defend yourself. If you choose the path of disruption, you shall be bound and gagged. If, when the opportunity of your speaking arrives, you choose silence as the cornerstone of your defense, that is your privilege. Now: do we have an understanding?"
She stared at him, saying nothing. Then, "Are you really a magistrate?"
"Yes, I really am."
"From where?" Her eyes narrowed, like those of a suspicious cat.
"Charles Town. But I originally served the bench in London for many years."
"You have experience in witch trials?"
"No, I do not. I do, however, have much experience in murder trials." He offered a faint smile. "All the jurists I know who have experience in witchcraft trials are either writing books or selling lectures."
"Is that what you hope to do?"
"Madam, I hope to find the truth," Woodward said. "That is my profit."
"And where's Bidwell, then? Isn't he attending?"
"No. I've instructed him to keep his distance." She cocked her head to one side. Her eyes were still slightly narrowed, but Woodward could tell that this last bit of information had cooled her coals.
"If you please?" Winston said, desiring the magistrate's attention. "I'll go fetch your tea now. As I said, Nicholas should be here shortly with Mr. Buckner. Three cups, did you say?"
"Three. For me, my clerk, and the witness. Wait. Make that four. A cup for Madam Howarth as well."
"This is a gaol!" Green protested. "It ain't no social club!"
"Today it's a court," Woodward said. "My court, and I'll preside over it as I please. At the end of the day, it will be a gaol again. Four cups, Mr. Winston."
Winston left without another word, but Green shook his red-maned head and grumbled his disapproval. The magistrate paid him no further heed, and sat down in the desk's chair. Likewise, Matthew situated himself at his clerk's station. He took a sheet of paper from the box, set it before him, and then shook the inkwell to mix the pigments and opened it. He chose a quill, dipped the nib, and made some circles so as to get the feel of the instrument; all quills might look similar, he'd learned, but some were far more suited for the task of writing than others. This one, he found directly, was a wretched tool. Its nib was much too broad, and unevenly split so that the ink came out in spots and dollops rather than a smooth flow. He snapped it in two, dropped it to the floor, and chose a second quill. This one was better; it was a neater point and the ink flowed sufficiently well, but its shape was so crooked that the hand would be paralyzed before an hour's work was finished.
"Horrible," Matthew said, but he decided not to break the second one before he tested the third. His regular quills—the ones carried in a leather holder that had been lost back at Shawcombe's tavern—were precision instruments that, not unlike fine horses, required only the lightest of touches to perform their task. He longed for them now, as he tried the third quill and found it to be the sorriest of the batch, with a crack down its center that caused ink to bleed into the feathers. He broke it at once, and therefore was wed to the handkiller.
"Are the tools unsuitable?" Woodward asked as Matthew practised writing a few lines of Latin, French, and English on the rough-skinned paper.
"I'd best accept what I've got." He was leaving blotches of ink on the paper, and so he further lightened his pressure. "This will do, once I've tamed it."
Within a few moments Nicholas Paine entered the gaol with the first witness. Jeremiah Buckner walked slowly and unsteadily even with the use of a cane. His beard, far more white than gray, trailed down his chest, and what remained of his snowy hair hung about his frail shoulders. He wore loose-fitting brown breeches and a faded red-checked shirt. Both Woodward and Matthew stood as a show of respect for the aged as Paine helped the old man across the threshold. Buckner's watery brown eyes marked the presence of Rachel Howarth, and he seemed to draw back a bit but allowed Paine to aid him in sitting on the stool.
"I'm all right," he said; it was more of a gasp than speech.
"Yes sir," Paine said. "Magistrate Woodward will protect you from harm. I'll be waiting just outside to take you home when you are done here."
"I'm all right." The old man nodded, but his eyes kept returning to the figure in the next cage.
"Where do you want me, Magistrate?" Green inquired, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice.
"You may also wait outsi
de. I'll ask you to return if it's necessary."
The two men left, and Buckner positioned his cane so as to give himself balance on the stool. He swallowed nervously, his knotty fingers working together, his face gaunt and blotched with the dark spots of advanced age.
"Are we ready to begin?" Woodward asked of Matthew, and the clerk dipped his quill and nodded. The firsr thing was for Woodward to stand and offer the Bible to Buckner, instructing him to place his right hand upon it and swear before God that he would tell the truth. Buckner did, and Woodward put the Good Book aside and settled himself back in his chair.
"Your full name and age, please, for the record."
"Jeremiah Buckner. I shall be sixty-and-eight year come August."
"Thank you. Mr. Buckner, how long have you been a citizen of Fount Royal?"
"Ever since it begun. Five year, I reckon."
"You're a farmer, is that correct?"
"Was. My son brung Patience and me here to live with 'em. He did some farmin'. Wasn't no good at it, though. Two year ago, he an' Lizabeth lit out, took the boys. Gonna come back an' fetch us, once they's settled."
"Yes, sir, thank you," Woodward said. "So you and your wife occupy a farm? On which street?"
"Industry."
"And what is your source of income?"
Buckner wet his lips with his tongue. "Patience an' me get by on the lovin' kindness of our fellows, sir. Our farm ain't worth nothin'. Just got a roof o'er our heads, that's all. But when Ezra comes to get us, everythin'll be paid back. I'll swear that on the Lord's Book, too. He writ me a letter, come by the post rider from Charles Town. Said he was lookin' for some good land up Virginia way."
"I see. Now I presume you have an accusation to make concerning Madam Howarth?"
"Well ..." Buckner glanced quickly through the bars into the next cell.
"Sir?" Woodward said sternly. "Look at me, please, not at anyone else. If you have an accusation to make, now is the proper time."
Matthew waited in the silence that fell, his quill poised. On the paper was written every utterance up to the moment, penned in the code of shortened words, abbreviations, and alphabetic memory-devices of his own creation.
Buckner stared at the floor. A blue vein at his temple throbbed. With an obvious effort he opened his mouth and spoke. "She . . . the witch . . . she come to me. In the night. She come to me . . . naked, she was. Wearin' a . . . serpent 'round her neck. A black serpent, with yella eyes. Like hers. She come to me, stood right at the foot of my bed, and Patience sleepin' a'side me."
"You're referring to Rachel Howarth?"
"She's the one."
"You have that down?" Woodward asked his clerk, but he needn't have because he knew Matthew's ability. Matthew just nodded grimly and dipped his quill once more.
"May I speak?" Rachel asked sharply.
"No, you may not!" The answer was delivered with an even-sharper point. "I told you, I'll have no disruptions in my court!"
"I would just like to say that I—"
"Madam!" Woodward shouted, and his raw throat paid the price for it. "One more word and the gag shall be delivered!"
Matthew had been scribing all this down as well. Now he stared at her, his quill's nib resting at the end of a letter, and he said quietly, "It would be wise not to speak further. Believe me."
Her mouth had already begun to open to test the magistrate's will. Now, however, she paused in her intent. Woodward waited, his fists clenched in his lap and his teeth gritted behind his lips. Slowly Rachel Howarth closed her mouth and then seated herself on the bench.
Woodward returned his full attention to Buckner. "When did this event occur? Was it before or after the murder of Daniel Howarth?"
"After. I believe Daniel had been laid down a week or two, so I reckon it was early February."
"All right. Tell me then, as clearly as you recall, exactly what happened."
"Yes sir." Buckner spent a moment putting it together in his mind, his head lowered. "Well ... I don't recollect so good as I used to, but that kinda thing you don't forget. Me and Patience went to bed just like usual that night. She put out the lamp. Then ... I don't know how long it was ... I heard my name spoke. I opened my eyes. Everythin' was dark, and silent. I waited, a'lis-tenin'. Just silent, like there was nothin' else in the whole world makin' a sound but my breathin'. Then ... I heard my name spoke again, and I looked at the foot of the bed and seen her."
"By what light, if there was none?" Woodward asked.
"Well, I've put my mind to that but I can't answer it. The winda's were shuttered, 'cause it was might cold outside, so there wasn't no moonlight. But she was there, all right. I seen her, clear as I see you."
"You're positive it was Rachel Howarth?"
"I am."
Woodward nodded, staring at his hands spread out on the desktop before him. "And what else transpired?"
"I was scairt half out of my wits," Buckner said. "Any man would've been. I started to wake up Patience, but then that woman—the witch—said I wasn't to. She said if I woke up Patience I would be sorry for it."
"But your wife wasn't roused by Madam Howarth's voice?"
"No sir. I've puzzled on that, too, but I can't make no sense out of it. Patience slept deep as usual. Only thing I figure is that the witch put a conjure on her."
Matthew heard the woman give a muffled grunt of frustration; he was tempted to lift his head to glance at her, but the quill demanded his absolute concentration.
"All right. Then what occurred?"
"The witch . . . said I was to keep her visit a secret. Said if I spoke it to anyone, they would be killed on the spot. Said I was to meet her two nights hence, in the orchard behind my house. Just said be there betwixt midnight and two, she would find me."
"Madam Howarth was nude, you say?"
"Yes sir, she wore not a stitch."
"But she had a serpent around her neck?"
"Yes sir. Black, it was. With yella eyes."
"Had you latched your doors and windows before retiring to bed?"
Buckner nodded. "We had. Never used to, but . . . with somebody a'killin' Reverend Grove and then Daniel like that . . . Patience felt easier with the latches throwed after dark."
"Therefore in your estimation there was no possible earthly way for Rachel Howarth to have entered your house?"
"Well sir . . . after she was gone, I lit the lantern and checked them latches. They was all still throwed. Patience woke up and asked me what I was doin'. I had to tell her a lie, say a barkin' dog stirred me up. She went on back to sleep, but I couldn't near close my eyes."
"I can understand," Woodward said. "Tell me this, then: exactly how did Madam Howarth leave your house?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Oh? You didn't see her leave?"
"Soon as she told me where to meet her . . . she was just gone. Didn't fade nor nothin', like you might think a phantasm would. She was there and then not."
"And you immediately lit the lantern?"
"I think so. Maybe it was a minute or two. It was kinda hazy what I did just after she left. I believe I was still conjured, myself."
"Uh . . . Magistrate?" The voice made Matthew jump, the quill scrawling across two neat lines above it before he could rein it in.
"Yes?" Woodward snapped, looking toward the gaol's entrance. "What is it?"
"I've brought your tea, sir." Winston carried a wicker basket with a lid. He came into the cell, put the basket down upon the magistrate's desk, and opened it, revealing a white clay teapot and four cups, three of the same white clay but the fourth a dark reddish-brown. "Compliments of Mrs. Lucretia Vaughan," Winston said. "She sells pies, cakes, and tea from her home, just up Harmony Street, but she graciously offered to brew the pot free of charge. I felt it my duty, however, to inform her that the witch would be drinking as well, therefore Mrs. Vaughan asks that Madam Howarth use the dark cup so that it may be broken into pieces."
"Yes, of course. Thank you."
&n
bsp; "Is there anything else I might do for you? Mr. Bidwell has put me at your disposal."
"No, nothing else. You may go, and thank you for your assistance."
"Yes sir. Oh . . . one more thing: Mrs. Vaughan would like Madam Howarth herself to break the cup, and then she asks that you gather the pieces and return them to her."
Woodward frowned. "May I ask why?"
"I don't know, sir, but it was her request."
"Very well, then." Woodward waited for the other man to leave, and then he removed the teapot from the basket and poured himself a cup. He drank almost all of it immediately, to soothe his throat. "Tea?" he offered Buckner, but the farmer declined. Matthew took a cup, taking care not to spill any upon his papers. "Madam Howarth?" Woodward called. "I should be lacking in manners if I failed to offer you a cup of tea."
"Lucretia Vaughan brewed it?" she asked sullenly. "I wonder if it's not poisoned."
"I have drunk some that I would swear was tainted, but this is quite good. I'd daresay it's been a while since you've had a taste." He poured some into the dark cup and handed it to Matthew. "Put this through the bars, please."
Matthew stood up to do so, and the woman rose from her bench and approached. In a moment Matthew found himself face-to-face with her, the compelling amber eyes staring fixedly at him. Curls of her thick ebony hair had fallen across her forehead, and Matthew was aware of tiny beads of sweat glistening on her upper lip, due to the gaol's damp heat. He saw her pulse beating in the valley of her throat.
He pushed the cup through; it was a tight fit, but it did scrape between the bars. She reached to accept it, and her fingers pressed across his. The sensation of her body heat was like a wildfire that burned through his flesh and flamed along the nerves of his hand. He let go of the cup and jerked his arm back, and he didn't know what his expression had revealed but the woman was looking at him with curious interest. He abruprly turned his back to her and resumed his place.
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