Witch Hunter (14 page)

they didn’t think he was trustworthy. He’s a good man, my

father. A little different, I grant you. But a good man

nonetheless. Nicholas saw that even if the others didn’t.’

‘And now he’s a Reformist.’

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John nods. ‘Committed. Nicholas has that effect, you

know. He wants to change things. To help people. To bring

the country back where it used to be, finish what Malcolm’s

father started. People believe he’s the one to do it. They

believe it so much they’re willing to risk their lives to see

him succeed.’

‘Or is it the other way around?’ I regret the words as

soon as they’re out of my mouth.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ John asks, his quiet

voice turning sharp.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘It’s just…’ I shake my head. ‘You say Nicholas is trying

to help people. But all he’s doing is helping them to the

stakes.’ John’s eyes narrow, but I go on. ‘Magic is against

the law. You know this. Your lives depend on not doing it,

yet you keep on. It seems to me that if he really wanted to

help you, he’d make you stop.’

John stands up then, so quickly he bumps into the table,

nearly overturning the pitcher of wine. He reaches out

without looking and steadies it.

‘So you’re saying that when Nicholas brought you to me,

coughing and shaking and delirious and dying, it would

have been better for me not to do anything? For me to stand

by and watch you die, knowing all the while there was

something I could do, and instead do nothing?’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

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‘I think that’s exactly what you mean.’ He swipes a hand

across his jaw, frustrated. ‘Magic isn’t something you

can just stop. It’s who you are. You’re born with it or you

aren’t. You can make the most of it, as I do, as Fifer does,

or you can ignore it. But you can’t make it go away.’ He

shakes his head. ‘I use it to help people. So I wouldn’t stop

even if I could.’

Immediately, I’m reminded of the witches and wizards

on the stake in the square, their expression mirrored in

the way he’s looking at me now: anger and defiance on the

surface of an almost desperate sadness.

‘What about you? You were arrested with those herbs’ –

his eyes meet mine, steady and unabashed, and I know

immediately he knows what I used them for – ‘and if

Nicholas hadn’t come, hadn’t broken you out using magic,

you’d be dead now. If not by fire, then by fever. Does that

seem right to you?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ I say. ‘Magic is against

the law. I got exactly what I deserved.’

John walks to the window and pulls open the curtain.

It’s completely dark outside now. He stands there for a long

time, staring out the window. Finally, he speaks without

turning around.

‘Downstairs. You said you lost your parents. May I ask

what happened to them?’

‘Plague. First my father, then my mother a few days later.

I was nine.’

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That’s how I met Caleb. The plague that killed my parents

killed his, too – along with a million others – during the

hottest summer and the worst plague outbreak anyone

could remember. It started in the crowded, hot cities and

ran rampant, killing the young, the old, the poor, and the

rich, before making its way to the country. It was less than a

week before the population of Anglia had been decimated,

leaving kids like Caleb and me to fend for ourselves.

The first time I saw him, I thought I was dreaming. I

hadn’t seen anyone – at least, anyone who was still alive –

for weeks. It felt as if I were the only one in the world still

left. Water was scarce and the food had long since

disappeared. I survived by eating grass, tree bark, and the

odd surviving flower, and I wished – more than once – that

one of them would poison me. Kill me and put me out of

my misery.

The day Caleb found me, riding by my house on a stolen

horse on his way to court to beg for a job, I was a mess. The

bodies of my mother and father were still in the house, and

the heat and the stench of their decay had forced me to live

outside. He approached me, talking slowly and quietly as

you might to an injured animal. I was covered in dirt and

filth, hunched over in the mud, eating the last of the raw

vegetables I managed to dig up from the garden. I remember

screaming and throwing a half-eaten parsnip at him. I was

long past reason.

But he picked me up, more like a man than an

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eleven-year-old boy, put me on his horse, and managed to

get us to the king’s palace in Upminster. It was a three-day

journey, but he got us there safely. And he managed to

secure us jobs – not terribly difficult since the plague had

killed off most of the servants, along with the king himself.

His only surviving son, Malcolm, was just twelve and

wouldn’t be able to run the country for four more years. So

the business of running what was left of Anglia went to his

uncle, Thomas Blackwell, who became Lord Protector of

the kingdom. There was no queen to wait on then, but I

wouldn’t have been fit for that anyway. Instead, I did

laundry, worked in the kitchen when they needed help, ran

errands into town. I was content to do this forever, but

Caleb had other plans for us.

‘I’m sorry about your family.’ John turns to face me. ‘But

if you could have done something to save them – even if it

meant using magic, even if it meant breaking the law –

wouldn’t you have done it anyway?’

I shake my head. ‘Magic is what killed them. A wizard

started that plague – you know that. Some say Nicholas did

it. That he was the one who killed Malcolm’s father—’

The fire roars sharply in the grate then, the flames

shooting high into the chimney.

‘Hastings, it’s fine.’ John waves his hand towards the

fire and it abruptly dies. ‘Nicholas didn’t start that plague.

And he didn’t kill the king. He would never do anything

like that.’

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‘Then who was it?’ I demand. ‘Only a very powerful

wizard could start a plague and spread it like that. And

Nicholas is the most powerful wizard in Anglia.’

‘What would Nicholas gain by wiping out half

the country?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe being the most powerful wizard in

Anglia isn’t enough for him. Maybe he wants more. Maybe

he wants the throne, too.’

‘If Nicholas wanted to be king, why didn’t he make his

move after he supposedly killed Malcolm’s father? It would

have been much easier to do then, only a Lord Protector

and a boy heir to stand in the way.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s biding his time.’

John’s eyes grow dark then, his thoughtful gaze slipping

into anger.

‘For what? So he could sit by and watch as his friends

and family are forced to leave the country? Watch as

they’re arrested, tried, and sentenced to die? So he could

bide his time?’

‘I don’t know,’ I repeat.

‘Well, I do. Have you ever seen one? A burning?’ His

voice is quiet with intensity. ‘They’re horrible. The worst

kind of death there is. There’s no dignity in it, only torture

and spectacle and—’ He breaks off. ‘They have to be stopped.

And we can’t stop them by walking away.’

‘The king – the Inquisitor – they’ll never change the law,’

I say. ‘Surely you know that.’

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John turns back to the window and doesn’t reply.

‘And, yes, I’ve seen burnings,’ I add quietly. ‘They’re

terrible. It’s a terrible death to die.’

I was fourteen the first time I saw one. Threw up right in

the middle of Tyburn; it even shook Caleb. But Blackwell

wanted us to see it. He said we needed to see it to understand

his laws, to know what it meant to be on the other side of

them. I remember how Caleb and I huddled together that

night, unable to sleep, afraid to sleep. It was months before

the nightmares went away. But eventually I hardened myself

against them, we both did. We had to.

John turns to face me. He starts to speak but is cut off by

the door banging open.

‘How are we coming on?’ George stumbles into the

room, holding a goblet. He looks drunk.

‘Fine,’ John says, walking to the table and collecting his

supplies. I notice his hands shaking as he piles everything

back on the tray.

‘What about you?’ George walks over to me. I’m so busy

watching John that I forget about my hand until he reaches

over and grabs it.

‘It still hurts,’ I say, but it doesn’t matter. George doesn’t

really notice. He just glances at it and drops it back into my

lap. He’s definitely drunk.

‘Nice work, John. As always.’ George reaches for the

pitcher of wine, refills his goblet, then slumps into the chair

by the fireplace. ‘I’m on night watch again,’ he tells me.

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‘Grand,’ I say.

‘Isn’t it?’ He takes a drink and looks at John. ‘They

want to see you.’

‘Who does?’

‘Well, Fifer. She needs more’ – George glances at me –

‘something for Nicholas. The usual. Peter wants something

to help him sleep. And Gareth says he’s got a headache.’

John closes his eyes and nods, pressing his fingertips

against his eyelids. He looks exhausted: deathly pale, circles

under his eyes so dark they look like bruises.

George winces. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ John says. ‘I’ll go now. But see she wraps that

hand, will you?’ He plucks a bandage from the tray and

tosses it to George. ‘The cut wasn’t as bad as I thought it

would be, but there’s no sense inviting infection.’

He slips out the door without another glance in my

direction. I realise I never thanked him.

For anything.

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I stay through the night.

I nearly didn’t; that encounter at dinner was too close

for my liking. But the news that I’m now Anglia’s most

wanted has complicated things. It’s not enough to escape

here and get back to Upminster – not anymore. Because it’s

not just Blackwell and his guards after me; it’s every

mercenary in the city. It’s about as safe for me there as it is

here, which is to say not at all.

Anglia’s most wanted.

It’s almost too much to believe. There’s something about

it all that is too much to believe. I know Blackwell wants me

dead. But more than he wants Nicholas dead? Even if he

does think I’m a witch, a spy and a traitor, I’m still not as

dangerous to him as Nicholas.

I can’t go to Upminster, and I can’t stay in Anglia.

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I suppose I’ll have to escape to Gaul. It’s close, just across

the channel. Provided I can find a ship to stow away on, it’ll

be easy enough to get there. Their king is sympathetic to

Anglican exiles; they won’t turn me away.

Then there’s Caleb.

I don’t know what to make of his being promoted to

Inquisitor. Was Blackwell planning to do that all along,

even before my arrest? Or did Caleb ask for it afterwards, as

a way to protect me? But if he took the position to protect

me, why didn’t he come back to Fleet to get me? He didn’t

leave me there to die. I don’t believe that. There must be

another explanation.

Either way, today’s the day I escape.

Last night, George let it slip that everyone would be gone

all morning, something about going to the black market to

get supplies. It’s the opportunity I need to search the house.

I can’t leave for Gaul empty-handed; I need to prepare. Get

my bearings, steal money and other valuables to trade with,

arm myself with whatever I can find or make. Then tonight,

when we make the trip to visit the seer, run like hell. And

kill whoever gets in my way.

George is still asleep. He’s splayed out on the floor at the

end of my bed, completely passed out, a blanket tangled

around his feet. He must have tripped over it at some point

last night and fallen, either unwilling or unable to get up.

I dress quickly and quietly, putting on the same clothes I

wore yesterday. It would be nice if I had something warmer

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or more practical. But they’ll have to do. I snatch George’s

blanket from the floor and hastily tie it into a makeshift bag.

I glance at George. He doesn’t look as though he’ll be up

for a while. I consider tying him up before I leave, just in

case. But that might wake him, and then I’d have to hurt