Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  Hazel shook her head in wonder. ‘It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘It stinks, even from here,’ Bramley squeaked from the brim of her hat.

  ‘He’s right. The place is a cesspit,’ Titus said, urging Ajax onward.

  They followed a lane along the edge of the forest until it joined a cobbled road heaving with traffic: farmers drove livestock, traders pushed handcarts, and pedlars with bulging panniers slung over their shoulders shouted out their wares. All were heading to London.

  Titus urged Ajax into the flow behind a swaying hay wain. Hazel hardly knew where to look; she had never seen so many people before. I wonder if any of them are witches, keeping their powers secret like me? Bramley, who disliked noise, buried himself in her hair.

  Titus bought a pie from a hawker on the side of the road and handed it to Hazel. ‘Remember – we run a rat-catching business, I’m Mr Arthur Lowe, and you’re my daughter, Demelza.’

  ‘Why do I have to have such a silly name?’ Hazel said through a mouthful of pastry.

  ‘I had a dog called Demelza once, so it’ll be easy for me to remember.’

  Bramley stirred mischievously behind her ear. ‘You do look like a Demelza. It suits you.’

  ‘We’re nearly at the gate,’ Titus said. ‘Make sure your rat stays hidden.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Bramley squeaked. ‘I’m a dormouse, and—’

  ‘Hush, Bram,’ Hazel said. ‘You can scold him after we’re inside. For now just stay out of sight.’

  The wheat fields and pastures came to an abrupt halt at the foot of a gigantic earthwork wall, a remnant from the Witch War encircling the whole of London. The wooden parapets were long-gone and grass now grew on its slopes, but the stone-fortified gate ahead was still a formidable defence.

  Soldiers wearing lobster-pot helmets interrogated everyone before letting them pass, and Hazel’s heartbeat quickened as they edged closer; she felt horribly conspicuous, as if her magic was plain for all to see.

  ‘Here we go,’ Titus muttered as one of the soldiers beckoned them over with his billhook.

  ‘State your business,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Arthur Lowe, a rat-catcher from Bristol,’ Titus said, affecting a West Country burr.

  The soldier turned his keen gaze on to Hazel. ‘And you?’

  ‘Lizzie Lowe,’ Hazel said. ‘Apprentice rat-catcher and company bookkeeper.’

  ‘Rat-catchers, eh?’ The soldier frowned. ‘Where’re your cages? Haven’t you got any ferrets?’

  ‘My brother’s following later with our gear,’ Hazel replied.

  The soldier grunted. ‘Off your horse, the both of you. I need to check you for plague signs.’

  ‘But we’re fit as fleas,’ Titus said amicably. ‘No plague on us.’

  ‘Are you going to cause me trouble?’ The soldier hefted his billhook.

  ‘No, sir,’ Hazel said, jabbing Titus in the ribs. ‘We’re happy to help.’

  She dismounted and allowed the soldier to tip her head back with his gloved hand and examine her neck for buboes; it was clear he was reluctant to touch her in case she was infected.

  ‘You seem all right,’ he said after checking them both. ‘But if you want to stay plague-free be careful where you go. Southwark’s rife with it, so be warned.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ Titus said, remounting Ajax and helping Hazel up behind him. ‘We’ll soon get rid of the vermin—’

  ‘Vermin ain’t the cause,’ the soldier said. ‘It’s those filthy witch prisoners the Order has penned up on the river.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Many of them, are there?’

  ‘Hundreds. Locked up in a prison hulk and breathing foul vapours everywhere. They’re the cause of this outbreak, mark my words.’

  ‘Burn the lot of them, I say,’ Hazel said, tasting the ugliness of the words.

  ‘Beats me why they don’t! Hopkins ain’t doing the job he’s paid for . . .’ The soldier trailed off. ‘Well, I think I’ve said enough. On you go.’

  ‘Much obliged to you,’ Titus said, tipping his hat as he urged Ajax on.

  ‘Think fast, girl!’ the soldier called as he lobbed a pear at Hazel, who caught it one-handed.

  ‘Thanks!’ she called back.

  ‘I said your name was Demelza,’ Titus said as they entered the gatehouse.

  ‘My name, my choice.’ Hazel polished the pear on her dress. ‘And I prefer Lizzie – after Queen Elizabeth Tudor. You told me she liked witches.’

  ‘Yes, well, things are different now, so have a care. The Witch Hunters will be looking for us, so keep the story straight and your magic hidden.’

  ‘And that means controlling your temper,’ Bramley added.

  ‘Stop nagging, the both of you,’ Hazel said. ‘I’m the most even-tempered person you could ever wish to meet.’

  ‘If that’s the case, we’re doomed,’ Bramley groaned.

  3

  THE BANNERED MARE

  Southwark is an abominable sink of

  beastliness and corruption.

  The Prudent Traveller by Gerhardt Ohler

  Southwark High Road struck a straight line between handsome timbered houses all the way to London Bridge and the Thames. It was market day, and a swirling sea of people flowed around stalls and handcarts, bartering for everything from hats to honey-bread. From her vantage point on Ajax, Hazel saw a water-seller struggling under the weight of his tanks; a printer with ink-stained fingers hawking news pamphlets; two noblemen in frock coats and wigs walking arm in arm out of a haberdashery, and a beggar child creeping behind them with her eyes fixed on their pockets.

  ‘Stop fidgeting, girl,’ Titus snapped as Hazel wriggled behind him. ‘Keep still!’

  ‘I want to see what’s happening.’

  ‘Oh, come here.’ Titus lifted her up and sat her in front of him. ‘Happy now?’

  Hazel grinned and nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ Bramley said from behind her ear. ‘This place is far too noisy. And what if I fall? I’ll be trampled into mush under all those feet.’

  A butcher emerged from his shop and hurled a bucket of offal into the gutter. Mangy dogs and even mangier children dived in to fight over the scraps.

  ‘Watch it, idiot!’ Titus shouted.

  The butcher made a gesture that Hazel supposed was extremely rude and stomped back inside.

  ‘When was the last time you were in London?’ she asked.

  ‘About a thousand years ago,’ Titus replied. ‘The College of Witch Finders was based in Baynards Castle, although I spent most of my time on the road – I never did like staying in one place for too long.’

  ‘Where do you think they’ll be keeping Murrell?’ Bramley said.

  ‘They probably have him in the Tower of London, but I know a place where we can find out for sure.’

  ‘You’re taking us to a tavern, aren’t you?’ Hazel said, digging her elbow into Titus’s ribs.

  ‘I am, and for three good reasons. One, we need a discreet place to stay. Two, information. If you want to know anything, a tavern is the best place to ask. And three—’

  ‘So you can get drunk,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Now listen, girl and her rat,’ Titus growled. ‘We’ve been travelling for nearly a month. My arse is aching, my spirits are low, and this fool’s errand is likely to be the death of me. So, yes, I’m bloody well going to have a drink.’

  ‘I think it’s best we don’t argue about this,’ Bramley whispered. Hazel was inclined to agree.

  Titus steered Ajax out of the crowd and down a quiet side street. Here, the eaves of the houses on either side were so close together they had to ride down the middle to avoid hitting their heads. The clamour of the crowd receded, the smell of refuse grew.

  Hazel’s initial excitement at entering the city was slowly replaced by an unnerving claustrophobia. There were too many people, too many soldiers, too many walls and gates . . .

  Bramley stroked her neck with his tail as
they made their slow, crooked way deeper into Southwark’s backstreet maze – an airless, decaying place where the people they passed were dirty and thin and watched them through narrowed eyes.

  ‘They don’t like strangers around here,’ Titus said.

  ‘And we’re already a pretty strange bunch,’ Bramley said.

  At last they emerged into a sunlit courtyard. On the far side was a thatched tavern with a timber balcony and a sign in the shape of a rearing horse.

  ‘I’m glad to find my legs still work,’ Titus said as he dismounted and stretched enough to make his joints crack.

  A grubby boy with strands of straw in his hair emerged from a stable. ‘Staying at the Bannered Mare, mister?’ he asked.

  ‘We are.’ Titus flipped him a coin. ‘This is my horse, Ajax. He needs fresh oats and a brush down.’

  The boy nodded and took the reins as Hazel slid off the saddle and joined Titus by the door.

  He looked down at her. ‘Rat-catchers, right?’

  ‘Right. And I’m Elizabeth, right?’

  Titus grunted and led the way into a low-ceilinged barroom with a scattering of early afternoon patrons. Hazel was pleased to find it cool and filled with a not unpleasant smell of tobacco and ale.

  There was no one serving at the bar so Titus turned to a ferocious-looking woman sloshing her mop over the floor. ‘Excuse me, madam . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Treacher!’ she bellowed without looking up.

  A cheerful voice echoed from a back room. ‘Coming, my little dove!’

  Titus raised an eyebrow at Hazel, and she hid a smile behind her hand.

  A barrel-shaped man with a nose the colour of claret appeared behind the bar. ‘There she is,’ he said. ‘The woman I married. Red-faced and furious, just the way I like her.’

  ‘A fine specimen of the fairer sex,’ Titus remarked.

  ‘Aye, that she is.’ Mr Treacher gave his wife an adoring look as she hurled the bucket of dirty mop water out of the front door, narrowly missing a passing gang of dockworkers.

  ‘My name is Mr Arthur Lowe,’ Titus said, ‘and I’ll have a pint of your best. And this is my daughter, Lizzie. She’ll have a small beer.’

  ‘I’d prefer water,’ Hazel said, hopping up on to a stool.

  ‘Water?’ Treacher laughed, handing Titus his drink. ‘I don’t recommend that, Lizzie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Titus stared into his mug as if it contained the meaning of life and then took a long swallow. ‘London water’s not safe to drink,’ he said, wiping the froth from his moustache. ‘Small beer for you.’

  ‘All right. But I don’t want a small one. I’ll have a normal-sized one, please.’

  ‘Small doesn’t mean small as in small,’ Treacher said. ‘Small beer is watered-down ale you can drink without getting drunk.’

  ‘No fun at all,’ Titus said. ‘But perfect for little girls.’

  ‘Very well then, I’ll have a large small beer.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Treacher said.

  ‘I don’t suppose I get a drink?’ Bramley whispered in Hazel’s ear.

  ‘Do you have any rooms, Mr Treacher?’ Titus said.

  ‘We do,’ he replied, passing Hazel a mug. ‘Plenty, actually. Business is slow in the Bannered Mare, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘There’s been a plague outbreak hereabouts.’

  ‘The soldier at the gates told us it was caused by the witch prisoners held by the Order,’ Hazel said. She took an experimental swallow of beer and found that it warmed her insides in a surprisingly pleasant way.

  ‘Mm, well, I don’t know about that,’ Treacher said. ‘I’m old enough to remember when witches weren’t blamed for every ill that blew in on the wind. Mrs Treacher’s grandmother – God rest her -had a touch of magic about her and she never did anyone any harm.’ He sighed. ‘Times have changed, and not for the better.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Titus lowered his voice. ‘We’ve also heard that the Witch Hunters have captured Nicolas Murrell.’

  Treacher nodded darkly. ‘Aye. Brought him in a few weeks ago. I heard he was trying to summon a demon by sacrificing children . . .’ He cast a glance at Hazel and trailed off. ‘I don’t know if it’s true or not, but plenty of folks are willing to believe it.’

  ‘Keeping him in the Tower, are they?’ Titus said.

  Treacher shook his head. ‘A prisoner as important as him will be locked up on Cromwell Island.’

  ‘What’s Cromwell Island?’ Hazel asked.

  Treacher leaned closer. ‘It’s the Witch Hunters’ new prison. They only finished it last year. Built it right in the middle of the Thames.’ He shuddered. ‘Terrible place. Escape-proof.’

  ‘An escape-proof island?’ Bramley squeaked. ‘That doesn’t sound too hopeful.’

  ‘There’s a view of it from London Bridge, if you’re curious,’ Treacher continued. ‘Right, I’ll get your rooms made up. You’d like some food in the meantime?’

  Hazel’s stomach rumbled. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And another ale,’ Titus said, tapping his mug.

  ‘Right you are.’

  Hazel and Titus found a quiet table in an adjoining room and sat down.

  ‘I told you we’d get news at an inn,’ Titus said.

  ‘I don’t like what the landlord said about that island,’ Bramley said, climbing into Hazel’s lap. ‘If it’s as impregnable as he says . . .’

  Hazel tapped him on the nose. ‘Let’s wait until we’ve seen it before we start panicking.’

  Mr Treacher brought over more ale and a board laden with bread and butter, cheese, and thick slices of ham. ‘Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.’

  ‘There’s nothing there for me,’ Bramley whined.

  ‘I thought rats liked cheese,’ Titus said, tearing into the bread.

  Hazel saw Bramley bristle, so she hastily cut off a slice of her pear and put it on her lap for him to nibble on. They ate in silence until Titus leaned back in his chair and regarded Hazel from under his furrowed brow.

  ‘Well?’ she said, picking through the remains of the ham. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘I want you to be prepared.’

  ‘Prepared for what?’

  ‘Failure. If my long and eventful life has taught me anything, it’s that things don’t often end happily.’ He looked down, lost in thought. ‘Hell, sometimes things don’t end at all, they just get worse.’

  Hazel looked at the Witch Finder’s craggy face and wondered, not for the first time, what hardships he’d endured over the years. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘But that’s not going to stop me trying.’

  ‘I admire your determination, but if a thing’s impossible, it’s impossible, and you just have to let it go, right?’

  Hazel folded her arms. ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Let’s just take a look at this island, shall we?’ Bramley said. ‘Then we can talk about what to do next.’

  Titus drained the last of his ale. ‘Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, slop-sprite.’

  They were about to leave when a dirty-haired girl in a ragged dress sidled up to their table and held out her hand. ‘Spare a coin for a plague orphan?’

  Titus turned his sternest glare on to her. ‘Do I look like I’m made of money?’

  Hazel smiled and slid the remains of the food across the table. ‘Here – have this.’

  ‘Not the pear!’ Bramley hissed at Hazel. ‘Oh, too late,’ he added dejectedly, as the girl hastily wrapped everything up in a grubby handkerchief.

  ‘How old are you?’ Titus asked.

  ‘Eight and a half,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Eight and a half?’ he boomed. ‘You look about six. I’ve seen more meat on a dirty fork.’

  Hazel kicked him under the table.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, handing over a couple of coins. ‘Now, be off with you.’

  The girl gave a little bow and scampered away.

  ‘Too sof
t-hearted, that’s my trouble,’ Titus grumbled.

  Hazel snorted. ‘Come on, let’s take a look at this island.’

  4

  FLASK AND STUBB’S

  ‘Thence to the coffee house.’

  Samuel Pepys, MP, JP, diarist

  Tired as they were from their journey into Southwark, Hazel and Titus roused themselves and headed back out into the sultry, mid-afternoon sun. Bramley took residence behind Hazel’s ear and began to clean his whiskers of pear juice.

  ‘You’d better memorize the route, Hazel,’ Titus said. ‘If we lose each other you’ll need to find your way back here. Believe me, you don’t want to get lost in Southwark.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I have an excellent sense of direction.’

  ‘Since when?’ Bramley said.

  ‘Since always.’

  Titus stopped in the middle of the courtyard. ‘Prove it. Take us back to Southwark High Road.’

  ‘Fine.’ Hazel chose the alley that she was pretty certain they had arrived down. ‘It’s this way.’

  The heat trapped under the eaves prickled her skin with sweat and made her dress stick to her back. Lanes branched off in both directions, narrower still and quickly kinking out of sight.

  She stopped by a door with a large red cross painted on it. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a warning to stay away,’ Titus replied. ‘Some poor wretch in there has got the plague, so they’ve been locked inside until they either recover, or die.’

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ Hazel said.

  ‘It’s the law – a precaution to stop the disease from spreading.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone help them?’ Bramley asked.

  ‘Friends or neighbours might bring food.’ Titus shrugged. ‘But beyond that, no.’

  ‘Ma would be able to do something,’ Hazel said hotly. ‘She knows all sorts of healing spells. Don’t men like Hopkins realize that Wielders could make this city a better place?’

  Titus laid his hand on her shoulder in a rare display of affection. ‘Hazel, you need to learn that men like Hopkins would hate witches even if they could cure all the ills in the world.’