The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  “There’s a big difference. Blackwell had to use magic to educate us. To train us. We had to have magic in order to know how to fight it. He couldn’t very well train us without it. It would be like trying to train an army without giving them weapons.”

  I repeat the answers Caleb gave me to the very questions I had asked, time and time again. But Nicholas just shakes his head.

  “The things you describe, your experience, those were not simple spells or mere enchantments. The power it would take would rival my own. However, the lack of conscience… those creatures…”

  “Blackwell called them hybrids; Caleb called them halflings. I jokingly called them cockatrices, after the dish I used to make in the kitchen.”

  He nods. “But creating living creatures like that is no joke. It is complex magic—highly difficult, attained through many years of practice and trial and error. It could not have been done by just anyone. How did he come by such magic?”

  I have to admit I never questioned exactly how Blackwell made those things happen. Not that he would have told me even if I did. He did everything in secrecy, behind closed doors and blindfolds. I never even saw who marked me with my stigma. At the time, I didn’t really care.

  “Caleb said he used some of the wizards we captured to do things for him,” I say. “There were plenty of wizards we arrested that I never saw burn.”

  Nicholas goes still.

  “Why is he after you?” he says after a moment.

  “What do you mean?” I say. “You know why.”

  He waves it away. “What is it about you that makes him so determined to find you? I’m a far bigger prize than a sixteen-year-old girl. Why did he go through the effort of trumping up charges for you? Do you really believe he thinks you’re a witch? A spy? A traitor?”

  “He told me I was a liability.”

  “He may have been telling the truth about that. At least, the truth the way he sees it. Rather, the way it has been foreseen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about the tablet.”

  I frown. “Are you saying Blackwell had me arrested because he knew I could find your tablet?”

  “Yes.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t see how he could possibly know that.”

  “No? You said yourself Blackwell used magic if and when it suited his needs. Wouldn’t it be possible, then, that he used a seer?”

  I shake my head again, but he presses on.

  “It would explain how he found us at Veda’s, how he knew you were here. Perhaps you saw one in his room, someone you mistook for a servant. Perhaps even a child?”

  I think back to the night Richard took me to Blackwell, the boy I saw scurrying down the hall. He was about five years old, the same age as Veda. I look up to see Nicholas watching me. He just nods.

  “So he has a seer,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Nicholas takes a breath, as though his words were a weight he was about to lift.

  “Elizabeth, I’ve been watching Blackwell for a long time. I watched him go from duke and brother of the king to Lord Protector, as good as a king. Indeed, if Malcolm had died from plague, too, Blackwell would be king. I don’t doubt a day goes by that he doesn’t regret that.”

  I can’t disagree. Malcolm knew Blackwell hated him; he never knew why. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was because his uncle wished he were dead.

  “With Blackwell, change tends to precede greater change. A king dies, a duke becomes Protector. A prince becomes king, the Protector becomes Inquisitor. Now he’s handed that title over to your friend Caleb. Do you think Blackwell will be content to go back to being a duke?”

  I suck in a sudden, sharp breath. “Do you think he means to be king?”

  “I think he’s after the greater victory,” Nicholas replies. “Whether that is king or something worse than king.”

  Something worse than king. The words send a chill down my spine.

  “Whatever his plan, he needs me out of the way to achieve it,” Nicholas continues. “He knew you would threaten that, so he was forced to take action. I believe it’s why he’s after you now. I believe it’s why he cursed me.”

  “Why he had you cursed, you mean.”

  “No. I mean why he cursed me.”

  His words hang in the air, swooping and swirling above me like one of Blackwell’s winged reptiles; and when they land, they pierce me like metal feathers: hard, sharp, burrowing deep.

  “Why he cursed you,” I repeat.

  Nicholas nods.

  “So you think… you think that…” I can’t say it.

  He says it for me. “Blackwell is a wizard.”

  I’m on my feet before he finishes the word.

  “No,” I say. “No, no, no.” I shake my head so hard it hurts. “Blackwell is not a wizard. No. That’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. It’s insane.”

  “He trained you, using magic. He marked you, using magic. He created things, using magic; and he, himself, uses magic.” Nicholas marches through the evidence like a barrister before the bar.

  “He didn’t do those things,” I say wildly. “It was the other wizards. The ones we captured, the ones we didn’t burn. They did it. Not him.” I cling to this scrap of possibility as I might cling to a scrap of rock to keep from falling off a cliff.

  “No.” Nicholas’s voice is soft but firm. “I told you. The only witch or wizard who could perform magic like that is now dead. And they are dead: I witnessed their deaths myself.”

  “It’s not true. Not true, not true, not true.” I’m babbling.

  “He led a life of lies,” Nicholas says quietly, almost sympathetically. “He would have had to; a young wizard living in a household of Persecutors. At best, they would have sent him away; at worst, well. We know what they do to witches and wizards, don’t we?”

  I’m still shaking my head.

  “By the time his brother became king, by the time he opened the door to the possibility of reconciliation between Persecutors and Reformists, Blackwell’s choice was made. It wouldn’t be enough for him to be able to finally use his power. He wanted to rule with it. To take control after all the years spent relinquishing it. I believe it’s why he started the plague: to kill the king, to kill Malcolm, to give him the throne.”

  The ground shifts; everything shifts. The rock breaks and I’m off the cliff now, falling through the air, plummeting toward the hard earth and an even harder truth:

  Blackwell started the plague.

  Blackwell killed my parents.

  Blackwell is a wizard.

  I sink back into the velvet chair, bury my head in my hands. I don’t know how long I sit here, in this red, beating room. It could be minutes; it could be hours.

  “What do I need to do?” I say, finally. There’s no point in telling him I can’t find the tablet, that I’m in enough trouble as it is, that helping him will only make things worse for me. There is nothing worse than this.

  Nicholas nods. “First thing—and this is very important—you cannot let anyone know you are a witch hunter. I know that George knows. But he can be the only one.”

  I frown. “Surely they’ll find out,” I say. “If I get hurt, if I heal, if I’m somehow drawn into a fight… it’s going to be really hard to keep it from them.”

  “Then I’ll need you to try even harder to keep it secret,” he says. “Don’t get in any fights, and don’t get hurt.” A pause. “I’ve already told them you’re a witch.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because they need a reason why you’re the one to find the tablet. They need a reason why you survived jail. And because you were arrested with those herbs in your pocket, it’s the reason that makes the most sense.”

  “And what about Blackwell? That he’s a—” I swallow. I still can’t say it.

  “I think it’s best we keep that to ourselves for now. The truth will come out soon enough.”

  I nod.

  “Second, I’m s
ending you away. Today. You’re to travel with the others to Stepney Green, to pay a visit to Humbert Pembroke.”

  I blink. Humbert Pembroke is the richest man in Anglia, next to the king. He’s a great friend of Blackwell’s and a big supporter of the crown. He’s been a fixture at court for many years, though I haven’t seen him in a while. Why him?

  “He’s one of us,” Nicholas says before I can ask.

  I’m so surprised by this it takes me a moment to respond.

  “Why Stepney Green?” I say. “Is that where the tablet is?”

  “No,” Nicholas says. “But you’re not looking for the tablet there. Remember what Veda said? Come third winter’s night, go underground in green. What holds him in death will lead you to thirteen. What you’re looking for in Stepney Green is the thing that will lead you to the tablet, not the tablet itself.”

  “That’s all I have to go on?”

  “Yes. But it’s enough, at least for now.”

  “How?” I say. “It doesn’t tell me anything. Veda said more after that, a lot more. What did it all mean?”

  Nicholas hesitates. “There is nothing I can tell you that you will not learn for yourself.”

  “So you do know, then. You know what’s going to happen.” It hits me then, what he knows. “You know I’m going to die.”

  “We all die,” Nicholas says. “That’s not a prophecy; it’s a certainty.”

  “Don’t mince words,” I snap.

  “Elizabeth, this is your prophecy. How it plays out is entirely in your hands. I can’t tell you what to do or what to find, because I don’t know. All I can do is put you in the right place at the right time and trust that you’ll know it when you see it.”

  I feel a sudden surge of anger. At putting my fate in the hands of a child, into a string of meaningless words.

  “I realize this seems far-fetched to you,” Nicholas says.

  “That’s not quite the word I would use,” I mutter.

  “I’ve been deciphering prophecies for a long time,” Nicholas replies. “Veda’s for as long as she could talk, countless others’ before her. Some are simple, some complex. Some are more riddle than vision. But regardless, all prophecies require a measure of conjecture.”

  There’s a soft tapping on the door, and John steps inside. He’s dressed in a heavy black coat, his bag slung over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But we’re ready to go. I need to check on you one last time before we do.”

  “We’re nearly done,” Nicholas says. John nods, glances at me, then closes the door.

  I spread my hands. “So I go to Stepney Green. Look for the thing that will lead me to the tablet. Then what?”

  Nicholas smiles. “I cannot tell you that, either. But the answer will present itself in time.”

  I bite back my frustration. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “Use your judgment. That’s very important. Do what feels right to you, in whatever circumstance you find yourself in, even if it seems improbable or even impossible. And have faith. Everything else will follow.”

  AN HOUR LATER PETER SEES us off. It’s a six-hour walk to Humbert’s home in Stepney Green. We can’t ride; it would call too much attention to ourselves, make it harder to hide if we came upon unwanted company. It’s just as well. Nicholas has only one horse anyway.

  Peter rubs his face with both hands and sighs. “Stay off the main roads as much as possible. Stick together, but don’t travel in a group. John, you lead the way. George can bring up the rear. Cover your tracks. If there’s any sign of trouble, or you think you’re being followed…”

  “Father.” John places his arm on Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine.”

  Peter nods and lets out a series of short whistles. An enormous falcon swoops down from the sky and settles on John’s outstretched arm.

  “Send him back here the moment you arrive at Humbert’s,” Peter says. “If you don’t, I’ll assume something’s happened. But if you don’t send him and nothing’s happened…” He looks at John sternly. “I swear to you, John Paracelsus Raleigh, when I’m through with you, you’ll wish something had.”

  George gapes at John. “Your middle name is Paracelsus?”

  “Shut it,” John snaps. He turns to Peter, flushing slightly. “I’ll send Horace. Everything will be fine. Please try not to worry.”

  “Hmph,” Peter grunts. He wraps John in a tight embrace, patting his back softly. Then he releases him and looks at us. “We’re taking Nicholas to Harrow so the healers there can watch over him. Once he’s settled and we see Avis and Veda to a safe house, I’ll meet you at Humbert’s. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He unbolts the door and pushes it open, a flurry of snowflakes rushing into the hall. The first snow of the season. I pull my coat tightly around me and step outside.

  “Be safe,” Peter says, his face still etched with worry. “If you see anything, anything at all, just run.”

  The four of us trudge across the wide gravel path and the grass, into the woods. Fifer and John walk ahead of us, their heads bent toward each other, whispering. All the while Nicholas’s voice is whispering in my ear: Blackwell is a wizard. Blackwell is a wizard.

  Blackwell is a wizard.

  “What’s with you?” George falls into step beside me. “You’ve barely said three words since you left Nicholas’s room.” A pause. “Did he put a spell on you? You know. To keep you from getting all—” He mimes choking and stabbing motions with his hands.

  I burst into a fit of giggles then. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe I’ve gone mad. The whole world has gone mad; seems right I should go down with it. My laughter echoes through the trees, the only sound in the otherwise silent forest. John spins around and flashes me a grin. Fifer punches him in the arm and he turns back to her, a scowl replacing his smile.

  I compose myself. “No. I’m just… you know. I don’t know.”

  “Mmm. Clarity is vastly overrated.”

  I shoot him a look. “You know what I mean. It’s going to be hard enough finding this tablet without having to hide who I am from everyone.”

  George nods. “Aye. But it’s important. Nicholas wouldn’t ask it if it weren’t.”

  “Why? You know and you aren’t getting all—” I mimic his choking and stabbing motions. “Why does it matter if they know?”

  He squints up ahead, in the direction of John and Fifer. It looks as if they’re arguing now; Fifer is gesturing furiously while John shakes his head. She glances back at me and scowls.

  “She doesn’t like me, does she?”

  George shrugs. “Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t like anyone except John. He’s the only one who can put up with her anyway. He’s got the patience of a saint.”

  I turn my attention to John then, watch as he walks through the trees up ahead.

  He’s so tall that he’s having a hard time avoiding all but the highest branches. They brush against his face, the leaves and twigs getting caught up in his dark hair. When he stops to disentangle a cluster of leaves, he sees me watching him. He gives me a little wave, then yanks the leaves out and throws them to the ground, a grin lighting up his face. Suddenly, my stomach feels as if someone tied a knot in it. Without thinking, I smile back.

  George elbows me. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Smiling. You can’t go around smiling at people like that. It’s…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Distracting.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. Look, there’s something you need to know.” He glances at John, making sure he’s not paying attention. He’s not; he and Fifer are back to whispering again. “John’s mother and sister were captured by witch hunters and burned at the stake for witchcraft. They were healers.”

  “What?” The knot in my stomach grows tighter. “When?”

  George sighs. “Last year. One morning Anne and Jane—they’re his mothe
r and sister—left Harrow, presumably to see a patient. John and Peter didn’t even know they’d gone. Anyway, they never returned. I guess you know what that means.”

  I shake my head. But, of course, I know.

  “Peter and John knew, too. They both went to Upminster, did everything they could. But Anne and Jane went to the stakes anyway. At one point, John tried to get to them, in the fire.…” George’s voice breaks. “I don’t know what he was thinking. He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, too; I don’t know why he wasn’t. The guards got ahold of him, beat him senseless. He lay there in the dirt, beaten and bloody, and watched his mother and sister die right in front of him.”

  I stop walking. Remember what John told me back at Nicholas’s about the burnings. I hadn’t realized he was talking about his own mother and sister. Never imagined he had to see that. I feel sweaty, queasy. I wonder vaguely if I might throw up.

  “I didn’t do it,” I whisper. “Capture them, I mean. I remember everyone I’ve ever arrested. It wasn’t me.”

  “Even so,” George says. “He can’t know. He wouldn’t kill you, but that’s not really what I’m worried about. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “On we go, then.”

  We keep walking. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me, on the snow-dusted leaves and twigs that snap underfoot like breaking bones. I can feel George’s eyes on me, watching me carefully. I ignore him.

  But I can’t ignore the feeling that’s crept into my chest, that uncomfortable twist of guilt, like a vine curling its way inside, threatening to choke me. I may not have captured John’s mother and sister, but I’ve captured others like them. I’ve been responsible for their deaths, for ruining families the way John’s was ruined, and for what? I thought I was doing what was best for the country, to keep it safe.

  It was all a lie.

  After several hours the woods eventually break, giving way to pastures. Rolling green hills, wide swaths of browning, early winter grass framed by low stone walls and dotted with sheep, fluffy in their thick white winter coats. The land stretches ahead of us for miles, a narrow dirt road our only passage through. The snow has now switched to rain, accompanied by a low rumbling of thunder. After being ensconced in the relative safety of the woods, I feel vulnerable being out in the open like this.