He thought of the women he had visited recently in the countryside. Puritans held little appeal for him either. The unmarried females were just out of childhood, and married women were a dangerous proposition.
Now that weaver from Glendower. There is some untapped passion; those blue eyes and fiery red hair.
It had been amusing playing with her temper, too, and he wondered if she had arrived in Boston yet. He could use some sparring.
Dante went back to watching the crowd and was enjoying himself until a leathery-skinned sailor with sunken cheeks and close-set eyes started staring at him.
Dante tossed back his drink and left.
It was quiet as he walked along the docks, making his way to the next tavern. Only bells clanging from the ships could be heard and an occasional dog barking in the distance. Suddenly, Dante ducked into an alley and pressed himself against a slimy wall. The man who had been staring in the tavern was following him. When the sailor reached the alley, Dante grabbed him and dragged him back into the shadows holding a dagger to his throat. “Why do you follow me?” he hissed in the man’s ear.
The sailor smelled of sweat, rum, and rotting teeth. “I-I know you,” he stammered.
“What?”
“I know you from Spain. You were part of ‘La Sociedad Libertina,’” he said breathlessly. “I, too, was part of The Libertine Society. But you would not remember me. I held no high position.”
“Who was your contact?”
“Emmanuel Diego.”
Recognizing the password, Dante gave him a push. The man tumbled forward, catching himself on the wall. Dante jerked his head, and they walked into “The Boars Head Tavern.”
Taking rum to a table in the corner, Dante sat down and asked, “What do you want?”
“Nothing, nothing,” the man said defensively, his bloodshot eyes wide with wonder. “I swear by the blood of Christ. I was struck dumb seeing you. That’s all.”
“What is your name?”
“Garcia, but now I go by the Italian name Bulgari, just to be safe. As you know, the English hate the Spanish.”
“Do they not hear your accent?”
Bulgari shrugged. “They do not know the difference between Spanish and Italian.”
Dante nodded. “I go by Rose instead of De la Rosa for the same reason. What news of the Libertines?”
“I’ve been in England but I heard they have smuggled many out of the prisons and some all the way out of Spain. But it is a losing battle. The number accused of heresy grows every day.”
Dante leaned closer to him. “You say you have been to England. What news do you have of this Joseph Duncan?”
“The witch hunter?”
Dante nodded.
“His power grows. He has hanged over three hundred, mostly women. There is talk that he is coming to the New World. He believes that here, more than anywhere, the devil does his work.”
Dante slumped back in his chair. “This is indeed grievous news.”
Dante returned home after finishing his rum. He cursed himself for going to town. Lumpkin had been right. He should not have spoken with anyone. He left Spain to sever his ties with the Libertine Society, but here he was, once again, about to be in the center of the fight. He wanted to jump on to the next ship, return to the Indies, and drown himself in rum; but, he knew himself too well. He would stay and do battle with this witch hunter. He could never resist a fight.
* * *
It took weeks for Circe to sleep in her new bed. She was homesick and heavy-hearted which was completely out of character for her. She no longer hummed when she wove, and the golden sunshine of spring did not caress her. She did not have to feign the somber attitude of the Calvinist; her ennui was genuine.
It was like traveling back in time being in Boston. It was Plum River all over again but on a grand scale. There were Puritans everywhere and Indians coming to trade; but instead of one main thoroughfare, there were many, many streets. The wharf was huge and always crowded with vessels, and endless settlements surrounded the town. There were no secluded glens or bowers nearby. The Puritans were clearing everything.
Rows and rows of square, dark, clapboard-sided dwellings lined the streets, all austere and devoid of ornamentation. Dark paneling lined many of the interiors, while others were more rustic. The finer homes had leaded glass windows with diamond patterns, and many of them had second story overhangs. The structures loomed up on either side of the narrow streets like shadowy giants standing watch over the pedestrians.
Circe’s shop was on the main thoroughfare. It was a small, one-story building with the weaving room in front and living quarters in back. She brought one apprentice, a young man named Levi Morgan who had been raised in Norwich among Puritans. Years of practice blending seamlessly in the Separatist communities made him the perfect choice. A hardworking and quiet fifteen-year-old, Levi spoke seldom but noticed everything. Circe knew he would discreet and cautious when they started escorting new arrivals to the Celtic settlements. He had a face heavily pockmarked, gaunt physique and shy demeanor. He had a good sense of humor and was always good-natured when he did talk.
They each had a lodging in the back of the shop consisting of a small sitting room with a hearth and bedchamber. Circe did her best to make it feel like home with dried flowers, a yellow tablecloth, and a colorful braided rug.
Cedric hired a housekeeper for them - an elderly woman who was a part of their community. He knew the woman would be efficient and above all discreet. She would come every morning to clean and prepare their midday meal.
The adjustment was slow for Circe. When she was feeling homesick, she would flip the rug back, pull up a loose floorboard and take out a box she had hidden. It was filled with memories of home, including the torque she received from her father, poems from Saffir, and mementos from Bullfrog and Ruith. It also contained the mask that matched Dante’s linen map.
She wondered when she would hear from De la Rosa. A ship from Portsmouth was expected any day, and they had word several families were onboard that would need guidance.
With a shortage of weavers in town, Circe had business almost at once. To avoid any slip-ups, Cedric sent instructions to the immigrants to approach Circe’s weaving room only when she hung a green wholecloth quilt over the railing outside the door. Only then it would be safe to talk freely.
One rainy morning, Circe heard the bell jingle on the shop door. Dr. Lumpkin walked in the shop. “Good day to you, Mistress Swinburne,” he said, looking around the room.
Circe stood up from the spinning wheel. “You may speak freely, Dr. Lumpkin.”
“It appears as if you have settled in well.”
“That we have. How may I help you?” Circe asked.
“Is your apprentice here?”
“Yes, he is outside dying wool.”
“Is he capable of handling the shop today?”
“Most certainly.”
“I must familiarize you with the route to my home. We are expecting the ship any day.”
“Very well. Will give me a few moments to make ready?” Circe replied. “Please have a cup of tea while you wait.”
“Mistress Swinburne,” he said, glancing out the window. “I have a concern. I am aware of your signal with the quilt. What will you do if it is raining? Certainly, it would raise suspicion if you were to hang it out in foul weather such as this.”
Circe’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed, it would. I must think of another signal as well.”
After tending to a few things and giving Levi instructions, Circe and Dr. Lumpkin climbed into his two-seated carriage with the bellows top open to keep them dry. She was dressed in the simple clothing of the Puritan and, once more, her voluminous red hair was braided tightly and tucked under a coif. They bumped along the muddy roads for several miles occasionally passing wagons and pedestrians. “Tis a well-traveled road,” Lumpkin said. “No one will question why you are on it. You have a wagon?”
“Yes, the Arch Derwydd ob
tained one for me.”
“Good,” he replied, turning down a narrow lane. “This leads to my home.” It was a heavily overgrown trail, and branches slapped against the carriage.
“Do I bring the new arrivals here?”
“No, there is a path behind the house that leads to an abandoned cottage. I would take them into my residence, but I fear it would arouse suspicion.” He pulled back on the reins. “Here we are.”
Dr. Lumpkin’s home was like other homes in the area, a dark clapboard dwelling with two stories and leaded glass windows. Circe climbed down and went inside while Dr. Lumpkin took the horse to the stable.
While he was outside, Circe brought the fire up.
“Ah, how inviting,” he said when he came into the room. He waddled over to the fire after hanging his wet cloak on a peg. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Hard to believe it is spring, eh?”
When they sat down for tea, Circe asked, “Do you have any idea how many arrivals there will be this time?”
“More than originally thought,” Dr. Lumpkin replied, taking a bite of a biscuit. “But I fear, they are jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”
“Why is that?”
He shook his bald head. “Joseph Duncan is coming to the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”
“Who?”
“He is a witch hunter who has been given the title of Witchfinder General by Parliament. His power grows every day. The damn fools give him a fee every time he finds a witch so, of course, he has discovered a multitude. They say he brought in ninety in one day, and they were all tried before nightfall. Thank the Goddess our villages are far beyond the fray and will elude discovery,”
Circe sat up straight. This news was indeed disturbing.
Lumpkin continued. “The manuals he holds most dear are Demonology by our former king and Malleus Maleficarum, both treatise on how to exterminate witches.”
“Is the latter Latin?”
“Yes, it translates as the Hammer of Witches. I find it surprising Duncan uses it,” Lumpkin said. “It was written by a Catholic. Nevertheless, he employs the techniques of identification and eradication found there. They are most brutal.”
“Is this monster coming to Boston?”
“He is, sometime this summer. This is why discretion is of the utmost importance, my dear. The frenzy is now moving into the New World. There seems to be no escape.”
“And we will be at the heart of it,” Circe mumbled.
The front door opened and Dante burst into the room. He was panting from running through the rain. After peeling off his coat, he kissed Circe’s hand and said, “Enchanting to see you again, Widow Swinburne. Please indulge me while I practice your new title of widow.”
“Good day, Mr. Rose,” she replied stiffly, withdrawing her hand.
“Mr. Rose has his apothecary shop in the cottage of which I spoke,” Lumpkin explained. “My wife and I built it when we first came to the colony.”
“I make and deliver the medicine Dr. Lumpkin prescribes. It is no secret I am here, but my contact with the villagers is limited.”
“And your shop is where I am to bring the new arrivals?”
“That is correct,” Dante said, warming himself in front of the fire. “It is rustic, but the women and children will be out of the elements there; that is, until they can build a shelter on their new site downriver.”
“The men will sleep outside?”
“Yes. There is an old barn for them too if they choose.”
Dr. Lumpkin took a sip of tea and looked from Circe to Dante. “I understand that both of you are necessary for channeling our thin places.”
“Yes, there is a magnetic force between us,” Dante said, looking at Circe with a smirk.
“We have found two of the sites,” she said, ignoring him. “The third we are yet to visit.”
“We need not make haste with that,” Lumpkin said. “We have to populate the first two.” Turning to Dante, he said, “Mr. Rose, sit down, have some tea.”
“No, thank you. I was hoping to show the Widow Swinburne my shop.”
“Good idea. She needs to know where to take our guests.”
Holding his coat over Circe’s head, they ran through the rain down a slippery path to the cottage. The dwelling was in a secluded spot on a river. It was small and quaint with a roof of thatch and rough cut siding. There was only one window in the cottage, the rest consisted of oiled paper, so Dante had to light candles the moment they walked inside.
Circe’s eyes grew wide. Mistress Charles never had a workplace this extensive.
Seeing the look on her face, Dante asked, “Have you ever been to an apothecary shop?”
“No,” she replied, walking around the room.
There were barrels, jugs and large crocks on the floor. Herbs and dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A huge cast iron pot hung from a trammel in the hearth, and two cupboards were crowded with bottles and jars labeled in Latin.
Circe walked over to a long, heavy oak table. It was covered with vials, a mortar and pestle, a scale and a wooden bowl. It held what looked like dead bugs. It smelled foul. She picked up an unusual Cherrywood hourglass and examined the carving on it. It looked like a serpent.
Dante started brushing off the table and asked, “Are you hungry? Care for some tea?”
She chuckled. “You actually cook here?”
“Oh, is it too dirty for the princess?” he said.
“What will you do when children come?”
“I will have to lock everything up,” he said, gesturing to the cupboards. “The little bast--” and he stopped. “Undoubtedly the filthy little devils would break things.”
“My concern was for their safety,” Circe said.
“But of course you would say that.”
Several candles had run over onto the tables as if Dante had worked late and fallen asleep. “Is this where you sleep?”
“No, I have a bedchamber in Dr. Lumpkin’s home.”
She walked to another table where he had a wooden lap desk with ink, quills and musty old books. Several volumes were open. She looked at the pages. They too were in Latin. “Where did you get all this?”
“Some of it was Dr. Lumpkin’s and some of it he purchased for my practice.”
“Where will the women and children sleep?”
“There is a small bedchamber and a loft above, but I assume they will take any open spot on the floor they can find.”
“When will you work?”
“During the day when they are building the village. They will be gone from sunrise to sunset. Just taking their supplies down the river will take most of the day.”
Circe turned to him suddenly and said, “Dante, news of this Joseph Duncan frightens me.”
His eyebrows shot up at her sudden honesty, and then his face softened. He touched her arm and said, “My instructions are to keep you safe, and on that, you can depend.”
Chapter 16
Circe and Levi were busy from sunup to sundown which was fortunate. Excessive work was the perfect excuse not to mix with the community. Placing a high value on an industrious attitude, the Puritans did not find fault with Circe when she said she must finish her tasks rather than attend social occasions.
The only person who persistently sought her attention was a man by the name of Ezra Cheeseborough, a middle-aged widower who lived opposite the shop.
“Good day to you!” he called, one morning shortly after she had arrived.
Circe was just returning from market.
He bound across the muddy street and up the steps of the weaving room. He was a big-boned man with a ruddy face and sandy colored hair. His bug eyes were a sickly blue and bloodshot. “God has granted us an exceptional day, has he not?”
“He has indeed.”
“My name is Cheeseborough. I have the chandler shop at the end of the street but my lodgings are directly across from you.”
“I am Mistress Swinburne. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.
Now, if you will excuse me, my loom awaits.”
“I see candlelight in your weaving room long before the sun rises each day. The Good Lord does not want you to work quite so slavishly. I must insist that you come have a cup of tea with me and rest your bones for a while today.”
“I fear I cannot. Thank you,” she replied, starting in the door.
“Well, at the very least, allow me to see your weaving room,” he said, following her inside the shop.
Levi looked up with surprise and Circe rolled her eyes.
“And you are?” Cheeseborough asked.
“This is my nephew, Levi Morgan.”
Cheeseborough did not bother to look at the shop; he was interested in Circe, not her occupation. “How is it a woman is all alone here in Boston?”
“Sir, I am not alone,” she replied, gesturing to Levi.
“Allow me to rephrase it. How is it you are in business without a husband?”
“I am a widow. My husband died on the crossing, and my father-in-law leased this building for me.”
“Oh dear, my condolences. I too am bereaved. I lost my wife several months ago.”
This is unfortunate, Circe thought. She did not need a nosy neighbor or a suitor.
He ran his eyes over her boldly.
She said tersely, “I must insist on returning to my work now, Mr. Cheeseborough.”
He sighed. “Very well. You know where to find me if you are ever in need of candles, soap, or anything at all. I, for one, will be watching from across the street and awaiting another glimpse of you.”
Oh, lovely, she thought.
* * *
Ezra Cheeseborough returned on a regular basis as well as several other men who showed interest in courting Circe. This was a problem she had not anticipated, and it worried her that it may compromise her safety. Her cool attitude toward these men seemed only to fuel their desire.
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 16
