The Somerset Tsunami

by Emma Carroll

  ‘I did too,’ the quieter soldier admitted. Fierce Soldier breathed in sharply.

  Mr Hopkins removed his device, beckoning the soldiers forward to inspect my foot. I gritted my teeth, hating them all.

  ‘There’s no wound on the skin!’ Fierce Soldier said in disbelief.

  Mr Hopkins nodded calmly. ‘As I expected. The needle has no effect on her. Because she is a witch.’

  ‘It didn’t go in!’ I protested.

  But the soldiers were now edging towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mr Hopkins asked, surprised.

  Fierce Soldier spread his hands. ‘Master Hopkins, this here is a child and what you’re doing to her, well, it’s not right.’

  ‘Indeed, it’s torture,’ the quieter one muttered.

  I felt unexpectedly hopeful again. Was this it, then? Was it over?

  ‘Torture? Gentlemen, I’ve barely started,’ Mr Hopkins said coolly.

  ‘We’ll find you someone else to guard her,’ Fierce Soldier replied.

  They couldn’t get out of the door fast enough. Mr Hopkins hurried after them, though not before securing me to the stool, and taking all but one of the candles with him.

  I sat there in the almost-dark, thinking now what? Was someone coming back? Were they going to just leave me here?

  I wasn’t going to wait and find out.

  Mr Hopkins, the brute, had tied my wrists to the legs of the stool. Thinking I might manage to undo the knots with my teeth, I leaned forward. It wasn’t easy to keep my balance, and just as I’d got my head between my knees, the key rasped in the lock and the door opened again.

  Upside down I saw a person enter, wearing worn, muddy shoes. The stool tipped. Chin first, I went sprawling to the floor. The force of the blow made me bite my own cheek. I tasted blood. The new guard heaved me off the floor. As the room righted itself again, I saw he was wearing a cloak, the hood of which was raised. He didn’t look like the soldiers. He was younger, thin about the shoulders.

  ‘I’ve been given orders to keep you walking – all day and night if I have to,’ the guard said in a very gruff voice.

  Something about him annoyed me. Maybe it was because I sensed he was only a little older than me. He also sounded as if he had a very sore throat – either that or he was trying a bit too hard to act older than his years.

  ‘What for?’ I snapped.

  ‘Imps,’ the guard replied.

  I stared at him. ‘Imps? The little green creatures?’

  ‘Mr Hopkins says if a witch is exhausted, that’s when she’s most likely to be taken over by evil spirits to do their bidding,’ the guard explained. ‘And those spirits often take the form of imps.’

  ‘Then Mr Hopkins is a complete cod-brain,’ I muttered under my breath.

  The guard tried not to smile.

  ‘I’m to keep you walking, miss,’ he said. ‘Even when you’re fit to drop.’

  ‘Do what you will, then.’ I was weary enough already. I’d no idea fear could be so exhausting – and anger, and frustration – all eating away at me because it was obvious they weren’t going to let me go.

  Once he’d untied my wrists from the stool, the guard started walking me up and down, up and down. It wasn’t a big room – seven paces either way, at the most. We were turning so often I soon felt dizzy. I hated Mr Hopkins. I hated Dr Blood and his greedy plans to win favour with the king. I wasn’t overly fond of this new guard, either, who was following his instructions to the letter.

  When a bang on the door came, and a call of ‘Open up!’ I felt another stupid rush of hope. Mr Hopkins didn’t come inside. He merely handed over another candle and told the guard he’d be back at dawn.

  ‘I’m counting on you, boy,’ Mr Hopkins said. ‘I should’ve trusted a local guard all along.’

  The door closed. The key ground in the lock. Outside in the passageway, Mr Hopkins’ footfalls faded to silence. The thought of being here all night made me so despairing, I barely noticed the guard taking my arm and gently guiding me back to sit on the stool. Only when he said, ‘I’m going to untie you now,’ did I look up.

  The voice, no longer gruff, was Jem’s. So was the face peering at me, which I could see now he’d dropped the hood of his cloak. I shut my eyes and opened them again, just in case it was a trick of the light. But there was no mistaking Jem’s narrow face and kind grey eyes.

  ‘Brother!’ I gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same,’ he replied.

  For the briefest moment, I wondered if he was still angry with me. But I was so overwhelmingly glad to see him, I started to cry in earnest.

  ‘Oh, Jem,’ I sobbed. ‘Things have taken a very sorry turn, haven’t they?’

  ‘Indeed they have,’ he agreed, and there were tears in his eyes too, which he quickly sniffed away. ‘But shush now, hold still or I’ll never get these knots undone.’

  The second he’d untied me, I flung my arms around him. He smelled so familiar – of sea salt and sackcloth – it made me cry all the more.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ I snivelled into his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s never fight again.’ He staggered a little under my weight. ‘Whoa, you’ve got bigger these past months!’

  ‘You’ve got saucier,’ I replied, tweaking his ear. ‘Last time I saw you, you were the blessed child of Fair Maidens Lane. What happened? Why are you working here?’

  He ducked away, suddenly serious. ‘Remember that night Mother took you from your bed?’

  ‘Insisting it was time I found work? That I’d do better as a boy?’ Oh, I remembered it, all right.

  ‘She was terrified they’d come for you next. That’s why she did it.’

  I groaned, head in hands. We should never have gone out in our boat on the Sabbath. My inkling about Mother had been right all along: she’d lied about the need for me to earn money. She’d sent me to the hiring fair hoping I’d be safer away from Fair Maidens Lane.

  ‘The flood has made things ten times worse,’ Jem went on. ‘It’s like fever, this fear of witchcraft – it’s not just the landowners using it as an excuse to get their hands on our land. Everyone’s got a dose of it. And now the king’s coming to Somerset, and we all know his thoughts on witches. It’s hardly going to calm things down.’

  I looked up. ‘You haven’t told me yet why you’re working here.’

  ‘They needed local guards. How I saw it, if I was on duty when they brought you in, well, I might be to able help you. I’m sorry, I couldn’t think what else to do.’

  ‘Wait … You knew I was going to be arrested?’

  He gave a half nod. ‘These past few days the rumours started again. Everyone’s saying the same thing, that witches are to blame, and the suspects should be arrested. Your name kept being mentioned.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because, dear sister, you’ve always been a bit different. And once we’d been seen out in the sea on the Sabbath, well, it didn’t take long for people to seize on a name …’

  ‘That Dr Blood is an evil piece,’ I said, slumping back in my seat. ‘You know he’s been spying on our hamlet right from the start? At least, the man he hired has.’

  ‘That’s not the worst of it, either,’ Jem replied miserably. ‘Oh, Fortune, they’re taking you to the Assizes. A proper witch trial, it’ll be, laid on for the king’s benefit.’

  Fear twisted in my chest. But I fought it because there was a way out of this. It would take courage, and a fair bit of running – all the way down the coast to where the Songbird was about to set sail.

  ‘Jem,’ I said, trying to be calm. ‘That key you’ve got. How many doors does it open?’

  ‘All of them. Now do you see why I work here?’

  Absolutely I did.

  ‘Have you heard of a place called Withy Cove?’ I asked.

  ‘I have. It’s a few miles east of town. Why?’

  ‘That’s where we need to go. There are people I know – people who
can help us. I can’t go back home, not yet, and neither can you once it’s known you’ve freed me.’

  ‘Can’t we do this on our own, just us?’

  ‘We need them, Jem. They’ve got a boat, and they’ll take us far away from here.’

  His smile was affectionate and sad. ‘I once said I’d never get in a boat with you again, don’t you remember?’

  I did. But, oh my word, how times had changed.

  29

  After declaring no one was out in the passageway, Jem unlocked the door. He went first, hand cupped around a candle flame, wearing my wool jacket. I followed in the disguise of his cloak.

  ‘Witch marks,’ Jem said, pointing out fresh scratches on the beams in the wall. They looked like letters, a jumble of ‘v’s and ‘m’s overlapping each other. ‘They’re all through the town hall, to protect people from—’

  ‘Me,’ I realised grimly.

  Jem winced. ‘Sorry, sister. You need to know what you’re facing, and be ready.’

  But as we headed down the passage, I wasn’t ready at all. I was trembling. And it grew worse as we climbed the steps to the ground floor, and heard the roar of the crowd outside.

  ‘H-how m-many people are out there, exactly?’ I stuttered.

  ‘A fair few,’ Jem admitted.

  We came out into an empty hallway. There were tapestries on one wall, a coat of arms on the other, and a black and white chequered floor that stretched all the way to where Jem was pointing. ‘That’s the back door. Your way out. Keep your head down, and when it’s safe to run, run.’

  I was struggling to think straight. Just as long as we got to Withy Cove, that was what mattered.

  ‘What about you? What will you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll slip out after you. I’ll find Miss Spicer and tell her what’s happening. Wait for me out on the Bridgwater road. Make sure your face is covered.’

  I checked my hood. My hands were shaking.

  Something caught Jem’s attention. As he put a finger to his lips, I heard the approaching footsteps. He waved me away, pointing at the door again and mouthing ‘Go!’ Then, lifting the corner of the tapestry, he slid behind it: it covered all but the tips of his toes.

  I was alone – or as good as – only for a moment before two men swaggered into view. They had the well-fed, well-clad appearance of landowners, our unfriendly neighbours perhaps: I didn’t look too closely. I was more concerned that they’d spotted me. And they had, though only in the same way you see a chair or cupboard so as not to walk into it. They swept past and were gone.

  I breathed again, checked my hood one final time, and made for the door. The noise outside seemed to press against the walls, the windows.

  Don’t listen, I told myself. Keep your head down and walk.

  The back door flew open so fast I wasn’t ready. The noise of the crowd hit me like a punch.

  ‘Get rid of the little witch!’

  ‘We don’t want her sort round here!’

  ‘I never trusted the look of her – one day a girl, next day a boy.’

  ‘I heard she cursed her poor father, that’s why he drowned.’

  Go! Jem’s voice said inside my head.

  I took a couple of steps. Stopped. Between the building and the edge of the crowd salt had been sprinkled in a line on the ground. It was an age-old custom to ward off evil: everyone knew no true witch would dare cross salt.

  ‘Walk over it, then, lad, and be on your way,’ said a rosy-cheeked woman who’d stopped yelling long enough to see me hesitate.

  The fact she’d thought me a guard spurred me on. Don’t jinx it, I told myself. You’re not free yet.

  The crowd was ten, maybe fifteen bodies deep. I skirted the outer edge, keeping to the gutter. It was hard to believe that these were normal Somerset people, not monsters: women in plain frocks and bonnets with babies on their hips, men flushed with cider, children eating hot chestnuts or picking their noses or both.

  In amongst the crush, I spotted a tall, serious woman with yellow plaited hair. And with her, a girl in a bonnet, two similar plaits poking out underneath. Both were on tiptoe, anxiously craning their necks to see what was happening. Standing beside Abigail, small and frightened-looking, was another girl in breeches, trying to shush a crying baby.

  How I wanted to call their names and rush over and wrap my arms round them and tell them that they should leave Somerset with me and come to Withy Cove. It was agony to keep walking, leaving all that to Jem.

  Away from the very front, the noise quickly dropped to that of normal market-day chatter. It wasn’t so hard, then, to believe I’d stepped back into my old life, and these were just people gossiping on the roadside as they’d always done. The crowd thinned. Under my feet, the cobbles turned to dirt. And I was out the other side. The road that would take me to Withy Cove lay before me. I’d almost made it.

  ‘’Tis only another lad coming out,’ I heard someone mutter.

  A quick glance behind confirmed Jem was now following. I could see the grey of my jacket weaving through the crowd towards where Mother and Susannah were standing.

  ‘Then who in heaven’s name is inside still?’ another woman replied.

  A fresh wave of angry noise spread through the crowd. People began moving towards the town hall, looking for all the world as if they were going to storm the building. I turned to run. Turned back again to check Jem was still coming, and there he was, fighting through the mass like a swimmer.

  ‘Keep walking!’ he mouthed to me. ‘Go!’

  As I tried to, someone grabbed me by the shoulder.

  ‘Not so fast, Fortune Sharpe.’ I glimpsed a pair of salt-white cuffs.

  It was Mr Hopkins, two new thuggish guards flanking him.

  I was caught.

  Twisting my arms behind my back, the guards pushed me towards a waiting carriage.

  ‘We’re going on a little journey, you and I,’ Mr Hopkins said. ‘To somewhere I know you’ll be more comfortable.’

  And oh how nicely he put it, as if he was taking me to the king’s own palace.

  30

  Ilchester gaol was a terrible place, full of noises and smells that were barely human. In my cell alone, there were six other women. The two who were conscious introduced themselves as Mad Meg and Twelve-toed Tess, and demanded to know what grisly crime I’d committed.

  ‘Apparently, I bewitched the sea,’ I said.

  ‘Is that all?’ Mad Meg looked disappointed.

  Twelve-toed Tess cackled. ‘Welcome to our home, Little Miss Neptune.’

  The name stuck, as did the pair of them to me. They didn’t stop talking all night, though the other four women stayed slumped against the wall, even when rats nosed through their hair.

  *

  On the morning of the Assizes I woke wavering between hope and despair. I was cold, sore, aching with hunger. No one was going to rescue me. Jem had probably been caught by now, and the Songbird would’ve set sail hours ago, so what did it matter if the world thought I was a witch and punished me according to the law? Though I still couldn’t quite believe they’d find me guilty of something so ridiculous, so totally untrue, and it was this I was clinging on to by my fingertips.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Mad Meg, whose crime had been to dig up her neighbour’s cabbages. ‘I’ve heard Mr Hopkins is a brute.’

  ‘Slippery as an eel,’ agreed Twelve-toed Tess. She’d been fined for chasing her sister with a horsewhip, but couldn’t pay so was in prison.

  As they chatted on over my head, I sat hugging my knees until the guard arrived. He was as tall as he was wide, with a neck like a fat, pink ham.

  ‘Well, Sharpe, we’ve got a journey to Glastonbury ahead of us,’ he said briskly. ‘I trust you’re ready.’

  My heart sank. Glastonbury: so I was returning there, despite my insistence to Susannah that I never would.

  The guard, impatient, rattled the cell bars with his baton. ‘On your feet, then! Let’s be having you!

&n
bsp; ‘Keep it down, Mr Nelson,’ Mad Meg complained. ‘Or you’ll have our nerves in tatters.’

  ‘Bit late to worry about that,’ he replied. ‘The king’s already in Somerset. He’s come to witness Sharpe’s trial.’

  My cell mates squealed.

  ‘King James? The Scot?’ Mad Meg gave her filthy hair a pat.

  Twelve-toed Tess rounded on me. ‘Kept that to yourself, didn’t you, girlie?’

  It wasn’t that I’d forgotten – more that I’d blocked it from my mind. To be reminded of it now, when things were grim enough, made me feel properly ill.

  ‘Well, well, Little Miss Neptune, what a dark horse you are,’ Twelve-toed Tess murmured.

  ‘Boys’ clothes, a boy’s haircut, the dirtiest face you ever saw,’ Mr Nelson mused. ‘You only need to look at her to see the guilt.’ Though when he unlocked the cell, Mad Meg jammed her foot against the door so he couldn’t open it.

  ‘You’re right,’ she told him. ‘She can’t go to trial looking like that.’

  ‘Rules are rules, Meg,’ the guard warned. ‘I can’t keep the King of the British Isles waiting.’

  Twelve-toed Tess moved closer to the bars. She was intimidatingly tall.

  ‘And there’s me thinking you’d be on the side of the underdog, Mr Nelson.’ She tutted. ‘Dear me, our royal visitor seems to have turned your head.’

  ‘At least give the kid a fighting chance,’ Mad Meg pleaded.

  I expected him to barge in and take me, yet begrudgingly he gave us five more minutes. He even brought a pail of water and someone’s old gown for me to wear.

  ‘We’re going to sort you out,’ Mad Meg informed me. ‘Sometimes, even if you don’t feel like it on the inside, it’s best to look the part.’

  Before I could argue, Twelve-toed Tess pushed me to the ground and sat on my legs. In a whirl of cloth they scrubbed my face, my hands, my feet. Mad Meg used her fingers to unknot my hair and plait it – at least that’s what she said she was doing. I was sure she was scalping me alive. The dress was huge, but once its sleeves were turned up and its waist tied with string, I did look more presentable.