"You stupid girl!" she roared, pacing back and forth in front of the fire, clawing at the air with her arthritic fingers. "We send you out to perform a simple task, and you sleep with the most dangerous man in all of Europe!"
"It was not a simple task, and I didn't know he was a witch hunter," I bristled. "He wasn't actually wearing his robes."
She heaved the poker at me.
"Insolent wretch! You may have escaped with your life today, but it's only a matter of time before he gets over the shock of seeing you and hauls you in for questioning, and us along with you. Do you even know what it means to be tortured, Ada? Did you not see those instruments he was brandishing about?"
"He could have revealed me as a witch right there, in front of the church," I said. "But he did not. I don’t think he’s the kind of man who is easily overcome by shock, so could it be that the spell prevents him from saying something?"
"Unlikely. Perhaps you made an impression on him, after all." Aunt Bernadine snarled. "Good, we could use that. Perhaps if you went to him, offered yourself in exchange for his silence–"
"Bernadine!" Aunt Aubrey shrieked. I'd never heard her raise her voice to her sister like that. "We will not place Ada in that kind of danger, not again. Perhaps this witch hunter has simply realised that if he were to reveal Ada, the fact that he'd had intercourse with a witch would also come to light. That could hardly be good for a scharfrichter’s reputation. Whatever his reasons for keeping her secret, we cannot hope that it will last. We must prepare to leave this place in secret, as soon as possible. We could ride to Rothenberg. I have a friend in a coven there. She may shield us for a time."
Aunt Bernadine collapsed onto the bench beside the hearth. She stared into the embers. For the longest time, not one of us spoke. Finally, Bernadine sighed, and, not looking at either of us, said, "Very well. We leave as soon as possible. I will procure a carriage and horses, and Aubrey will pack our supplies."
"What are we waiting for? Why aren't we leaving tonight?"
"You forget," she snapped, "that there is a curse overshadowing us. You slept with this witch hunter two days ago. We have only five days before we lose our powers, unless we find another man. It is at least six days ride to Würzburg through the forest, and we cannot hope to meet an acquiescing stranger on the way. No, we do not leave until Ada has found a man to share her bed."
"But, the witch hunter–"
"You have five more days," said Aunt Bernadine. "You must sleep with a man before then, or we will lose our powers forever. Obviously, you cannot return to this scharfrichter, so you will need to find someone else. I suggest you start your search as quickly as possible, for we have precious little time and the male population of the village is dwindling fast.”
Rage boiled inside of me. How can she even think about sending me back to the village at a time like this? I turned on my heel and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind me.
What am I to do?
I crouched in the roots of an ancient oak tree, about a mile from our house. I often came to shelter in its branches when the aunts got on my nerves. Sometimes, like now, that cabin seemed way too small.
The rain pelted down in thick droplets, but the tree roots curled up from the damp soil, and I crouched beneath one, creating a warm cocoon. I folded my cloak around my body, and buried my face in my hands.
Aunt Bernadine's words echoed in my head. "You have five days. You must sleep with a man, or we will lose our powers forever."
I hated this curse so much. It had already got me in deep trouble, and it was only my first week. How had my aunts kept up this relentless search for years?
There was only one man I wanted, one man whose touch I craved, but I could not have him.
I must put Ulrich out of my mind. I must think of someone else who would be willing to sleep with me.
That was where things got difficult. Unlike Rebekah, I'd never had much interest in the men in the village, nor they with me. I've spent enough years waiting outside barn doors while Rebekah rolled in the hay with her latest conquest to realise I didn't want rutting – I wanted what Aunt Aubrey and Andreas had – I wanted romance. I wanted someone to love me, and to tell me I was beautiful.
And, after being in the grove with Ulrich, I wanted … that. I wanted to feel that pressure building up inside me, feel it spill over like water boiling from the kettle. I wanted the touch of a man to linger on my body.
But I was out of options and out of time. I couldn't fall in love in five days, not with Ulrich storming around the village, his icy gaze reminding me of what I'd once had, but could never have again. It was life or death and any man would do.
But who would sleep with me? I mentally ran through all the men in the village, discounting those who were too old, too cuckolded by strong wives to stray, or who had slept with Rebekah. I wasn’t left with a lot of options. I remembered Simon, son of Chlothar, the village butcher. He was a shy boy, with sallow skin and strawlike hair that stuck out in all directions. At least I could be certain Rebekah had never touched him. He seemed a sweet soul, though he never said much, and often cast his gaze down when I came by the butcher's shop. Two winters ago I'd sat with his mother while she died of a lung disease, mopping the sweat from her forehead and holding her head while she coughed blood and bile. You don't forget a thing like that. Perhaps he'd be willing to do me a little favour in return.
Simon's family lived in a small cottage on the west of the village. Chlothar would be at the butchery all day, and he would likely be tending the garden or sitting with his pigs. It was worth a shot.
I pulled my damp hood over my head, and hurried back to the cabin. Aunt Bernadine harrumphed when I walked in, but didn’t speak to me. Aunt Aubrey looked up from the table, where she was kneading dough, and gave me an apologetic smile. I ignored both of them, floating past them to our sleeping loft, where I pulled on my cleanest, prettiest dress, and tried to comb the tangles from my hair with my fingers. In the kitchen, I grabbed a basket and hunted around for something to place inside.
"What are you doing?" Aunt Aubrey turned from the window to see me stuffing still-warm rolls into my basket. "Those were for dinner."
"I'm off a-wooing," I said sourly, adding a pitcher of mead and a handful of fresh blackberries to my basket. "Wish me luck."
"Witches don't believe in luck," she said. "You be careful now, Ada. Don't let that witch hunter catch you."
Ulrich
I sat next to Tjard at the bench in the hall, a full pitcher of beer between us. The hearth was cold - I decided not to light the fire, to make the room as uncomfortable for the accusers as possible. Elder Ernust paced the length of the hall, wringing his hands anxiously and fingering the gold cross that hung low around his neck. I wished he’d stop, but he had insisted on being present while we took statements. He had the beady eyes and clammy hands of a busybody, wanting to get the juicy details on what was really going on in his village.
Tjard poured us both a cup of beer. “Perhaps no one will come today,” he said brightly. “Perhaps no one in the village has seen or heard of a witch in their midst.”
“Oh, they’ll come.” I grunted, drowning the draught in one gulp.
And come they did. It didn’t take long for the word to pass around the village that we were taking statements from anyone who had been wronged by a witch or noticed any superstitious omens. The first to enter was an old farmer, his skin stretched over his bones like leather. He took his oath while touching a small wooden box containing the village’s holy relic - a lock of hair from Saint Otto of Bamber - and then stood before me, his eyes blazing with fervour.
“My cows’ milk has gone sour,” he said, leaning on his fork as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. “And last night, when I went out the check on them, I caught them all staring up at the moon. Every one of ‘em, facing the same direction, necks craned up to the sky. It’s an omen, I tell you.”
“Thank you for your time.” Tjard wrote h
is statement down and had him sign it. I glowered at the man, anxious for him to leave.
“What are you going to do about my milk?” The farmer eyed me suspiciously.
Tjard looked up from his papers. “Have you considered making cheese?”
The farmer shuffled off.
Next were two women, who told a convoluted story of conflicting details about seeing their neighbour, a widow named Hildegard who liked to wear black, flying on her broomstick under the full moon. Tjard took down their story, but when I failed to act shocked or scandalized by their tale, they left in a huff.
“Should I go arrest the widow Hildegard?” asked Elder Ernust. “We can’t have her flying around conversing with demons, can we?”
“If you open your mouth one more time,” I said. “I will cut out your tongue. Sit down, Elder, and let us handle the statements.”
Another woman entered the hall. She was older, with a few wrinkles at the edges of her eyes and the telltale calluses of decades of hard work marring her hands. She shut the hall doors behind her. “I wish to make a statement,” she said firmly, though she shifted from foot to foot, her body language nervous.
I’d seen the behaviour before, from generally pious and good women who didn’t want to turn in a friend, but who felt their Godly duty outweighed their bonds of friendship. I had more patience with them than with the other sort - vicious gossips like the last two women who made up stories and condemned innocents in order to suit their own designs or to feel like the centre of attention.
The door now firmly closed, she swore her oath upon the relic and stood in front of us for several moments, her mouth moving silently, no words coming out. It took me a few moments to realise she was praying.
“I don’t have all day,” I snapped.
“I’m sorry, Scharfrichter, I’m just so … I mean, she’s such a sweet girl, but …”
“Out with it!” I bellowed. I was fast losing patience.
“I’ve been in contact with a witch,” she said, carefully.
“Tell us all about it.” Tjard gripped his quill tightly. “What makes you certain you met with a witch?”
“My name is Heloise, widow to Huldrich, the candlemaker, God rest his soul. I’ve lived in this village all my life.” She gulped back a sob, then continued. “There’s this girl who was friends with my eldest daughter, God rest her soul. They used to play together as children, down at the stream. She was a quiet girl, reserved, but kindly enough. She doesn’t have a mother of her own, you see, so I looked to her as a surrogate daughter. When my eldest daughter moved to her new husband’s village near Würzburg, this girl continued her visits, and we grew somewhat of a friendship. Two months ago, my husband was struck down with the pestilence, and this girl brought me herbal teas to calm the pain. She was very kind, this girl. But then, my youngest daughter Ida started to show the signs. The girl said she could save Ida. She brought herbal poultices and potions every day.”
“Knowing about medicine is not a crime,” I said.
“No, but poisoning someone is. Ida got sicker and sicker. It was the medicine this witch brought, I know it! And there’s more. When she bent over my daughter one day, the hem of her skirt caught on a splinter on the bench, and I saw that she had a mark on her leg. A birthmark,” the woman’s face twisted in disgust. “It was in the shape of a wolf.”
The wolf was the shape demons favoured when they took on animal form. This Heloise really knew her witch lore. And she really wanted to get this woman, whoever she was. Adding details about birthmarks and potions built a damning case against this unfortunate.
“This witch continued to give my daughter these potions, insisting that she would soon be well again. But despite her promises, Ida just got sicker and sicker! Finally she died, after throwing up blood for days and wasting away in her bed. She was an innocent girl, and for her to die in such an ignoble way, it rends my soul. That’s why I’ve come forth now. To protect my daughter’s memory.”
“And who is this girl you speak of? You must name her so we can bring her to justice,” Tjard was scribbling furiously to get all her words down.
“She lives in the woods with two women who claim to be her aunts, but Georg and Christoph have seen them dancing naked and fornicating under the full moon. You can ask them, and I’ll bet they’ll tell you all about it. The girl’s name is Ada.”
Ada? My head snapped up. She didn’t mean my Ada?
She’s not yours. I reminded myself. Stay focused.
“Do you mean Ada, the friend of my daughter Rebekah?” Elder Ernust leaned forward, then quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, realising what he’d done.
“I do. She is the one who poisoned my girl.”
“Thank you for coming forward, Heloise.” I watched, numb with shock, as Tjard read back her statement to her, and she signed to indicate it was a true account of her words.
As soon as she was gone, the Elder Ernust turned to me, a broad smile on his face. “Well, there you are, Scharfrichter. It looks as if you have your witch.”
“I need a little more than just one woman’s ravings to make a solid case. Besides, I don’t know how trustworthy this Heloise is. These proceedings can be more complex than you imagine, Elder. In many of my cases, it is the witch herself who puts together a convincing case to throw suspicion away from her own deeds-”
“Oh, Heloise is no witch. She’s a pious women and a highly respected matron in the community. And we’ll call in Christoph and Georg, too, of course. But isn’t this splendid? Your work is progressing nicely.”
“Oh yes, just peachy.” I muttered, picking up the pitcher from the table and drowning the entire contents. Warm beer slid down my chin, but I didn’t care. I needed alcohol to take the edge of this horrible, strange feeling in my gut, like a knife twisting inside of me at the mention of Ada’s name.
“I always thought there was something suspicious about that girl and her family, and you did too.” The Elder continued. “I know you did. That’s why you were asking about her yesterday, was it not?”
I grabbed my sword from the table, where I had placed it to encourage truth-telling (for the crime of perjury would result in severed limbs). Slamming it into the scabbard, I grabbed my hood and headed for the door.
“Tjard, take the rest of the statements. Get the Elder to assist you. You know the right questions to ask. I’ll compile the case when I return.”
“Where are you going, Ulrich?” The Elder called after me.
“Out,” I snapped back, slamming the door behind me.
Outside, the square was blissfully silent, save the crackling of the fires that burned to cleanse the air. The knife in my gut twisted deeper. I knew it. I knew going into that grove was a bad idea. And yet, I’d felt compelled to do it. It was as though I didn’t act on my own feelings, but rather, that I was being guided by a divine hand.
I didn’t really believe in God, not the same way people like my father and Elder Ernust did. But I did believe in divine justice, in righting the wrongs that gnawed at my gut. Perhaps this feeling was God speaking to me, telling me that I was on the right path. That the last woman I was to save before I gained my freedom was the remarkable, beguiling creature I’d met in the grove. Saving Ada was the act that would finally redeem me.
I placed my hand on my sword, and a new confidence swept over me. All my previous cases, all the women I had helped escape from horrible painful deaths, they were all stepping stones upon my one, true path. My sole purpose ... to save Ada.
Now, I just had to find her and let her prepare for what was in store.
Ada
As I suspected, no one answered when I knocked on the door of Chlothar's cottage. I walked around the back of the cottage, scanning the fields on either side, half of me hoping to see Simon, the other half wishing he wasn't there so I could go home and forget this awful, undignified, embarrassing mission. My cheeks reddened just thinking about what I had to do, but I didn't want our family to lose the powers we'
d held for generations. So I walked over to the nearby paddock where the pigs wallowed in their mud bath. Two of them waddled over when they saw me approach. I glanced around, but couldn’t see Simon anywhere.
"I don't have any food for you," I said, rubbing them each behind the ears. They sniffed the air. Bowing to their questioning eyes, I tossed in one of the bread rolls, and they snaffled it up. I was watching them snuffling around the dirt with their snouts, when I heard a faint moan behind me.
"Simon?" I called, "Are you here?"
Another moan – longer, and more urgent. Perhaps he was injured, trapped under a felled tree or something? I ran across the vegetable patch toward the barn. I pushed the door open, calling Simon’s name, but no one answered and there was no one inside.
I heard the moan again, and I ran around the side of the barn. I cried out where I saw Simon stood behind a tree, leaning forward against the trunk. He stared down at the ground, his breath coming out in short, laboured gasps, and I could make out the arm of another man wrapped around his shoulders.
He was being choked to death!
"Simon," I called out, running across the field toward him. As I passed the edge of the barn, I picked up a turning fork and held it over my shoulder like a mace. Perhaps if I took his assailant by surprise, he would leave without hurting either of us. "Simon, are you OK?"
At the sound of his name, Simon’s head jerked up, and when he saw me, his face grew panicked. Suddenly, the hand disappeared from his neck, and I saw the figure of a man scurry through the bushes behind him. It had worked. I’d scared away the assailant.
I reached Simon, lowering the fork as I struggled to catch my breath and figure out what had happened. He looked awful, his face all red and his clothes streaked with sweat. He was holding up his beeches, for the belt was missing. His assailant must have taken it.
"Ada," he panted, stepping away from me and hiding around the back of the tree so he was nearly hidden from view. "What are you doing here?"
Witch Hunter: dark medieval paranormal romance (Witches of the Woods Book 1) Page 7
