“Aye” Porter said, still walking. “And the Devil sends things for us to try. Witches being one of them. And tried she shall be.”
William looked aghast and turned his tone toward one of reason. “Porter..? Come now..? You, of all people, cannot believe...”
Porter stopped, the girl still held firmly by her arm, and turned. When he spoke, his voice was low. “As we have discussed, young William, it matters little what I believe. I did tell you then and I tell you now. I will always do what needs to be done.”
“This does not need to be done,” William said, pleading as an aside.
Porter smiled lamely. “Yes, Master William, it does. Really, it does.” He turned away again, edging around the steaming breaths of the now steady Bewt and Novice and starting toward the track. Thomas looked down upon them, noting Rachael’s distinct lack of expression as they passed, then back to William, unsure as to what he might do to help.
Though the light was not strong, William saw a glint from the corner of his eye and glanced with some distaste at one of the male villagers who had clearly seen fit to make the journey armed with the nearest implement to hand. It was Porter he addressed, however. “I am surprised you did not wait until the sun was put to bed,” he shouted sarcastically, “so that you might have brought flaming torches to light up your pitchforks.”
Porter ignored the comment and kept walking, Rachael still held firmly by the arm.
William also walked forward now, teeth clenched. He too passed within a breath of Bewt. As he did, however, he reached swiftly into his saddle-sack and pulled something heavy from within. A few more paces around the horses placed him in clear sight of Porter and he raised his arm. The gasp the old man heard from those gathered around made Porter stop dead in his tracks. He did not turn around immediately, however, but rather just closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath; a hint of his own resignation carved within it. A flintlock, kept about the horse to place holes in those who chose to make their living as highwaymen, now aimed firm at his skull had been just one of many things he had been expecting.
“You have one angry shot, Master William,” he said, still without turning. “I... have the wrath of an entire village.”
It was indeed a futile gesture, and William knew it deep in his heart, but it was the one course of action he seemed completely unable to fight against. If Rachael were to be pricked then she would undoubtedly become a victim of the rope. Explaining away her marks, or indeed her visions should they extract any from her, would call for a much smarter man than he. He must do something to save her. Anything. Glancing furtively to his left and his right he could see over fifty pairs of eyes set firm upon him, their intentions apparent should his next move be an unwise one. Still he could not bring himself to lower the weapon.
William closed his eyes, tipped his head backward and breathed heavily through still-clenched teeth. This was all of his doing, he told himself. And perhaps, had he seen and acted upon it sooner, the sky might not have become so dark today? For it was clear to him now that if Rachael were to die then the blame would knock at no other door than his own. Not even Prudence’s, he felt, vile creature as she was want to be. No, it was he, having found the poor girl lost and alone in the French lands who had sought to claim her unique gift as his own; to aid him in making sense of his all-too-frequent quandaries. He had been selfish and arrogant and, in doing so, he had not only made enemies within the village, Prudence and Porter among them, but had also condemned the girl to the odious intrusion of a pricking, perhaps many months of squalor within the vile cells at Colchester and ultimately the short, sharp, dark tug of the hemp.
It was a burden he doubted his soul would have the strength to bear.
When he looked back at the old man he saw something he had not been expecting to see; Rachael, now standing directly between he and Porter and facing him head-on. She was looking him directly in the eye, and Rachael had never looked anyone directly in the eye in all the long months he had known her.
With her body completely obscuring Porter, she was quite deliberately blocking his aim.
The gun wavered. It was heavy and had taken some strength to lift it and hold it true for so long. It took a lot more strength for him to lower it, but feeling he may well be beaten, it slowly began to sink.
Rachael showed the slightest hint of a thankful smile and turned away. Porter took her arm again and, with only a swift glance back to William, turned and escorted her once more toward the track.
But no, he reasoned. Or tried to reason. If he were to one day stand at the gates of heaven, and how soon that might be, should he not be able to say that he had done all in his power to set things right? To make amends for his failings? To put things back as they should be.
But then, he wondered, what was right in this world any more? The rabbit did indeed chase the fox and he had lost clear sight of which of those creatures he had ultimately become.
Too many buts, all spiralling wildly out of control, and yet one more - the butt of the gun, was still firm within in his grasp.
His head lowered and the gun began to raise again, though very slowly and it seemed to carry no more real conviction than before, and certainly no more than he. He closed his eyes and prayed for just a moment. For answers. For strength. His fingers began to squeeze the last drops of reason from his body.
In an instant, a deafening shot rang out, echoing back like laughter from the thick walls of the Manor. It cast a thick cloud of smoke and steam into the cold air which hung like a thick grey blanket around them all. A good few seconds passed before it dissipated enough to clear the view.
Under the cold sky of an overcast February afternoon, William Clopton lay flat on his back, the gun at his feet. His left hand was resting loose on his stomach as faint wisps of steam rose through his fingers as though his very soul was now fleeing into the air above. He coughed and, as he did, red could be seen to splutter in fine specks from his mouth and bubble through his quivering fingers. His eyes were fixed skyward, his cold expression curled into one of shock and disbelief.
To his right, some fifteen or so feet away, another heavy flintlock wavered at the end of an arm ill equipped to bear its weight. Perhaps she had meant to merely wound him? Or scare him a little? Perhaps her hatred for Rachael had finally gained more flesh on its bones than her love for the Master himself? It was hard to say, and, truth be told, perhaps only Prudence herself would ever truly know the answer.
For now, she said nothing. Yet she wore an oddly expectant half-smile.
Thomas instantly shouted loud for his Master and jumped clear of Novice in an flash, running fast toward him and tumbling clumsily onto his body, his small head throwing a steady wave of tears onto the irregular beat of William’s chest. Mrs. Banks ran, skirts hunched, from her position in front of the main doors and reached the shivering man at exactly the same time as Porter.
The smoking gun still held aloft, as though she had somehow locked her slender bones into place, Prudence looked around to each and every face which surrounded her. “He would free the witch...?” she said desperately. It took the form of statement and yet still she phrased it as one might a question. Even she sounded unconvinced. Lowering the weapon, she began to to spin around, seeking approval which she felt sure was merely delayed in the chaos. “He would have her kill us all.”
Nobody looked. Fewer cared. Every eye was on the Master who had now taken to shaking on the floor as though suffering the worst fear and cold he had ever known. His body slowly bucked and writhed to the beat of rasping breaths, his gently flailing legs rearranging the stones beneath them into strange undulating shapes. Each time his stomach sank low, another cupful of blood was seen to pump hard through his fingers.
Porter indicated that Thomas should move away and then gently lifted William’s bloodied and shaking hand, examining the wound beneath. It was deep, wide and was indeed releasing his blood at an alarmingly swift rate.
“Boy,” he said to Thomas. His to
ne was firm but he never looked away from the wound. “A garrison takes rest on the heath at Dedham. Ride fast and hard and beg for their physician. Swift. Tell them they shall have all the vegetables and fresh-picked apples they can eat in return.”
With only the slightest pause, the Boy did as he was told, a burly man hoisting him swift to Novice’s back. Within a few seconds the muffled sound of ‘wick hooves on grass began to fade fast down the track.
Looking up slightly from the wound, Porter focused on William himself, the young man’s eyes staring wide and straight toward the heavens. Fear was carved into every ashen feature of his face and his eyes were pleading to those above for something that would not find a voice.
“’T’will be alright, Master William,” he said softly. “Help will soon be upon us.”
“This is not my fault,” Prudence shouted from behind. She had realised now, it seemed, that because of her actions the focus had been completely removed from Rachael. More frustratingly, it had been completely removed from her.
Porter closed his eyes, wondering for just a moment if such a stupid young girl might actually be stupid enough to believe that. He looked to two of the larger men standing just behind her.
“Take her home and keep watch on her for the night,” he said quietly. “I shall send word to the Magistrate in the morning.”
“No!!!” Prudence screamed, spitting venom as they took hold of her arms. Desperately, she looked all around, yet again, and scanned every cold face for anyone who might back her up. Finding nothing, she then turned her attention back to Rachael, still standing alone where Porter had left her. “She is a witch!!” she screamed, kicking her feet. “She caused this. She is to be pricked tonight and I am to be there. She is mine!” She continued to struggle and writhe, but she was no match for the field-built arms which held her.
For just a moment Porter left William to those who had taken it upon themselves to aid in releasing the young Master’s outer garments and walked slowly but defiantly to Prudence, placing his face squarely in hers. The writhing stopped. “Nothing is yours in this world but hatred, Prudence. Nothing. You want always what you cannot have and you go to all ends to obtain it. Now a good man lies dying, a woman is to be tested, a village splits at the very seams and it is all at your hands. You shall attend no pricking, not tonight nor any other night. You shall attend the next assizes and you shall answer for your actions before God. That is what you shall do. If this girl is a witch it shall be proven. If not, she shall go free and I will pay her cell-keep myself. Somehow, I doubt that you will be offered the same liberty.” He looked at her with contempt, then to the men once more, each of whom still held a slender arm tight against renewed writhing. “See that she does not leave her home.”
Prudence looked thoroughly disgusted. She had always assumed that Rachael would indeed be judged a witch, not just by Hopkins but also by the Magistrates in Colchester. If she were not, however, then her one consolation would be that the wretch would remain in the cells until her food and lodgings for her time there had been paid in full. At three pence per day, and with the next Assizes many months away, this would be money that Rachael would have little or no chance of raising. With Master William in her own grasp by that time, she would would have convinced him adequately that he would be well-served not to foot the bill, for life would be so much better for all by then. She might even have made him forget about the wretch’s very existence altogether. So, whilst Prudence took up residence within the Manor, Rachael would remain broken and diseased in the filth and squalor of the prison at Colchester Castle, the debt continuing to mount day by day until vampiric consumption took her away for good. Few in that hole lasted more than a year.
Even if the Master did not make it to another day and his handsome young brother Walter were to ride in and take his place, as had just occurred to her now, it had never once crossed her mind that Porter himself might secure the girl’s freedom from his own funds. She paused her squirm to spit a wad of black-green phlegm hard into his face which he simply wiped away with disdain.
Meanwhile, Rachael walked slowly to William’s feet, though she did not throw herself upon him as the boy had done. Instead, she stood and looked carefully and inquisitively at his body.
Her face was still running thick with tears, though her expression remained as blank is it was always known to be. She stayed on her feet but wavered just slightly as though making ready to faint. No help would come for her now, she reasoned, and the only friend she had ever known in this place grew steadily colder on the stones. Somewhere within she had sensed that a day such as this was headed her way, but she had further reasoned that a man such as he might somehow find her a route toward a brighter tomorrow. Now the kind, caring, patient and incredibly ’stewt William - the man who had undoubtedly saved her life in France - was slipping away from her. He might ride to the heavens this very night and, if he did, then by his side would travel every last chance she might have of getting out of this vile place alive.
She looked to the wound, as though assessing it in some way. It was indeed deep, and was located around two or three inches to the left of his belly-button.
“Clean the wound. Stem the bleed,” she said, without thinking. She looked to the body as though it were not even there. “Scrape bread. Old bread. Blue over green. Pad it in. It will help.”
“See..? See..?” Prudence screamed, even as they continued to drag her away, kicking and fighting; eyes bulging and spittle firing. “Even now she does seek to conjure potions. From disease!” Despite having fired the shot which had laid him to the ground, not once did she show so much as an ounce of regard or utter a word of concern for William, still writhing on the floor. “Eye... of... bat... and... ear... of... Will,” she sneered to a sarcastic tune.
Porter threw Prudence his final look of contempt, this time laced with disappointment, then returned his attentions to Mrs. Banks. “The girl is correct.” He thought for a moment. “I have heard talk of it on the battlefields. It may stop an infection. Florence... fetch water, fresh-bleached cotton and the bluest of breads you find thrown out. Blue bread. Not the green. If you have it. Make haste.”
Desperate to take charge of the situation as best he could, he then turned to two of the younger men who had been standing at the back of the group. “Take Rachael to St. Mary’s. Keep her there until I arrive,” he said. “There are still other matters that need be attended to today.”
Realising she had little time before she would be gone, Rachael slowly walked to William’s head and crouched low beside him. Reaching out a slender hand, she gently ran the backs of her fingers along his cheek, now moist with that most unholy trinity of blood, sweat and tears. Then she took his right hand in hers and gently squeezed his fingers, tears still running the full length of her face. She lowered her mouth until it was close beside his ear, then whispered so that only he might hear:
“Salvation may arrive tomorrow. You must not die today.”
She gently removed a few wisps of damp hair away from his eyes with her left hand and gave his fingers one final squeeze with her right, smiling as best she could. A few seconds later she stood, his quivering hand slowly slipping from hers until only their fingertips touched, then calmly straightened her work-dress and stole herself for the dark journey ahead. The men from the village were already standing behind her, though it seemed, through an uncertain raising and lowering of their hands, that neither dare lay them upon her. Ultimately, she saved them the trouble, turning and walking in the direction of the church of her own volition as they followed a few cautiously measured paces behind.
Crouching at the other side of William’s still-shivering body, Porter steadied the young man’s hand and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Despite suffering the poor circulation of age in his own gnarled fingers, he could feel the temperature within the Master’s ebbing slowly away. It was undoubtedly taking the young man’s life along for the final ride if educated help did not arrive soon.
How much more bad news would today’s messengers see fit to deliver, he wondered, before they found the need to hold fast their horses?
After all, it was not over yet. Not by a long shot. One more harbinger was yet to ride in.
Matthew Hopkins himself.
And he would be here soon enough.
THIRTY-ONE
Friday, November 25, 1644.
“Right,” Scalise said, a curt and snippy tone deeply embedded deep in her voice. “Give me everything. From the beginning.”
The man standing at the furthest end of the Klein’s office, a stout and podgy man of around 200lbs with a badly fitting white coat and an even worse-fitting comb-over, was sweating. He had been given a file only yesterday and therefore only twenty-four hours to make some kind of sense of it before presenting to the Senator. And therein lay the rub: intrinsically, the file didn’t make sense. None of it. Consequently, he was very probably going to be laughed out of the room very shortly and then, not long after, laughed out of a job. And this was a man who had not one, but two Persian cats and a midtown apartment to support.
He loved the cats, they depended on him. The apartment not so much.
“Well,” he began, his voice breaking slightly, “It’s kind of complicated.”
Scalise sighed and flicked the screen embedded into Klein’s expansive desk, filling the space in front of her. “You graduated top of your class at MIT,” she said brusquely. Back when I chaired, I believe, and that’s no mean feat. You are also named on not one, and not two, but three KRT patents including, it appears, the initial findings on Waveless. So yes, Mr. Friedricks, it is indeed complicated. Very complicated. Truthfully, I would not have needed to involve you if it wasn’t. Are you telling me you failed?””
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