Witch Hunter (9 page)

in, Blackwell would certainly pardon me. He might even

honour me. I give a little nod, force myself to relax. I don’t

want to tip him to my plan.

We reach the end of the hall, pass through a narrow

archway into one of four circular towers that surround

the main prison building, then down a flight of narrow,

winding steps.

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We go down, further and further, until we come out

underneath the prison. The walls here are damp, the air

cold and foul. He must be heading for the sewer drains. It’s

where I’d have gone, too. They’re easy enough to find and

always unguarded. For obvious reasons.

How will I do it? I run through plan after plan. I’m

weak, yes. But I could stun him with a kick or two. How

will I restrain him once he’s down? His rope belt: perfect. I

look around for something I can knock him out with – a

brick, stone, anything. If I had to, I could jam my thumbs

into his eyes… Oh, no—

The stomach cramps are back. They’re agony. I begin

to moan.

‘Elizabeth? Are you all right?’

I start retching. There’s nothing in my stomach but bile

– it burns my throat as I vomit all over him. I can’t

stop shaking. Surely he’ll dump me on the ground now,

and I’ll get my chance. Instead, he holds me tighter and

walks even faster.

‘Hold on. We’ll get you help soon, I promise. Just

hold on.’

Finally, we reach the entrance to the sewer tunnel. It’s a

small hole in the wall, about three feet square and covered

with thin iron mesh. That’s to contain the rats.

Nicholas kicks it open and immediately they start

pouring out. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, crawling

over the floor and across the walls. A writhing mass of

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greasy fur and tails, chittering and squeaking, claws

scratching on stone, the overpowering smell of sewage… I

give an enormous shudder and start retching again.

‘We’ll have to go in one at a time.’ His voice, deep

and clear, sounds very far away. ‘I’ll go first, then help you

after. Can you do it?’

I nod. As soon as he climbs inside, I’ll attack.

‘You’re a brave girl.’ He sets me down against the wall

before crawling through the hole into the sewer. Seconds

later his head pops out, arms outstretched. ‘Come on.’

All I have to do is kick him. I can crush his windpipe.

I can break his nose. I can knock him down and tie him

up and take him in. This is my chance. I pull my leg back

and take aim.

In the distance, I hear shouts. Footsteps. I can hear them

coming down the stairs. The guards, they know I’ve escaped.

The unending stream of rats must have tipped them off.

‘Elizabeth!’ Nicholas whispers. ‘Now!’

I hesitate, my leg still poised to kick. There are a hundred

reasons I should hurt him. A hundred ways I could do it.

Instead, I do the one thing I could never have imagined.

I reach for him.

He gently pulls me through the opening and into his

arms. I curl into them like a child. I’m shaking so hard now.

Nicholas tightens his grip and draws me closer. I rest my

head against his shoulder and close my eyes. I can’t help it.

I’m so very, very tired.

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He carries me through the endless maze of tunnels,

through the rats and the filth and the stench. After what

seems like hours, we emerge, the tunnel emptying under a

bridge by the river. Near the opening is a horse, waiting to

take us to freedom.

He takes off his cloak, wraps it tightly around me, and

lifts me into the saddle. Then he climbs on behind me.

‘You’ll be all right now.’ He holds me steady and urges

the horse forward.

Why didn’t I capture him? I don’t know. I only hope I

can escape before he finds out what I am. Or that whatever

illness I have will kill me before he can.

Will Caleb miss me when I die?

It’s the last thing I think before I close my eyes.

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I hear voices around me, quiet and whispered. But

everything is still dark. I will my eyes to open, but

they refuse.

‘Is she going to die?’ A boy. He sounds familiar.

‘Ugh. Smells as if she already did.’ A girl this time.

‘Fifer…’ Another boy, sounding exasperated. ‘George,

hand me that bottle.’

‘What? It’s not my fault she looks terrible.’ The girl again.

‘Aye, she’s scrotty now, but she’s quite lovely when not

covered in filth.’ A pause. ‘What? She is.’

‘She’s doing remarkably well, considering. Jail fever –

she’s lucky she didn’t die.’

‘She’s lucky she has you to help her, John. No one

else could go near her! Honestly, I don’t know how you

stand it.’

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‘Since you’re so concerned with the way she smells, you

can be the one to clean her up then.’

‘Ugh.’

This time, my eyes open first. They take a minute to adjust:

everything is blurry around the edges. I stare at the ceiling,

blinking hard. Slowly, it comes into focus. Whitewashed

plaster, dark green vines painted across the surface, tiny

leaves and curlicues trailing down onto the white walls. An

iron chandelier hangs by a chain, its many candles unlit. In

a daze, I follow one of the vines down the wall, as it winds

around a window covered in green velvet curtains. They’re

pulled tightly closed, no light at all coming in behind them.

Where’s the light coming from?

I turn my head to the other side and see it: a single

candle sitting on an otherwise empty table, flickering softly.

I watch the tiny column of smoke drift upward from the

flame. My eyes begin to close again when I realise I don’t

know where I am.

I bolt upright, then give a little start when I see I’m not

alone. There, sitting in a chair at the end of my bed, is

George, the king’s fool. I thought his voice sounded familiar.

His feet are propped up on a stool, a blanket draped

across him and tucked under his chin. He’s sound asleep.

Without thinking, I scramble out of bed. To him or away

from him, I don’t know. But my legs are weaker than I

expected and I tumble to the floor.

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‘Going somewhere?’ he murmurs, watching me through

one half-opened eye.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ I crawl to my knees, clutching

the bedcovers around me. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Ah, yes. The age-old question.’ He casts his eyes skyward.

‘Theologists have long believed our time here on earth is—’

‘Not that,’ I snap, and he laughs. ‘I mean, do you always

sleep at the foot of people’s beds?’

‘Easy.’ He sits up and drops his feet to the floor. His

dark hair is sticking up in all directions, making him look

younger than he is. ‘John said you’d probably be waking

up soon. Didn’t want you to come to alone, strange place

and all.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Nicholas’s house. He brought you here after…you

know.’ He shakes his head. ‘You don’t make things very

easy, do you?’

Nicholas! I’m at Nicholas Perevil’s house. Everything

comes back to me in a rush then. The arrest. Being thrown

into Fleet. Caleb coming, then failing to return. Then

Nicholas showing up, looking for me. Bringing me here.

Wait a minute.

‘You’re a fool,’ I say. ‘Malcolm’s fool. What are you

doing at Nicholas Perevil’s house?’

George stands up and stretches.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get Nicholas.’

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‘What? No. Why?’

George gives me a look I can’t quite read. ‘He just wants

to talk to you. Asked me to get him as soon as you woke.’

He crosses the room and reaches his hand down for me.

I stare at it a moment, then let him pull me to my feet.

‘He’ll explain everything. I’ll be right back.’ The door closes

behind him with a quiet thump.

I pace the room, trying to control my nerves. I’m in the

home of the most dangerous criminal in Anglia, and all he

wants to do is talk? Right.

If George had said Nicholas wants to tie me to a chair

and beat me until my eyeballs roll, that I could believe.

Drench me in water and put me outside until I freeze to

death? Sure. Pour molten lead on my skin. Split my knees,

crush my fingers in a thumbscrew, saw off my limbs.

Really, the possibilities are endless. Talking is the least

likely one of all.

Worse still: what if he performs some kind of spell on

me? I think about his coming to me here, the way he came

to me in my cell. Multiplying, surrounding, overpowering.

I’ve never seen magic like that before. Never known it was

possible. I give a little shiver. Because as much as I hate to

admit, it frightens me.

He frightens me.

I sit back down on the bed then. Look around. There’s

a fireplace behind the chair where George was sleeping,

the fire low but warm. A soft carpet covers the wood floor.

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The bed is big and soft, the bedcovers lavender-scented and

clean. Then I realise, so am I. My filthy dress is gone,

replaced by a simple linen shift. It dawns on me that

however long I’ve been here, whatever Nicholas Perevil

wants from me, I haven’t been ill-treated.

Yet.

I don’t know what to do. I can’t run, can’t hide. My

first instinct is to fight, but I can’t do that, either. Not

without giving myself away. I don’t know what they know

about me; I don’t even know what they want with me. But if

I want to get out of here, I’d better find out both.

There’s a soft rapping on the door, and before I

can respond, Nicholas walks into the room, George close

behind.

He’s rumpled from sleep and looks even older than

I remember. He’s got a dark blue dressing gown on, pulled

tightly at the waist. He looks me over, then gives me a quick

nod. He’s so thin I can see the cords in his neck, the sharp

angles of his cheekbones.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ I say. It’s true. Maybe a little weak, and my chest

hurts when I breathe. I’m pretty thirsty. Okay, I could eat.

But other than that, I really am fine.

Nicholas smiles, as if he’s reading my thoughts.

‘We have John to thank for that,’ he says. ‘He has a

gift.’ With a little groan, he sits in the chair where George

had been sleeping. George hovers behind him, looking

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protective. ‘And so, Elizabeth, you want to know why

you’re here.’

It’s a statement, not a question. I nod.

Nicholas starts to speak when there’s a soft tapping on

the door. George goes to open it. In walks a young man

carrying two pewter goblets. They’re steaming slightly,

sending tiny puffs of white smoke into the air. He hands

one to Nicholas, who grasps it gratefully. Then he walks

over to me with the other.

‘Elizabeth, this is John Raleigh, our healer,’ Nicholas

says.

Healer? I frown. I can’t help it. For the most part, healer

is just another word for wizard. He holds out the goblet to

me. I don’t take it.

‘It’s angelica and burdock,’ he tells me.

I shrug. If it’s not an herb that can poison or kill, I don’t

know it.

‘It’s just a blood purifier. Plus something to help your

stomach. That’s all.’ A pause. ‘Well, I added in a little

cucumber for your fever, some burnet and elm for your

cough. A bit of oat for your rash. Mugwort, too, because

you have fleas. And a couple of drops of poppy, just to help

you relax. But that really is it. I swear.’

He smiles then. It’s a nice smile, warm and friendly. Not

the smile of someone who wants to fill me with poison and

watch me drop to the carpet and foam at the mouth and

twitch out a slow, agonising death in front of him. Still,

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when he offers the goblet again, I don’t take it.

Maybe he knows what I’m thinking, because he says,

‘If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have given you anything

at all. You’ve been drinking it since you got here.’

I look at George. I don’t know why, but I feel that if I

were about to drink a fat batch of poison, he would tell me.

Or at least make a joke about it beforehand.

He nods.

I snatch the goblet from the healer’s hand and drink the

whole thing in one swallow. It tastes like celery.

John laughs a little, as if I’ve done something funny. He

doesn’t look like a typical healer, at least the ones I’ve seen.