Dark Water Breaking (Gunpowder & Alchemy Book 2)

by Dan Davis

  ‘Calm down,’ Archer shouted and pushed her back away from him.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she shouted, and raised her fists. ‘I’ll knock your block off.

  Archer took a deep breath. He shook more earth from of his hair. ‘Just because you were angry,’ he said, controlling his voice. ‘Just because a bunch of soldiers are stealing what isn’t even yours to begin -’ he stopped. They looked at each other.

  Turning together they looked back at the Tower.

  The soldiers were pointing across the field in their direction. The ones in the field nearest to them were dropping their tools and grabbing their muskets.

  And two soldiers were already charging right towards them across the field. They were clutching their muskets to their chest. They looked angry.

  ‘I think maybe we should run away now,’ Archer said.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Weaver.

  They ran.

  The Witch’s Trial

  They came for her later that day.

  ‘Right, time for your trial, witch,’ Stearne said as he unlocked her door.

  She was shocked. ‘No,’ Writer said. ‘There was supposed to be two days yet before the trial.’ She needed more time to learn to control the water.

  ‘But you confessed,’ Stearne said, grinning. ‘Why would we wait?’

  ‘I confessed to nothing,’ she said.

  ‘You confessed if I say you confessed,’ Stearne said. ‘Come on, let’s be having you.’ He held out his brass hand.

  She had not yet learned to control her power. She had not remembered any spells. She needed more time. ‘I’m not ready,’ Writer said.

  Stearne laughed a bitter laugh. ‘They never are.’ He grabbed her upper arm with his real hand. ‘Come on with you.’

  She shook him off. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, stepping forward.

  ‘After you, your majesty,’ he said.

  Big Ned and two other nameless brutes stood in the corridor; they surrounded her and led her into the Guildhall.

  The last time she had been in there it had been a scene of disorder. At her hearing the people had been milling about, confused. This time it was perfect order. Most of the long space was filled with people sitting on two rows of benches all facing the front of the room. At the top table there was a man sitting at the place reserved for the Guildmaster. He was wearing a black robe and a long, curling white wig. He looked quite ridiculous and yet he gazed down at her as if he owned the place.

  The foremost benches had tables in front of them, both covered with papers. There was a man seated on one of them. He looked very grave indeed but he smiled very slightly as he and Writer made eye contact. It was nothing more than a tiny twitch at one corner of his mouth but it seemed to convey amusement, contempt and triumph.

  Between the front benches and the top table there was a clear space.

  ‘Get into the dock, witch,’ Stearne said to her and pushed her against a wooden rail that had been fixed into the floor on her side of the hall. There was another dock on the other side of the clear space. She gripped the rail before her and looked at the people sitting on the benches; people from Morningtree, her neighbours from Straytford.

  Her parents. Her mother and father stood toward the rear of the hall, each with an arm round the other and both waving and looking very upset indeed. She tried to smile reassuringly at them but the truth was that she was afraid.

  The man in the white wig at the high table cleared his throat. ‘The accused is now present to hear the charges against her and the evidence in support of those charges,’ he said, before turning to Writer. ‘My name is Thurloe and I am to be the magistrate in this case. You may call me my lord. Are you Maerwynn of Straytford?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘You must speak, if you are able to,’ Magistrate Thurloe said. ‘I shall ask you again. Are you Maerwynn of Straytford?’

  ‘Yes,’ Writer said.

  ‘And do you understand that the charges laid against you are that you consorted with an alchemist and that you have practised malicious witchcraft?’

  ‘I most certainly have not practised witchcraft and what is more-’ she started but was cut off by the man’s loud voice.

  ‘Silence,’ Magistrate Thurloe said, banging the desk with his hand. ‘I did not ask you to argue your innocence. That is what this court will decide. I merely asked if you understand the crimes that you have been charged with. So answer my question.’

  Writer hesitated. ‘No, I do not understand any of this.’

  Magistrate Thurloe looked angry. ‘Clerk of the court,’ he said to one of the witch prickers who was sitting below the high table scribbling with a quill. ‘You will record her answer as an affirmation.’

  Writer was shocked. She knew that meant the woman would write that she had said yes to that question instead of her actual answer. A few people in the audience grumbled and mumbled.

  ‘Silence in this court,’ Magistrate Thurloe said, as if he was bored. ‘Mr Hopkins, you may begin presenting evidence to support the charges that you have brought against the accused.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ Hopkins said and stood up and stepped out from behind his table. The evidence against Maerwynn is so overwhelming that truly I know not where to begin.’ Hopkins voice was clear and loud but he had no need to shout. ‘But Maerwynn was a victim.’ The crowd mumbled in surprise. ‘For she was most cruelly taken into captivity against her will by the Alchemist Bede. No sane man could deny this fact.’ People on the benches nodded. ‘We know the Alchemist Bede did take many children from these good folk of the Vale over many years, indeed, many hundreds of years.’

  ‘Tragically, while she was under his power, she also fell under his spell. We have seen time and time again. Good, hard-working, ordinary folk turned to the side of evil through the power of Alchemy.’

  The crowd muttered and looked shocked.

  ‘What is more, she is a Royalist. She is a traitor to England. To the Vale. She is a committed follower of King Charles and carried out malicious acts against the Parliament of the commonwealth of England. You see, my friends, when she was a prisoner in that vile tower she worked for Bede in copying out his seditious material, which Bede did then spread far and wide across England. Likewise she copied dozens of secret tracts and forbidden works which were then distributed amongst the King’s alchemists and the powers thus learned were employed on battlefields against the Parliament’s loyal soldiers.’

  Hopkins paused, looking confused. He must have seen that his words were confusing the audience. Writer knew then that Hopkins had underestimated quite how cut-off the Vale was from the outside world. Most of the Vale folk had no idea what England or King Charles was.

  ‘But my lord, it makes me very sad indeed to tell you and the court here today that this young woman is most certainly a devious and evil witch. Yes, yes, it is very hard to believe and yet many of us here today have witnessed her witchcraft. As evidence I shall call to this court witnesses who will attest to her repeated malicious acts. These witnesses are simply decent folk who have suffered at the hands of this witch. From these witnesses you shall hear how, immediately on being freed by the Alchemist Bede she cursed all of her neighbour’s pear trees so that they had no fruit this year, causing these good neighbours to go hungry and to go out of business and be forced to rely on the charity of others. You shall hear how this witch cursed a woman and then her cat was never seen again. Another neighbour has been unable to conceive a child since Maerwynn laid her hands of corruption upon her when they were very young children.’

  ‘Lies!’ a voice bellowed from the back of the hall. It was her father. He was standing tall and pointing at Hopkins. ‘Lies, you tell lies about our good and kind girl.’

  ‘Silence in this court,’ the magistrate cried, pointing back at Writer’s father. ‘Bailiffs, remove that man from my court.’

  The brutes were already moving toward him but he did not stop shouting. ‘I shall not be silenced. You have no authority here.
Who are you men? You can’t do this to our daughter. She has only just returned to us after so many years. She has done nothing wrong, nothing.’ As the two brutes surround her father, his cries were cut off, suddenly. Her father was not short and yet they towered over him like an adult over a child. They carried him out back of the Guildhall, her mother followed behind.

  ‘I shall have no more shouting in this court,’ the magistrate said. ‘This is not a bawdy-house or your local tavern where you may lark about and carry-on and do as you please. This is a court of law and I will have you behave like decent folk or I shall have you all removed.’

  The muttering died down to grumbles and the magistrate gestured for Hopkins to continue.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ Hopkins said. ‘In summary, let me say simply that it is certain that Maerwynn of Straytford is a loyal alchemist and a witch and she is therefore an infectious boil on this good community. And we shall have to lance her like a boil; we must drain away her corruption before she infects any more of us.’

  Writer could not believe what she was hearing. Nor, it seemed, could many in the crowd. They were muttering and a few looked as shocked as she herself felt.

  ‘Now, I shall now call the first witness.’ Hopkins nodded at one of his brutes at the rear of the hall. ‘Bring in the next door neighbour.’

  Every head turned to the door at the rear of the hall.

  It was Matilda from next door. Matilda was led to the front of the hall to the other dock opposite to Writer’s one. The middle aged lady they brought in had been one of Writer’s friends from before Writer had been taken by the Alchemist. But ever since Writer had returned Matilda had been acting strangely. Writer had put it down to the strangeness of the situation, or perhaps Matilda simply had not remembered the happy childhood that Writer remembered. They said people got forgetful when they got old and the little girl that she had grown up with had indeed gotten old.

  ‘State your name and occupation,’ Hopkins said.

  ‘Matilda of Straytford,’ she said. ‘I own the second biggest pear orchard in Straytford. That keeps me pretty occupied.’

  ‘And would you please tell us,’ Hopkins gestured to the whole room. ‘What this witch did to you?’

  ‘She cursed my crop.’ The crowd mumbled. ‘The day the Alchemist released her there was a great storm over the Vale. My pear crop was battered by the wind and the rain.’ Writer saw many of the crowd nodding and scowling. ‘Soon after the storm she came to see me and she cursed me, cursed me to my face. And then my remaining pears caught the blight. And the trees were infected with some form of corruption I have never seen before.’ She looked furious.

  ‘And was this the first time she cursed you?’ Hopkins asked, as if he was gravely concerned.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘When else did she curse you, good woman?’ Hopkins said.

  ‘When we were children,’ she said.

  ‘When you were both children together?’ Hopkins asked, pretending confusion. ‘And yet how could that be when she is but a child and you, if I may say, are of a much greater age?’

  ‘We were born in the same year.’

  ‘And yet through the use of unnatural Alchemist magic and potions,’ Hopkins said to the hall at large. ‘Maerwynn has not aged. But you and Maerwynn were childhood friends, correct?’ Hopkins said. ‘Good friends, close friends?’

  Matilda nodded, tears forming in her eyes. ‘We were.’

  Hopkins nodded. ‘Until she cursed you.’

  ‘She cursed me to be barren,’ Matilda said, scowling at Writer. ‘One day we were playing by the river and then for no reason she cursed me and said that she would see to it that I would never have children.’

  ‘You liar,’ Writer cried, for she could hold her tongue no longer. ‘I said no such thing.’

  ‘Please,’ Matilda cried, raising her arms over her face. ‘Let her not curse me again.’

  ‘Silence, witch!’ Hopkins cried, pointing at her.

  Writer turned to the magistrate. ‘I remember that day. She stole my ragdoll and wouldn’t give it back.’

  ‘You are not to speak,’ the magistrate shouted down at her and slapped the table.

  ‘All I said was you would make a terrible mother,’ Writer said to the woman.

  ‘If you utter another word I shall have you gagged,’ Magistrate Thurloe yelled.

  Writer shut her mouth.

  ‘Now,’ Hopkins said to Matilda who was crouched in the dock with her arms over her head. ‘Stand up, woman.’

  Matilda just whimpered and sobbed. Writer remembered now that Matilda had never been very nice or very clever even when they had been friends.

  Magistrate Thurloe sighed and addressed Hopkins. ‘Would you like to call in the next of your witnesses?’ he gestured at Matilda, still cowering. ‘You seem to have broken this one.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Magistrate,’ Hopkins said, before raising his voice and addressing a brute at the rear of the hall. ‘Bring in the next witness.’

  Cut the Air with a Knife

  ‘I can’t,’ Weaver said between breaths. ‘Run... more.’ She slowed to a stop and bent over, hands on her knees. She was shaking and her breath steamed all around her in a cloud. They had not stopped running down Sweetwater Street since they had run away from the soldiers at the Tower

  Archer stopped beside her and looked back over his shoulder down the road. ‘They’ve given up, anyway,’ Archer said, taking even, slow breaths. Weaver made a gagging sound and he saw that she was dry-heaving. ‘Are you really that tired out? We’ve only been running for a few miles.’ In truth, his legs were like water and his head was swimming but he didn’t want Weaver to know that. ‘I’m not even out of breath.’ He patted her on the back.

  ‘I hate you,’ Weaver said and tried to shove him away. But he jumped back and she fell down onto the road. She lay there, face down on the icy gravel, breathing heavily.

  Archer looked back down the street, over the hedgerows to the Tower. No soldiers. He had not seen them behind for some time. The Alchemist’s Tower was far away now.

  ‘We’re near to Straytford,’ Archer said. ‘That’s halfway to Morningtree. And it’s where Writer’s house is, remember? We should go see if her parents are there or anything. While we’re passing.

  It was cold now he’d stopped running and he wrapped his cloak round his shoulders and adjusted the bow on his back and his packs.

  ‘Come on, Weaver, suck it up,’ Archer said, trying to not show how much the stitch in his side was hurting him. ‘They might still be after us.’

  Weaver was lying face down still. Her breathing was slowing but she didn’t move. ‘Shut up,’ she said, her voice muffled.

  Archer sighed and walked a little further back down the street. A blackbird fluttered and chirped in the hedge next to him. The two soldiers had chased him and Weaver for longer than he would have believed possible. Most adults couldn’t run that long. Most adults were slow and got tired right away but every time he’d thought they’d lost them, he’d turned round and seen them round a bend in the street, puffing their way onward with their muskets and steel helmets.

  This time, though, there was no pursuit. He listened on the wind.

  ‘Get up, Weaver,’ Archer said. ‘We’re near to Writer’s house.’

  ‘She’s,’ Weaver said. ‘Not there. Is she.’

  ‘No but her parents could be. Or there could be something there we could use.’

  Weaver grumbled but he helped her to her feet. ‘How can you not be tired?’

  ‘I am tired,’ Archer said, smiling. ‘Tired of your moaning.’

  His legs were wobbly but they felt better after they had walked the short distance to Writer’s house by the river. Straytford was a small village but the houses were big and posh and Writer’s house was the poshest of them all. The walls and timbers were painted shades of eggshell blue and black and white

  It was quiet and peaceful as they walked up the wide pathway through the
garden and it looked like the front door was open. But when they got there Archer saw the door was hanging on its hinges and the frame was splintered.

  ‘It’s been smashed in,’ Writer said.

  ‘Yes,’ Archer said, the cold wind gripping his heart.

  Inside the fancy house was a mess too. The huge kitchen table was knocked over and there were pages torn from books strewn all over the place, fluttering in the breeze from the open door. The hearth was long cold. Wind blew brown leaves through the empty rooms.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Weaver, as they stood in the big living room looking at the mess. ‘That’s that then. Be nice to get some hot food like a bit of salty porridge and a fresh crusty roll. Let’s get to Morningtree.’

  ‘Ha-ha!’ A loud voice behind them made Archer jump from his skin. ‘Here you are, you young scallywags.’

  Archer and Weaver spun round.

  Two soldiers in the doorway, their muskets pointing at them.

  It was the two who had chased them along Sweetwater Street. They were both sweating under their helmets and breathing heavily under the thick red coats. One tall and gnarly, the other stocky.

  Archer slowly reached back over his shoulder for his bow and he saw Weaver whip out her knife.

  The soldiers shouted at them.

  ‘Don’t even try it. We’ll shoot you dead, I promise you.’ They both pulled the hammers back on their muskets and stepped forward half a step. ‘Put your hands over your heads.’

  Archer slowly did as he was told. He nodded at Weaver and she scowled and shoved her little knife back in her belt and stuck her hands into the air.

  ‘You pair led us on a merry dance, didn’t you?’ the first soldier said, his big face ruddy and gleaming from the chase.

  ‘Which one of you witches done that thing where you made the ground blow up like that?’ the second said.

  Weaver and Archer said nothing.

  ‘Fine, don’t tell us,’ the second said, smirking. ‘We know some people who’ll get the truth out of you one way or another.’