Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because you’re women in a world ruled jealously by men, and you possess power beyond their understanding and control. That power – and I’m not just talking about your magic – frightens them to their core.’

  Hazel frowned. ‘What power are you talking about?’

  ‘The power to see the wrongs in this world and the desire to do something about it,’ Titus said. ‘Your mother had it, I had it, and in a way so did Murrell.’ His gaze focused on something far away. ‘That’s why we fought in the Witch War all those years ago, and that’s why the rebels in the North are carrying on that fight.’

  ‘Come on, time’s pressing,’ Bramley chided.

  By keeping to the upward slope and then following the noise of the crowd, Hazel finally led them on to Southwark High Road. ‘There – I did it!’

  ‘Not bad,’ Titus said with a grudging nod of respect. ‘We’ll make a Londoner of you yet.’

  The market was in full swing, so Hazel stuck close to Titus as fishmongers, butchers, and fruit, veg and flower sellers all cried their wares at the top of their lungs; the riot of delicious smells was a vast relief after the squalor of the backstreets.

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Bramley squeaked as a passing candle seller nearly knocked him from Hazel’s shoulder.

  ‘Look ahead,’ Titus said. ‘That’s the entrance to London Bridge.’

  Hazel stood on tiptoes and saw a turreted stone gatehouse spanning the street. Red banners emblazoned with the crossed-hammer sign of the Order hung from the ramparts. As they got closer Titus pointed up at a row of decaying heads on spikes. ‘Thieves, traitors and murderers,’ he said with a wicked grin. ‘But no witches – they tend to burn your type.’

  ‘What a relief,’ Hazel said. ‘I hate heights.’

  The entrance to the bridge was choked with traffic, but at least this time there were no guards to slow things down.

  ‘Stick close,’ Titus said, ‘and don’t get lost.’

  Hazel followed the old Witch Finder through the gatehouse and out on to a narrow street lined with shops, taverns and chophouses. She caught a whiff of sewage and a glimpse of grey water between some buildings before the crowd pushed her on.

  ‘We need a view of the Island,’ she said. ‘A place to get a really good look.’

  Titus stopped outside a tavern. ‘How about here? There’s bound to be a window overlooking the river, and I could do with another drink.’

  Voices drifted from a whitewash-and-timber building next door. A sign hanging over the eave read ‘Flask and Stubb’s Coffee House’.

  ‘Ooh, coffee!’ Hazel said, tugging a reluctant Titus through the door. ‘I hear it sharpens the mind wonderfully.’

  ‘Oh, all right . . .’

  Inside was an oak-panelled room crammed from serving bar to bay windows with finely dressed, periwigged men drinking out of china cups. Red-faced serving girls poured coffee from an enormous copper tureen hanging over a fire – it smelt rich and reviving.

  ‘These syrup-of-soot houses are springing up everywhere,’ Titus grumbled.

  ‘There’s a free table by the window,’ Bramley said. ‘Quick, before someone takes it.’

  A couple of merchants in velvet coats were already homing in, so Hazel wormed her way in front of them, smiling sweetly as she slid into the seat. One merchant opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it when Titus loomed up behind him.

  ‘Our table, I believe,’ he rumbled. The merchants retreated.

  Hazel, Titus and Bramley stared out of the window overlooking the Thames, and for a few moments sat in stunned silence.

  A round tower of smooth black stone rose up from the middle of the river. Devoid of architectural features – no windows, no balconies, no buttresses – it tapered up to a flat roof lined with crenellated battlements, looking for all the world like a giant chess piece.

  ‘So that’s Cromwell Island,’ Hazel said.

  ‘God’s bones,’ Titus groaned.

  ‘That’s not a prison, it’s a fortress,’ Bramley said. ‘What hope do we have of getting in there?’

  ‘This is worse than we thought.’ Titus gestured to a serving girl to bring some coffee.

  ‘There must be a way for us to get inside,’ Hazel said. ‘There must.’

  Titus took a small brass telescope from his pocket, extended it with a flick of his wrist and put it to his eye. After a few moments of grim surveillance he said, ‘I see a bridge connecting it to the north bank of the river . . . That’s the only way in and it’s bound to be heavily guarded.’

  ‘Perhaps we could take a boat out there and climb up?’ Hazel said.

  Bramley nipped her ear. ‘That’s a crazy idea even for you.’

  ‘Well, we have to think of something,’ Hazel murmured, feeling the hope she had carefully nurtured drain away. ‘We’ve come so far already . . .’

  ‘All right – for argument’s sake, let’s say we got inside the Island and found Murrell,’ Titus said, putting the telescope away. ‘We have to remember that he’s been at the mercy of the Witch Hunters for a month now – he might not be in a fit state to help us at all.’

  Hazel looked him in the eye. ‘Well, I’m going to try anyway.’

  ‘Dammit, girl! He’s probably dead already.’

  ‘He’s alive. I just know it.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Titus slapped his hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. ‘You don’t know anything, and that’s a bad position from which to make a plan.’

  A serving girl appeared, set a coffee pot and two cups on the table and then eased her way back into the crowd.

  Hazel folded her arms, drawing deep from her bottomless well of determination. ‘I’m not giving up. We’ll just have to ask around, find out all we can about the Island and plan a way in.’

  Bramley and Titus exchanged a worried glance.

  ‘Look,’ Hazel said, pointing to a decrepit sailing ship moored at the foot of the Island. ‘That must be the prison hulk the soldier was talking about.’

  Titus trained his telescope on it. ‘An old fighting ship. A carrack, judging by her lines. Mmm, the gun hatches have been sealed shut – the prisoners must be trapped below decks, locked in with the rats.’

  The table rocked as he leaned his elbows on it. Cursing, he picked up a news pamphlet and began folding it into a wedge to put under the table leg.

  ‘Wait a moment . . .’ Hazel snatched it from him. ‘Look at this, at the bottom of the page.’

  Titus squinted and read out loud: ‘Vacancy for a Junior Apprentice in the Order of Witch Hunters. Applicants report to the Tower of London at ten o’clock, 12th July.’ He looked up. ‘So?’

  Hazel grinned, suppressing a warm wash of magic. ‘If the Witch Hunters are looking for recruits, I should heed their call!’

  ‘What?’ Titus and Bramley said in unison.

  ‘This is my way into Cromwell Island,’ Hazel said, brandishing the pamphlet. ‘This is my way to Nicolas Murrell.’

  5

  A SIMPLE PLAN

  ‘I have hanged five or six and twenty witches this

  day alone. But there are still more to hunt!’

  Witch Hunter Sergeant William Gould

  ‘You said yourself that Murrell’s on borrowed time,’ Hazel continued before Bramley or Titus had time to speak. ‘I must get to him soon or we’ve no hope of rescuing Ma. And this way means there’s no need for a break-in that’s bound to fail. Don’t you see?’

  ‘The principle of your plan does not elude me, and neither does its sheer recklessness,’ Titus said. ‘And there’s something else you haven’t considered.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘The Order only takes boys, and you happen to be a girl.’

  ‘He’s right, Hazel,’ Bramley said, nervously flicking his tail. ‘And lest we forget, you’re also a Wielder.’

  ‘I can hide my magic. I do it all the time.’

  ‘Do you? Really?’ Titus s
aid. ‘It gets the better of you sometimes. I saw it just now – a little flash of light like a halo.’ He jerked his thumb towards the Tower. ‘If those men find out you’re a Wielder, they won’t let you off by just killing you. Oh no. They have devices, techniques, administrations . . .’

  ‘I’ll control it, I promise,’ Hazel said. ‘What else can I say? I’m doing it. I have to. For Ma.’

  ‘You’ll be unprepared and alone, walking into the middle of a pack of wolves.’

  ‘Ma would do the same for me.’ Hazel shrugged. ‘And I think you would too, old man.’

  Titus shook his head. ‘That’s not the point . . .’

  ‘And anyway, I’ll not be alone.’ Hazel pointed to where Bramley perched on her shoulder. ‘Bram’ll be with me.’

  Titus shot him a look. ‘Will you?’

  Bramley’s whiskers drooped. ‘A familiar never abandons his witch.’

  ‘Well?’ Hazel said, keeping her eyes fixed on Titus. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘Stubborn, stubborn witch . . .’ Titus stared down at his gnarled hands.

  Hazel waited. She knew Titus well by now, and saw the worry in every line in his face. He cared about her, wanted to protect her, and yet here she was asking him to help her walk into terrible danger. Guilt swirled in her stomach. She pushed it away.

  ‘You’re determined to go through with this, aren’t you?’ Titus eventually said.

  Hazel nodded.

  ‘And without my help you’ll probably get caught and killed within five minutes.’

  She nodded again.

  Titus closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘You’ll need boys’ clothes, and a boy’s name.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hazel took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘How about William? I like William.’

  ‘And a family history and plausible reasons for joining the Order,’ Titus continued. ‘The Witch Hunters will ask you questions and you’ll have to be able to answer convincingly.’ He jabbed a finger at the date on the flyer. ‘And you’ve only got until ten o’clock tomorrow to prepare. So, William, what’s your story?’

  ‘How about I’m the son of a rat-catcher, but the business is in ruins because my father’s a drunkard?’ She smiled. ‘That shouldn’t be too hard to imagine.’

  Titus gave her a stern look. ‘You need to take this seriously, Hazel. One false move, one mistake, and they’ll get you.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘but if I don’t laugh about it I’ll be too scared to go.’

  Titus drained his coffee and put some coins on the table. ‘I’ll see to the clothes. You go back to the inn, get some rest, and get your story straight.’

  ‘I’ll help her practise,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Good idea. Can you find your way back on your own?’

  ‘You saw how well I did before,’ Hazel said.

  Titus grunted. ‘Don’t speak to anyone. London is full of informants, so treat everyone like an enemy.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Stop worrying.’

  ‘Oh, of course – stop worrying. Easy. I’ll stop breathing too while I’m at it, shall I?’

  Hazel smiled and patted him on the arm – her mother used to say the same thing.

  The oppressive heat of the day had lifted by the time Hazel emerged from the gatehouse on to Southwark High Road, and she was relieved to find that the crowds had thinned out.

  Pretending to be a boy would be a challenge – David was the only one she’d ever met properly, and he was a few years older than her. Perhaps I should imagine myself as a young Titus, she thought, but then dismissed the idea because she just couldn’t picture him as anything other than an old man.

  Pleased that her sense of direction had not deserted her, she found her way back to the Bannered Mare despite Bramley’s attempts to help: ‘Left here. Or is it right? Perhaps we should have taken that turn by the fish stall . . .’

  ‘There you are, Lizzie!’ Mr Treacher waved at her from behind the bar. ‘Shall I show you to your room? It’s all ready.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said with a nod.

  ‘Follow me then, my tulip,’ he said. ‘I’ve put you at the back where it’s quiet. You on your own?’

  ‘Yes. Father’s out looking for customers.’

  ‘He can sort this place out if he likes. Mrs T’s been on at me about the cellar.’

  ‘You’ll have to head him off at the pass on that,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Titus doesn’t know the first thing about catching rats.’

  ‘I think he’s trying to get work in the City,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Well, I suppose the pay’s better over the river.’ Treacher led her up a rambling set of stairs. ‘Ah, hello, my dove!’

  Mrs Treacher was standing on the landing with brushes and cloths tucked under her arms; her eyes lingered on Hazel for an uncomfortably long time before she stomped back towards the bar.

  ‘Don’t mind Mrs T,’ Treacher said, ushering Hazel through a door. ‘Here we are. This is your room, and your father’s is next door.’

  The room was small and cosy, with a washstand in the corner and an inviting bed piled high with pillows.

  ‘We’re right over the water here.’ Treacher handed her a key. ‘There’s a back door at the end of the corridor leading to the balcony. You can get down to the street from there if you want to avoid the barroom crowd.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Treacher, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice for Mrs T and me to have a girl around the place.’ Treacher smiled. ‘I’d best get back to work. I’ll send some supper up for you later.’

  As soon as the door closed Bramley jumped on to the bed and rolled around, kicking his legs in the air. ‘Oh, that feels good. I’ve been cooped up in your hair for ages.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll be spending a lot more time in there. We can’t let the Witch Hunters see you.’ Hazel lay back on the bed and stretched out her arms. ‘Do you think our plan will work?’

  ‘Well, let me see . . . Will we manage to infiltrate the Witch Hunters’ lair, convince Murrell to help you despite the fact it was your meddling that got him arrested, then travel into the Underworld to rescue your Ma from Baal the demon prince? Do you really want me to answer that?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Hazel sighed. ‘But we can improve our chances by preparing for tomorrow.’

  Bramley settled down on a pillow. ‘All right. I’ll be the Witch Hunter questioning you. You be you being a boy called William. Ready?’

  ‘Yes. Go!’

  For the next two hours Bramley fired question after question at Hazel: ‘Where were you born? . . . What is your mother’s maiden name? . . . Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Next he coached her on how to walk more like a boy: ‘Try longer strides, and add a touch of swagger . . . No, no, no, that’s a lollop . . .’

  By the time the sun had set, Hazel felt frazzled, but she had memorized a fictional family history, and felt more confident that she could pass as a boy.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ she said, using a flare of magic to light the candles. ‘Where’s Titus got to?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Bramley yawned. ‘Probably drunk in a gutter.’

  Hazel picked him up. ‘Come on, let’s get some air.’

  6

  A BREATH OF AIR

  ‘King Charles was a tyrant, a traitor, and a witch lover.

  Death was too good for him.’

  Matthew Hopkins, Witch Hunter General

  Using the key Treacher had given her, Hazel unlocked the back door and stepped outside on to the balcony. It was muggy, with only the faintest breath of wind coming from the river.

  ‘Tide’s out,’ she said. ‘Just look at all that mud.’

  ‘I know, I can smell it,’ Bramley huffed.’ “Let’s get some air,” she says. Huh. Brilliant idea.’

  Hazel put up her hood and descended the stairs on to a rambling network of jetties; it was a long drop to the riverbed. The far bank glimmered with lights, and dis
tant shouts and laughter drifted over the bubbling mudflats – but in Southwark there was not a single soul to be seen. Where is everyone? Hazel wondered, making her way down an alley squeezed between the Bannered Mare and a row of houses.

  ‘It’s too quiet,’ Bramley said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘You don’t like noise, you don’t like quiet. What do you like?’

  ‘A warm nest and a full stomach, neither of which I have.’

  Hazel stopped at a junction. Ahead was the Bannered Mare’s courtyard. A few men stood by the stables, talking in the glow of a lantern. To the right another alley led deeper into the warren of buildings. She took it, walking slowly through the deserted darkness.

  ‘Why are we going down here?’ Bramley said.

  ‘I need to learn my way around and—’

  A scream echoed from a passage ahead. Hazel froze. ‘What was that?’

  Bramley nearly fell off her shoulder in fright. ‘I think it’s time for us to go back to the inn now,’ he squeaked.

  ‘But someone might be in trouble.’ Hazel sidled forward and pressed herself against a wall. ‘I think it came from down here . . .’

  ‘Careful!’ Bramley whispered.

  Hazel peeked round the corner and saw a ragged girl with a mass of filthy hair lying prostrate about ten paces down the passage. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her mouth was open as if she was still screaming.

  Hazel wanted to rush over to see if she was hurt, but instinct held her back. Something had caused the girl to collapse in a dead faint, and whatever it was could still be nearby.

  ‘Bram?’ she said. ‘Can you smell that?’

  ‘Yes, I can. What is that – milk?’

  Hazel wrinkled her nose. ‘Sour milk. But where’s it . . . ?’

  A figure emerged from behind a stack of barrels halfway down the passage. It wore a floor-length robe of leather and a hat with a brim wide enough to veil its face in shadow. Bent double, shoulders hunched, it crept silently towards the girl with a malevolent intent that made Hazel’s blood run cold.