To Snare A Witch

by Jay Raven

  Cruttendon had to live. He was vital to her plan. So, reluctantly, she’d merely jabbed his arm, taking only a thimbleful of blood.

  Staring down now at the boiling brew in the huge copper, she recalled how much discipline and self-denial that act of restraint had demanded. Well, now it was time to put it to its purpose.

  The snowy seed plopped into the vat, lying stubbornly on the surface before slowly melting, a series of multi-coloured sparks emanating from its core. The blood followed – one drip at a time. Each drop brought forth a fierce hiss.

  Elizabeth breathed in, nerves tingling as the cauldron rocked and bucked, the metal brackets chinking and rattling fiercely. She whispered another section of the incantation, and reached to her neck, for the last crucial component in her sinister distillation. Hands shaking, she snapped open the locket. The tuft of thick black hair was precious to her, maybe all she’d have to remember her love by. It worried her to use it like this. However she knew the spell wouldn’t function without it.

  The tightly curled lock tumbled downwards, light as a summer’s breeze, tipping over and over – and landed with a thunderclap loud enough to awaken the Devil himself.

  She stepped back, unsure what would happen next, and watched in rapt fascination as deep in the pot the mixture began to swirl and change hue, turning a sickly verdant green. Large bubbles rose to the surface and drifted into the air, each making a pained sigh as it gained its freedom. Faster and faster the goo spun, green becoming purple, then magenta and midnight blue.

  The cooking vessel banged madly from side to side, trying to leap free of its trestle, as though possessed by an enraged demon.

  Elizabeth wanted to run, but dared not. She had to see the ritual through to its terrifying conclusion.

  The words to the charm’s last line were barely a mumble. She fought to stop her lips quivering, concentrating on making each syllable audible and filled with meaning.

  A bellow – an animal cry of pain and fear – issued from the very heart of the cursed broth, and two shapes rose up; strange, molten, half-formed heads. Like some nightmare birth, they emerged slowly, inch by tortuous inch, until they projected a foot or so above the maelstrom, each head twisting and contorting, struggling to find form.

  At first their faces were blank, eerie death masks, nothing save the most rudimentary cheeks and noses apparent, but gradually the transforming matter began to coalesce – features materialising from the wet, hexed clay. Hair sprouted, shooting outwards in seconds, each skull growing dancing tendrils, writhing like snakes.

  And below the animated, mesmerising tresses, the eyes – the accusing blighted eyes – opened with a snap, staring straight at her.

  It took all her self control not to scream.

  The hell-forged doppelgangers fought to speak, mouths cracking, lips crumbling with the exertion. Elizabeth didn’t give them the opportunity. Moving as fast as she’d ever done in her life, she threw in the handful of powder, the crushed, dried, mandrake hitting each like hailstones.

  The phantom faces recoiled, roaring in silence, trying in vain to turn away from the stinging onslaught. And, as she gazed, and whispered and willed, the faces stretched, and began transforming… distorting… merging.

  His fingers shook so much he could barely hold the quill. The feather trembled, scratching against the paper, leaving a trail of irregular smudgy streaks across the bottom of the freshly prepared parchment.

  Gritting his teeth, Jack tried again, ignoring the inner voices that urged him not to surrender, warning that his life was as good as over the moment he signed. He must resist, they implored, he must find some last hidden ounce of defiance. Cruttendon could torment and taunt him, starve him, drive him towards the edge of madness, humiliate and defile his wife, but while the confession lacked his personal inscription, there was hope – a thin, desperate glimmer of hope.

  “Get on with it,” the Earl snapped. “There’s no point trying to stall any further. We both know that you can’t permit your lady love to endure another night as my plaything.”

  Jack’s shoulders sagged. Yes, his captor was right, the goading image was too hard to endure, silencing the last remnants of rebelliousness in his heart. He had to comply – he couldn’t allow Elizabeth to be sullied another moment. That was what love was all about, wasn’t it? Sacrificing yourself for another? Laying down your life for the one you adored?

  The signature was barely legible. A mere scrawl in blotchy black ink. Jack regarded it with a detached fascination, as though it had been penned by the hand of another. Two words to seal his fate. He had activated his own death warrant – and he hadn’t even bothered to read it; he was unaware of exactly what lies, what imagined crimes, he had just admitted to.

  “There, that wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” Cruttendon held up the paper to the light and grunted in satisfaction. “You must be feeling so much better. They say confession is good for the soul.”

  “It is not my soul that you should worry about,” Jack replied, nostrils flaring. “I will meet my maker with a clear conscience. You, My Twisted Lord, will face an eternity in blazing torment for all your deceit, perversions and cruelty.”

  “Perhaps,” Sir Henry conceded softly. “But you will be a long time dead before I face that prospect.”

  He snapped his fingers, and Matthew Stiles emerged from the corner of the cellblock where he had been lurking, anxiety clear in his drained face.

  “Take this to your master and tell him to make the arrangements. I want this wretch to hang by tomorrow noon at the latest,” the noble instructed.

  The assistant inquisitor bit his lip. “I hear you, Sir Henry, but these things take time. There are details, legal procedures, customs and rituals that must be observed,” he pointed out. “The town magistrate needs to ensure all the legal formalities have been correctly followed before he can authorise an execution.”

  Cruttendon’s head was turned away from him, but Jack didn’t need to witness the noble’s blazing glare to sense its malign power. He could observe its effects on Matthew Stiles’ terrified face.

  “By tomorrow noon,” Cruttendon repeated, frostily, “or it will be three hangings, not just one. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, My Lord. By noon. Certainly. As you command. I shall take care of it at once. The matter shall be expedited with all haste.”

  The former actor made his exit so quickly, knees knocking, that it seemed certain he would trip and fall on his face.

  “Your pet poodle is well trained,” Jack observed with scorn.

  “Indeed,” Cruttendon agreed, “but I prefer to think of him and his companion as sheep dogs rather than poodles. Keeping all the bleating, lost lambs in line.”

  Despite feeling a wave of fresh disgust, Jack said nothing. Exchanging insults with the nobleman was pointless. The man was immune to shame, or pangs of conscience, impossible to embarrass. And what good were threats?

  The Earl smiled at Jack, a triumphant grin that made his skin crawl. “I must leave you alone with your thoughts now, Captain Tyler. I am sure they won’t be pleasant.” Sir Henry exhaled deeply. “Of course, your confession hasn’t changed anything with regards to your dear wife’s fate.”

  “What!” Jack couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Tomorrow morning I shall tell the beautiful Elizabeth of your ignoble capitulation, just before whisking her off to witness you being hanged. She shall have a front row seat and stare into your eyes as you turn and twist at the end of the rope.”

  He made a lewd gesture. “Tonight, however, she shall remain ignorant of your confession and will entertain me in ways that even the most depraved hussy on earth would find terrifying and repulsive. I intend my last night of erotic delights with her to be truly memorable, the stuff of legend.”

  Rage surging, Jack flung himself forward. The chains pulled him back, biting into his wrists and feet as he fought to rip their anchoring bolts from the wall. “I’m going to murder you with my bare hand
s. I’m going to rip out your eyes and make you eat them, you sick, putrid, shit-monger,” he roared, struggling back to his feet a second and third time.

  Cruttendon stood his ground, shaking his head in pity. “You are upset, that is understandable. But I suggest you spare yourself any further pain, Captain. You will never lay a finger on me. Even if the chains break, the cell bars are solid iron. You are caged, impotent, powerless – so be calm, resign yourself. Face your destiny with dignity. Whatever happens to your bride tonight, be consoled that you did all you could to prevent it.”

  With that, Cruttendon turned and walked three steps. Then, abruptly, he began yelping and stumbling, hands going up to his head.

  In the cell, Jack’s actions mirrored those of the startled Earl, gasping in pain as a white, blinding stab of agony exploded behind his eyes

  Rock a bye baby on the tree top

  When the wind blows the cradle will rock

  The four of them stood in silence, staring at the solid oak long after the jeering crowd had grown bored and drifted away from the drizzle-swept heath-land. Elizabeth gripped the nobleman’s arm tightly, unable to let go and unwilling to take her eyes off the dangling corpse swinging back and forth in the chill winds blowing from the North.

  Jack Tyler’s body hung limply, bruised neck an angry red, eyes bulging, tongue loose and blackened, all signs of life extinguished. He’d been hanged naked, and now in death the white, sallow remains seemed slight and brittle. She couldn’t reconcile the pale broken form held firm by the noose with the virile, strong, energetic man she’d loved.

  The execution had been rushed, awkward, ugly and brutal. The condemned man had screamed and struggled, his pleas, threats and entreaties falling on unsympathetic ears – none caring about the madness spouting forth, none believing the lunatic words he screeched. He was obviously on the edge of insanity.

  There hadn’t been time to build a gallows, she’d been told, so the strongest, most sturdy tree had been pressed into service, its branches solid and conveniently low. It had provided an excellent view for the many hundreds who had come to watch the shocking spectacle, rushing over when they heard the news. They’d arrived clutching hunks of cheese, pitchers of ale, and wide-eyed children, and hurriedly camped around the trunk, cheering as the masked hangman arrived to perform his grisly duties.

  And Elizabeth had wept, and hated them, more than she had ever done before.

  “I had no idea he would take so long to die,” she muttered, even now still sickened by the dying man’s frenzied thrashing.

  “I’m told it happens that way sometimes,” her companion replied, patting the back of her hand solicitously with his ermine glove. “When they are spirited. He had more fight in him than I realised.”

  “You promised me he wouldn’t suffer unnecessarily.”

  “I promised you that I would do nothing to make his suffering any greater than necessary,” he corrected. “He brought it upon himself, struggling like that, refusing to give in.”

  She shuddered, remembering how Jack’s powerful legs had kicked madly, the choking, strangled screams more animal than human. “No one deserves to end their life like that,” she said accusingly.

  “No,” the old man agreed. “I don’t suppose they do.”

  She was aware of two dark shapes approaching from the side. The inquisitors appeared nauseous, as though ready to vomit at any second. It was bitterly ironic, she mused, that the two men who’d brought so much anguish and despair to the land should have such weak constitutions when it came to witnessing at close quarters the deadly effects of their handiwork.

  Stiles held his hand over his mouth, breathing in deeply. Thomas Gaunt was equally as uncomfortable, but she sensed something else in his pale, pinched visage – puzzlement, and abhorrence. He couldn’t believe she was with Sir Henry, holding his arm, while her husband’s carcass swung suspended in the buffeting gusts.

  Let him glare at her with contempt, she thought. He knew nothing about her life, the choices she had to make. He considered her betrayal unfathomable, unforgiveable. Well, that antipathy was paradoxical, she reckoned, incongruous coming from a man who brought death to others through deceit and subterfuge, whose whole life was a lie.

  Who was worse, she wondered, the parasitical actor or the treacherous widow? Who more deserved the wrath of the Gods? Whose soul was most stained and corroded?

  “Shall I arrange to have the body cut down, My Lord?” Gaunt asked.

  “No, leave it be,” Cruttendon’s voice was muted, lacking a lot of his normal bluster. “Let the crows have their feast. It will act as a warning to others.”

  “To abandon the ways of the Devil?” Matthew Stiles enquired.

  “To think twice before making an enemy of me.”

  Elizabeth shivered, wondering darkly what the future held for her and this feared, reviled man with all his riches.

  The noble sniffed loudly, and gestured the witch-finders to leave, telling them: “Come to the manor this evening. I’m sure we will have much to celebrate then. Mistress Tyler – or should that be Miss Fiennes? – and I have many matters to discuss in the meantime.” He smiled at them, putting his arm around her. “Not least deciding upon the date of our marriage…”

  As the two men blinked in surprise, Elizabeth felt a burning flash in Gaunt’s glare and knew that his disgust and loathing for her had just intensified a hundred times over.

  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green

  When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen

  Even as the twisting pain overwhelmed him, Jack had been aware of another sensation, a chilling, alien numbness creeping through his body. He had been unable to cry out, his lips deadened and immobile, as stiff as if they were carved of stone.

  All around the cellblock, an eerie wind howled, his ears filling with a thousand spectral wails, as a dazzling white light flooded his vision, making him screw up his eyes. And there in the midst of the maelstrom of hurt and confusion he heard Elizabeth’s voice – soft, seductive, comforting like a soothing balm.

  “It is done,” she said. “The dark deed is completed. I have succeeded. Even now the conjugation is working. Soon, my love, soon you shall be free and we shall have our final revenge.”

  Then, just as suddenly, her voice, her presence, was gone – vanished so swiftly that he thought it an imaging, a mirage of sound, brought about through fear and excruciating torment.

  Before he could react, a new wave of terrifying sensations overwhelmed him. He felt lifted, spun, stretched and pulled – his body contorting and twisting. Fighting to pry open his eyes, he experienced a rush of alarming, bucking motion, as though hurtling full pelt on a runaway steed. No, more like falling off a cliff or swooping through the air like a hawk.

  Then, with a sickening jerk, it was over. He opened his eyes… and came within a whisker of fainting.

  It was impossible!

  It couldn’t be true!

  His legs threatened to buckle as he glanced around the dungeon in bafflement and growing dread, and discovered that he was now on the other side of the bars, standing free.

  What trickery was this? His stomach twisted with fright.

  He couldn’t take in what had just occurred. In a single heart beat he’d been transported several feet, passing through solid matter. It was unbelievable, beyond reason – but it had happened.

  Elizabeth! It could only have been her. But how? Why?

  He shuddered, suddenly understanding that her comforting visitations hadn’t been the result of his fevered imagination. They were real. It could only mean…

  …the inquisitors had indeed uncovered a practitioner of the ancient, forbidden black arts when they raided the wedding ceremony, but they had seized the wrong suspect.

  The implications were staggering, inconceivable. He’d had no idea, no inkling in all the months of wooing, that his new bride was an enchantress. She’d given no hint of her mystical skills and mysterious past. He wondered u
neasily if she had snared his affections with a secret potion or if his love for her had been genuine.

  A shriek – a scream of such fright and confusion – interrupted his troubled thoughts. He looked into the cell he’d just escaped and witnessed something that took his breath away.

  He saw… himself. Still chained and manacled. Still a prisoner! Saw Jack Tyler, wild-eyed and shaking, hands desperately pawing at his face, yelling: “What in God’s name have you done to me? What has happened! Tell me, tell me. What sorcery is this?”

  Jack began to explain that he had no idea, that it was not his doing, but stopped a couple of words into his protestation. The voice that came from his mouth was not his – it was Sir Henry’s.

  “My God!” he whispered to himself, the Earl’s deep, growling timbre uttering the words like a mocking parrot.

  He glanced down at his paunch, felt the lined old face as his liver-spotted hands flew up to his cheeks, recoiled in wonder and horror at the fine clothes he now wore – and in one chilling flash of recognition, he knew.

  He hadn’t just been transported, he had been transformed. By some inexplicable, paranormal, sleight of hand, he had swapped bodies with his tormentor. Each had taken the other’s face – the other’s place.

  In the cell, Cruttendon – trapped in his former victim’s body – bellowed for the assistant inquisitor.

  “Get me out of here,” he raged, spittle flying, jerking against the manacles with all his strength. “Get me out of here at once. I command you to release me. Stiles, where are you? Get me out of here!”

  Jack heard the witch-finder’s scurrying footsteps coming closer, but instead of obeying the barked instructions from the prisoner, Matthew Stiles came straight up to the figure in finery, giving a cringing bow.

  “Shall I have the prisoner sedated?” he enquired, over the noise of Cruttendon’s curses. “He seems unusually agitated. I can have the physician prepare a sleeping draught.”