Dangerous Magic

by Sullivan Clarke

  “Mother,” he said. “It is not kind to wish such things.”

  Gertrude Hatch scowled Lester. She did not like being admonished by anyone.

  “Remember, my handsome son. This is the woman whose public rejection made you the brunt of three day worth of jokes. Later, when she’s safely married to you, I will tell her that I orchestrated all of this. I want her experience with Rev. Fervor to be burned forever into her mind, so when she learns who is to blame for that memory she will never doubt the power I have to destroy her”

  Lester frowned. She’d be his wife, he thought petulantly. He should have that power. But he didn’t say so.

  “I heard that man killed some women who wouldn’t confess,” Lester said, looking back towards the church. “What if she dies?” He looked up at his mother with the look of a child worried about whether a playmate might break a cherished toy.

  “She’s a strong lass, if not a wayward one,” his mother replied. “Patience my son. Patience.”

  Lester sat back in his chair, sulking. He was eager to put the plan into action. At the appointed time he and his mother would go to the church, where they would personally appeal to Rev. Pratt and Rev. Fervor to let them have a word with the girl. Once alone, Gertrude would offer her the chance to extricate herself from her predicament by proving her allegiance to church and community through holy matrimony to her son. She smiled at the thought. She’d allow Lester to have his first night with Lark in her home while she stayed at and searched her daughter-in-law’s cottage. Once married, what was once Lark’s would now be Lester’s, which meant by association it would be Gertrude’s. She was sure there were items of value squirreled away in the little house and once she found them she’d sell them for whatever price could be had. Then the second order of business would be to hire men to dig up every inch of property under and around the house until the gold was discovered.

  Gertrude rubbed her hands together in glee, picturing the fine carriage she would buy with the gold. She closed her eyes, and let her jaw go slack in her thin face as she pictured the envious glances on the other villager women’s faces as she rolled past in her fine new vehicle and emerged dressed in a brand new dress. Perhaps she’d pass out alms to some of poorer villagers as Rev. Pratt stood by, nodding in approval at her generous —

  “Mother?”

  “What?” she snapped, irritated at having her daydream interrupted.

  Lester had gotten to his feet and walked back to the window. “Lark is coming out of the church. And she’s with….him…”

  “With who?” Gertrude stood up, her brow wrinkled with worry.

  “Colin MacGregor. And Reverend Fordham.” He paused. “And the magistrate!”

  The old woman dropped her embroidery and leapt to her feet, shoving her son away from the window so she could see.

  “Lester,” she said. “Something is amiss. She still looks defiant and the good reverend looks vexed. Lark Willoughby should be beaten, defeated. And on her way to jail!”

  She turned to him.

  “Go get to the heart of this,” she hissed. “NOW!”

  Her son jumped and then turned, lumbering quickly out the door. She wanted to follow, but was careful not to pay too much more personal attention to the matter. Delicacy was called for now. When Lark was at her lowest point then she would come forward, pretending that marrying the girl to her son had just occurred to her.

  She watched her son approach Lark and the men, saw them exchanging words. She saw Colin attempt to shoo him away as if he were intruding. Her son started to turn back to the house but when he did Gertrude stepped in front of the window, her expression harsh as she pointed back to the group. Lester turned and approached them again.

  “We’ve no need of a butcher,” Colin said when Lester returned. “And this is no affair of yours.”

  “I—I know of the charges and…my mother and I are godly people and worried. We thought this woman was to be questioned for practicing the dark arts.”

  “Lark Willoughby’s affairs are none of your business,” Colin said, and took a step towards the ponderous butcher. “And I am not patient when another pries into the affairs of my betrothed..”

  “Betrothed?” Lester mumbled the word. “No…”

  He shook his head then ran a fat, greasy hand through his greasy hair. He glanced back towards the house, as if his mother could will him advice through the walls.

  “She can’t be betrothed,” he said. “My mother won’t hear of it…”

  Everyone looked at him now.

  “And why would your mother care if I am to marry, Lester?” Lark asked, looking intently at the man.

  Lester backed up. His mother was going to be angry. Very angry. He had no answer to give. He pointed at Lark. “Don’t turn you witch gaze on me!” he cried, and turned to run back to his house. The group watched, puzzled, as he entered his house and the sounds of an argument ensued from within.

  “Come on,” Colin said. “We need to pay a visit to Reverend Pratt. The sooner we get this marriage underway the better.”

  Lark looked up at him. “The better for who, Col?”

  He put his arm around her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. To the other men it looked as if he were offering her comfort. But Colin decided the time had come to take a stern stance with Lark, even if she hated him for it.

  “You may not realize it,” he said quietly. “But you are your own worst enemy, Lark Willoughby. You may think I am taking advantage of you by marrying you, but I do mean to protect you. And if there were ever a willful thing in need of protecting it’s you. So you will marry me. And until I deem it unnecessary, lass, you will obey me…”

  Lark had never heard him speak to sternly. Not even earlier in the day when he head put her over his knee had he been so forceful in his speech. Suddenly she was afraid of marrying him, but his grip had not lessened. She was at the mercy of Colin MacGregor as surely as she was at the mercy of her current, unfortunate circumstances. Even if I escape the charge of witchcraft,” she though, “my life as I know it is over.”

  Chapter Eight

  Colin’s trapper’s cottage was much as Lark remembered it. She barely visited the home of her friend who - like her - lived on the outskirts of the village. It was Spartan but clean. A table, two chairs. One bed. Herbs hung from the rafters. Lark recognized some as those she’d given him for cooking or for making poultices for wounded creatures. Even though Colin was a trapper, if he happened on a wounded animal he could not eat or trade for fur, rather than kill it he’d mend it as best he could before taking it to Lark for her special “cure.” The herbs had come in handy more than once.

  “I bought a dress for you.”

  His voice snatched her from the privacy of her thoughts. Colin walked over and held out a package tied with twine. “Mrs. Simms had made one for a bride who didn’t live to see her wedding. She thought you could wear it.”

  “A dead bride’s dress,” Lark said, feeling a chill even as she spoke the words. Then when she took note of Colin’s dejected face, she felt a pang of guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Col,” she said. “It’s lovely, and I’m sure the bride would be happy knowing that someone was able to wear it if she could not.” She paused. “I would have preferred to change in my own house.”

  He sighed. “It’s not safe to take you back there, Lark. Not until all this is over.”

  She brightened. “So once this is over and that horrible man leaves you’ll release me from our vows?”

  Colin had to bite his tongue. Did she really not understand how much he loved her? And did she not realize that he would not let her go?

  “You know I can’t do that,” he said. “Vows matter to me. Even if I have to take them to save your life.”

  “But you don’t have to,” she said. “I don’t expect you to marry me, Col. Especially when we both know it would not work.”

  “And why wouldn’t it?” he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “We’ve k
nown each other since we were small. We are more alike than any two people in the village. I understand you…”

  “No you don’t,” she said. “If you did you’d know that most witches prefer not to marry unless they must.”

  “Well you must,” he said. “Put the dress on. Reverend Pratt is expecting us at the church soon.”

  She looked down at the simple muslin gown with its tiny latchhook buttons gracing the front and the thin strands of lace edging the cuffs of the carefully crafted sleeves. A lot of love had gone into this dress which was sewed for a woman who would give anything to have seen it come to pass. And here Lark stood, dreading the taking of vows. The guilt resurfaced, but she pushed it aside again. This was wrong. All wrong…

  “No,” she said, laying the gown on the table. “Col, if I take your horse and leave now I could be well away by the time it is realized. You could buy me time, say that I am sick abed. By the time it was discovered that I’d fled I’d be deep in the …”

  “NO!” Colin walked to her and grabbed Lark by her slim shoulders. “You are not leaving, Lark. I won’t allow you to put yourself at risk!”

  She pushed back at him violently. “And I will not live by another’s leave simply because he demands it!”

  Colin had had enough. What he was doing was best for Lark, whether she wanted to admit it or not. She could prattle on all she wanted about witches not wanting to marry. This witch wasn’t going to have a choice.

  Colin took Lark by the arm and pulled a chair away from the table. Sitting down, he tossed her over her lap and flipped up her dress. He’d known ahead of time to expect a fight and as usual the fiery redhead gave him one. But he needed to send her a strong message that in this matter he would prevail, and soon her bottom bore a patchwork of large red handprints.

  “Lark Willoughby, are you going to do as you are told and marry me?” he asked. “Because I will not let you up until I extract a promise that you will obey!”

  To Lark, this was exceedingly unfair. Witches did not make promises lightly; their word was their bond. Once an oath of loyalty was made it was adhered to.

  “Promise me!” Colin said, and brought his hand crashing down on the soft undercurve of her bottom.

  “I PROMISE!” Lark shrieked, knowing she’d find no relief until she’d capitulated.

  She continued to kick her legs even after Colin’s broad, hard hand had ceased punishing the tender skin of her bottom. It was as if she thought she could kick the pain away. Colin held her as she thrashed herself into a state of exhaustion, then he turned her over onto his lap and held her close. He’d hope she soften and fold into his embrace; it bothered him that she was still rigid and stiff with defiance. Down deep he knew she was right. He was taking advantage of her situation to press her into a marriage he’d secretly wanted for as long as he could remember. But he believed just as strongly that once he and Lark were married, she’d realize that she loved him. It was her pride - her stubborn pride - that kept her from admitting it.

  There was a knock at the door and Colin tipped Lark to her feet. She turned, rubbing her eyes briskly with the back of her hand, her face reddening to the same shade as her bottom as she worried whoever had come to call heard the sounds of her punishment.

  “Reverend Fordham,” she heard Colin say.

  “Forgive me, but Rev. Fervor is eager for the nuptials to begin. He is convinced that that this is all just a ruse and since you left with Lark he’s been convinced it was to spirit her away. He’s sent me to escort you back to the church.” The Reverend’s tone was apologetic, as if he knew there was no good reason why he should be doing the bidding of this visiting clergyman. But like everyone else, he was afraid of Rev. Fervor’s influence.

  “The good reverend also disapproves of the two of you being alone without chaperone,” he said. “He considers it a further sign of….”

  “Of what?” Lark asked, turning towards him now. “Of my sinful nature.”

  “Lark,” Colin sighed her name, tired of fighting. “Please prepare for the wedding.”

  Lark knew there was no time to run now, and that any refusal would land Colin in as much trouble as she. The men stepped outside so she could change, and when she emerged she looked starkly different than she usually did. The buttons went all the way to the middle of her neck and the dress, made her look more restricted than the flowing garments she usually wore. For Lark, the binding feeling of the garment reflected how she felt on the inside.

  “You look beautiful,” Colin said, and meant it even if he secretly preferred to wed her in the dress he’d always imagined - flowing white. He’s always imagined they’d take vows in a woodland glen or under a bower. But as storm clouds gathered they headed towards the village church.

  News had traveled fast and the townspeople stood in their doorways to gawk at the accused witch traveling to the church to marry the village trapper. Lark did not meet their eyes, but she could feel them. And two pairs of eyes she could feel more than the others. Lester and Gertrude Hatch stood in the doorway of their butchers’ shop. Lester’s expression was sullen. But his mother’s expression was livid. Lark thought back to Gertrude’s reaction when Colin had announced their plans to marry. Something was foot with the old woman and suddenly she felt shame for the pride that nearly had her denying Colin her hand. The old woman, she realized, sought a union between Lark and the doltish brute of a son. The thought sickened her and she reached for Colin’s hand.

  But as the wagon rolled by, Gertrude’s desperation only increased.

  “Come, son,” she said, picking up her skirts and stomping after the cart.

  “Where we going, mother?” Lester asked, tripping clumsily and obediently after his mother’s skinny frame.

  “We’re going to stop a wedding,” she said.

  “How?” he asked.

  “Just do as I say and you shall see.”

  *

  It was not at all the kind of wedding Lark had envisioned either. She was not a chuchgoer, and the exterior of the church felt unfamiliar to her. This was not her god who was worshipped here, though she held no ill will the villagers who did call him lord. Reverend Fordham stood by the altar, his eyes flickering nervously between the couple and the man who stood to the side. Reverend Fervor stared hard at Lark, disappointment in his dark eyes. She knew he’d rather she’d gotten her way and fled so he could have brought her back and had his way with her.

  Lark took Colin’s hand, unaware that people were filling the church now to watch this impromptu ceremony. The crowd parted as Gertrude Pratt pushed her way to the front, determination writ deep into the lines of her homely, pinched face. Lester’s scowl, too, had deepened as he watched Colin take the hands of the woman his mother had assured him would be his.

  The vows were read. Lester looked to his mother for some sign of what to do.

  “If there be any man here who would object to this union,” the Reverend intoned after both Lark and Colin had said their parts - he with a certain voice and hers barely above a whisper. “Let him speak now or forever hold his peace…”

  “My son objects!” Gertrude grabbed Lester’s shirt and jerked him forward as if he weighed nothing. Lester, unexpecting of the move, tripped forward and nearly took out the pew he hit with his leg.

  “Ow!” he protested. “But she ignored him.”

  Reverend Fordham’s eyes widened and he looked nervously at the butcher’s mother, whom he knew to be the personification of trouble.

  “And what manner would that objection take, woman? Let your son speak.”

  “My son is a gentleman!” she screeched. “And I come to speak for him and to also ask the Lord’s forgiveness as a mother. For this woman ….” She pointed a bony finger at Lark. “This woman who now weds another did already use her witchcraft to charm my son to her bed!”

  The crowd erupted into gasps.

  “No!” Lark said, sickened at the claim.

  “You know it is true, witch!” screamed Gertrude P
ratt. She shoved her son forward. “Tell them!”

  He looked nervously at his mother and then at the reverend. Did she really expect him to lie to a man of God in God’s own house. The thought terrified him, but the wrath of his mother was far more terrifying.

  “Y-yes,” he said. “And more than once. She came to me in dreams and I….I woke up to find myself naked in her bed.”

  “Liar!” Lark cried, and launched herself at Gertrude and her son. But Colin grabbed her before she could raise her hand and cast the spell he felt brewing in her.

  “Silence!” Reverend Fervor stepped between them, his finger pointed at Lark. “It is not for a woman to speak in the house of God.”

  Lark started to point out that he’d allowed one to lie, but Colin squeezed her as a warning and she bit her tongue.

  “This is a lie,” Colin said. “What trickery is this, you foul carrion?”

  Gertrude smirked. “Call me what you will, but my son as already taken this woman’s maidenhead. And under God’s law he should take your place by her side for these vows.”

  “I have never lain with your ugly son,” Lark shot back. “And I will never take vows with him.” Her voice grew cold now and a flash of lightning lit the sky up outside. “Never.”

  The crowd began to murmur nervously. Had the witch caused the storm that now sent rain in angry sheets to hammer the chapel? Or was it merely the warning of an angry God to respect his house? Someone here was lying, but who dared defile this place of worship with deceit? The villagers looked from one couple to the other and nearly all thought the same thing. Lark, despite the accusations, had healed them when they were ill. When they could pay no more than a chicken or a loaf of bread she’d accepted it graciously. The Pratts on the other hand were never generous with their meat. Families who’d been good customers for years were cut off if a hard winter found them unable to pay. And Gertrude’s penchant for gossip was well known; the women of the village were confidants and victims of her tongue by turns. Only her position in the church and community saved her from the derision she deserved.