Witchborn

by Nicholas Bowling

  ‘This hired thug,’ he said at last, ‘is apparently the only person willing to get his hands dirty and actually look for the girl.’

  ‘And who gave you all the information? Who gave you the leads?’

  ‘You did. But would you be happy riding from one stinking village to the next in search of her? Would Mary?’

  ‘Pah!’

  ‘And you have us to thank for your new pet,’ said Hopkins, nodding to the darkness.

  The laboratory fell silent, except for the sounds of chewing coming from the corner of the room.

  ‘Not new, actually,’ said the Doctor. ‘We have met before. This wretch is Anne Harper. She was one of ours, some years back. She’d had a vision – foresaw some misfortune regarding her son, I believe – and she wanted our help to try and save him. Wanted to learn our arts. Mary assumed you witchfinders had caught and killed her long ago, but here she is, her mind in pieces. It’s no surprise she drove herself mad – she was a woman of little talent. Very mean intelligence.’

  A whisper floated out of the cage.

  ‘Black book . . . black book . . . black book . . .’

  The Doctor laughed. ‘Yes, Anne, my black book, and you never returned it, you little thief!’

  ‘Has she been useful?’ said Hopkins, growing increasingly impatient with the man. ‘Can she see the girl?’

  The Doctor smoothed his beard. ‘We have made some progress,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Her visions are complicated. Past, present, future – all one hotchpotch. That’s the thing that drives them mad. But as it happens, she saw Alyce in the flesh. She claims that the girl was under your very nose the whole time you were blundering around in Bedlam. I would like to think that this is simply more lunatic ravings, since it implies an incompetence quite beyond belief. But it seems to be true.’

  Hopkins smiled thinly. ‘Say it is true. It still doesn’t help us.’

  ‘Luckily for you, there is another extraordinary coincidence. The son she so desperately wanted to save is with the girl. Find the boy, and you’ll find Alyce.’

  ‘Very well. What do we know about him?’

  ‘He is an actor, it would seem. She doesn’t know, or won’t say, which players’ company he is with. But I’m sure a man of your remarkable talents will rise to that challenge. Find out where he lives, where he performs, where he goes drinking – he’s harbouring her somewhere.’

  ‘And do we have a name?’

  The Doctor began to speak when suddenly there was a wild rattling of the cage, and gurgling from its occupant.

  ‘My boy . . . my poor, poor boy . . .’

  He went back into the darkness to calm the creature before he answered.

  ‘The boy’s name,’ he said, ‘is Solomon Harper.’

  Alyce was awake before dawn, as usual. She hadn’t slept properly for days. Whenever she managed to calm her racing mind long enough to drift off, she was plagued by hideous dreams – of Bedlam, of her mother, of the raven. Things that she would have rather forgotten were suddenly coming back to her with terrible clarity.

  She sat upright in bed, staring into the darkness, tired and brittle from constant alertness. The last week had worn her down to a sliver.

  Solomon had gone. He had not returned to The Swan since her delirium had struck. She knew he had helped her up to her room, and he had obviously done his best to explain away the damage she had caused, but then he had abandoned her. She missed him. And she wanted to talk to him, to ask him what had happened. He was the only one who might understand. There was no way she could talk to Mrs Thomson about it.

  The innkeeper was in a permanently foul mood these days. It was understandable really, after what Alyce had done. Stools were broken, two barrels of ale had split, the inn’s only glass decanter had shattered. For the time being, Alyce had come up with some unconvincing excuse that she had simply knocked them over, and Mrs Thomson had made equally unconvincing claims that she believed her. But there were other, stranger things too: food in the kitchen had spontaneously rotted, boughs of holly and ivy had withered and dried and dropped their leaves. There was no explaining that. Now there was an odd curtness in the way the innkeeper spoke to her. She looked at her differently too.

  No such thing as witches.

  The Other Side. She had been talking to Solomon about it just moments before it had all happened. The world of the dead, lying always just behind our own, was nothing new to Alyce – she had countless memories of she and her mother perching on a tomb or kneeling by the embers of the fire, listening for the voices of the departed. Sometimes her mother would ask them questions, and while Alyce tried hard to hear the answers, their whispering was no more intelligible than wind in the trees.

  What happened in the Swan’s kitchen was different, though. She hadn’t just heard voices. That strange, tidal surge of darkness had overwhelmed her. More than that. She felt like she’d let something in, and had been powerless to stop it. And now, in the quiet of her bedroom, it lingered, a background hum that wouldn’t go away.

  Her mother could have explained it to her. Maybe even Solomon. But they were both gone. She’d never felt so alone.

  A cold, pale light began to bleed through the dirty window panes. Alyce willed the sunrise to go and bother other, happier souls who were ready to face the world. Today, of all days, she just wanted to stay in bed, preferably in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She was supposed to be meeting Signor Vitali this morning. He had replied quickly and effusively to Mrs Thomson’s letter, saying he would be ‘beyond delighted to meet Alyce’, and that ‘a beautiful young woman would be good for business, and good for him too’.

  Alyce rolled over and buried her head in the pillow.

  You need to get up now, Alyce.

  The voice in her head sounded like it belonged to someone else. At any rate, her body wasn’t listening to it.

  Come on, you great lump. Is this what all your efforts have been leading to? Your mother’s efforts? A nice long lie-in?

  She opened one eye. The letter was still lying on the dresser, stained dubiously brown from its time at Bedlam. Perhaps she wasn’t as alone as she thought. The mountebank’s shop was on London Bridge, so a visit to Bankside would hardly be out of her way. She could find the hangman.

  Even so, getting up felt like dragging several wet sandbags out of the bed. She stretched, and put on a smock with great effort. She pocketed the letter first, and then took her mommet from its hiding place under her pillow.

  Mrs Thomson was already fussing over the stove when Alyce came down to the kitchen.

  ‘Bowl of porridge on the end there for you, child,’ she said, without looking up. ‘And you’ll get a boiled egg and a nice apple too. You’ll be needing your energy today.’

  Alyce drew up a chair and stared into the grey depths of her bowl. There must have been gallons of the stuff in there, and she suspected there was no way Mrs Thomson was letting her leave without finishing all of it. She dug out a few spoonfuls.

  ‘I make it about seven o’clock. Which means you’ll need to be on your way to the signor in an hour or so. Mustn’t keep him waiting.’

  With just Mrs Thomson for company, the inn seemed quiet and empty. Alyce swallowed and shivered. She wished Solomon were here.

  ‘That bird got in the yard again this morning, no doubt you heard,’ said Mrs Thomson, continuing to clatter around the kitchen. ‘Got as far as the kitchen this time, helping itself to scraps, the little devil!’

  The raven again. Alyce tried to ignore the very clear memory that rose before her eyes, and said nothing. She scooped up the dregs of the porridge, her belly feeling hot and strained, and sucked anxiously on the spoon. The innkeeper bustled over and took her bowl.

  ‘How was that then?’

  ‘Very nice, thank you.’

  Mrs Thomson looked at her askance.

  ‘You’re very quiet this morning. You still feeling unwell?’

  Alyce forced a smile. ‘Quite well. It’s just . . . I
haven’t been out into London for so long. I’m not really looking forward to it. The city hasn’t treated me particularly kindly before now.’

  ‘Didn’t stop you running off with Solomon for the night, did it though?’ Mrs Thomson glared at her for a moment, before her features softened. ‘Don’t you worry yourself. Signor Vitali is a gentleman, he’ll take good care of you.’

  If I make it there alive, thought Alyce. She hadn’t forgotten that the witchfinders were almost certainly still looking for her.

  ‘That reminds me . . .’ Mrs Thomson waddled off into the study at the rear of the kitchen. When she emerged she was carrying four small leather pouches, and she dumped three of them in front of Alyce. They let off a queer smell.

  ‘Now you listen. This is what he’s asked for. They all got labels on them, so he knows what’s what.’ Alyce looked at one of the thin pieces of parchment, and read it aloud.

  ‘Crab’s eyes. I thought these were herbs?’

  ‘Crab’s eyes is a herb. Well, it’s a plant. And a nasty one, withal. Thought you might know it.’

  Alyce looked at the rest of the labels. ‘Poppy seeds, ragwort…’ she said aloud. Then she pointed to the fourth bag, which was small, black, and unmarked. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Thomson quietly. ‘This ain’t got no label on it because it’s a bit . . . out of the ordinary. Just tell him . . . this one is for his special customers.’

  Alyce looked confused, and gingerly took the leather pouch.

  ‘Don’t you go losing it, girl. And make sure he pays me in full. A crown for each of these three, and two sovereigns for that one you got there. You understand? Here.’

  She handed Alyce a piece of parchment with the inventory and a list of prices scribbled across it. Alyce took it and slipped it into her front pocket along with the letter she had brought down from her bedroom.

  ‘You’re just about ready, I think. Wait a moment.’ Again, Mrs Thomson disappeared into the study, and came back with a basket, a pair of floppy leather shoes and a bonnet, which she thrust over the top of Alyce’s messy copper curls. She took a step back and cocked her head.

  ‘There you are. A proper lady. Shoes might be a little big, but you need something sturdy. It’ll be hard going after the snow we’ve had.’ Then she placed the four pouches into the basket, and covered them with a cloth. ‘You make sure no one tries to pinch those!’

  Alyce pushed her feet into the shoes, and wiggled her toes. There was a good inch of empty space for them to rattle around in. The leather flapped absurdly at the ends.

  ‘I feel like I should have a cockscomb to match these . . .’

  Mrs Thomson laughed, for the first time in what felt like weeks. ‘Nonsense! You look very fine. Now, you ready?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Alyce.

  ‘You got the inventory?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You know where you’re going?’

  She nodded again. ‘London Bridge, between the glassmakers and the silversmith.’

  ‘Good. Never been there myself, but shouldn’t be too hard to find.’ The innkeeper patted her on the back with a warm, fleshy palm. That was what counted as affection from Mrs Thomson these days. ‘Well then. God speed!’

  And that was it. She had expected a bit more ceremony.

  Alyce tramped out of the kitchen and across the dusty floorboards of the common room. Mrs Thomson had gone back to work by the time she had reached the front door.

  No turning back now. She loitered on the inn’s threshold for a moment, and noticed the broken stools and shattered barrels piled up in the yard. The memory of what had happened a week earlier flared in her imagination again, but she closed her eyes and forced it from her mind. Then she took three breaths of cold morning air, checked the contents of her front pocket again, and stepped out of the doorway.

  The city and its shadows crouched in the mist, waiting to claim her.

  The snow from the previous week still lay in dirty, brown heaps around the alleyways, leaving a chill in the air that was damp rather than crisp. It soaked through Alyce’s clothing, and she was shivering in her bones before she had even left the inn yard.

  The townsfolk sailed silently past her in the mist as she trudged down Fish Street to the river. She jumped when a pair of caged geese came honking through the street behind her, but apart from that there was a reassuring calmness about the laymen setting up shop and going about their business.

  At the bottom of the hill loomed the north gate of London Bridge, and the narrow archway was already spilling forth carts and bodies coming across from Southwark. Things were busier and more irritable here. Alyce found herself kicking and elbowing her way through the crush of bodies, knuckles white from clutching her basket of ingredients.

  The bridge itself was a magnificent shambles – a hundred shops and houses clinging desperately to its sides as though fearful of falling into the brown, silty water below. Through the middle of these huddling buildings, the thoroughfare itself was little more than six feet wide. There was no place where two carts might pass each other, with coaches, carts, pedestrians and animals all crushing dangerously through the same narrow conduit. To make things more difficult for Alyce, almost everybody was going in the opposite direction to her.

  Quickly, she checked that the pouches in her basket were all intact, and then dived back into the stream of people.

  Once she was under the gate, the first set of shops formed a low tunnel over the bridge. Alyce clung to the walls and the shopfronts, ducking in and out of doorways so as not to be swept back the way she had come. Below her, underpinning the shouting and thumping of feet, she felt the slow rumble of the waterwheel in the northernmost arch. Most of the shops – haberdashers, milliners and the like, selling clothes and jewellery and rich fabrics – were still closed, since their wealthy clientele would not yet be out of bed. But even with the doors and windows shut, the elaborate shopfronts, and the expansive living quarters above them, spoke of the affluence inside.

  Alyce skirted the crowds, glancing behind her periodically, and found herself in the middle of the bridge, where the tunnel of shops and houses opened up to the breeze. Out on the Thames, the masts of merchant vessels stretched almost as far east as the Tower, and on the north bank sailors were yelling and cursing as two galleons manoeuvred clumsily around the same quay. Alyce stopped and stared into the grey-brown flood, swirling around the islands of debris at the base of the arches. The torrents made her feel queasy, and she imagined herself sinking into the murk, weighed down by the pounds and pounds of heavy porridge still settling in her stomach. She turned her back on the river and steadied herself.

  The glassmaker’s premises was one of the first shops in the next grand arch on the bridge. For a moment, she wondered if she should keep going, forget about the mountebank, and head straight for Bankside, but she had no desire to further aggravate Mrs Thomson or any of her customers.

  A boy no older than Alyce had opened the front door of the shop and was beating a dirty rug into the street. Within, the shop glittered with hundreds of glasses and bottles and phials. Alyce approached the boy, who seemed not to notice her and flung a faceful of dust in her direction. She tried to clear her throat politely, but found herself heaving a great phlegmy cough back at him. The boy regarded her distastefully. He was wearing an elaborately decorated silver doublet, and he had the stern, humourless face of a man five times his age.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, wiping the grime from her eyes. ‘I am looking for Signor Vitali. I am bringing him . . .’ she paused, ‘supplies. I was told his lodgings might be found here, but I can’t see them.’ Immediately next to the glass shop was the silversmith. There was no other shop or residency to be seen.

  The boy twitched his head a little, so he was watching Alyce from the corner of his eye. Then he spat at her feet, disappeared into the shop, and slammed the door.

  After a few baffled moments, the door reopened to reveal a fat, olive-skinne
d man with great pendulous jowls hanging under an unruly black moustache. His gut strained against the buttons of his undershirt.

  ‘Who wishes to speak with Signor Vitali?’

  ‘I do.’ Alyce looked the man up and down. Her eyes roamed for several moments to take in his enormity. Mrs Thomson had called Vitali handsome . . . Then again, she wasn’t a slight woman herself. ‘My name is Alyce. Mrs Thomson sent me, from The Swan. I have the ingredients you asked for.’

  The fat man spat on the floor too, more viciously than his boy. ‘You think I am Vitali? Because I speak like this? I am from Venezia. Vitali?’ He spat again. ‘Cafone. Vitali is from Milano. He is a dog. A child like you should not meet with him. Where is your mother? Why she send you here?’

  That took Alyce a little by surprise. ‘Oh, Mrs Thomson isn’t my mother. I work at The Swan. I have something to give to Signor Vitali.’ She held up her basket.

  The glassmaker patted his belly. ‘Bene. Your mother is a fool—’

  ‘I just told you, she isn’t my—’

  ‘But I will show you to this cafone. You give him your something, and then you leave. You do not talk to him. Is a waste of your breath.’

  He barged past Alyce, and inside the shop she could see the boy still watching her suspiciously.

  ‘Forgive my son, Alessandro. He does not know how to talk to a beautiful girl.’

  Alyce couldn’t work out if he was joking or not. He didn’t seem to be. With a solemn look upon his face, he went into the middle of the thoroughfare and pointed into a tiny gap between his own shop and the silversmith’s next door. It didn’t even look wide enough for Alyce to slip into, let alone this Venetian gentleman. It also seemed to lead nowhere, simply disappearing off the side of the bridge.

  ‘You must go down below,’ he said. ‘He conducts his business underneath the rest of us. As he should.’ He spat once more. ‘Buona fortuna.’ Then he turned on his heel and marched briskly back to his shop.