by Dan Davis
‘Yeah, you two witches are coming with us,’ the first soldier said.
‘Witches?’ Weaver said, her lip curled in disgust.
Archer’s heart sank. The last thing they needed was to go all the way back to the Tower. Writer was in the complete opposite direction and they were running out of time to save her. And they were so close to Morningtree that he could smell it. ‘We can’t go back to the Tower,’ he said to them, staring them down. ‘We have important business to attend to.’
‘Oh, you do, do you, son? Get you.’ Both soldiers snickered. ‘You ain’t got no business but our business, sunshine. There’s orders from Hopkins out for your arrest. But no, you ain’t going back to the Tower, oh no. No, no, no. Deary me, no.’
‘Where, then?’ Archer said, fearing it would be as the city of Coalschester, which he knew from Pym was outside of the Vale to the south and Archer had no desire to ever go there. If that was the case then Archer would have to risk a fight. Holding his breath he reached one hand back slowly, slowly….
He glanced at Weaver and she met his eye. Immediately she started to lower her hand, ready to go for her knife…
‘We’re taking you to Hopkins,’ the first soldier said. ‘We’re taking you to Morningtree, sunshine.’
Weaver and Archer looked at each other. Archer let out the breath he’d been holding.
‘Fine with us,’ Weaver said. ‘Let’s go then, you idiots.’
A Watertight Argument
One after the other that day they came to give evidence against her. Friends of her family, neighbours, Guild members. Most people she was certain she had never met nor even heard of.
She listened while they attested to how she had cursed them and how bad things had then happened.
Lies, all of it. Lies, and twisted half-truths and after a few she stopped listening and glazed over, her need for sleep catching up with her and was half asleep when she realised someone was calling her name and she snapped out of it.
‘You are accorded the right to speak in your defence or have advocates do so for you,’ Magistrate Thurloe said to her. ‘For all the good it shall do you,’ he added, quietly, as if it was to himself but loud enough for her and those at the front of the hall to hear. She saw Hopkins give a tiny smirk. She was beyond anger into a blue rage. But what could she do with that fury? Writer gripped tight to the rail, her knuckles white.
You have nothing to say for yourself?’ Magistrate Thurloe was saying. ‘Very well-’
‘Hold on,’ she said, and then hesitated. She looked round at the faces staring at her. She looked at the magistrate. ‘I wasn’t listening. Do you mean I am able to myself call witnesses to speak for me?’
Magistrate Thurloe and Hopkins exchanged a look. ‘Who told you that you could do that?’ the magistrate asked.
‘I simply assumed that would be the case,’ Writer said, bridling that he would assume she needed to be told anything so obvious. ‘It seems to me it would be a logical counterbalance to the ability of the prosecution,’ she indicated Hopkins, ‘to call in people to tell lies about me.’
The magistrate looked amused. Hopkins, though, seemed furious, grinding his teeth loudly with a mad look in his eye. ‘Who in all the world would do such a thing?’ he growled.
‘My parents,’ she suggested.
‘Bring the father back in,’ Hopkins shouted across to the brutes. Eventually, her dear father was led up back through the hall. When he was standing at the dock, she felt proud to see how her father stood tall, glaring at everyone as if daring them to meet his eye. He was a respected man, in the Vale, and everyone in the hall other than the outsiders knew it. Her father’s voice was loud and clear but cracked with emotion when he confirmed to Hopkins his name and that he was indeed the father of the accused, Maerwynn of Straytford.
‘The law states that you may speak in your daughter’s defence,’ Hopkins said, his voice as smooth as oil.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘My daughter. Maerwynn. She was always such fun. Bright as sparkles on the river, she was. She was little more than a year old when she started counting. She loved counting the apples on the trees and at harvest time she’d count the buckets of pressed juice.’ Her father had a faraway look in his eyes and he smiled. ‘Wasn’t long before she was book keeping better than we were, sitting on a stack of folded blankets so she could see the top of the ledger on the table.’
He looked at her, his eyes wrinkled. ‘She always loved playing out by the river. You all know our orchards border the Sweetwater and that’s why our apples are the best in the Vale. We’d tend the trees while Maerwynn played under the blossom in spring and swam the river in summer.’ The smile fell from his face. ‘Then the Alchemist took her. I begged and pleaded at the base of the tower over the years. I even took a hammer and chisel to the walls but the Alchemist magicked me back to my house. Now we know that he used magic to keep her sleeping and ageless until he needed a new scribe and because of that we were old by the time she escaped. It was like when dusk falls so gradually into night that you do not notice how dark the room has grown until someone else enters and lights a lamp. Maerwynn returning has brought the light back into our lives again.’ He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.
‘Maerwynn learned to use magic. She was forced to write out the Alchemist’s spells every day so how could she not learn magic? When she escaped she took one of his books away with her. The very same book that you, Mr Hopkins, stole when your men broke into our home in the middle of the night and ransacked it.’
The audience began muttering all at once and Magistrate Thurloe banged the table before. ‘Silence! I will have silence in this court, do you hear me.’ The magistrate looked down on Writer’s father. ‘Keep your comments confined to your daughter’s actions or I shall have you removed.’
Her father looked unconcerned with the threat. ‘I only need to say that our Maerwynn was a kind, generous girl when she was taken from us and she was a kind, generous girl when she came back. She has committed no crime and she has never cursed anyone, nor performed any malicious spells. Of that I am certain. Upon my word of honour as a Guildsman.’
People in the crowd began to clap but the magistrate thumped his fist onto the table again. ‘Quiet!’ The clapping stopped. ‘That’s quite enough from you, sir. Take him, away.’
Her father was led away by the brutes, smiling at her as he went. Writer wiped her eyes.
The magistrate sighed, as if he was bored. ‘Anyone else you wish to speak for you?’
‘My mother.’
‘What a surprise,’ the magistrate said. ‘Get the mother up here.’
Her mother was brought to the dock. She looked old, her shoulders were narrow and rounded and she seemed shorter. ‘My husband said it well. I shall not say much more. Our Maerwynn is the most wonderful child anyone could hope for. Maerwynn is a strong, decent, wise young woman. She has never hurt anyone in her life, she has only helped others.’ She held her head high and faced the audience. When she spoke, her voice was filled with contempt. Rage, even. ‘I do not know what madness has possessed so many of you to tell such appalling lies about my daughter. But her family and her true friends shall never allow her to be harmed by you or anyone.’ She turned to Hopkins and seemed to grow twice as tall and her voice was full of power. ‘You have somehow lied and bribed your way into the Vale. But you and your followers are not welcome here. Whatever your self-serving scheme is, whatever your dark motives, you shall not succeed.’
‘Clerk of the court’ Hopkins said, sneering, ‘you will record the mother gave no evidence.’
Her mother was led away. ‘Do not worry, my dear,’ she said, ‘We love you.’ She wished more than anything she could give her mother a hug.
‘Silence,’ the magistrate said. ‘No speaking to the witch.’
Writer felt like shouting at him but she held her tongue.
‘You have no other family. Let us move on to the rest of our evidence,’ Hopkins said.
Writer looked round at the faces in the crowd hoping that one would speak up. Many would not even meet her eye but one man looked right at her.
An old man in a broad brimmed hat. There was a sprig of dried rosemary tucked into it.
He winked.
‘I shall speak for the girl,’ he said, in a powerful voice that rang out like a bell.
Hopkins frowned, squinting as he looked into the crowd sitting on the benches. ‘Very well,’ he said, impatiently. ‘Bring that man to the dock.’
He was an outsider. He had to be. She was certain she had never seen him before. The man was fairly short but broad-backed and he seemed to command the space around him. Unlike everyone else who sat or stood cheek by jowl, those around him had given him space. And for some reason the brutes did not lay their hands upon him as they had done the others, they simply indicated that he walk to the front. The short man inclined his head slightly, as if accepting the offer of a cup of wine rather than being summoned to speak. He strode directly to the dock and took his place, gripping the dock rail with large, bony hands. His face was darkly tanned and lined, weather-beaten, like a farmer. At his throat she caught a flash of a silver fish pendant hanging from a silver chain. And he was clearly very old, but not old and weak like most old people. He seemed strong under his long coat, standing with a straight back and upright bearing. It seemed to Writer that this was a man who could just as easily chop down a tree as he could converse with Guildmasters.
‘State your name and your relationship to the accused,’ Hopkins commanded.
The man in the dock looked at Hopkins but did not speak.
‘May I say,’ said Magistrate Thurloe, hesitantly, even respectfully. ‘It is customary for one to remove one’s hat when in a court of law, sir.’
‘This is not a court of law but a bear baiting.’ Said the strange man. ‘And you are no true magistrate, Thurloe.’
Magistrate Thurloe looked shocked. ‘I assure you that I am indeed a magistrate, appointed by Cromwell himself and ratified by the Parliament of England. Why would you say such a thing? What are you up to?’
‘How dare you,’ Hopkins cried, slamming his fist on the desk. ‘How dare you question your betters. Bailiffs. Stearne. Seize that man.’ He pointed at him, his finger quivering from anger.
‘No,’ the man held up one hand to the brutes and they stopped, looking confused. Stearne seemed frozen mid-step. ‘No need to seize me,’ the man said. ‘I’ll play along for now.’ He performed a slight bow, and pulled off his hat.
The magistrate hesitated, frowning at the outsider. ‘Very well,’ he said, slowly. He waved Stearne and the brutes back and glanced at Hopkins. ‘Cary on.’
‘Now, state your name,’ Hopkins said, irritated and glancing at Thurloe.
‘Cedd,’ the man said, his voice clear as a spring morning. ‘My name is Cedd. Spelt, C-E-D-D but pronounced Sed.’
‘Fascinating,’ Hopkins murmured. ‘And your relationship to the witch?’
‘None,’ Cedd said, shrugging. ‘And she is no witch, we all know that.’
Hopkins looked angry. ‘If you do not know the witch,’ he said. ‘How can you possibly speak in defence of the charges brought against her?’
‘This is indeed most irregular, Cedd,’ the magistrate said. ‘Are you certain you would not rather just have a nice sit down?’
‘Allow me to explain,’ Cedd said, addressing not Hopkins nor the magistrate but the crowd in the hall. ‘As far back as the Greece of Homer there have been women of power on the edge of our communities.’ Writer saw Hopkins and the magistrate exchange a look. Everyone looked confused. Cedd seemed unconcerned and spoke on, confidently. ‘Witches represent the wild, the chaotic, the uncontrollable. And the Alchemists’ Guild stands for order, for the search for knowledge and most of all for control.’
‘This has no bearing on the case in hand,’ Hopkins spat, his face twisted in anger. ‘If you have no knowledge of the accused then I must insist you step down and -’
‘It most certainly does have bearing on this case,’ Cedd replied, utterly confident. Hopkins stopped speaking, quivering as if he was frozen in place.
Cedd looked at Writer. In his eyes she saw confidence, hardness but also compassion and she instantly felt better.
‘This girl was most cruelly lured to the Alchemist Bede’s Tower against her will and forced to work for Bede writing for hours on end. I imagine her hands cramped and her back sore from sitting hunched on a stool, eyes aching from staring at parchment in lamplight. Maerwynn somehow contrived to escape in that incredible flying contraption that everyone in the Vale saw. A great floating thing called a balloon, lofted skywards by the hot air from a dragon’s fiery breath.’ Cedd chuckled, a deep, low sound. ‘She defeated him and so you all became free. You have not been forced to bring him almost all of your produce and your lives have all been improved beyond measure. You have gluts of grain and beer and fruits and wine and you have grown fat and happy. All this because of this girl before us and you should all be falling to your knees and thanking her. And yet she stands here condemned by these charlatans with you lining up to condemn her because you are jealous of her power or wish to air your petty grievances against her parents. You should be ashamed. Maerwynn of Straytford is a hero. And this trial is a farce.’
There was silence.
Writer’s heart was racing. Her face felt flushed. She tore her gaze from Cedd to look at the people in the hall. Some were smiling and many were looking at the floor, as if they were truly ashamed.
‘And I must insist that you let this girl go,’ Cedd spoke to the magistrate with a particular tone and rhythm that projected enormous moral certainty. ‘You must find her innocent of all charges. She is clearly innocent; any man in his right mind can see that. You will find her innocent.’
‘Yes,’ said the magistrate, drawing out the word while staring in Cedd’s direction but with a far-away look in his eyes. ‘Innocent. You are correct, Cedd, of course.’ The magistrate was nodding.
‘What is this?’ Hopkins said and marched forward to stand right before Cedd, on the other side of the witness dock. ‘You… you are an alchemist. I shall have you taken to the Tower of London to be shut away with your twisted brethren.’
‘You shall not,’ Cedd stated, staring into Hopkins’ eyes.
The brutes stood to one side, looking confused. Stearne was grinning from ear to ear, staring at Hopkins with glee.
‘You must release her,’ Cedd insisted, glancing at the magistrate.
‘You must find her guilty,’ Hopkins countered. ‘Thurloe. I mean, my lord magistrate, you know your responsibilities here. You know your task.’
The magistrate’s face was purple and his eyes were wide as saucers. Writer wondered if he was going to explode.
‘Magistrate,’ Stearne suddenly shouted. ‘In a case so deadlocked as this one the standard motion is to move to trial by water.’
The magistrate released a huge breath. ‘It is?’ he asked, looking relieved.
‘Yes,’ Hopkins said, his face filled with triumph. ‘We move to a trial by water. That will resolve the case once and for all.’ He smirked at Cedd, and glanced quickly at Writer and stepped away, shaking and sweating.
The stranger, Cedd, looked at Writer. ‘I am sorry, Maerwynn,’ he said. ‘I tried to save you.’
‘Bailiffs, seize this alchemist.’ He pointed at Cedd, who sighed and allowed himself to be grasped roughly on either side by two of the brutes.
Writer did not understand what was happening. ‘What is a trial by water?’ she asked.
Magistrate Thurloe raised his voice over the noise in the Guildhall and climbed to his feet. ‘We shall reconvene immediately at the Morningtree Pond where shall be conducted a trial by water. The accused will be bound to a ducking chair and lowered into the pond. Water is the element of purity and will reject those tainted by the filth of witchcraft so if she floats it will be proven that she is guilty and she will be hanged. Please follow th
e bailiffs to the pond if you wish to bear witness.’
Her parents were shouting at the rear of the hall, trying to force their way toward her. Two of the brutes moved to stop them and anyone else from helping her.
You are mad,’ cried Writer. ‘You are all mad. If I float I am guilty and hanged?’ She backed further away but behind her there was Stearne. ‘But if I sink I shall be proven innocent but I will drown.’
‘Silence,’ roared Hopkins from across the Hall, his voice loud as thunder. ‘Seize the witch.’
Smashing Ralf and Radish
‘So, this is Morningtree,’ Weaver said. ‘Stinks, don’t it.’
The soldiers had marched them along Sweetwater Street which followed the river all the way to the town. It was the biggest town in the Vale, even bigger than Bures. The river grew wide and slow as it flowed into the town. On the outskirts, to either side of the river were brackish ponds rimmed with reeds and stands of willow. There was row upon row of salt pans beside the road being worked with long rakes in those muddy beds where the water had dissipated leaving only the valuable sea salt which was, per ounce, the most valuable commodity in all the Vale. The dark mud exposed by the low tide did indeed smell very strongly of decay and green algae and pond weed. Adding to that stench was the smoke from the hundreds of houses and the refuse produced by thousands of people living all clustered at the mouth of the Sweetwater.
‘It stinks so bad I think I might be sick on your boots, Ralf,’ Weaver said, grinning at the soldier who was marching her along.
‘Shut your trap,’ the soldier called Ralf said and shoved her on the shoulder with the butt of his musket.
‘Stop winding them up,’ Archer hissed at her. ‘Be patient.’
She glared back at him. He knew that she was telling him it was time to attack the soldiers who had marched them from Straytford. He knew she was right but there were lots of people around and he worried about people getting hurt. Archer wanted to get away unnoticed. Only, he did not know how.