Witch Hunter (6 page)

tumble to the floor.

‘Yes, you seem perfectly fine,’ Caleb says. I can hear the

amusement in his voice. I would be furious if I weren’t

about to throw up. ‘Just how much of that ale did you drink,

anyway?’ He helps me to my feet.

‘I dunno,’ I mumble, leaning against him and closing

my eyes again. Things don’t spin as much when my eyes

are closed.

‘I don’t know what’s got into you,’ Caleb says. ‘First the

necromancer, now this.’

I crack open an eye to look at him. ‘Just having a bad day.’

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‘But it isn’t just today,’ he says. ‘Lately you’ve seemed

a little…’

‘A little what?’

‘Unhappy.’

I blink in surprise. I didn’t know he paid enough

attention to me to notice.

‘What makes you say that?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You just don’t seem yourself.

You’re so quiet. Normally, I can’t get you to shut up.’ He

smiles. ‘And you say I never come to see you, but it’s been a

long time since I’ve got an invitation.’

‘You used to not need one.’

‘Yes. Well. We were kids then. I can’t exactly show up at

your room without an invitation now, can I? I shouldn’t

even be here now. What would people think?’

I know exactly what they’d think. My hand goes to my

pocket again.

‘Anyway, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.

You used to be able to tell me anything.’

I was able to tell him anything – once. But that was

before he grew tall and I stayed short, he got handsome

while I stayed cute, and he opened all the doors I wanted to

keep shut.

‘I’m fine, Caleb. I’m just tired. I’ll feel better in the morning.’

He’s quiet for a moment.

‘If you say so,’ he finally says. ‘Can I at least help you to

your room?’

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I nod. He slips his arm around my shoulder and I lean

into him, and for a second, it feels as if it’s just us. As if it’s

always been. I think for a second that maybe I can tell him

what’s happening with me, what’s happening to me. I’m

trying out the words in my head, and I actually open my

mouth to say them. But when I look up, I see he’s looking

over my head and frowning.

I turn around just as he steps out of the shadows: one of

King Malcolm’s guards, standing next to my door in his

crisp black-and-red uniform, holding his pike.

Oh no, I think. Not now.

A flicker of surprise crosses Caleb’s face.

‘Richard.’ Caleb nods. ‘Are you looking for me?’

Richard clears his throat. ‘No. I’m here to, ah, you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Caleb’s surprise turns into a scowl. ‘Care

to tell me?’

Richard glances at me but doesn’t reply.

‘Elizabeth?’ Caleb looks at me. ‘What is Richard

doing here?’

I shake my head, too horrified to speak.

Caleb releases me and starts towards Richard. I slump

against the wall, pressing my cheek against the cool stone.

I hear his footsteps tap the floor as he moves down the hall.

‘I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?’

Again, Richard doesn’t reply. But I know Caleb won’t let

it go until he does.

‘Answer me!’

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‘Caleb, stop.’ I peel myself off the wall. Start towards

him. I don’t make it more than a few steps before everything

starts spinning out of control again. I pitch forward wildly

and tumble to the floor in a heap.

‘Elizabeth!’ Caleb rushes to my side.

‘I’m fine,’ I mutter. But I’m not. Every time I open my

eyes, everything goes topsy-turvy. The air is dark and

suffocating, and the walls feel as if they’re closing in on me.

‘Let’s get you inside.’ Caleb pulls me to my feet. We

start towards my room again, but Richard steps forward

to block us.

‘She’s to come with me,’ Richard says.

‘She’s not going anywhere with you,’ Caleb snaps.

‘And if you don’t get out of my way, I swear to you, you’ll

be sorry.’

I wince, waiting for Richard to yell, maybe throw a

punch. Instead, they both go quiet. Caleb releases me.

I open my eyes to find him crouched beside me, clutching

a bundle of herbs. I recognise them immediately: purple

spiky pennyroyal, yellow flowering silphium. My hand goes

immediately to my pocket but I already know it’ll be empty.

He gets to his feet. ‘Elizabeth, where did these come

from?’

‘Her pocket. They fell out of her pocket.’ Richard’s eyes

are wide. ‘I saw them.’

Caleb turns them over in his hand. Examines them

closely. Frowns.

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‘This is pennyroyal,’ he says. ‘And silphium. Women

use these if they’re, you know’ – I can hear the discomfort

in his voice – ‘trying to prevent a baby. They’re witches’

herbs.’ He looks up at me. ‘Why would you have these?’

It’s a long, silent, dreadful moment before he speaks,

as he works out what he knows against what he wishes

he didn’t.

‘Baby,’ he repeats, his face going pale. ‘And you…you’re

going with him.’ He jerks his head at Richard. ‘At midnight.

To see the king.’

I shake my head. Look for a denial. An excuse. Anything.

Only there isn’t one.

Caleb spins on his heel to face Richard.

‘You didn’t see anything,’ he says. ‘She was never

here. She never had these. I’ve got money. I’ll pay you to

keep quiet…’

Caleb starts pulling coins out of his pocket. But Richard

is already backing away, his thumb placed between his first

two fingers: the old sign against witchcraft.

‘She’s a witch,’ he says. ‘I can’t let her go.’ He reaches for

his belt, pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

‘She’s not a witch,’ Caleb says. ‘She just—’

He cuts himself off, but I know what he was going to say:

she’s not a witch, she just has witches’ herbs. Caleb knows

the laws, just as I do. What I have, what I was using them

for, it’s enough to send me to the rack for torture, to prison

for detainment, to the stake for burning.

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I turn to run, but lose my balance again and slip to the

floor. Caleb reaches for me, but Richard pushes him away

and grabs the back of my cloak, hauling me to my feet. He

yanks my arms roughly behind my back and slaps the

bindings over my wrists.

‘Elizabeth Grey, by the authority of King Malcolm of

Anglia, I am commanded to arrest you for the crime of

witchcraft. You are hereby ordered to return with us to

Fleet prison for detention and to await your trial, presided

over by the Inquisitor, Lord Blackwell, Duke of Norwich.

If you are found guilty, you will be executed by burning,

your land and goods forfeit to the crown.’ A pause. ‘So

help you God.’

‘You can’t take her to prison!’ Caleb shouts. ‘You don’t

have the authority. Not without Blackwell’s consent.’

Richard considers this.

‘Then I won’t take her to prison,’ he says. I’m about

to breathe a sigh of relief, but he adds, ‘I’ll take her to

see Blackwell.’

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Prison would have been better.

Caleb takes my arm. ‘You’re not taking her. Not

without me.’

Richard jerks me from his grasp. ‘I wouldn’t if I were

you,’ he growls. ‘She’s in enough trouble as it is. Your

trailing after her like a puppy isn’t going to help.’

‘He’s right, Caleb,’ I say. ‘You’ll only make it worse. Just

go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be back soon.’

Caleb glances between us, weighing his decision.

‘Fine. I’ll wait. But not in my room. I’ll wait here.

If you’re not back in an hour, I’m coming for you.’

Richard hauls me out the door, into the empty courtyard,

across the grounds, and up a flight of stairs that leads to the

living quarters. Ravenscourt is the main residence of the

king and queen, but Blackwell keeps apartments here, too,

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more for status than necessity as his own home is a short

boat ride down the river.

He thrusts me down the shadowed hall until it ends in a

set of wide double doors: shiny dark oak, glittering brass

handles, a pair of guards dressed in black and red. As we

approach, they uncross their pikes with a clink, the blades

flashing like lightning, reflecting the candles flickering

along the wall.

The door swings open, and a boy slips out and scurries

past me. A servant, maybe, though he seems little more

than a child. The guards don’t seem to notice; they act as if

he’s not there. Maybe he isn’t – maybe I’m imagining him.

Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing.

Inside, a fire crackles in the hearth, the scent of

rosemary drifts from the fresh rushes strewn on the floor.

Blackwell sits behind his desk, papers spread before him,

working as though it were twelve noon instead of twelve

midnight. If he’s surprised to see me standing there, in his

chambers, handcuffed and escorted by one of Malcolm’s

guards, he doesn’t show it. His eyes flick from my face to

my bound hands to Richard, then back to me again.

He’s not an old man, nor is he young. I don’t actually

know his age, but he looks the same now as he always

has: dark hair, uncut by grey, closely trimmed to his

head. Short, cropped beard. A long, thin face, a nose that

stops just short of being called big. Tall, well over six feet.

He might be attractive were it not for his eyes, like chips

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of wet coal. Cold, hard, black.

‘Uncuff her,’ he says to Richard.

‘But – don’t you want to know what she’s here for before

I release her?’

‘I give the orders here, and I ask the questions,’ Blackwell

replies. ‘Uncuff her.’

Richard steps forward, unlocks my bindings. They snap

open with a quiet click.

‘I want to know why you’re here,’ Blackwell says, his

attention still on Richard. ‘Why you’ve brought one of

my witch hunters to me in the middle of the night shackled

like a common criminal. And why you’ – he shifts his

gaze to me – ‘allowed it to happen.’

Richard glances at me, as if willing me to speak first. I

look straight ahead and say nothing. If he thinks I’m

indicting myself in front of this judge and jury, he’s got

another thing coming.

‘You tell me,’ Blackwell repeats, his voice a quiet

menace. ‘Now.’

‘I – I went to her chambers. To take her to the king. He

requested her presence,’ Richard stammers. ‘And she had

these. They fell out of her pocket.’

He pulls out the herbs, drops them on Blackwell’s desk.

Green, fragrant; pretty, even; tied into a bundle with a snip

of twine, like a simple posy a boy might give a girl. So

innocent-looking. Yet so very damning.

I close my eyes against the deafening silence that follows,

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resigning myself to what comes next. I never imagined that

coming back to Ravenscourt could lead to this. First I’m

disguised as a maid, then I’m introduced to the king. Then

I’m summoned before the king, and the next thing I know

I’m on a skiff downriver at midnight, to a bathhouse in

search of a wisewoman and a bundle of herbs. I paid that

old hag three months’ wages: two for her knowledge, one

for her silence, for all the good it did me…

‘Leave us,’ Blackwell says.

My eyes fly open. Richard glances at me, and I see a

flicker of something pass across his face: it almost looks

like guilt. He nods at Blackwell, spins on his heel, and leaves

the room.

Blackwell leans back in his chair, a high-backed wooden

thing, padded in crimson velvet. It could be a throne. By

the power he has over me, it may as well be one. He clasps

his hands on the desk in front of him and stares. This is

his way. He will stare at me until I have no choice but

to say something.

But I won’t say anything – I swear I won’t. There’s no

point anyway. I’m in trouble and nothing I can say will

change that. Seconds turn into minutes and, still, he remains

silent. I begin to sway on my feet: tired, my head fuzzy from

the absinthe, my gut churning with nausea and nerves.

Maybe I’m making things worse by not speaking. Maybe

Blackwell sees my silence as defiance. And the last thing I

need right now is for him to think I’m defying him.

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Again.

‘It wasn’t anything I wanted. With the king, I mean.’

I begin like this, preemptively, the words harsh against the

silence in the room. There’s no way to mitigate the truth of

them, so I don’t even try. ‘I didn’t encourage it, if that’s