To Snare A Witch

by Jay Raven

  For an age, Jack didn’t know what to say, his mind still struggling to accept the bizarre events unfolding.

  “My Lord?” Stiles prompted. “What would you like me to do?”

  At that instant, the transformed Earl bellowed so loudly from inside the cage that his eyes bulged. “He’s not your Lord – I am. I am, you fool! I am Sir Henry Cruttendon. Can’t you see that! Get me out of here! Release me this instant, you imbecile. Release me if you hope to live!”

  Stiles spun round to the cell, and did a double take. Then laughed in surprise and admiration.

  “It is a skilled performance,” he remarked to Jack, after a few moments of study. “The prisoner has captured your manner perfectly, My Lord. The expression, the fury in the eyes, the way he curls his lip – identical. I had no idea he was such a convincing mimic.”

  The Earl’s voice rose in pitch, unable to control his fear and exasperation. “I am Sir Henry Cruttendon, you must believe me. I swear – I swear I am your Lord and master,” he insisted, rattling the bars dementedly. “That man – that accursed warlock – has performed some foul spell. He has stolen my body. Can’t you see it – can’t you understand, you feeble fool. He’s tricking you! I have been bewitched.”

  The assistant inquisitor shook his head firmly. “No, it is you who are attempting trickery, my friend,” he chided, “but it won’t work. I can tell when someone is play acting, trust me.”

  He returned his attention to Jack, raising an eyebrow to signal that he was still waiting for instructions.

  “Let him rave,” Jack replied, in his newly-found voice. “No draught, no sedative. It amuses me to hear the drivel. Still, all the same, I think there is no trickery intended.”

  “My Lord?”

  “I’m not so sure he is attempting to deceive us. I believe he genuinely thinks he is me. He is clearly crazed. Rather than face the awful reality of his deadly plight, he has sought escape in insanity and self delusion. It is pitiful, cowardly. I had expected more from a lauded war hero.”

  The witch-hunter frowned at this, screwing up his face as he considered this possible explanation of the baffling scene he was witnessing.

  “Poor soul,” he remarked, at length, nodding his agreement with the diagnosis. “His mind must finally have gone. I knew Tyler was close to cracking, but I had no idea he’d lose his wits so dramatically.”

  Jack shrugged, and pulling the confession from where it was wedged in the wide belt around his unfamiliarly ample waist, commented: “At least he signed this before his senses abandoned him.”

  On seeing the parchment, Cruttendon squealed a single word -“Nnnooooooo!”

  His face drained of all colour as he realised in abject terror what Jack had already worked out – that both men had done more than swap bodies… they had swapped fates.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid but I can’t help myself,” Elizabeth apologised, chiding herself for recoiling at Jack’s embrace.

  It was nighttime, many hours after the two had abandoned the execution site to the scavengers – both animal and human – and come to explore the expired noble’s luxurious home. “I know it is you inside that body, but I can’t put it out of mind what that filthy monster did to me.”

  Jack shook his head wearily, and she could see the confusion and frustration playing in his thoughts.

  He couldn’t understand why he’d been rebuffed. She knew who he was, deep inside the Earl’s stooped and corpulent frame, and he expected her to see beyond the wrinkled outer layer.

  Yet, it was hard. No matter how much she tried, part of her could only identify the figure before her with the corrupt, lusting, leering old lizard who had raped and abused her. The sight of him still made her shudder – even though her husband’s loving nature shone through the cold, calculating eyes.

  “So what is the point of this?” Jack demanded. “If I cannot touch you, cannot caress you without you freezing, what future is there for us? It is hopeless. I might as well have been the one who was hanged today!”

  He paced round the room, cursing in frustration, movements unco-ordinated and heavy. She could tell he struggled to control limbs and sinews that didn’t naturally respond to his wishes. But that would improve with time, as he learnt to be at one with the decrepit shell he occupied.

  And it needn’t be more than a temporary ordeal.

  She smiled encouragingly. “Please be still, my love. All is not lost. The transmutation ritual can be repeated – we can find another victim, someone else you can possess – a man whose face holds no dark memories for me. A man with a younger body, a healthier body.”

  When would that be, Jack demanded, stopping in mid stride.

  Elizabeth’s cheeks crinkled mischievously. “I have many admirers. Oxfordshire is full of potential suitors. Handsome men hang on my every word. It shouldn’t take long to find a new form for you to inhabit.”

  She gestured to the fine furnishings, drapes and paintings adorning the walls of the grand sitting room in the manor house.

  “Be patient, my darling Jack. Enjoy the spoils of our adventure. Just look around – we are now rich beyond our wildest imaginings. Cruttendon swings dead from a branch while we warm ourselves at his fire, eat his meats and quaff his wines.”

  For a moment, Jack seemed unconvinced, then let out his breath in a long sigh. “It is a fitting revenge,” he agreed grudgingly.

  “We shall be married as soon as possible,” Elizabeth promised, “and I shall let it be known – discreetly – after a few weeks that Sir Henry cannot satisfy my needs and I seek a young lover. And when I have gathered the bodily items I require from my unsuspecting new beau, the poor 3rd Earl of Banbury shall suffer a tragic seizure of the heart and swiftly die.”

  “And to the indignation and shock of the local community, you shall swiftly marry the young lover, “Jack added, brightening. “Yes, I see it. A perfect plan, Elizabeth dearest. It is inspired. You really are a clever witch.”

  “I am your witch, Jack Tyler,” she pledged. “And shall never be anyone else’s.”

  Pouring a glass of blood red wine, she let the bittersweet tang run over her tongue. And I shall never have to watch you march off to war, she thought with contentment. I shall be able to protect you forever.

  However, there remained one outstanding issue to resolve, she told herself as a loud banging commenced at the front door. The inquisitors. The murderous thespians. The players who had ripped so many of her kind from life, callously killing for a handful of coins.

  “Sir Henry is expecting us,” she heard Thomas Gaunt tell the housekeeper. And there they were, several moments later, standing in front of her, looking nervous and uncertain. As well they might.

  “You wanted us to call upon you, My Lord,” Stiles explained, unease clear in his voice. “You said there were some loose ends to tie up before we were discharged from your service.”

  Oh yes, Elizabeth thought, your loose ends will be tied up in ways that will make Cruttendon’s excruciating screams seem like exclamations of joy. You will die as horribly, painfully and ingeniously as my dark and vengeful heart can devise.

  Jack stepped forward and grabbed both men, putting his large arms around them, herding them further into the room.

  “Yes, my loyal and useful deceivers,” he said, giving them a glance of false bonhomie every bit as intimidating as Sir Henry had ever managed. “I couldn’t let you escape away into the night without settling accounts.”

  In his meaty grasp, both men went immediately rigid.

  “My Lord?” Gaunt’s face was wary, his mind clearly whirring, trying to fathom what was coming. Stiles just looked terrified.

  “Oh yes, indeed. You gentlemen played such a huge part in everything that transpired that it would be churlish for me not to see to it that you receive your just reward.”

  The atmosphere in the room chilled.

  “It was nothing, Sir Henry, really.”

  “No, Master Gaunt. Credit where credit is d
ue. I insist you get what is coming to you.”

  The inquisitors tried to bolt but the old man’s grasp was surprisingly strong, like that of someone thirty years younger. In addition, they found their feet suddenly, inexplicably, frozen to the floor.

  Gradually, ominously, Elizabeth moved into their eye-line, fixing the panicking witch-finders with a smile as cold as the Devil’s soul.

  “I did wonder what would be a fitting recompense for all your years of work,” she told them, frowning to show how difficult it had been to think through. “Then it came to me. I decided I should pay you back with something personal… something appropriate… something simply magical.”

  With that, she took out the wand – Agnes Simmons’ wand, her murdered maternal grandmother’s wand… and slowly and determinedly went to work.