by Matt Ralphs
From their vantage point between the bone-white pile of the Tower on the left and a line of grand houses on the right, was a clear view of the river. Sailors in four rowboats strained at their oars to haul the prison hulk towards a pontoon anchored a quarter of a mile downriver from London Bridge.
Even from this distance Titus saw that the hulk had been covered with flammable pitch. A couple of flaming arrows shot from Cromwell Island would quickly turn it into an inferno – certain death for all those trapped below.
‘If we’re going to think of a plan to rescue them we’ll need a closer look at that pontoon,’ he began, before noticing that Lilith was not listening.
She stared at the hulk, arms rigid at her sides, hands balled into fists. Fury came off her in icy waves. Frost crackled across her skin.
Titus sidled up to her. ‘Careful, witch, we can’t help them from a prison cell.’
Lilith’s frost-magic melted away, but her face remained hard and cold. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘The Witch Hunter guards will abandon the hulk long before they set it ablaze, so getting on board should be easy if we can steal a boat,’ Titus said, stroking his beard. ‘The problem is how to get over three hundred people off without anyone noticing.’
‘We need to think of a way, and quickly,’ Lilith replied. ‘If I save them from death, perhaps I might find some peace for what I brought down on those children.’
‘We’re not doing this to salve your conscience – and you’ll never be able to make up for what you did.’
‘I know, but I–’
‘But nothing!’ Titus growled. ‘You tried to kill Hazel, a child! Believe me, if we survive this dreadful night, you and I will have a reckoning.’ He picked up the bucket. ‘But first things first – the magic circle.’
They made their way through the crowd until they reached the arena. One of the gate doors was open, affording a glimpse inside of tiered seats and a raised wooden platform in the middle. Titus was glad to see a small army of people cleaning, decorating and carrying out repairs in readiness for the night’s event.
In all this confusion it should be easy enough to get inside and under the platform without anyone noticing, he thought, checking to ensure the page of the Necronomicon was safe in his pocket.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘This may take me a while. In the meantime, you need to scout out the hulk and then find us a boat. I’ll meet you back at the warehouse this evening.’
Lilith drew Titus behind a parked wagon. ‘It’s not going to be difficult getting all those prisoners off the hulk – it’s going to be impossible. One boatload, maybe, before we’re spotted.’
‘You agreed to help . . .’
‘And I’m going to, so listen. If we want to save all the prisoners we can’t attempt to get them off the hulk – that’s doomed to fail. Instead, we move the hulk with the prisoners still on board.’
‘Move the hulk . . . ?’
‘We wait for dark, row out, climb on board, then cut the mooring ropes. The river will carry the hulk out of London. We won’t be able to steer, but as soon as we run aground we get everyone off.’
Titus thought about it for a few moments. ‘And with the Pageant in full swing any pursuit by the Order will be hampered.’
‘It could work, couldn’t it?’ Lilith said, her eyes hopeful.
‘Wait though . . . The hulk can still burn. The Order’s marksmen on the Island will easily hit it with their fire arrows even if it’s moving. We’ll all be fried together.’
A smile thawed Lilith’s pale face. ‘Then it’s lucky you’ve got a Frost Witch on your side, isn’t it?’
42
THE ANESIDORA
‘My beloved Charles is dead, my country lost. I go into exile
with a vow to return in a storm of vengeance.’
Henrietta Maria, Queen Consort of England
It was nine o’clock and dark by the time Titus returned to the warehouse. Drawing the magic circle had taken time and all his concentration, and the constant fear of discovery had reduced his nerves to tatters. But he had escaped unscathed with the circle complete – it was now up to Murrell to open the gate.
Lilith waited for him at the end of the jetty with a dark shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. ‘Is it done?’
‘Aye, although only time will tell if I got it right. I could hardly see by the end of it.’ He rubbed his hands down his face. ‘God’s bones, I’ve never felt so tired.’
London Bridge and the riverbanks blazed with torches. Cheerful voices and laughter drifted on the night-time breeze – the Pageant was in full swing as the time for the executions neared.
Titus and Lilith looked at the hulk moored opposite, with its hatches closed and hull stained black with pitch.
‘What if people see us?’
‘We have to try and stay out of sight,’ Titus said, ‘and hope that if we’re spotted people take us for members of the Order on official business.’
‘Very well. There’s a rope ladder astern that we can use to get on board,’ Lilith said, climbing into a rowboat tied against the jetty. ‘Come on, Witch Finder, we’d better get going. They’re due to set it aflame within the hour.’
Titus clambered down after her. ‘You have the hatchets?’
Lilith tapped a sack at her feet. ‘Two.’
‘And your magic? Is it waxing strong?’
‘The coldest of winter frosts is locked up in my heart,’ she said, unlooping the mooring line.
‘It had better be, because our lives and theirs depend on it.’
Putting aside all his aches and pains, Titus fitted the oars into the rowlocks and began to pull towards the hulk. It was a warm night and he was soon sweating into his shirt. Gulls circled overhead, calling to each other. Torchlight floated on the river like slicks of gold.
Allowing the tide to carry them downriver, Titus eased the boat behind the hulk and up to the dangling rope ladder. The stern rose over them like a timber cliff, completely blocking their view of London Bridge. Titus secured the boat, then followed Lilith up the ladder.
The hull beams near the waterline were rotten and covered in barnacles, but the rest had been slathered in tacky, stinking pitch. Titus noted the name of the ship carved in capital letters just below the gun hatches.
The Anesidora, he thought. A fine ship in your day, by the looks of it. Well, I hope to save you from a fiery end tonight.
Lilith leaned over the rail to help him up, and when he’d clambered on deck his heart was pounding and he could barely catch a breath. Refusing to let it show, he hurried down a short staircase on to the main deck, being careful to stay low.
There was a padlocked hatch near the mainmast; Titus crouched down and pressed his ear to the boards. He heard voices from below, some frightened, some consoling, and many crying piteously.
‘Leave the lock to me,’ he said to Lilith, taking a leather pouch from his pocket and laying it out in front of him. ‘You fire-proof this boat, and then we can cut her loose.’
‘Very well.’ Lilith straightened up, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her hair stiffened. White vapour cascaded from her skin and rolled over the deck in freezing waves. The air turned frigid as a midwinter night. ‘You’re staring, Witch Finder,’ she said, smiling with pale blue lips.
Breath already misting, Titus tore his eyes away and set about picking the lock.
43
THE GRAND PARADE
William, my new apprentice, is brighter that the normal intake.
I enjoy tutoring him in the ways of the Order.
Taken from Matthew Hopkin’s diary
For Hazel, the hours leading up to the Execution Pageant were a whirl of frenzied, exhausting activity. Along with an entourage of administrators and officials – all wound tight with nerves – she followed in the wake of the seemingly tireless Hopkins as he oversaw the finishing touches to the night’s grisly events.
The Witch Hunter General was in his element: a bu
ndle of controlled energy, his stocky frame bristling with intent, the whirr of his thoughts almost audible. He barked orders, sent messages, twice marched the route to the arena in the blazing midday sun, briefed staff in endless meetings, and inspected the guards’ uniforms – he did not stop once, not even to eat.
Yet Hazel still found time to brood, to worry about what lay before her, and to agonize about the danger she had led her friends into. Would Titus finish the magic circle? Would he rescue David and the other prisoners? Or would he be captured and executed alongside them? Would Bramley – clever, loyal Bramley – end up trapped with her in the Underworld? Held captive? Hurt? Killed?
And would she see her mother’s face again? Was her mother even still alive?
All these thoughts churned endlessly through Hazel’s mind until she was so anxious she could barely think straight. She’d checked a hundred times that the Necronomicon was safely stashed in the back of her trousers. All she could do now was wait . . . and hope.
As the day wore on, Hazel felt her spirit seep away like water through sand. Her only comfort was Bramley, curled up at the base of her neck and doing his best to hearten her with warm waves of magic.
At last, when Hazel was ready to collapse, the frenzy died down, the storm of activity abated. All orders had been relayed, all messages delivered. The hulk was prepared and in position for its immolation. The guests were arriving in the execution arena on Tower Hill, and even now Murrell was being loaded into the wagon that was to take him to his death.
Or possibly his escape, Hazel thought. But only if the circle is drawn. And if the spell works. And if, heaven forbid, the Order doesn’t gag him so he can’t speak.
Finding themselves alone for the first time that day, Hazel and Hopkins climbed the battlements and looked out over Tower Hill. Dusk was falling, but the hundreds of lanterns strung from poles over the milling crowds and market stalls cast a celebratory light over the whole place. The blunt, red-stained execution arena presided over it all like a bloody tooth.
‘Look at all those people,’ Hopkins said, waving his hand at the throng. ‘Turning out in their thousands for this spectacle of death. It doesn’t sit right with me.’
Hazel looked at him, surprised. ‘But don’t you believe Murrell deserves this fate?’
‘Of course I do, but not like this. Not in this ghoulish carnival.’
Hazel rubbed her temples, numb with fatigue and fretfulness. ‘So why does Cromwell order it done this way?’
‘For good reasons. Tonight, when those people feel the flames of the pyres on their faces they’ll be reminded what happens to the enemies of the Order, be they witches or those who harbour them.’ Hopkins sighed. ‘Cromwell understands that ordinary people need fear to make them shudderingly submissive. He’s right, but it saddens me that it has to be this way.’
He pulled his uniform straight and smiled at her. ‘Still, when the rebellion is crushed and our land is finally free of witch-filth we won’t have any more need of such demonstrations. And I’ll be able to retire to a quiet place with my memories and the knowledge of a job well done.’
Hazel hid her anger behind an expression of polite interest as Hopkins led her to the battlements overlooking the river. From there she saw Cromwell Island and the prison hulk moored against its floating pontoon. People lined the bridge and banks in cheerful expectation.
‘Ah, the crowds gather,’ Hopkins said. ‘And so does my grand parade.’
The embankment was packed with clerks, administrators, Witch Hunters and their apprentices, all looking excited about the coming event. The Grandees gathered in a separate group, all mounted on magnificent warhorses and wearing their best uniforms. Hazel spotted Stearne on his own, hunched morosely over the reins.
‘I bet he wants to be in charge of this whole thing,’ Bramley whispered. ‘He’s furious that Hopkins is going to get the credit from Cromwell.’
In the centre of the throng, surrounded by a cordon of immaculately attired soldiers, was the prison wagon – a heavy, four-wheeled cage drawn by two horses. Murrell was inside, filthy, pale, stripped to the waist, with his face hidden behind a curtain of black hair. He looked terrible, but Hazel was relieved to see him ungagged and on his feet.
‘We’d better go down,’ Hopkins said. ‘Remember, you follow the wagon during the parade, but come and stand next to me as soon as we enter the arena. I’ll give you the signal and all you need to do is walk up to the pyre and set it alight.’
‘Yes, General.’ Hazel’s voice shook as she contemplated the enormity of what she was about to do. ‘I’m ready.’
The air of excitement was thick, and a wave of dizziness overcame Hazel as she crossed the embankment and found her place among the other apprentices behind the wagon. Some looked at her curiously, others stepped away.
I’m the boy who was bewitched, she thought. No wonder they’re nervous.
The apprentices’ reaction gave her a boost of strength, and her fire-magic, which she’d repressed for so long, stirred deep inside. It felt good.
She glanced up at Murrell, who was nearly close enough to touch – but if he saw her he did not acknowledge it, and just stared at something far off in the distance.
I wonder where Thorn is? Hazel thought. Close by, I’m sure.
Everyone shuffled into ranks when they saw Hopkins mount his horse at the head of the column. He raised his hand, cried ‘Forward!’ and the procession began its march to the execution arena.
‘Here we go then, Hazel,’ Bramley said. ‘Once more into the frying pan.’
44
FIRE FROM THE SKY
The scold’s bridle – such a marvellous device!
A godsend, you might say.
Methods of Subjugation by Hollis Ertle
Titus blinked the sweat from his eyes and took a deep breath. His back ached from bending over, his shoulders were stiff and, worst of all, his hands were shaking so badly he could hardly fit the lock picks into the padlock. He felt clumsy, unable to feel the mechanism in the way he’d done in years gone by.
He glanced up at Cromwell Island and wondered if the archers were already on the roof, preparing their arrows, getting ready to shoot.
A wave of cold air chilled him as a barefoot Lilith drifted past whispering strange words under her breath.
Frost-magic.
Titus had expected ice, pale clouds, eddies of white snow, and feared such visible manifestations would give them away, but the magic Lilith wielded that night was barely visible.
Dark vapour poured from her skin, and on every board, mast and rope it touched there formed crystals shining darkly in the moonlight. Her every footfall left a black ice imprint which seeped into the deck and cracked the wood, leaving it freezing but not slippery to the touch.
The witch is doing her job. I have to do mine, Titus thought.
Pinching the picks between fingers and thumb, he inserted them back into the lock and began to probe. A twist and one of the tumblers inside snapped into position. One more and the lock would spring, freeing David and the witches from their prison.
A drop of sweat trickled down his nose as he tried to get a purchase on the second tumbler. His heart quickened as he felt a click, then the lock mechanism snapped back into place and sent the pick flying into the air.
‘God dammit!’
Lilith stole up behind him and rested her slender hands on his shoulders. ‘Calm yourself, Witch Finder,’ she said into his ear. ‘You can do this, just have a little faith.’
Frost-magic seeped over him, cooling his anger, smoothing his frustration. He gasped as the sweat on his face froze and then fell away in a cloud of ice vapour. In moments he felt stronger in body and sharper in mind – in fact he felt twenty years younger.
Amazed, he turned round, but Lilith was already gliding towards the bows, leaving a trail of ice behind her.
Titus pulled another pair of picks from the leather pouch and got back to work. Almost immediately he felt a satisfying
click, then another, and with a deft twist of his wrist the padlock sprang open.
‘Thank God,’ he muttered.
When he heaved the hatch open he was met with cries of fear, a wave of heat, and a stench so bad he was forced to cover his nose with the back of his hand.
‘It’s all right,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not a Witch Hunter, I’m here to rescue you.’
As his eyes adjusted he saw a mass of filthy upturned faces, all women, with their expressions slowly changing from terror to hope.
‘Pass down a ladder,’ one cried. ‘We must get out of here before it goes up in flames.’
‘We have sick people down here . . . Can they be helped too?’
‘Is this a trick? Who are you?’
‘Please, calm yourselves,’ Titus said, but the clamour of voices just got louder.
‘Ladies, for pity’s sake be quiet and let the man speak.’ A stout, middle-aged woman with a Scottish brogue forced her way through the press and peered up at Titus. ‘I think you’d better explain who you are, sir, and exactly what it is you intend to do.’
‘My name is Titus White, and I . . .’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’m working for the rebellion. Not directly, but I share their desire to disrupt the Order in any way possible.’
The clamour from the hulk quietened, and he heard his words being passed deeper into the ship from one captive to another.
‘I’m here with a Wielder, a Frost Witch who is also a friend to the rebellion,’ he continued. ‘We want to help every one of you, but we can’t get you off the hulk right now. You understand? We’re in the middle of London and we only have one rowboat.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ the Scottish witch asked.
‘We’re going to unmoor this hell-ship and let the tide pull it out of the city. You can come up on deck then, and when it runs aground you can disembark and lose yourselves in the countryside. I can’t guarantee success, but at the least it’s a chance of escape.’