Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  ‘But I’m offering you a chance to right one of your wrongs.’

  The chain rattled as Murrell leaned closer. ‘You have got to learn that life is cruel. It takes, and it destroys, and there is nothing we – we who are but ants – can do about it.’

  Hazel spoke quietly, determinedly. ‘I don’t care. I love my ma and I know she’d do the same for me. I’m going to find a way to her with or without you, Nicolas Murrell.’ She turned to leave, already thinking about what she was going to do next.

  ‘Wait,’ Murrell said dully. ‘If you really want to do this, I’ll help you on your way. But be warned, I cannot protect you from the demons you will face if you leave me in this prison.’

  Hazel turned round. ‘I just want to know how to open the gate. I’ll figure out how to survive on the other side of it myself.’

  ‘Very well,’ Murrell sighed. ‘You’re going to need a rare book and some demon blood with which to draw a very particular magic circle . . .’

  26

  ONE WAY OUT

  ‘Death, plague and poverty on every street.

  I weary at the sight of it.’

  Ombudsman Sebastian Middleton

  Ten minutes later, and armed with the information she needed, Hazel knocked on the door for the guard to let her out. She had decided not to tell Murrell about his impending execution. What would be the point? It would only compound his misery, and make his last few days more miserable.

  If I could help him escape I would, but it’s impossible.

  The door opened and without a backwards glance Hazel walked out, looking as calm as her jangling nerves allowed.

  ‘The General awaits you on the ground floor, Master Apprentice,’ the guard said.

  Hazel thought he sounded nervous, and as she hurried down the steps the idea was confirmed by what was occurring below: guards herded prisoners back to their cells, orders were shouted, doors slammed, bolts driven home – the previous atmosphere of grim oppression had transformed into one of frenzied activity.

  An acid bubble of fear seared Hazel’s throat. Was this about her? Had they discovered that she was a witch?

  Hopkins stood by the main door, deep in conversation with Grimstone and the Spymaster. Grimstone was speaking quickly and urgently, while the Spymaster listened, hunched over his walking stick like an ancient crow.

  Hazel flinched as Hopkins glanced up and saw her. He snapped his fingers and beckoned. Fighting her fear, she hurried down the steps on legs so wobbly she thought she might fall.

  ‘Are you certain, Spymaster?’ Hopkins was saying as Hazel joined them. ‘Cromwell’s been missing for two days?’

  ‘The dispatch rider arrived from Harrogate this very hour with the news,’ the Spymaster replied gravely. ‘Cromwell’s deputy, General Fleetwood, is in charge but you can imagine the disarray up there.’

  ‘Good God,’ Hopkins breathed.

  Hazel listened attentively, greatly relieved that the activity had nothing to do with her. Will the rebels in the North be able to take advantage of Cromwell’s disappearance? she thought. And what does it mean for Hopkins?

  ‘Is the news widely known?’ Grimstone asked.

  ‘Not yet, but it will be,’ the Spymaster said.

  ‘Bad news runs fastest.’ Hopkins rubbed a finger under his collar, and Hazel saw a nervous rash spreading up to his ears.

  She hid a grim smile; it was good to see Hopkins squirm, and all this confusion meant she might have a better chance of escaping. Just need to pick my moment and slip away.

  ‘I’ve put the garrison on high alert,’ Grimstone said, ‘and doubled the guard at the gates.’

  Hopkins nodded, deep in thought. ‘Cromwell, missing . . . What happened?’

  The Spymaster shrugged. ‘No one knows for sure. He was reconnoitring with a squadron of his Ironsides and never returned. The best hope is he’s lost in enemy territory.’

  ‘The worst scenario is he’s fallen into the rebels’ clutches, or he’s dead,’ Grimstone said.

  ‘God’s bones,’ Hopkins said. ‘He’s at war – why doesn’t he stay in the command tent like most generals?’

  The Spymaster pressed a long-nailed finger into Hopkins’ chest. ‘The point is, Matthew, with Cromwell missing, you are in charge and must be safeguarded from all possible danger, whether it comes from without . . . or within.’

  Hopkins and the Grandees headed towards the gate as a troop of soldiers marched past in double-time. Hazel followed, trying to hear their conversation over the tramp of boots.

  ‘Any rebel spies will be emboldened by this news,’ Grimstone said, ‘and they might even try to land a blow against us. Against you, General.’

  ‘That is true. Suggestions?’

  Hazel saw a chance to perhaps give Murrell a stay of execution. She raised her hand. ‘Sirs?’ Surprised, the three men stopped and turned to her. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your troubling news, and I wonder if perhaps you should postpone the Execution Pageant.’

  The Spymaster looked flabbergasted at her interruption. ‘What?’

  ‘If the wretched rebels were to take advantage of the present circumstances,’ Hazel said, ignoring his hostility, ‘would the Execution Pageant not be the perfect time to strike against the Order?’

  Hopkins raised his eyebrow and gave her a fleeting look of approval. ‘Perhaps we should consider—’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ the Spymaster interrupted. ‘The preparations have already begun and the announcements have been made. If we cancel the Pageant it will be seen as a sign of weakness. Do you agree, Grimstone?’

  Hazel was disappointed when Grimstone nodded. ‘We must continue as if nothing is amiss, General.’

  ‘And in the meantime we need to vet everyone who has joined the Order in the past few weeks,’ the Spymaster said without taking his gimlet eye from Hazel. ‘Starting with your impertinent new apprentice. I don’t like the look of him.’

  ‘I’ll round up all the new recruits and keep them locked up, then send my interrogators to check the local records, verify family details, that sort of thing,’ Grimstone said with a sigh.

  Cold fingers of panic gripped Hazel’s heart. Even a cursory check of the personal details she had given during her induction interview would reveal her web of lies – she had to get out of here, right now.

  ‘Such precautions should be a matter of course,’ the Spymaster grumbled as they emerged on to the bridge. ‘Things have got too lax around here.’

  Grimstone shot him a poisonous glance.

  ‘Very well, but be as quick as you can,’ Hopkins said. ‘I need William by my side, especially now.’

  Hazel trailed after them into the dazzling sunshine. Her feet felt encased in lead, her insides hollow.

  The interrogators won’t find any record of Saxondale and Lowe’s Rat-Catchers in Putney, or a William Lowe. Then they’ll interrogate me, examine me, find out I’m a girl . . . find out I’m a witch . . .

  The bridge and embankment teemed with soldiers and Witch Hunters on high alert; Hazel would not be able to slip or run away through them all unnoticed. She could use fire-magic to fight her way out, but that would mean hurting or even killing people.

  No, I’ve got to think of some other way. Hazel glanced over the side of the bridge at the grey water sliding past. The railing was low – easy to climb.

  I could jump in and swim for shore, she thought. But if I do that, Hopkins will know I’ve been up to something, and he and his cronies will turn London upside down looking for me.

  They were nearly halfway across the bridge. Gulls taunted Hazel overhead. Downstream an East India trade ship slipped her moorings and began its ponderous turn into the tide.

  She had to get away but also convince Hopkins it was for a reason other than escape. But how? It was almost impossible to think straight with the prospect of discovery hanging over her head.

  Hopkins dropped back a pace to talk to her. ‘Well, William? How went it with Murrell?’

 
An idea occurred at the mention of the demonologist’s name: it was perfect, it was brilliant, but she knew that Murrell would pay a high price if she put it into action.

  I’m sorry, Nicolas, but this is the only way.

  ‘Murrell,’ Hazel said in a croaky voice. ‘Murrell, Murrell . . .’

  ‘William?’ Hopkins said. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  He jumped as Hazel let out a cry and gripped her head in both hands. ‘My mind . . . it burns with his thoughts . . . He spoke to me, but he did not move his lips . . .’

  Hopkins took a step towards her. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me!’

  ‘His words are in my head,’ Hazel cried, staring imploringly at Hopkins. ‘Get them out!’

  ‘The boy speaks in riddles,’ the Spymaster snapped, waving his walking stick at her. ‘Stop it at once!’

  ‘I fear sorcery,’ Grimstone hissed. ‘Possession!’

  Hazel tugged her hair and dragged her nails over her face. ‘Get them out! Get them out!’ she screamed, backing ever closer to the rail.

  Grimstone looked terrified; even the old Spymaster seemed disturbed. Nearby guards turned to see what the commotion was.

  Hopkins approached her, reaching out with one hand. ‘William Lowe,’ he said. ‘Look at me, lad. Don’t be afraid . . .’

  Hazel went rigid and rolled her eyes back so only the whites showed.

  Hopkins stopped, looking uncertain for the first time. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you in there alone.’

  ‘I have . . . a message . . . for the Burner of Witches,’ Hazel said in a shrill, toneless voice.

  ‘I don’t want your message,’ Hopkins said. ‘I want Junior Apprentice William Lowe back.’

  Hazel cocked her head to one side. ‘The message is: I win.’ And before the horrified Hopkins could grab her, she stepped on to the parapet, spread her arms and plummeted into the river.

  27

  HOUSE OF THE PLAGUE DOCTOR

  Board up the House.

  Hide your boys and girls!

  Plague Songs by John Dyler Baizley

  According to the Guild Master, the missing plague doctor’s name was Peter Feldspar, and he lived alone on Butchers Lane in Southwark.

  Titus, with Bramley peeping out of his top pocket, stared at the house from the other side of the street. Both wore worried frowns.

  ‘The Guild Master didn’t say that Feldspar had the plague,’ Titus said out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Then why is there a big red cross on his front door?’ Bramley replied. ‘Are you sure this is the right house?’

  ‘Pretty sure. And if Feldspar does have the plague and has been shut in all this time, that would explain his absence from work.’

  ‘He might be dead,’ Bramley said, whiskers quivering.

  ‘Or he might just be riddled with sickness. Either way we have to go inside. Feldspar might be our killer. Or someone—’

  ‘Or something . . .’

  ‘Or something did away with him and stole his plague-doctor uniform.’ Titus checked his pistol was loaded and tucked it into his belt. ‘Time to find out.’

  ‘Wait!’ Bramley squealed. ‘The demon might be in there, at this moment, waiting for us!’

  ‘What a querulous little creature you are. Would you like me to leave you here in the gutter? No? Then come along.’

  Titus looked up and down the street. The houses were sad, tumbledown affairs, and most of the residents were either at work or attending the decrepit market at the far end. The windows of Feldspar’s house were shuttered, but to Titus’s surprise the front door was unlocked. It creaked as he pushed it open.

  Stung by Titus’s taunts, Bramley scrambled up the old Witch Finder’s arm and perched bravely on his shoulder. ‘Careful,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make any noise.’

  ‘You’re the one making all the noise.’ When Titus took his hand from the door the tips of his fingers were covered in dry red flakes. He sniffed the substance. His heart beat faster.

  ‘Mouse,’ he whispered, taking the pistol from his belt. ‘That plague cross on the door – it’s been drawn with blood.’

  ‘Blood?’ Bramley replied. ‘Don’t they usually use paint?’

  ‘Of course they do . . . Something is amiss.’

  Putting aside all thoughts of personal hygiene, Bramley hid himself in Titus’s hair.

  Titus stepped inside the house and closed the door. Now the only light came from the cracks around the shutters, but it was enough to see a comfortably furnished sitting room, a kitchen leading off at the back, and a flight of stairs to the first floor.

  The house appeared deserted, but both Titus and Bramley felt uneasy. Moving quietly for a big man, Titus climbed the stairs to find a small bedroom. Fragrant rushes covered the floor, and the bed was neatly made.

  ‘A tidy cove,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes, but where is he?’

  Titus opened the wardrobe and found several jackets, coats and shirts hanging on a rail. He sniffed. ‘Leather and herbs. That’s what I’d expect a plague doctor’s robe to smell of, but there’s no sign of it here.’

  ‘Why herbs?’ Bramley said, risking an excursion back on to Titus’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s what the beaks on the masks are for – for filling with herbs which are believed to ward off plaguey vapours.’

  Titus went to the window and looked down on to a small garden, fenced on all sides and flourishing with potatoes and string beans. What he saw in the far corner made his heart sink. ‘I think I know where our Mr Feldspar is,’ he said, heading back downstairs.

  He stopped on the threshold to the kitchen and found it in disarray. The chair lay smashed in the corner, and the floor was covered in broken crockery and glass. A pan of stew, crawling with maggots, stood on a stone-cold stove.

  ‘A struggle took place here,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Aye, a mortal one. And it happened a few weeks ago, judging by that rancid food.’

  ‘So we think the killer stalked Feldspar back to his house, murdered him as he prepared his supper and stole his robes to use as a disguise?’ Bramley said, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ll make a detective of you yet, Master Mouse. I also think the killer used poor Feldspar’s blood for the plague cross on the door – what better way to ensure no one discovers the crime?’ Titus frowned and picked up a carving knife from the floor. He ran his finger over the blade and it came away covered in a sticky white residue. ‘Well, well – it seems Feldspar didn’t go down without a fight. Look here, this is demon blood.’

  Bramley sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Sour milk.’

  ‘So you were right,’ Titus murmured, his eyes straying to the back door. ‘You, Hazel, Old Seb . . . It is a demon we hunt. And it was in this very room.’

  From his pocket he retrieved a brass tube about the length of a man’s thumb. The middle comprised of a set of parallel dials covered with tiny etched writing, and there was a copper eyepiece and a smooth glass lens at each end.

  ‘If I knew what demon we were dealing with I could set this Entropy Monocle to pick up its tracks and we could follow it to its lair,’ Titus said. ‘But without that knowledge . . . I fear the trail has already gone cold.’

  ‘How can we find out what sort of demon it is?’ Bramley said, climbing back down into Titus’s top pocket.

  ‘I don’t know . . . yet. I need to do some research using what we do know about this beast – it’s back to the wagon after this so I can get my books.’ He headed into the garden and stopped by the pile of freshly dug earth that he’d seen from the bedroom window.

  ‘What’s under there?’ Bramley asked.

  ‘The last piece of the puzzle,’ Titus said. The fence around the garden was high – no one would see what he was about to do. ‘I’m going to need a spade.’

  28

  PLOTS AND PLANS

  ‘The rebels inhabit the northern counties, striking

  our encampments and disappearing into the
night.’

  Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell, on campaign

  It was early evening when Hazel trudged back to the tavern, and the sun had mostly dried her hair and uniform. She sneaked up to the balcony and through the back door, relieved to find the corridor deserted. Laughter and the hum of conversation drifted up from the taproom.

  The fire in her room was already laid with kindling so Hazel lit it with a deft flick of magic. Then she laid out her uniform and the official Order seal to dry, just in case she needed them again. Another flick of magic heated the water in the washbasin, and after scrubbing the worst of the river off her skin she got dressed.

  It felt good to be back in her old clothes: the faded but oh-so-comfortable dress, her woollen stockings and lace-up leather boots. I feel more like myself again, she thought, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Goodbye, Apprentice Lowe. Hello, Hazel Hooper.

  The tang of the Thames still clung to her hair. She remembered the terrifying lack of control as the river had grabbed and swept her under the bridge, and how just when she thought her lungs would pop, she had surfaced, gasping for air, but free.

  And now here I am, back at the tavern. I wonder how Titus and Bram fared?

  She found the old Witch Finder at the table in his room, poring over a leather-bound edition of Demonology. ‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, doffing an imaginary hat. ‘Your dutiful daughter Lizzie is back from catching rats.’

  A brief smile appeared beneath Titus’s beard. ‘Back at last,’ he said. ‘About time. Now you can relieve me of your troublesome rodent.’

  Hazel skipped to the desk. ‘Where is the little tyke?’

  Titus nodded to where Bramley lay curled up asleep in his upturned palm. ‘I haven’t been able to move for two hours,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Why not?’ Hazel laughed. ‘I would have!’

  ‘It just seemed a shame to disturb him . . .’

  ‘I think you two have become friends,’ Hazel teased.

  Bramley stirred, opened one eye, and leaped up. ‘Hazel!’ he cried, then scampered up her arm and dived headfirst into her hair. He quickly re-emerged with a wrinkled nose. ‘Urgh! It smells terrible in there. What have you been up to?’