by Jason Beech
9.
“She sounds like a witch.”
“That’s some groaning, right there. She has the devil inside.”
“I have seen dozens of women turn like this. Keep them isolated long enough and the devil moves within. This woman has clearly communed with the beast.”
“You’re all crazy. She’s hungry and thirsty – of course she’s going to act like that.”
“You’re time will come, Mary. Unless you confess now. Captain –”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring the woman in.”
Elisabeth couldn’t tell who spoke what. She only heard voices mingle into a single tormentor and feel the wind whip through the bars above. She hadn’t opened her eyes for a day or so. Vision failed her as did everything else. A woman occupied the cell next to hers with a familiar voice she now hated, though she couldn’t remember why. She only knew she had once sought comfort in it and wrapped her sorrows in the folds of clothes to which it belonged.
She had become used to the door’s creak. Another person had come to gawp at her like they would cattle in a pen. They opened her cell door. Elisabeth made a slit in her eyelids. Squinted at the light. A woman came in and pulled her into a seated position. Rough hands lifted her chin and poured water into her mouth. The woman tutted at the spillage, impatient at having to hold her frame.
“Come now, sit up by yourself, you have the power of the devil to keep you upright.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll rip out your eyes.”
The voice came from Elisabeth’s left side. She glanced over. The woman in the cell squeezed against the bars.
“Listen how they talk, sir.”
“I can hear it all.” The man who had done nothing but write at the desk in front of her cell peered through the bars at her.
What does he want with me? He never said.
The woman in the other cell lowered her tone. “I know you, Therese. I know you.”
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know your man.”
“You have no right to talk about my husband, witch.”
“Let’s not make judgments too early, Mrs Smith,” said the man in charge. “We’ll find out either way in due time.”
“You’re a reasonable man, Mr Harrison,” said the woman in the next cell. “You know this is ridiculous.”
“I know what I’ve seen and I know what I see now. Prepare your eyes and see what’s coming for you. Unless you wish to confess immediately.”
“I confess I’m talking to a man on the take, who chases coin as surely as his apprentice here.”
Elisabeth noted how the boy shifted from one foot to the other. His shape came into focus, as had this Mr Harrison and the woman who held her up. The woman pulled at Elisabeth until her head squished against the older woman’s breast.
“And you, Captain Billingham, you ought to bury your face in shame.”
“Shut your mouth, Mary … or whatever speaks through your mouth.”
“It is all me, Captain. I know my own words, and I say them freely.”
“You step beyond your boundaries. You always have.”
“I don’t see boundaries –”
“See, Mr Harrison. See what the world has –”
“That will do, both of you. Mrs Smith, let’s proceed.”
The woman, this Mrs Smith, removed Elisabeth’s bodice and unlaced her stays. Elisabeth shifted. Her stupor lifted a little. She realised her skirt had been taken. She wore only her smock, in front of these men: three of them if you included the boy. Mrs Smith pulled at the smock too – raised it above her knees. Elisabeth stood and struck out, hitting the older woman on her upper arm. “What are you doing to me?”
Mrs Smith had all her weight on the back leg and held where she’d been hit. She rubbed the sting away.“It’s alright, Elisabeth. We are only inspecting you.”
“For what?” She backed up towards the cell’s barred window.
“Leave her alone, Therese.”
Mrs Smith turned to the woman in the other cell. Elisabeth heard heavy breath through her nose. “Mr Harrison. Working with one of them is hard enough, but two –”
Mr Harrison nodded to Mrs Smith. “Jacob, take this woman downstairs into the lower cell.”
The boy moved, stiff with every step, as if he imagined touching the woman would cause certain harm. He opened the cell like he wished he had a stool to ward off a wolf. “Please, madam, if you would.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Jacob, just take her.”
“Don’t touch me.”
Elisabeth watched them scuffle, recognised the voice. The boy had strong arms and tied, through many scratches and bites, the woman’s arms and legs. As he carried her out, she came into Elisabeth’s view. Elisabeth screamed. “Witch.”
10.
“You waste your life, Jacob.”
“Please ma’am, I’m just doing my job.”
“Do you believe in witches?”
“I’m not rightly sure.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“My sister … maybe.”
“You joke.”
He lifted his eyes from his palms and dared to gaze into her fire. His sad smile told Mary she had died long enough ago that it remained unaccompanied by tears, though they had once poured for her.
She wriggled a little to loosen the rope’s bite. She soon gave up from the flesh burn. He shook his head – a loose warning not to fight this.
“Your sister was no witch.”
He watched her pupils dig someplace, though they peered half-buried beneath a fringe of hair. He examined his fingers. Couldn’t stop their fumbles around each other, as if they sought independence to point blame.
He shrugged. “It’s too late for that.”
“What did they do to her?”
“A year ago, before this town had to choose sides, they took her away. Said she had a loose tongue. Said others spoke through her … that she’d given herself over to …”
He nodded to the floor.
“The devil.” Mary squeezed her shoulders inward.
“She knew your sister.”
“Is this what it’s all about? Is this why they hold Elisabeth?”
“I don’t know…”
He shifted buttocks as she leaned towards him, her breasts prominent with her hands and arms bound behind her back. The sight made his tongue fill his mouth and left no room for fermented words to pour. Something poked his insides, in search of expression. What is this woman doing to me?
He jumped to his feet as if fire licked his soul. His breath came out short. Made him hoarse. He struck finger-stripes across her cheek.
11.
Samuel Harrison didn’t know which caused his ears to hurt more, the volley of cannon-fire from Royalists to let the town know they remained at the walls, or Mary’s foul-mouthed assaults on Captain Billingham as he dragged her by the hair upstairs. The Captain thrust her into his presence.
“Tell this man to take his filthy paws from me.”
She jumped to her feet with un-lady-like speed. He put the quill in the inkpot. Would she land on her feet if he pushed her out the window? It was a twenty feet drop, maybe more. If she landed as he expected … then what a waste of a pretty woman. Not as pretty as his black Rebekah, but a beauty all the same.
“You can untie the woman.” He cocked an eyebrow at Jacob.
The Captain rubbed his jaw. “She hit me.”
Samuel laughed. “What with?”
“Her head.” Jacob’s confusion made his eyes flit everywhere but in Samuel’s direction.
Samuel used the fire’s warmth to quell a shiver cocked at the base of his spine. With practiced grace he circled Mary, who again turned with his every step. Such arrogance, such … words lost him. This woman had the same attitude as Rebekah, an unwillingness to submit unless treated as an equal. Only then could she accept advice, always with the proviso that she could retract it. It drove him to distraction, but i
t kept him away from other women. Until now.
He lifted hair from Mary’s forehead, examined flesh which purpled from where she had made impact on the Captain. He became aware of how tenderly he caressed her bruise. Sensed how the eyes of Mrs Smith, Captain Billingham, and even Jacob, judged him. To look at any of them now would appear weak. They would sense it as a response to their judgement.
Mary frowned, but he couldn’t see what lay behind those deep brown eyes. He turned her round, undid the bind, and pulled her head back with a clump of that raven-hair, all of it free and flowing to the small of her back. She swallowed a yelp. He couldn't control his smile at her nature and the force in which it projected.
“You do not assault a Captain of the town.”
“Only a witch would do such a thing.” The Captain’s words sounded like he vomited them out. His right cheek had darkened at her head’s impact. He rubbed at it, Samuel guessed from shock more than pain.
“Let’s not pre-judge.” Samuel’s sneer made the Captain step back and knit his brows. Samuel turned back to Mary. “Now sit down … and watch.”
She wouldn’t take a seat on the bench tucked into the stone wall at the back of the room, facing her sister’s cell.
“Captain.” Samuel nodded. “Do me the honour.”
The Captain’s heavy steps announced his enthusiasm as he strode towards her. She beat him to it and took her seat just as he raised his arms. His face flushed impotent red.
“I know you’d like to get your hands all over me, Captain, but this body is not for you.”
“Witch –”
“Captain, that’s enough. You’ll save your comments for when needed.”
“But –”
“I said that’s enough. Now do your duty.”
Samuel turned from Captain Billingham and nodded to Jacob. The boy gave a little bow. He had learned. Well done. Jacob opened the door and winced at the creak.
12.
“Sir ...” Jacob backed away from the door, it and his mouth open to the elements.
“What is it?”
Samuel thundered to Jacob’s side, impatient to get his work done so he could leave this town – before a breach of the walls sent him to the abyss. He clutched the doorway’s frame. He swept the view from the high stone stairway which led down to the town square. His ribs tightened around his lungs. Most of the crowd had sharp features, bones bulging from flesh like they could eat a horse raw. Still, they pounded the mud-caked square as much as their brittle bones could manage. As far as he could see, they all – men and women, and the odd useless child – carried a weapon of some sort.
Samuel's first instinct demanded he shut the door, bar it, and wait for soldiers to scatter them. He could see desperation as they got closer – enough to force a solution, or die in the attempt. He held his ground. If he engaged their eyes he could force dialogue. These peasants could hardly create spittle enough to form words, never mind lubricate a thought into existence, but he could use words to cow them, like he sometimes did with some of his complacent betters.
The masses, a hundred people or so, would crash up the steps like a wave which would pull him back with its tide if he didn’t play this right. They stilled. A constant cold wind forced flesh to shiver, clothes to flap. Out of the crowd stepped one man, a little detail emerging from the homogenous horde. His face had been smashed by wind since the day he’d been born. Samuel trained his ears. Expected the need to digest each of this man’s words like grass.
“Sir.” The man shuffled about, now uncertain in the presence of his better.
The deference encouraged Samuel.
“We ‘ear you have two witches, captive, like.”
Samuel had no problems understanding him. It jolted his sensibility. He had forgotten the people he had once so readily mixed with since he had been caught up in the high society he now coveted.
He straightened his back, as much for the mob as for the Captain and Jacob, their uncertainty behind him a snake ready to snap at him.
“I have two women in captivity – their identity as witches has yet to be decided.”
A rumble surged through the crowd, an unsettled lava ready to pour forth.
The man scratched at his upper thigh. Samuel squinted at the red mark on his face, possibly a birth mark, possibly something worse.
“With all due respect, sir –” The man narrowed his eyes to slits though the sun had been captured by slate clouds. “– but they must be witches.”
“How dare you make judgement.” Samuel eyed him down his nose and conjured the haughtiest tone. “What qualifications do you have, what experience, to come to a conclusion?”
“He doesn’t need qualifications.” The woman held her skirt and jutted her chin to hold herself firm. “A witch is a witch.”
The spokesman nodded. Never took his eyes from Samuel. “One of them killed the soldier. The other runs the tavern. Have you not noticed how she keeps herself well while we all starve? How can she do that? There’s hardly any food in the town.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow at how the General kept a sumptuous spread. He scanned the square for a troop of men. One soldier observed them from high on the wall, as impotent as he.
“They will both be tried, by your betters. They will not be tried by a mob whose superstition could bring ruin on them.”
“I beg yer pardon, sir, I don’t mean any offence, but –”
“There is no ‘but’ when talking to me –”
“But –” The man emphasised the last letter. “– you do not live ‘ere. Your livelihood is not ‘ere. You’re free to roam where you want. You could leave now and not care a whit what ‘appens to any of us.”
A mumbled “yeah” rose like steam from this tormented collection of people. Iron scraped iron. That lava licked the rim.
The man grew bolder. “We ‘eard he, the soldier, had boils on his skin, the type caused when the devil touches flesh. And he was sleeping with that witch ‘hore when it happened. And now we’ve got more of us, our skin reddenin’. The devil must roam the town at night, leavin’ his mark wherever he’s bin.”
Samuel raised his palm to both reassure and make them shut up. It had as much effect as a cup would in emptying the sea.
“I understand your concerns.” His voice – a stone’s drop in the roar of an ocean.
“Our concern, sir, is for our families and our reputation before God.”
Samuel’s heart sped a little faster at the sarcasm italicising that “sir.” He searched for the soldier on the wall, but he had gone. Coward.
“We have an army of Pope-worshippers outside the walls, sendin’ fire on us every other ‘our, and the devil inside. At least vanquish the devil, sir, if you cannot help with the Royalists.”
Samuel had never been in a situation like this, where he not only experienced a people’s desperation, but also their menace. They came closer to the steps – which led to his body. They would cast him over the wall as penance. The speaker put one foot on the bottom step. Another fifteen and he’d be on him.
“We don’t have time,” the man said.
The spokesman took another step. It hit heavy, like that of a horse in full gallop. Samuel scanned beyond the crowd and let his lungs billow away all his tension. The General, on a horse better fed than the people before him, pounded into the square, followed by a troop of twenty men – swords drawn. The crowd scattered or backed into the walls. They realised how they had set themselves up. Some broke for an alleyway, some for the high steps Samuel stood atop of, and some froze in terror. Samuel kicked at the five or so men who backed up the steps. They tumbled to the bottom. He held onto the last man – rage made him pull his dagger and push its point into and through the man’s neck. He let him fall. His face smashed on each step.
The General ploughed through the crowd. Sliced down a man whose limp made him an easy target, and thrust his sword through a young woman who had simply stared, as if she dreamt it all. He yelled at his men to round u
p the rest and wait for further instruction. Spears and swords herded the people. Blunt ends silenced the wails of many.
The General slid from his horse as if he had just come from a day’s hunting. He eyed Samuel all the way to eye-level as he ascended the steps.
Captain Billingham stepped, at last, from the doorway, red-faced and servile. “General.”
Samuel noted his disappointment at the lack of recognition.
“I paid for a Witchfinder, Harrison, and all I get is a procrastinator.”
Samuel had once wilted under such aristocratic arrogance. He might have done so only that morning. Now he had bloodlust. Had killed a man for the first time in a long while. It put iron in his bones.
“You have a Witchfinder.”
“You’re no Hopkins.”
“I thought you believed it all nothing but superstition.”
“I do, you leech, but I believe if you don’t hang the women you locked up, I won’t have a town to defend. The people will do something stupid, because they think we’re protecting these witches.”
“They will have a trial –”
“We have no time for a damn trial. Hang them now, in front of the people. I cannot afford to keep twenty men occupied against people inside the walls, when they’re needed against those outside.”
“Sir.” Samuel stood as straight as the General. Refused to lower his gait for his social superior. “We must be seen to have the rule of law, even with the devil’s handmaidens.”
“Horseshit.”
“We will make the trial quick. One of the defendants is ready for cross-examination. Then you can have your hanging.”
“And the other one?”
“She is not ready.”
“Make the one who is make the other complicit in her crimes, then hang both.”
Samuel’s left eye twitched at the imposition, at the loss of control over his process. “Yes. Of course.”
“Get on it, then. You won’t get paid any more for taking your time.”
