“I’m involved at the moment,” Woodward interrupted. “Allow me to finish this page.”
“Yes, sir.” He stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he heard the magistrate put aside the documents and clear his throat with what sounded to be painful difficulty.
“As usual,” Woodward began, “you have done an admirable job. The papers are excellent.”
“Thank you.”
“I should finish reading them tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Oh, I’ll be glad to get out of this place!” He lifted a hand and massaged his tender throat; his shaving mirror had told him how bad he appeared—pasty-faced, dark hollows under the eyes, and a sheen of fever sweat on his cheeks and forehead. He was extremely tired as well, weakened by both the ravages of his illness and the bleeding lancet, and all he really cared to do was lie back in this bed and sleep. “I’m sure you shall be glad too, won’t you?”
A trick, Matthew thought. So obvious it was hardly worth dodging. “I’ll be glad when justice is done, sir.”
“Well, justice is about to be done. I shall deliver my decree tomorrow.”
“Pardon me,” Matthew said, “but usually you spend at least two days reviewing the documents.”
“Is it etched in stone? No, I hardly need to read these papers.”
“Does it matter at all that I feel—very strongly—that Rachel Howarth is neither a murderess nor a witch?”
“Evidence, Matthew.” Woodward tapped the sheaf of papers. “The evidence is right here. You heard it, and you recorded it. There are the poppets on the dresser over there. Tell me what evidence refutes the testimony?” Matthew remained silent. “None,” Woodward said. “Your opinion, and your opinion only.”
“But do you agree that some of the testimony is questionable?”
“I find the witnesses to be credible. How do you explain that all their stories have overlapping elements?”
“I can’t.”
Woodward swallowed and winced at the pain. He had to speak, though, while his voice had at least a minimum of strength. “You know what will be best for this town, just as I do. I don’t relish it. But it has to be done.”
“Will you not allow me time to ask some more questions, sir? I believe that Violet Adams may—”
“No,” came the firm answer. “Leave that child alone. And I want you to stay away from the gaol, from this minute on.”
Matthew took a deep breath. He said, “I believe I should be able to go where I please, sir.” He saw the fire jump into Woodward’s eyes, even as sick as the magistrate was. “If you are basing your restrictions on what Exodus Jerusalem told you, I might inform you that the preacher has filthy designs on Madam Howarth. He wants her to confess and throw herself at your mercy, whereupon he will step in and vouch for her newfound Christian soul. His aim is to recruit her as his travelling doxy.”
Woodward started to speak, but his voice cracked and so he had to pause until he regained it. When he was able, he said, “I don’t give a damn about Exodus Jerusalem! Of course he’s a scoundrel. I knew that the minute I saw him. My concern is your soul.”
“My soul is well protected,” Matthew answered.
“Is it? Really?” Woodward stared up at the ceiling for a time, composing his thoughts. “Matthew,” he said, “I fear for you. That woman…she can do you some harm, if she pleases.”
“I can take care of myself.”
At that Woodward had to laugh, though it fiercely pained him. “The famous last words of a million sons to their fathers!”
“I am not your son,” Matthew said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “You are not my father. We have a professional relationship, sir, and that is all.”
Woodward didn’t reply, but simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillows. His breathing was slow and steady, if somewhat ragged-sounding. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Matthew. “The time has come,” he said.
“Sir?”
“The time,” Woodward repeated, “has come. To tell you things…that perhaps should already have been told. Sit down, if you like.” He nodded toward the chair that was placed close beside the bed, and Matthew sat down upon it.
“Where to begin?” It was a question the magistrate had posed to himself. “The beginning, of course. When I was a prosperous attorney, I lived in London with my wife, Ann. We had a very fine house. A garden in the back, with a fountain. Oxford had prepared me well.” He gave Matthew a slight, sad smile, and then it went away. “We had been wed two years when we had a son, whom we named Thomas, after my father.”
“A son?” This was an amazement to Matthew.
“Yes. A good boy he was. Very intelligent, very…serious, I suppose. He loved for me to read to him, and he loved to hear his mother sing.” Woodward heard in his mind the woman’s sweet soprano and saw shadows on the green Italian tiles that graced the fountain. “Those were the finest days of my life,” he said as softly as his tortured voice would allow. “On our fifth anniversary, I presented Ann with a silver music box, and she gave me the gold-striped waistcoat. I remember the moment I opened the wrapping. I recall thinking…that no man on earth had ever been so fortunate. So privileged to be alive. There I was, with my loved ones before me, my house, my possessions, my career. I had tasted the full fruit of life and I was a rich man. Rich in so many ways.”
Matthew said nothing, but now he more fully understood the magistrate’s anguish at leaving the treasured garment in Shawcombe’s hands.
“Four years later,” Woodward continued after a painful swallow, “Ann and my partners encouraged me to pursue the robe. I passed the necessary examinations…became a jurist apprentice. In time I was informed I would advance when the next appointments were made.” He drew a long, suffering breath and let it go. “I didn’t have long to wait. That summer the plague came. Many openings were created.”
Woodward lapsed into silence as the memories came up around him like so many whispering ghosts. “The plague,” he said, his gaze fixed on nothing. “Summer ended. A wet and nasty autumn, and the plague remained. It was a visitation of blisters on the flesh, followed by fits and terrible agonies until death. I saw my closest friend die that September. He withered from a sturdy athlete into a weeping skeleton in the space of two weeks. And then…one morning in October…the maidservant screamed in Thomas’s bedchamber. I rushed in. Knowing already. And fearing what I would find.”
His voice had dwindled to a mere whisper and his throat was a burning hellpit, yet he felt the necessity to go on. “Thomas was twelve years old. The plague cared not for age, nor social position, nor riches nor…anything. It set in on Thomas…as if determined to destroy not only him, but his mother and myself. The best the doctors could do was sedate him with opium. It was not enough to make him stop hurting. Not nearly enough.”
He had to halt once more to swallow, and felt the scum of infection ooze down his throat.
“May I get you something to drink?” Matthew asked, standing up.
“No. Sit down. I must speak while I can.” He waited for Matthew to settle himself again. “Thomas fought it,” he said. “But of course…he could not win. His skin was so raw he couldn’t turn over in bed. Once…when a fit struck him, he thrashed so much that the flesh…peeled from his back like wet bark from a rotten tree. And everything was blood and pestilence and that smell…that smell…that death-reeking, hideous smell.”
“Sir,” Matthew said, “you don’t have to—”
Woodward lifted a hand. “Please hear me out. Thomas lived for ten days after he was afflicted. No, lived is not the correct word. Survived. The days and nights were of indistinguishable damnation for us all. He vomited torrents of blood. His eyes were swollen closed from crying, and he lay in filth because we had no help and…we could not wash the sheets fast enough. On the last day…he was seized by uncontrollable fits. So strong he grasped hold of the iron bedstead, and the bowing of his body…made the entire bed jump up and down…like some demonic toy. I remember his face,
in that final hour. His face.” Woodward squeezed his eyes shut, sweat glistening on his cheeks, and Matthew could barely look at him, so awful was the sight of his soul-caged grief.
“Oh, my God, his face,” the magistrate rasped. His eyes opened, and Matthew saw they had gone red with the memory of such torment. “The pox…had consumed most of his face. At the end, he…hardly appeared human. As he was dying…being racked by those fits…he gripped the bedstead with all his remaining strength. I saw his fingers tighten…tighten…and he looked at me.” Woodward nodded, marking the moment. “He couldn’t speak, but I saw him ask a question of me, as if I had been God Almighty. He asked me: Why? And to that question—that unknown, unfathomable question—I was mute. Hardly ten minutes later…he let loose a groan, and at last he left us. I had such plans for him. Such plans. And I loved him, more than I had even known.
“His death…the way he died…could not help but taint the rest of our days,” Woodward said. “Ann had always been fragile…now her mind was blighted. Her spirit grew dark, as did mine. She turned against me. She could no longer bear to live in that house, and she began to suffer violent rages. I think…she was so frustrated…so angry against God…that she was reduced to the impulses of an animal.” He paused and swallowed. “Took to drink. Took to being seen in unsavory places…with unsavory people. I reached out for her, tried to get her into church, but that made things worse. I believe…she needed someone to hate on this earth as much as she hated the Lord. Finally, she left the house. I was told that Ann had been seen drunk in a certain neighborhood, in the company of a man of ill repute. My career began to suffer. It was rumored that I was a drunk as well—which was sometimes true—and that I was open to bribes. Which was never true. A convenient lie for some persons who wished me harm. My debts came due, as debts will when a man is down. I sold most of what I owned. The house…the garden, the fountain, the bed upon which Thomas had died…all of it was repugnant to me, anyway.”
“But you kept the waistcoat,” Matthew said.
“Yes. Because…I don’t know why. Or perhaps I do. It was one item of my past…that remained clean and unblemished. It was…a breath of yesterday, when all the world was fragrant.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I had no idea.”
“Well, why would you? Over time…the cases I heard grew fewer. I must say much of my disgrace was my fault, as I allowed Brother Rum to accompany me to the bench. I decided…as my future appeared to be dim in London, I might try my torch in the colonies. But before I left…I tried to find Ann. I heard she’d fallen in with other women of her class who had…experienced the deaths of their husbands by the plague, and who had become…rumpots and flesh merchants by necessity. By this time, she was completely gone to me. Gone to herself, as well.” He gave a labored sigh. “I think that’s what she wished. To lose her identity, and thus the past.” He stared past Matthew, into the incalculable distance. “I believe I saw her. In a crowd at the harbor. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care to be sure. I walked away Later I boarded a ship…and hence to a new world.”
Woodward lay his head back and closed his eyes again. He swallowed pus and tried to clear his throat, to no avail. His voice was all but gone now, yet he forced himself on because he feared so for Matthew’s soul and wished him to understand these things. “Imagine my surprise…to find that Manhattan was not paved with gold. I found that the New World…is no different from the Old. There are the same passions and crimes. The same sins and scoundrels. Only here…there’s so much more opportunity to sin…and so much more space in which to do it. God only knows what the next century will bring.”
“I spoke with Goode about that,” Matthew said, offering a trace of a smile. “His wife believes the world will be destroyed by fire, while he believes it might be—as he put it—a ‘century of wonders.’”
Woodward opened his bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know…but I do believe it will be a wonder if Fount Royal reaches the new century. This town will surely die if Rachel Howarth is not executed.”
Matthew’s smile vanished. “Is the future of this settlement your basis for putting a woman to death, sir?”
“Of course not. Not entirely, I mean. But the evidence is there…the witnesses…the poppets…her own blasphemous demeanor. Not to mention her grip on you.”
“What grip? I fail to see how my interest in the truth can be construed as—”
“Cease and desist,” Woodward said. “Please. The more you go on, the less you convince anyone…least of all me. I daresay it is not only Jerusalem who has designs on the woman…though I believe it’s actually she who has designs on you.”
Matthew shook his head. “You’re absolutely wrong.”
“I have heard enough cases. To know how blinding is the fire of temptation. And how hot it burns.” Woodward massaged his throat once more. “My voice is near its end, but this I have to tell you,” he whispered. “There was once a merchant. An eager, industrious young man. His business…required him to rise early and thus to bed early. But one evening…he stayed awake past his usual hour…and in so doing he heard the wondrous singing of something he’d never heard before: a nightbird. The next night, he managed to stay awake later…to hear more of the bird’s song. And the following night. He became so…so intoxicated with the nightbird’s voice that he thought only of it during the day. Came the time when he spent all the night listening to that song. Could not carry out his business during the sunlit hours. Soon he turned his back altogether on the day, and gave himself over to the nightbird’s beautiful voice…much to the sad end of his career, his health…eventually his life.”
“A fine parable,” Matthew said curtly. “Is there a point to it?”
“You know its point. A parable, yes, but there’s great truth and warning in it.” He gave Matthew a piercing stare. “It is not enough to love the nightbird’s song. One must also love the nightbird. And…one must eventually fall in love with the night itself.”
“You mistake my motives. I am simply interested in—”
“Helping her,” Woodward interrupted. “Finding the truth. Being of service. However you choose to phrase it…Rachel Howarth is your nightbird, Matthew. I’d be no guardian if I saw you in danger of being consumed by the darkness and failed to warn you.”
“Consumed by the darkness?” Matthew raised his eyebrows. “I think that’s an overstatement, sir.”
“I think it’s an understatement.” Woodward gazed up at the ceiling, his strength almost expired. He felt as if his body were a cumbersome clay jar being baked over a fire, his true self trapped within it and yearning for a breath of clean, cool air. “That woman has entranced you, for her own purposes. She wants nothing more of you…than to help her escape the stake…which would be a sin that would forever mark you in the eyes of God.”
Matthew stood up, unwilling to listen to such nonsense. It occurred to him to stalk out of the room, but he did not because he knew the magistrate was sincere and also that he would regret such rashness. “Sir? May I ask you a question, and request that you think hard on it before you answer?”
A nod gave him permission.
“Do you honestly—with all your heart and soul—believe that Rachel is a witch?”
“Your question…is weighted on the side of emotion,” Woodward answered. “I have responsibility to uphold and carry out the law. The evidence tells me she is a witch…therefore I must apply the law in its strictest measure.”
“Put aside the robe for one moment, and then reply.”
“I am satisfied,” came the firm response. “Yes, there are missing details. Yes, there are questions I would have answered, and more witnesses interviewed. But…I must proceed on what I have. And what I have…obvious to both of us…is testimony and physical evidence any judge would rule sufficient to burn her. She knows it. She must find a way to escape…and that involves you.”
“I’d think Satan would free her, if she were really his servant.”
“Servants a
re cheap,” Woodward said. “I think…it suits Satan’s purpose to stand aside and let his nightbird speak.”
Matthew started to parry the thrust, but he realized it was no use. They had come to an impasse, and beyond it they could not travel together.
“I will continue to read through the documents,” the magistrate offered. “I would not wish to present my decree with any undue haste.”
“May I read what you’ve already gone through?”
“As you wish.” Woodward picked up the sheaf of papers and put them into his clerk’s hands. “Beware, though…no further words on this matter. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew said, though the agreement had a bitter taste.
“And you’ll not return to see Madam Howarth?”
This was a more difficult point. Matthew didn’t have to ponder it. “I’m sorry, but I can’t promise that.”
The magistrate pursed his lips and released a forlorn exhalation. He too, however, had realized the limits of Matthew’s obedience. “Your choice,” he whispered. “I pray to God it is a wise one.” Then he motioned toward the door. “Go. I need my rest.”
“Yes, sir.” Matthew stared at Woodward for a moment, studying the angles and planes of the man’s face.
“What is it?” Woodward asked.
“I have to ask this, sir. Did you come to the almshouse in search of a clerk, or a replacement for your son?”
“My son…could never be replaced.”
“I’m aware of that. But you and I both know you might have secured an experienced clerk through a legal office. I had to ask, that’s all.” He turned and went to the door.
“Matthew?” Woodward pushed himself up on his pillows, his face bleached with pain. “I don’t know…if I came looking for a son or not. Perhaps I did. But I do know I wanted to shape someone. I wanted to…protect someone…to keep him clean, from this filthy world. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Matthew replied. “And I wish to thank you for your concern on my behalf. If you hadn’t removed me from that place, I dread to think what might have become of me.”
Speaks the Nightbird Page 43
