Witch Hunter (24 page)

‘How much longer?’ Fifer moans. ‘I’m cold, I’m hungry,

my feet hurt—’

‘We should be coming up on it now,’ John says. We crest

another hill, the steepest one so far. When we reach the top,

John points to the valley below. ‘There it is.’

Humbert’s house. It’s more castle than home, really,

built entirely from grey stone and surrounded by an

enormous square moat. Only a pair of arched footbridges

joins the house with the surrounding land. It might look

like a fortress were it not for all the ivy, the leaves gone red

for the winter, lacing the stones like veins. Multiple gardens

fill the landscape, cut through with ponds and more arching

bridges. The whole thing is covered in a light dusting of

snow, like a dream.

We scurry down the hill and cross the bridge that

leads to the inner courtyard. The house is less imposing

here, more domestic: half-timbered walls, diamond-paned

windows, a large stone fountain. When we reach the

front door, it swings open almost immediately and a

doorman ushers us into an impressive entrance hall.

Glittering brass and crystal chandeliers. Shiny black-and-

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white checkerboard floors. Rich wood-panelled walls, hung

with a series of oil paintings. Tasteful nudes, nothing violent

here at all. There’s a particularly nice one of Venus and

Cupid that takes up nearly an entire wall.

‘Hullo!’ booms a voice. I look around to see Humbert

Pembroke waddling towards us, a large glass of brandy in

his hand. He hasn’t changed much since the last time I

saw him: very short, very portly, dressed finely in a brightly

coloured silk jacket and velvet trousers. ‘What happened

to you lot?’

He looks us over. John’s still covered in mud. Fifer’s got

streaks of dirt on her face and grass tangled in her hair. I’m

sure I look just as bad. George is the only one who looks

moderately clean. How does he do that?

John – in an absurdly loud voice – fills him in about

our run-in with the guards. Humbert nods and makes

appropriate listening noises, but it’s clear he’s too distracted

by me to really pay attention. He can’t keep his eyes off me.

The second John finishes, he turns to me.

‘So you’re her, hmm?’ Humbert bellows.

‘Who?’ I say.

‘What?’

John turns to me, a smile tugging at the corner of

his mouth.

‘Humbert’s a bit deaf, so you’ll have to speak up,’ he

whispers. ‘And I think he just wants to know if you’re

the girl Nicholas told him about.’

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‘Oh.’ I walk over to Humbert and stand directly in front

of him so I don’t have to shout. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m her.’

Humbert smiles and snaps his fingers. Instantly a

maid arrives. She takes one look at our dirty faces and

mud-covered clothes and sends us upstairs to bathe and be

ready for dinner in an hour.

Moments later I’m standing in an upstairs bedroom, waiting

as a servant prepares me a bath. I look around, impressed.

Beautifully appointed rooms. Rich drapes. Carpets so plush

they’re ankle-deep. Tester beds, fat with goose down

mattresses, layers of linen sheets, and soft fur-lined blankets.

This house is as fine as any of Malcolm’s palaces, finer than

Blackwell’s, even. If he knew Humbert was a Reformist,

he’d take all of it, along with his head.

As I undress and slip into the bath, Humbert’s maid –

an older woman named Bridget – comes in with a stack

of clothing.

‘I thought you’d prefer a dress for dining.’ She holds

it up.

I don’t, but I guess I can’t complain. It’s a pretty

thing: dark blue velvet, the skirt overlaid with rich gold

panels, the bodice embroidered with some kind of bird

woven in silver thread. She lays it out, along with a pair

of slippers and earrings, gold and sapphire to go with

the dress. There’s even a matching ring. I stare at them,

wide-eyed. I’ve never worn anything this nice in my

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life. I never had any reason to.

After the bath, Bridget helps me dress. She tuts over the

condition of my hair and insists on styling it: drying it with

a bath sheet, pulling out all the knots, then patiently coaxing

my unruly waves into loose curls before pinning up the

sides with a pair of blue-jewelled clips.

‘There you are, poppet.’ She thrusts me in front of the

mirror. ‘Don’t you look lovely?’

I look at my reflection and my eyes go wide. The colour

is back in my face, my eyes, even my hair. The bodice

of the gown is low and tight, and I expected to see nothing

there, just skin and bones. I’m shocked by what’s replaced

it: curves.

I never had them before. Curves were soft and vulnerable,

and that meant death to me, so they were trained out of

me. Instead, I became thin and wiry and strong. My illness

tore me down, but I’ve been built back up, not by force this

time but by care: by soft beds and sweet potions and gentle

hands and magic.

I don’t know what to think anymore. About any of it.

Magic killed my parents; Blackwell tried to kill magic.

Blackwell is magic; Blackwell tried to kill me. John saved me

with magic; now I’m trying to kill magic to save Nicholas. It

goes against everything I’ve ever known, a betrayal of

everything I’ve ever been taught.

But who betrayed who first?

Bridget leads me downstairs, into the dining room. I’m

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the last to arrive. Everyone else is seated around the table,

pitchers of wine and goblets scattered across the surface.

John gets to his feet as I walk in, but Humbert fairly leaps

from his chair and rushes towards me.

‘Elizabeth!’ he roars. ‘Do come in! ’

He hauls me across the room and thrusts me into the

seat next to his. The table is huge; it could seat at least

twenty people. But he had to put me next to him. I’ll be as

deaf as he is before the night is through.

Next to me is Fifer. She’s in a dress, too, copper-coloured

silk with an embroidered green bodice. But the way she’s

scowling you’d think it was made from metal, lined with

nails. Even still, I have to admit she looks pretty.

Across from me are George and John, both clean and

dressed for dinner. As usual, George looks horrifying.

Yellow shirt, purple vest, orange harlequin jacket. Beside

him, John looks practically funereal. White shirt, dark green

coat. Both already wrinkled, of course. And his hair. It’s still

damp from bathing but already running out of control. I’m

seized with a wild urge to run my hands through it. Make

sense of those curls, push them out of his eyes at least. I

wonder what it would look like if it were cut. Although, I

rather like it long. Besides, if it were any shorter, it might

get even wilder, and—

He grins at me and I realise I’ve been staring at him too

long. I flush and turn to Humbert.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’

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‘It was worth it, I see,’ he booms. ‘I’m pleased you

decided to wear the gown I sent up.’

Well, it’s not as if he left me much choice.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

‘Isn’t it? It belongs to the Duchess of Rotherhithe,

a dear friend of mine. She and her family came for a

stay one summer, brought ten trunks full of gowns. Left

that and several others behind. I doubt she even noticed

them missing.’

I shift uncomfortably. I know the duchess. She and her

daughter are close friends of Queen Margaret. I served them

dinner once, and they were both awful. Worse still, her

granddaughter is Cecily Mowbray, one of Caleb’s new

friends. I don’t like the idea of wearing her clothes, no

matter how pretty they are.

‘You see that bird on the bodice there?’ Humbert

continues. ‘It’s the symbol of the House of Rotherhithe,

embroidered using thread made from real silver. I shudder

to think of the cost. But the duchess, she’s not very

economical—’

The mention of the bird jars my memory. ‘I’m sorry

to interrupt you, sir…’ I realise I don’t know how to

address him.

‘Call me Humbert.’

‘Of course, Humbert. But I just remembered something.

John’ – I turn to get his attention but find I’ve already

got it – ‘did you send Horace back to your father? Let him

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know you’re okay? I don’t want him to worry.’

George and Fifer exchange a glance.

‘I did, yes,’ John replies. ‘Thank you for remembering.’

He rakes his hand through his hair then, and I notice how

green his eyes look tonight. Usually they’re more brown

than green, grey around the edges with a little bit of gold in

the middle, and—

‘Elizabeth,’ Humbert trumpets, jerking me to my senses.

‘I do hope you’ll like what I’ve had prepared this evening.

I understand you’re quite an expert on court cuisine.’

A pair of servants walks in then, carrying several platters

between them. Manchet bread, salted beef, fruit tarts,

cheese, and, of all things, a cockatrice – a dish made by

combining one half of an animal with another before

roasting and redressing it.

They were common enough at court; Malcolm in

particular loved them. His cooks tried to outdo one another

with increasingly outrageous combinations: body of a

chicken, tail of a beaver. Head of a deer, rear of a boar. This

one is half-peacock, half-swan: snow white and long-necked

in the front, bright turquoise and plumed in the back.

‘Well, then?’ Humbert asks. ‘What do you think of this

little one?’

I lean over and examine it carefully.

‘It’s very good,’ I tell him. The white feathers of the swan

blend in seamlessly with the peacock’s, no sign of the careful

stitching underneath. That’s the hardest part of presenting a

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cockatrice, getting the feathers or fur right. It’s the difference

between wanting to eat it or run from it.

By the time the servants reappear to clear away the

plates, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. I’m tired from

the walk, full from wine and cockatrice, and I’ve got

an awful headache from Humbert’s screaming in my ear all

night long. I’m thinking about excusing myself when he

starts in again.

‘The Thirteenth Tablet,’ Humbert shouts. ‘What a thing

to be cursed by! And what a thing to find.’ He shakes his

head, pours his fifth glass of brandy. I swear, he drinks more

than George, and that’s saying a lot. ‘You really have no

idea where it might be?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I really don’t.’

He looks at me expectantly. ‘Then I suppose the next

question is, what do you want to do about it?’

The room goes quiet. I feel everyone’s eyes on me.

There’s a collective intake of breath, as if they’re waiting for

me to make a sudden proclamation, like some sort of

damned prophet on the mount.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

The disappointment is palpable.

‘I could go out tomorrow,’ I continue because I can’t

bear the silence any longer. ‘You know, walk around a bit? I

don’t know the area, so I’d need a map, but what can it hurt?

Unless you think it’s better for me to stay put, I guess—’

‘No!’ Humbert howls. ‘That won’t do at all! This is a

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prophecy, Elizabeth. There can be no guessing. No

hemming, no hawing. No shilly-shally!’ He pounds the

table with his fist. ‘You must be decisive! Whatever happens,

you must really feel your decisions, my dear. Know them.

In here.’ He thumps his fist against his chest.

‘Besides,’ George says, rolling his eyes at Humbert. ‘You

can’t just go wandering about, not with those guards

looking for you.’

‘Then what are we supposed to do until Peter gets

here?’ I ask.

‘Sleep?’ Fifer mutters.

‘For now, I thought I could show you all my cathedral,’

Humbert says.

Fifer gets up abruptly and starts stretching. John gives

her a disapproving look, which she ignores. I’d rather go

upstairs and sleep, too, instead of being dragged on some

god-awful nocturnal pilgrimage. But I really can’t resist.

‘That sounds lovely,’ I say. Fifer gives me a filthy look.

Humbert beams.

‘I didn’t know you had a cathedral,’ George says.

‘Oh, well. It’s not really a cathedral,’ Humbert says.

‘That’s just what I call it.’