The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  “What do you think? Do you like it?” She pushes her way inside and prances around, making ridiculous poses. Her red hair clashes horribly with the pink feathers.

  I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.

  “I knew it!” She tears the mask off and flings it onto the bed. “It was George’s idea. He said he couldn’t stand looking at my face without it. He’s such a baby.”

  I see what he means. Even though the swelling around her eye is gone, it’s still a bloody, mottled purple.

  “Here.” She pushes the goblet into my hand. “It’s medicine. John made it. You’re to drink all of it, no complaints, and I’m to report back that you did.”

  I wince. There’s no telling how bad he’s made this medicine taste. I take a tentative sip. But instead of something sour or pungent, I taste strawberries. I think back to the night when I first dined with Nicholas, when I piled my plate high with strawberries and cake. John must have noticed and remembered. I feel that ache in my chest again.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you making that face?” Fifer demands.

  “No reason,” I say. Fifer raises her eyebrows. “Anyway, where did you get this?” I reach over and pick up the mask. It’s pretty, black satin with tiny black jewels sewn all over it. The feathers are overkill, but I’ve seen worse.

  “Humbert has a whole trunkful. That duchess friend of his, you know. They’re left over from some masquerade ball they went to. I can’t imagine how strange those parties must be. I mean, what’s the point of getting all dressed up if no one knows who you are?” She tuts. “Have you ever been to one?”

  I nod. “Two, actually. Would have been three if I hadn’t been arrested. Malcolm has them every Christmas. This year’s must be coming up soon.”

  It takes a moment for that to set in. Malcolm’s masquerade ball is coming up. The one Caleb was going to invite Katherine to, the one I drunkenly invited George to.

  I tear off my nightgown and fumble around on the floor for some clothes.

  Fifer watches me, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

  I tug on a pair of trousers and a shirt, shove my feet into a pair of boots, and stagger out the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll explain downstairs,” I say, working my way down the steps. “Where’s Humbert?”

  “Sitting room.”

  Shuffling down the hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My shirt is buttoned up wrong, my hair is tangled. I look wild, unhinged.

  I finally reach the sitting room, Fifer on my heels. Humbert is at his desk, writing a letter. “Elizabeth!” he crows. “It’s nice to see you up and—”

  “Humbert, what day is it today?” I demand, cutting him off.

  “I’m sorry, dear—what day?”

  “Yes. What day of the month?”

  “Well, it’s Wednesday, of course,” he says. “The fourteenth of December.” He smiles. “Oh, you must be talking about the weather. It does seem as if it came early this year, doesn’t it?”

  I ignore him, thinking. Today is the fourteenth. Malcolm’s masque was to be held on the third Friday of the month this year. What day is that?

  “I need a calendar,” I blurt.

  “Yes, well, fine.” Humbert opens a drawer and pulls out a ledger. “Here you go.”

  I snatch it from his hands and flip the pages until I land on December 1558.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  “What’s going on?” George says, walking into the room.

  “I know how I’m going to get into Blackwell’s.” I hold up the calendar, point my finger to a date: Friday, December 16, 1558. Two days from now. “I’m going to be a guest at Malcolm’s masquerade ball.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fifer says.

  “Every year at Christmas, Malcolm has a masquerade ball,” I say. “He invites everyone. It’s a huge crowd. There’s a performance, music. Food and dancing. People come from all over Anglia.” I turn to Humbert. “You go, don’t you?”

  “Not lately,” he admits. “Difficult for me to dance, what with my back. And my foot—” He stops. “But, yes, I did receive an invitation a while back. I tucked it away, didn’t give it much thought.” He pauses. “But Malcolm’s Christmas masques are normally held at Ravenscourt, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, normally,” I say. “But with all the rebellions, he thought it would be safer to move it. Keep it secret until the day before. Then all the guests would receive a second invitation with the location.”

  “Then how do you know where it is?” George asks. “I don’t.”

  “I—” I feel my cheeks burn. “The king told me.”

  The three of them frown, confused. Of course, they don’t understand how or why the king would tell me something like that. And I’m not about to explain it to them, at least not now.

  “Anyway,” I continue. “I’ve got a lot to figure out in two days. The biggest problem is how to get there. It’s too far to ride, so I’ll have to take a boat. I can sneak aboard. I’ve done it before; it’s not terribly difficult. Granted, it’ll take some doing to persuade the captain to drop a stowaway at Blackwell’s doorstep, but—what?”

  Fifer, George, and Humbert are all staring at me as if I’m as deranged as I look.

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth,” Humbert says. “Walking into Blackwell’s house, uninvited—”

  “I’m not uninvited,” I say. “I’ll take your invitation.”

  “But poking about his grounds with all those people around? I don’t know. It sounds potentially dangerous.”

  “It’s dangerous no matter what,” I say. “But the masque is by far my best opportunity to get inside. There will be hundreds of people around. My face will be hidden. Blackwell will be distracted. No one will notice one wandering guest.”

  I look at George and Fifer for support, but they avoid my gaze.

  Humbert gets up from his chair. “Elizabeth, the four of us spoke at length about this last night, and we think you should consider waiting until Blackwell’s at court. He’s scheduled to be there within the week, presumably after he hosts the masque. Then, when his house is empty, you can go in. Peter will go with you, and he’ll bring men with him.”

  “No,” I say. “That’s exactly what Blackwell will expect us to do. He’ll expect us to come when he’s gone. Then he’ll set a trap for us, and it’ll be over. He’ll never expect us to show up at the masque.”

  Behind me, someone clears his throat. I turn around and see John standing in the doorway. He looks as he did the night I first met him: face pale, eyes shadowed, clothes wrinkled as if he slept in them. Or didn’t sleep at all. The sight of him makes my stomach tumble wildly.

  “How are you feeling?” he says to me.

  “I—I’m fine.” I’m surprised he’d bother asking. “Thank you.”

  He nods and turns to Humbert. “Horace returned with some news.” He holds out a letter. “It’s not good.”

  Humbert takes the letter and scans it briefly. Then he sinks into a chair, his head bowed.

  “What is it?” Fifer says. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Nicholas,” John says. “He’s dying.”

  IMMEDIATELY, FIFER BURSTS INTO TEARS.

  “What happened?” I say.

  “He took a turn for the worse,” John says. “The healers in Harrow say he won’t make it through the week.”

  “We have to do something,” Fifer wails. “We can’t let him die!”

  “He’s not going to die,” I say. “Because I’m going to the masque to destroy the tablet.”

  “Elizabeth—” Humbert starts again.

  “No,” I say. “You have to do what I want, remember? That’s how the prophecy works. Whatever I want to do, we do. And I want to go to the masque.”

  Humbert is quiet for a minute. Then he nods.

  “Good,” I say. “I’ll need a dress, a mask, and your invitation. And a horse to get to port.” I turn to John. “Where’s the nearest o
ne?”

  John thinks a moment. “There are a couple. Hackney is closest, but Westferry is the better bet. It’s safe harbor for pirate ships that stop for provisions before heading south. My father knows all the captains and I’ve met a few. I could probably get us on one of them without too much trouble. If we left tonight, we could catch one in the morning.”

  “We?” I say. “There is no we. Just me.”

  “Wrong,” John says. “I’m going with you.” I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “I heard what you said. But if you try to sneak aboard some ship, and they find you and decide to make an example of you, not getting to Blackwell’s will be the least of your problems.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I say.

  “Fine,” he snaps. “But who’s going to take care of your stitches? Who’s going to make your medicine? Who’s going to keep you from dying?” There’s an edge to his voice, something between anger and frustration.

  “No one!” I shout, brought to anger and frustration myself. Maybe because I know it’s true.

  The room goes quiet as we glare at each other.

  “I’m going with you,” John says again.

  “I’m going, too,” Fifer says.

  “No, you’re not,” John and I say at once.

  “I am, and don’t you dare try to stop me,” she fires back. “I have a sword, and unless Elizabeth wants a matching set of stitches and you want some of your own, I’m going with you.”

  George raises his hand. “Count me in, too.”

  “This is ridiculous.” I turn to Humbert, and I don’t need to raise my voice for him, because I’m already shouting. “They cannot go, and you have to stop them. It’s too dangerous. You know it and I know it. They could get captured. They could get killed, and—what?”

  Humbert is shaking his head.

  “It’s Nicholas,” he says simply. “We all care too much what happens to him to sit back and do nothing. So for me to try to stop them from helping would be wrong, not to mention unfair.”

  I start to argue, but Humbert speaks first.

  “And you’re going to need help,” he reminds me gently. “You can’t do it alone.”

  I snap my mouth shut, gritting my teeth against this foolishness; against the idea that they can help, against the idea that I am anything except alone. But I know that for now, arguing will get me nowhere.

  Then I get an idea.

  “I guess that settles it,” I say. “Can you help us get ready?”

  Humbert nods, then motions for John and George to follow him upstairs. When they’re gone, I turn to Fifer. She’s not crying anymore, but she’s still sniffling, and now both her eyes are swollen and red.

  “This is a terrible plan, you coming with me,” I say. “Surely you know that.”

  “I do,” she says. “But Humbert’s right. You’re going to need help.”

  “But you can’t help me,” I say. “And if something happens to you while I’m in there, I won’t be able to help you.”

  “Let us worry about that.” She starts toward the door. “We should probably go and get ready.”

  “You go ahead,” I tell her. “There’s something I need to do first.”

  I go to Humbert’s desk, pull out a pen and some paper. While I may not be able to keep the others from going to Blackwell’s with me, I can at least make sure they get out.

  When I’m done, I fold up the pages neatly and seal them, dripping melted wax over the edges and pressing Humbert’s signet, a falcon, into the pool of crimson.

  I find Bridget. “Give this note to Humbert the moment we leave,” I say. “It’s very important. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, miss, I do,” she says, alarmed at my urgency. “I understand.”

  “Good. And make sure Horace doesn’t go anywhere. Humbert’s going to need him.”

  Several hours later we’re all in Humbert’s stable, loading our bags onto four of his horses. We’re dressed in Humbert’s servants’ livery, pale gray trousers and tunic with an orange falcon embroidered across the front.

  “It’s a bit suspicious, your riding at night,” Humbert says. “So if anyone stops you, tell them I’m expecting a shipment of fruit from Iberia at dawn, and you’re going to port to wait for it.”

  “Fruit?” George says, climbing onto the mounting block. He’s so short he can’t get on his horse without it.

  “Of course! How else would I get oranges, limes, and lemons in the dead of winter?” He slaps his hand on John’s shoulder. “Just got one last week. It’s a good thing, eh?”

  John gives him a weak smile and climbs onto his horse.

  “There’s an inn at Westferry called the Nutshell. My servants always stay there. Ask for Ian. He’ll give you a couple of rooms and not ask too many questions.”

  Humbert leads us outside. It’s only four o’clock, but night is already falling. I can already see the moon, a shining crescent in the dusk. As we prepare to ride off, I feel his hand on my arm. I turn to him and he motions for me to come closer. I lean down.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you still have the ring?” he whispers.

  “Yes.” I feel embarrassed about packing it. It’s probably valuable, and I suppose he’s realized if I die, he’ll never get it back. I reach for my bag. “It’s right here, just give me a minute to find it—”

  “No.” He puts his hand over mine and squeezes. “I would like it very much if you wore it at the masque,” he says. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I say. “But why?”

  “It’s a lucky ring,” he says. “I know, it’s an old man’s silly superstition. But I would feel better if I knew you had it on.”

  He’s right; it is a silly superstition. Even still, I’ll take all the luck I can get.

  “Okay. I’ll wear it,” I say. “Thank you.” He gives my hand one last squeeze and I’m about to ride off when it dawns on me. “Hang on,” I say. “You can hear me. I’ve been whispering this whole time, but you can hear me. Can’t you?” I stare at him as it sinks in. “You’re not deaf at all, are you?”

  Humbert winks. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re all a little hard of hearing in our own way, aren’t we?” He laughs at the shocked look on my face. “It’s a wonderful disadvantage to have, I’ll tell you. One learns so much being deaf. You’d be surprised at what people will say when they think no one is listening.”

  Trust the one who sees as much as he hears. Fifer thought that was about Schuyler, and it was—but it was also about Humbert. I wonder if she knows.

  I shake my head and laugh, too. I can’t help it.

  “Our little secret?”

  I nod.

  “Good girl. Now you’d better get moving.”

  The four of us ride away. But before we can even make it all the way through Humbert’s vast estate, I see a falcon circling the sky. He hovers over us before swooping away, a rolled-up note clutched in his tiny feet.

  “Isn’t that Horace?” George says.

  “Yes,” John confirms. “I figured Humbert would write my father to tell him where we were going. But I thought he’d at least wait until we cleared his property first.”

  I smile. So far, things are going according to plan.

  It’s dark when we reach Westferry. We find Humbert’s friend Ian easily enough. He takes our horses to his stable, feeds us, and shows us to our rooms, all without question. Fifer and I fall into our beds immediately. I’m exhausted, and my side throbs painfully. John wrapped it up tightly before we left, but three hours on horseback has left it aching.

  The next time I open my eyes, it’s morning. To my surprise, the sun is shining. Fifer and I dress and go next door to John and George’s room. John is standing at the window, watching the ships that line the harbor. He’s fully dressed and ready to go.

  “See it?” Fifer asks, setting her bag on the floor.

  “Not yet,” John says, shielding his eyes against the bright sun.

  “It?�
�� I repeat. “I thought you said we could take any one of those ships.”

  John shrugs, but he doesn’t turn around. “We could. And we might have to. But I’d rather take one I know. It’ll make it easier, given where we’re asking them to take us.”

  George comes in with food, and the three of us eat while John continues to monitor the window. Then Fifer and George play a card game on the bed while I sit in a chair in the corner, trying to rest. Even though I slept well last night, I’m still tired. I guess it’s my stitches. I can’t remember the last time an injury left me so exhausted.

  Next thing I know, there’s a hand on my arm, gently shaking me. “Elizabeth. Wake up.” I blink and see George standing over me. “Time to go.” He helps me out of my chair and hands me my bag.

  John stands by the door, waiting. He hasn’t spoken to me, at least not voluntarily, since we left Humbert’s. Every now and again I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. But when I try to meet his gaze, he always looks away.

  Outside, the dock is crowded with people, stevedores mostly, loading and unloading crates from the ships that line the quay. For a moment I stand there, letting the warmth from the sun sink into my skin. I should be feeling safe—as safe as someone like me could feel, anyway. But for some reason, the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle, the way they do when I know I’m being watched.

  “Which one is it?” George says. There are several ships along the pier. Some are massive, hulking things, all masts and rigging, billowing sails, and cargo stacked high. Others are low and sleek, with nothing on board but cannons, poking from the gun ports like tiny black eyes.

  “There. At the very end.” John points to one of the smaller ships docked at the end.

  “It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” Fifer says. “Don’t you think we’d be better off in one of those?” She motions to one of the larger ships.

  John shakes his head. “Blackwell’s house is off the river. Something that big will never be able to get us close enough without running aground. I don’t really want to row in, do you?”

  Fifer shakes her head.