by Matt Ralphs
‘Keen, yes, you said.’ He leaned back and regarded her for a few moments. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer quickly and honestly.’
Hazel nodded, and for the next fifteen minutes endured a barrage of questions about her life, her family, her hopes and dreams, aware that the other candidates were undergoing the same ordeal around her. Some of the questions she had prepared for, some she hadn’t, but her practice with Bramley paid off and she answered and improvised with ever increasing confidence.
‘One last question, boy.’ The interrogator put down his quill. ‘Answer carefully. What would you do if you found out your neighbour was a witch?’
The answer seemed obvious: Denounce her! Turn her over to the Witch Hunters! Surely that was what he wanted to hear?
But I must convince him I’m the right candidate to join this brutal Order. I’ve got to stand out from all the others.
The interrogator’s expression hardened. ‘Well?’
‘When I was seven I had a dog called Stripe,’ Hazel said, feeling around for a story to string him along with. ‘I was taking him for a walk one day when we met an old woman by the roadside. Stripe jumped up at her – he was only being friendly but the woman was furious. She kicked and shouted, her face all twisted with hate.’
Hazel realized she had the interrogator’s attention when he put down his quill. Emboldened, she continued to spin her lie.
‘I was terrified, so I picked up poor Stripe and ran home. Next morning, he was dead. I told my father what had happened and he said that old woman was a notorious witch, and that most likely she’d laid a curse on poor Stripe and killed him.’
She locked eyes with the interrogator, knowing that what she was about to say went against everything she truly believed. ‘That’s when I began to hate witches, and if I found out my own mother was one, I’d kill her on the spot.’ Hazel blinked back tears; the ugly, brutal words were like poison on her tongue.
The interrogator looked at her for a long time and then waved her off. ‘Go and wait with the others.’
Was it her imagination, or was his voice a little warmer than it had been before?
‘I know it couldn’t have been easy saying that,’ Bramley said. ‘But you did the right thing. Now we wait and see.’
Hazel saw Anthony standing despondently outside the pavilion. ‘How did you do?’ she asked with an encouraging smile.
‘I was nervous, and he got impatient. And that made me more nervous. I did my best, but . . .’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think,’ Hazel said reassuringly.
The interviews finished. Grimstone and the interrogators gathered together, talking quietly and glancing at the candidates. Hazel bit her lip; she hated waiting.
At last, Grimstone dismissed the assembled men with a nod and strode up to the applicants. He had a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Step forward when I read out your name. Anthony Simpson.’
Anthony looked both surprised and sickened as he edged out of the group.
‘Does that mean he’s been picked or rejected?’ Bramley whispered.
Hazel rather hoped he’d been rejected – Anthony seemed far too nice to work for the Order.
Grimstone looked at her. ‘William Lowe.’
Hazel joined Anthony, wondering if she was she in or out.
‘Right, the rest of you can go,’ Grimstone said. ‘William, Anthony, I’ve chosen you to join the Grand Order of Witch Hunters. Congratulations.’
‘You did it,’ Bramley squeaked as the failed candidates trudged out of the courtyard. ‘Well done!’
Relief burst inside Hazel, and she only just resisted the urge to cry out.
‘Thank you, Sir Grimstone,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘It’s not me you need to worry about,’ Grimstone said with a cold smile. ‘That would be your new master.’
9
A RISKY DIVULGENCE
Plague! The Pale Rider! And with him,
behold, the end of the world!’
Apocalyptic Preacher Jeremy Coleman
Titus awoke from a dream, haunted by the memories of long-dead friends and comrades. The room was bright, the sun already riding high. He rolled off the bed and plunged his face into the washbasin, knowing in every aching bone that Hazel had gone to the Tower without him.
Will I lose her too? Just as I’ve lost everyone else?
A knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts. After pushing the dripping hair from his face and straightening his shirt, Titus opened the door to find Mr Treacher standing outside.
‘Ah! Morning, Mr Lowe. I was wondering if you wanted any breakfast?’
Titus stroked his throat. It was dry. He wanted a drink – strong ale to take his mind off Hazel all alone in that den of monsters. ‘Can you get me coffee?’ he croaked after a brief but considerable internal struggle.
‘I can send out the stable boy for a pot,’ Treacher said. ‘And Lizzie?’
‘She’s out,’ Titus said. ‘Meeting a . . . customer.’
‘Ah, learning the family trade is she?’
Bitter regret rose in Titus’s throat. He thought of David, the boy he’d taken on as his apprentice and then lost to the Order. And now Hazel – gone to them as well.
He beckoned Treacher inside. ‘How’s the girl?’
‘Still dead to the world, poor little creature. Your daughter was very brave last night – she does you credit.’
‘Her courage is all her own. Listen, about the attack last night, Lizzie said there have been others?’
Treacher closed the door. ‘I’m afraid so. Three children have been found hereabouts in the past few weeks. Found dead, I mean.’
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘No, the bodies lay unclaimed before being taken to a pauper’s grave.’ Treacher looked away, blinking furiously. ‘They were probably plague orphans with no one to care for them.’
‘Is no one investigating this?’
‘Course not! The Witch Hunters are the law, and they don’t care about a few street urchins.’
Titus stroked his beard, waiting for Treacher to compose himself. ‘You seem like a good-hearted fellow, Mr Treacher. May I confide in you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Before I turned rat-catcher, I was one of the King’s own Witch Finders.’
‘You don’t say?’ Treacher’s eyes widened.
‘I do. Back in the days when Witch Finding was a calling to be proud of, when we sought truth and justice, not the thoughtless persecution against magic-users we see from Hopkins’ Hunters.’
Treacher looked nervous; what Titus was saying was treasonous, but after a moment he nodded and said, ‘We live in dark times, Mr Lowe. Dark times indeed.’
‘I’m glad we see eye to eye.’ He held out his hand and Treacher shook it without hesitation. ‘Now, I’d like to use my old skills to find out what happened to those girls. Do you know how they died?’
‘I’m afraid not. There are plenty of rumours, of course . . .’
‘My interest is only with facts. Who examined the bodies?’
‘That was Old Seb, our local Ombudsman. It’s his job to examine the deceased of the parish and write weekly reports for the Order.’
‘And where can I find him?’
‘Ah, well, there’s the rub,’ Treacher said with a shake of his head. ‘Poor Seb’s fallen with the plague. He’s been in the Pest House for a week, and for all I know he might already be dead.’
10
THE WITCH HUNTER GENERAL
‘Witches are like rats: sly, sinful and covered in filth.’
Matthew Hopkins, Witch Hunter General
Hazel and Anthony stood rigidly at attention outside Matthew Hopkins’ office. The solid oak door was closed, but they clearly heard the argument raging inside.
‘You’re failing in your duty, General. The people want him dead.’
‘The people do not know what is best for them, John. They never do
.’
‘That must be Hopkins’ voice,’ Bramley whispered from under Hazel’s new cap.
Hazel supposed so – it certainly sounded cold enough for a man who led a murderous crusade – and she thought she recognized the first voice too.
That’s John Stearne, the so-called Witch Butcher who arrested Nicolas Murrell, and it seems he’s not afraid to stand up to his master.
She fidgeted in her new uniform. The soft black trousers and shirt were fine, but the boots pinched and the scarlet knee-length jacket itched around her neck. At least the felt cap with the crossed-hammer insignia gave Bramley somewhere else to hide.
‘And what of Cromwell?’ Stearne continued, his deep voice rumbling with anger. ‘If he knew how many witches you’re keeping . . .’
‘Our Lord Protector entrusted me to look after things here, as I see fit, while he fights the rebels in the North.’
‘He expects you to prosecute witches, and get rid of animals like Murrell tout de suite.’
‘Tout de suite?’ Hopkins said. ‘Oh, John, you do surprise me. I didn’t know you spoke French.’
‘I spent three years with the Parisian branch of La Société des Chasse-Sorcières before joining the Order.’
‘Ah, of course, la trouvez et brûlez brigade. No wonder your methods lack subtlety.’ Hopkins sighed, like a parent trying to make a truculent child see sense. ‘I’m not keeping all those filthy witches alive for fun. I’m doing it so we can learn from them. And imagine what secrets Murrell has! Killing him would be a waste.’
‘When a man finds a cockroach he steps on it.’
‘And an educated man knows that stepping on a cockroach won’t always kill it.’
Hazel flinched as Stearne, a lean man built like a bare-knuckle boxer, stormed out of the office and down the corridor. Both Hazel and Anthony craned their necks to see inside Hopkins’ office and saw a short, rather plump man standing with his back to them looking out of the window.
If this was Matthew Hopkins, the scourge of English witches, he was not what Hazel expected.
‘Well, boys,’ he said without turning round. ‘Don’t stand there gawping. Come in.’
Anthony paled and looked like he was going to run away. Hazel put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and guided him inside.
‘He must have eyes in the back of his head,’ Bramley muttered.
The sun glinted on the crossed-hammer emblem on Hopkins’ collar as he turned from the window and sat down behind a large oak desk; Hazel noticed how the skin around his fingernails was red raw, as if he’d been chewing it.
He took a few moments to adjust his papers and then looked up at them with a smile that did not touch his cold, blue eyes. The silence stretched until, unable to stand it any longer, Hazel blurted, ‘Thank you, General Hopkins. Myself and Anthony feel honoured to have been chosen to serve in the glorious Order.’
Anthony managed a frightened nod.
‘Master William Lowe,’ Hopkins stated, tapping a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Your interrogator informs me that your dominant humour is sanguine: passionate and energetic.’
‘I can get quite fiery at times, General,’ Hazel replied.
‘Good! That’s just what we want in the Order – after all, fire is our stock-in-trade, is it not?’
Hazel thought of the execution pyres she’d seen on her journey to London: the drifting piles of ash, the stakes burned down to blackened spikes. Careful to keep the anger out of her voice, she said, ‘It certainly is, General.’
‘But he also tells me that you’re ignorant and uneducated. What have you got to say to that?’
‘I may not be as clever as some, General,’ she said, unable to control the flash of pique, ‘but I’m not stupid.’
Hopkins’ smile dropped like a lead weight. ‘Is this my first glimpse of your fiery temper, William?’
‘Probably best not to shout at the Witch Hunter General,’ Bramley hissed.
‘My apologies,’ Hazel said. ‘What I meant to say is that I’m keen to learn and I believe this is the best place for me to do so.’
‘We’ll see.’ Hopkins turned to Anthony, smiling in the way a snake would at a cornered mouse. ‘Master Anthony Simpson. You are exactly what I’m looking for. Such angelic features! You are the very picture of childish innocence. Perfect for the special job I have planned for you. But, all in good time, eh?’
Hopkins leaned contentedly back in his chair and clasped his fingers over his stomach. ‘William, Anthony, you are now Junior Apprentices in the Grand Order of Witch Hunters. You will report directly to me, but you will also obey the commands of those above you in rank – which in your case is everyone. Understood?’
‘Yes, General,’ Hazel and Anthony said.
‘Good. In return for your loyal and unswerving service, I will ensure you are fed, educated and looked after. I have rooms for you here in the White Tower. Anthony – you told your interrogator that your mother is unwell?’
‘Er, yes, General,’ Anthony said, looking surprised. ‘I want to earn enough to pay an apothecary to—’
Hopkins waved his hand. ‘No need. I’m going to send my personal physician to see what he can do for her.’
Anthony’s mouth dropped open. ‘Th-thank you, General.’
‘The Order looks after its own. I’ll take you to him right away and you can tell him where she lives.’ He got up and headed for the door with Anthony in tow. ‘William, I can’t abide dust, so clean my office while I’m gone – I want all the surfaces spotless. You’ll find a cloth in that drawer there. Come, Anthony.’
Hazel closed the door after them and let out a long, shaky breath.
‘Well,’ Bramley said, climbing down on to her shoulder. ‘He’s a box of contradictions, and no mistake.’
Hazel shook her head in consternation. ‘How can a monster look so much like a man?’
‘I can’t abide dust,’ Bramley said in a good imitation of Hopkins. ‘So you’d better get to work, Master Lowe. And have a poke about while you’re at it – you might find something about where they’re keeping Murrell. Look on his desk, for a start.’
With her back to the door, Hazel leaned over the desk and flipped through a pile of leather folders: News from Salem, The Lancaster Assizes, The North Berwick Witch Trials, and finally one that made her heart leap up into her throat.
‘A Concise Report on England’s Enemy,’ she breathed. ‘Nicolas Murrell.’
‘Oooh! Go on – open it, quick!’
Hazel’s gaze strayed to the door. ‘It’s not like you to encourage such a risk.’
‘Huh! We’re in the office of the Witch Hunter General. How can things get any more dangerous?’
Inside the folder was a sheaf of papers. The topmost one was a faded poster depicting a rather demonic-looking Murrell.
‘Well? What does it say?’ Bramley asked.
‘Nicolas Murrell,’ Hazel read. ‘Wanted for the Capital Crimes of Demon Worship, Consorting with Witches, Murder and High Treason.’
She flicked deeper into the pile, skim-reading reports of possible sightings and interrogation transcripts of witches who had known him. ‘Hopkins has certainly worked hard to track him down.’
‘Is there anything there about where they’re keeping him now?’
‘Give me a second . . .’ Hazel bent lower to decipher some smudged writing. ‘There’s a lot to go through. Arrest warrants, news pamphlets . . .’
Bramley tensed and crawled slowly back into her hair. ‘There’s someone behind us. Hazel. I think it’s him!’
11
OLD SEB
Those blessed with status or money to pay can
convalesce from their affliction in a Pest House.
Plague: A Darke Historie by Dr Louis Székely
The guard looked askance at Titus. ‘Let me get this straight – you actually want to go inside the Pest House?’
It had been a long, hot walk through the outer districts of Southwark, and the dismal appearan
ce of the Pest House – a large stone building standing alone in the middle of a patch of sun-baked scrubland – had done nothing to improve Titus’s mood.
‘I do.’ He nodded.
‘But no one goes in except the plague doctors.’
‘Nevertheless, I seek entrance.’
‘But why?’
‘I need to speak to Sebastian Middleton on a most urgent matter. Do you know if he’s still alive?’
‘The Ombudsman? Just about.’
‘Thank God.’ Titus held up two gold coins and rubbed them between his finger and thumb. ‘So, can I see him?’
The guard shrugged and took the money. ‘Your funeral, I suppose. Come with me.’
As Titus went inside he wondered what the unfortunate Pest House residents made of the crossed bones and grinning skulls carved into the eaves and door frame.
The guard stopped at the end of the corridor. ‘You can wait in there. I’ll see if Seb’s well enough to come to you.’
Titus entered a small reception room with moth-eaten tapestries hanging over the walls. Bundles of herbs littered the floor, filling the air with pungent sweetness. He took off his coat and sat by the window, feeling the sun on his back.
I suppose this is better than being locked in your home and left to die, he thought, but it’s still a sorry place for a man to meet his end.
The door opened and a man with yellow, sweat-greased skin shuffled into the room. He was probably only forty but his sickness had aged him double, and the blankets wrapped around his shoulders were doubtless there to cover any plague buboes he had behind his ears.
Titus had seen plague victims before, and he knew that barring a miracle this man would soon be dead. Hiding his pity, he held out his hand to shake.
The man waved it away. ‘Best not, eh?’ His voice was phlegmy and every careful movement spoke of his pain, but he peered at Titus with keen blue eyes.
‘Sebastian Middleton?’ Titus said. ‘Southwark’s elected Ombudsman?’
‘That’s me,’ he replied, lowering himself into a chair. ‘Don’t hover about, man. Sit, sit.’