Trailing the Hunter
Page 7
Clara struggled to remain calm. Angus was the reason she was in Berg, but he could never find out her purpose for being there.
“I don’t have family in Rossby anymore,” she answered.
Peter walked a few paces away, although he seemed to be keeping a close eye on her.
“There is an opportunity for me to teach children to read here,” she added.
“I thought Rossby was your home. I must say, you are certainly different from the schoolmasters who beat knowledge into their pupils with a stick. I cannot imagine a God-fearing woman like yourself being capable of beating anyone.”
“I don’t think striking children will help them learn letters and numbers.”
“Hmm, exactly. Well, I beg to differ. Some creatures need physical punishment to learn anything at all.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Clara wanted to gag as she watched him. She remembered too well those white hands and long fingernails. Every part of him appeared scrawny—the chin-length strands of brown hair, the thin mustache, even the pointed beard—as if he’d never advanced from adolescence.
“What a coincidence, seeing you here. When did we last meet?” He stroked the few strands of hair that made up his beard. Before she had the chance to answer, he continued. “Oh, I remember. King Fredrik III’s soldiers came to tell me to continue my important work here in Berg. You were there as the people of Rossby bade me farewell.”
Clara stared at him, dumbfounded by his lies. The witch-finder had not learned a thing since she last saw him and was as arrogant as ever. She knew for a fact he’d been banned from Rossby for practicing witch hunting and ordering the executions of innocent women. Women she knew. Her friends. Now, she stood face to face with their murderer.
Nauseated by his presence, Clara tried to avoid looking at his yellowish teeth revealed behind his false smile. Growing dizzy, she set her feet apart so as not to fall over.
“I have my work cut out for me here in Berg,” Angus said. “People in Rossby lived in an ignorant state, not knowing how many witches were hiding among them. Here, the whole community seems prepared for a master witch-finder like me. They are able, and some are at present working hard at seeking out guilty persons who are the cause of malevolence in this village. I only arrived last night, and already, I have been informed of three cases. I can help the villagers further understand the horror of having witches in their vicinity. I can show them what evil truly is. Moreover, I will bring them face to face with those who are evil.”
They are facing evil. Clara fought to maintain a serene expression. The crucial truth was, he did not seem to know what Clara had done to fight his influence before. She needed him to stay in that ignorant state, at least until her head was above water, and she had found out who was at risk and what she might do about stopping Angus from hurting anyone else.
“You’re a woman, Miss Dahl,” Angus said.
“I am aware.” Clara briefly closed her eyes. If she could only wish away the feeling of meeting him again then open her eyes to find him gone. She remembered all too well how Angus Hill had spoken of women before, and the memories vexed her gravely.
He lifted his chin. “I cannot expect you to understand. Even if you were brought up in the home of a most-respected minister of Rossby, you cannot be presumed to fully comprehend how evil sneaks into people’s lives to cloud their judgment and influence their actions.”
Clara clutched her shawl and dug the nails of her free hand into her palm. Stay calm. More women in her time should speak up for their right to be seen and heard. The role of the female race was underrated. What would happen to society if women did not do their part? Old traditions and fear often crushed Clara’s urge to struggle for the rights of women who could not stand up for themselves. She was by no means any cleverer or better but had promised herself to try—to do everything in her power—to change the vile belief that women were of lesser worth.
“Miss Dahl. Clara.”
She felt Angus’s penetrating stare on her face.
“May I call you Clara?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “You are away in thought. Maybe you are considering the proposal I made at the town ball in Rossby in December?”
“Why would you want a woman in your life, Mister Hill? I only hear derogatory words come from your mouth when you speak of the female portion of the human race.”
“Derogatory? I would not call my opinion of women derogatory or insulting. It’s no secret that women are inferior and weaker, more susceptible to evil enticing. Women are certainly to blame for lures and temptations. In point of fact, without females, there would not be any temptations.”
Clara was about to open her mouth when the words of advice the Rossby mayor had given her a few months back gave her pause. Be careful. Keep it down. The witch-finder can discern body language.
It was hard to limit herself. She wanted to lash back at the witch-finder and let him know her thoughts, but she couldn’t. She might jeopardize all she was fighting for, and she needed more than words to fight him. There had to be a change, an enlightenment in the minds of the common citizen as well as those in leadership positions. But how? Thoughts and opinions could easily turn into horrid action. Bloody nails had been pounded into the coffins of countless women who deserved so much more than death at the hands of those who were the true followers of evil. Unknowingly, maybe, yet, with some common sense and the love prophesied in biblical text, they should have known better.
“I can tell by the look in your eyes that you are still contemplating my offer.”
“I need to go.”
She had to escape, fly out of there. An intimate conversation with Angus Hill was not on her agenda. At the same time, it would be wise to keep him dangling. He would be more useful if he did not feel rejected, even if she had already refused his offer in her mind. He was in denial or dense or both. She curtsied and gave him a smidgen of a smile.
“Good day.” She hurried off through the crowd, looking for Peter. He was right behind her.
“You think some more,” Angus called out after her.
She turned around to make sure he did not follow.
With a flick of the wrist, he said, “I can wait. I am a patient man.”
Peter put his arm around her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Did you hear that last sentence?”
“I did.”
“It’s a lie. He’s full of lies. Patience is not one of the witch-finder’s virtues.”
Angus had shown no forbearance or understanding for the women in Rossby but had stomped forward, unmistakably decisive. His ears had been closed to their defensive testimonies.
Clara stretched her neck. Christian was nowhere around by now, but his stablehand, David, was on a corner, ready with the horse and wagon.
“Miss Dahl, do you need a ride to Ivershall?” he called out.
“No, thank you, David. I’m on my way home.” She cast a curious glance at his companion.
“Very well, miss.” He must have noticed her inquiring gaze because he turned to the young man beside him and added, “By the way, this is Amund, our new cowherd.”
The newly hired boy looked barely sixteen, lanky and with sloped shoulders. His clothes and shoes looked new. Not the typical attire of poor, young men who had to leave home and find work. Dorthea must have dressed him up for his new job.
She stepped closer. “Good to meet you, Amund.”
“Ma’am,” he mumbled and nodded in her direction, his eyes downcast.
She smiled then addressed David. “I don’t need a ride, but would you please take a message to the master of Ivershall? Let him and Dorthea know that the young woman showed up again. Her name is Siren, and she’s staying with me.”
“Certainly. Good day.”
David flicked the reins, and as the wagon moved forward, something fell out of the new cowherd’s pocket. Clara picked it up. Before she could warn David, the wagon was a distance down the road.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.
She squeezed the cork back in and put the flask into his hand.
“It’s a witch’s bottle…one used for protection against troll people,” he said.
Clara nodded. “The new boy at Ivershall dropped it. He must know what it is. Why would he carry a mixture known to work against someone as counter-magic?”
Peter turned it over. “Bottles like this are not unusual.”
“But why does a young farm boy have one? What is he up to?” She snatched the bottle out of Peter’s hand and put it back on the ground where she had found it. “Look, they are turning around and coming back,” she said. “Let’s move into the throng. I don’t want him to know I found it.”
The boy climbed down from the wagon and looked around until he found the missing flask. He slipped it into his pocket and ran across the road to greet a young girl. She squirmed and giggled when he put his arm around her waist. As the girl turned her head, Clara gasped. Ellen?
She turned to Peter. “I want to make a list of everyone I can think of in Berg. I don’t know who to trust, but I will try to get to know people and find out what they think about the biddings of the witch-finder. How should I go forth, Peter? Eavesdropping may be a good idea. Then the real challenge will be what to do about my findings.” She paused for a moment and looked into Peter’s eyes. “I am babbling, aren’t I?”
Peter smiled and offered his arm. “Your suggestions sound good, but you have done enough here today. Now, let me walk you home.”
The crowd on the square became louder and rowdier. Angus Hill’s ambiguous speech had caused unrest. Many who had listened to him talk reacted by pouring down one cup of ale after another, while some laughed and told stories about witch hunts in other places. The witch-finder’s words had affected the villagers. They probably did not know how to respond or what to think about the situation. On one hand, they were relieved to know someone would deliver them from horrors and plagues caused by evil witches. But based on bits and pieces of random conversation Clara overheard as she and Peter slowly made their way through the crowd, some of the villagers sounded worried about what a witch hunt would mean in their small community. How would such a thing affect their day-to-day lives?
✽✽✽
That evening, a knock sounded on Clara’s cottage door. When she opened it, she found the minister standing there. Seeing him up close, Clara recognized the look of a man burdened with pressure from without. The dark circles and puffiness under his eyes showed sleepless nights and ailing health.
“Miss Clara Dahl?” As he opened his mouth to greet her, the odor of strong drink filled the air between them.
“Yes, I am she.”
He stretched forth his hand. “I am Herr Salve, the minister of Berg. I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. You are new to our parish.”
“Yes, I am. I arrived a little more than a fortnight ago.”
“So I’ve heard. A minister’s daughter. Bailiff Winther has mentioned your name. Why have we not seen you in church yet?”
“I attended service last Sunday but sat in the back.”
“And how did you enjoy my sermon?” He was clearly testing her.
“The psalms of King David are always enjoyable. Thank you for reminding me,” she answered sweetly.
“Hmm…”
He stretched his neck and tried to look past Clara. She was blocking his view as much as she could. Although she could not hide Siren for much longer, Clara was still worried about the woman.
“Hello.” Without warning, Siren appeared next to Clara, chewing on a piece of dried fish.
“And you are…?” the minister asked.
She shook his outstretched hand vigorously. “Clara’s cousin, Siren. I will be staying here for a while.”
Clara turned around and pretended to cough. The giggles sat in her throat, mixed with a touch of fear.
The minister stared at Siren’s belly. “Yes, I thought I had seen you around this place. Where is your husband?”
“Alas, I’m a widow.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and leaned back as if faint.
He scratched his head. “Well, I’ve never…”
Siren recovered quickly. “I’m sure you haven’t.” She straightened up and shook his hand again. “Thank you for stopping by.” She stepped outside, hooked her arm around his, and started walking him down toward the gate.
Herr Salve turned his head as he was being pulled away. “Goodbye, Miss Dahl. I hope to see both of you in church next Sunday.”
“Now come, Herr Salve. I am sure you are a busy man. So many people to take care of.” Siren opened the gate and let him pass.
“Goodbye.” He bowed and left.
Siren turned and walked back inside. Her face changed and took on a serious expression. “See us in church, bah. The old man is delusional if he thinks I’ll sit pretty in one of his sermons.”
Clara said nothing but closed the door after her. In truth, who was the young woman standing by the window, rubbing her round belly?
CHAPTER 6
✽✽✽
ABIGAEL STEEN WOKE up to the sound of sheep bleating in the field beyond her bedroom window. She put the feather pillow over her head then groaned. She could not lie in bed. She had plans for the day. Important plans. The pillow landed with a thump on the floor while escaped downy feathers soared then softly floated to the wooden floor. She stretched her arms and yawned. Today, she would change the course of her life.
She gave a good tug to the ribbon on the wall behind her bed, and soon after, her maid tiptoed into the room and curtsied.
“Good morning, mistress.”
“I’m awake. I called for you, did I not? Come closer, Randi. Do you have what I sent you for yesterday?” Abigael giggled and rubbed her hands together.
“Yes, madam. I did like you said and picked up the bottle from the cunning woman at the outskirts of the village. It has periwinkle, rose, and—”
“Here. Give it to me. Hurry.”
The maid pulled a small flask out of her apron pocket. Abigael admired the glass bottle and turned it over.
“Shoo, go away. I will dress myself.”
The maid curtsied again and left the room.
Abigael had dressed herself for the last few months and did not need or want assistance. She changed into a clean chemise and tied two layers of petticoats around her protruding belly. Taking her time, she laced the bodice and fastened a silk kerchief with a broach around her shoulders. She was both beautiful and clever.
The bottle contained a scented love potion. Abigael had sent Randi with a note to buy the potion. It was not the first time. The week before, Abigael had her maid pick up a balm for causing a rash. Supposedly, an elf had spat into the jar. They were known for passing on hives called elf-gust. Abigael had told their footman the jar contained a cure for rheumatism and had asked the man to rub it on her husband’s back. The next day, Mr. Steen had a disgusting rash on his wrinkled body, an affliction that should keep him from coming out of his room for a while.
That cunning woman seemed clever enough. She had proven herself worthy. Hopefully, this potion would also do its magic and bewilder that handsome Christian Ivershall. One whiff of the mixture Randi had brought, and the lord of Berg would find Abigael irresistible. She picked up her hand mirror and stroked her cheek. With her beauty, he probably already thought highly of her. Then she frowned and put the mirror down. Christian was so proper and would never consider courting a wedded and highly pregnant woman. Still, her happiness depended on him falling for her, and the suffocating matrimonial ties to Mr. Steen could not stop her from be
ing a winsome coquette. With a little help from the cunning woman’s potion, Abigael was certain her life would change for the better.
With the flask securely in her pocket, she walked the long hallway. Ancient faces stared at her from inside gilded frames on the wall as she passed by. She stuck her tongue out at them. It was as if they watched her every time she was in this wing of the mansion. She could almost hear them mocking her. Where are you going, Abigael? What are you scheming today? Why can’t you fulfill your roll as Mrs. Steen in a more appropriate way?
She covered her ears for a moment, as if doing so might block out their words.
Soft voices came from inside Mr. Steen’s chamber. Probably an acquaintance from the village hall or one of her husband’s grown daughters from a previous marriage. He had survived two wives already.
Abigael rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t the man lie down and die, as his former wives had? She had no intention of having him live long enough to become a widower thrice.
It was up to her to provide a male heir. He had mentioned it often enough, had scolded her, and had even pleaded. “A son,” he had said, “I need a son to carry on my name and take on this estate and my affairs.”
With a gentle hand, she stroked her belly. This time, she would produce a boy, a healthy child who would live and grow. A son she could nurture and who would fulfill her dream, not her husband’s. Abigael admired the bottle again and smiled. She was tempted to open it up, just to smell it, but she did not dare and would save it for a special occasion when she had Christian to herself. Then he would do anything to make her his bride. She stared at Mr. Steen’s door. Maybe Christian would even help her get rid of her husband.
“Argh.” She stomped her foot. Why should that old man always be in her way?
✽✽✽
Folks were trading wares on Market Street as Abigael stepped out of the carriage in front of the bailiff’s office. A young boy wearing knee breeches bumped into her as he crisscrossed barefoot between women dressed in kerchiefs and dirty aprons and carrying baskets filled with various goods. The boy almost tripped over a group of children playing kick-the-sack. About a hundred feet or so behind the boy ran a red-faced farmer.