"No," Woodward said. Johnstone gave his knee an affectionate pat and wrapped the bandage around it once more.
"Is there a point to this, Alan?" Bidwell asked.
"I am answering the magistrate's inquiry as to whether my condition would allow me to take your staircase at any speed."
"Oh, that." Bidwell came over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the heat, as the schoolmaster pulled his srocking back up and rebuttoned the breeches leg. "Yes, the magistrate's clerk advanced one of his rather dubious theories concerning your knee. He said—"
"—that he wondered if my knee was really deformed, or if I were only shamming," Johnstone interrupted. "Ben told me. An interesting theory, but somewhat flawed. Robert, I've been in Fount Royal for—what?—three years or thereabouts? Have you ever seen me walk without the aid of my cane?"
"Never," Bidwell said.
"If I were shamming, what would be the reason for ir?" Johnstone was addressing this question to Woodward. "By God's grace, I wish I could run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!" Heat had crept into the schoolmaster's voice. "I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the classroom, that's what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!"
"The Hellfires, I presume?" Woodward asked.
"No, not the Hellfires. The Ruskins. We emulated the Hell-fires in some things, but we were rather more studious. Quite a bit more timid, to be truthful." Johnstone seemed to realize he had displayed some bitterness at his condition, and his voice was again under firm control. "Forgive my outburst," he said. "I am not a self-pitier and I wish no pity from anyone else. I enjoy my profession and I feel I am very good at what I do."
"Hear, hear!" Winston said. "Magistrate, Alan has shown himself to be an excellent schoolmaster. Before he came, school was held in a barn and our teacher was an older man who didn't have near Alan's qualifications."
"That's right," Bidwell added. "Upon Alan's arrival here, he insisted a schoolhouse be built and regular lessons begun in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He's taught many of the farmers and their children how to write their own names. I must say, though, that Alan's opening of the schoolhouse to the female children is a bit too liberal for my tastes!"
"That is liberal," Woodward remarked. "Some might even say misguided."
"Females are becoming more educated in Europe," Johnstone said, with the slightly wearied sound of someone who has defended a position time and again. "I believe at least one member of every family should be able to read. If that is a wife or a female child, then so be it."
"Yes, but Alan's had to pry some of these children away from their families," Winston said. "Like Violet Adams, for one. Education goes against the grain of these rustics."
"Violet approached me wanting to learn to read the Bible, as neither of her parents were able. How could I refuse her? Oh, Martin and Constance at first were set against it, but I convinced them that reading is not a dishonorable exercise, and thereby Violet would please the Lord. After the child's experience, however, she was forbidden to attend school again. A pity, too, because Violet is a bright child. Well. . . enough of this horn blowing." The schoolmaster braced himself with his cane and stood up from the chair. "I should be on my way now, ere this weather gets any worse. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Magistrate. I hope you're soon feeling better."
"Oh, he shall!" Bidwell spoke up. "Ben's coming by tonight to tend to him. It won't be long before Isaac is as fit as a racehorse!"
Woodward summoned a frail smile. Never in his life had he been a racehorse. A workhorse, yes, but never a racehorse. And now he was Isaac to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent.
Bidwell walked with Johnstone to get his coat and tricorn before he braved the rain. Winston came forward to stand before the fire. The flames reflected off the glass of his spectacles. "A chill wind in May!" he said. "I thought I'd left such a thing behind in London! But it's not so bad when one has a house as grand as this in which to bask, is it?" Woodward didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he did neither.
Winston rubbed his hands together. "Unfortunately, my own hearth smokes and my roof will be leaking tonight like an oar-boat. But I shall endure it. Yes, I shall. Just as Mr. Bidwell has said at times of business crisis: whatever tribulations may come, they mold the character of the man."
"What say, Edward?" Bidwell had entered the parlor again, after seeing Johnstone off.
"Nothing, sir," Winston replied. "I was thinking aloud, that's all." He turned from the fire. "I was about to point out to the magistrate that our sorry weather is one more evidence of the witch's spellcraft against us, as we've never been struck with such damp misery before."
"I think Isaac is already well aware of Witch Howarth's abilities. But we won't have to endure her but a day or two longer, will we, Isaac?"
Bidwell was waiting for a response, his mouth cracked by a smile but his eyes hard as granite. Woodward, in order to keep the peace and thereby get to his bed without an uproar, whispered, "No, we won't." Instantly he felt shamed by it, because indeed he was dancing to Bidwell's tune. But at the moment he was too sick and tired to give a damn.
Winston soon said good night, and Bidwell summoned Mrs. Nettles and a servant girl to help the magistrate upstairs. Woodward, ill as he was, protested against the girl's efforts to disrobe him and insisted on preparing himself for bed. He had been under the sheet for only a few minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. Presently Mrs. Nettles knocked at his door, announcing the arrival of Dr. Shields, and the doctor came in armed with his bag of potions and implements.
The bleeding bowl was readied. The hot lancet bit true and deep through the crusted wounds of the morning's bloodletting. As Woodward lay with his head over the edge of the bed and the sound of his corrupted fluids pattering into the bowl, he stared up at the ceiling where Dr. Shields's shadow was thrown by the yellow lamplight.
"Not to fear," the doctor said, as his fingers worked the cuts to keep the blood running. "We'll banish this sickness."
Woodward closed his eyes. He felt cold. His stomach had clenched—not because of the pain he was suffering, but because he'd thought of the three lashes that would soon be inflicted upon Matthew. At least, though, after the lashing was done Matthew would be free to go from that filthy gaol; and thankfully he would be free also from Rachel Howarth's influence.
The blood continued to flow. Woodward felt—or imagined he felt—that his hands and feet were freezing. His throat, however, remained fiery hot.
He entertained himself for the moment with musings on how wrong Matthew had been in his theory concerning the Spanish spy. If indeed there was such a spy, Alan Johnstone was not the man. Or, at least, Johnstone was not the thief who'd taken Matthew's coin. Matthew was so cocksure of his theories that sometimes the boy became insufferable, and this was a good opportunity to remind him that he made mistakes just like the rest of mankind.
"My throat," he whispered to Dr. Shields. "It pains me."
"Yes, we'll tend it again after I've finished here."
It was bad fortune to become so ill without benefit of a real hospital, Woodward thought. A city hospital, that is. Well, the task here would be soon finished. Of course he didn't look forward with great relish to that trip back to Charles Town, but neither would he care to remain in this swamphole more than another week.
He hoped Matthew could bear the lashes. The first one would be a shock; the second would likely tear the flesh. Woodward had seen hardened criminals break into tears and cry for their mothers after the whip had thrice bitten their backs. But soon the ordeal would be over. Soon they could both take leave of this place, and Satan could fight the mosquitoes for its ruins as far as h
e cared.
Does it not seem very strange to you, Johnstone had said, that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. . . . consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.
No! Woodward thought. No! There were the witnesses, who had sworn truth on the Bible, and the poppets that were even now sitting atop the dresser! To consider that there was some other witch would not only delay his decision in regards to the prisoner but would also result in the complete abandonment of Fount Royal. No, Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road!
"Pardon?" Dr. Shields said. "Did you say something, Isaac?" Woodward shook his head. "Forgive me, I thought you did. A bit more in the bowl and we'll be done."
"Good," Woodward said. He could sleep now, if his throat were not so raw. The sound of his blood dripping into the bowl was nearly a strange kind of lullaby. But before he gave himself up to sleep he would pray for God to endow strength to Matthew, both to resist that woman's wiles and to endure the whip with the grace of a gentleman. Then he would add a prayer to keep his own mind clear in this time of tribulation, so that he might do what was right and proper in the framework of the law.
But he was sick and he was troubled, and he had also begun to realize that he was afraid: of sinking into deeper illness, of Rachel Howarth's influence over Matthew, of making a mistake. Afraid on a level he hadn't known since his last year in London, when his whole world had been torn asunder like a piece of rotten cloth.
He feared the future. Not just the turn of the century, and what a new age might bring to this strife-burnt earth, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He feared all the demons of the unknown tomorrows, for they were creatures who destroyed the shape and structure of yesterday for the sake of a merry fire.
"A little more, a little more," Dr. Shields said, as the blood continued to drip from the lancet cuts.
WHILE WOODWARD WAS BEING SO ATTENDED, Matthew lay in the dark on his pallet of straw and grappled with his own fears. It would not be seemly if tomorrow morning, at the delivering of the lashes, he should lose control and disgrace himself before the magistrate. He had seen criminals whipped before, and knew that sometimes they couldn't hold their bodily functions, so great was the pain. He could stand three lashes; he knew he could. Rather, he hoped he could. If that giant Mr. Green put his strength into the blows . . . well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he'd convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon.
Distant thunder sounded. The gaol had taken on a chill. He wished for a coat to cover himself, but of course there was nothing but these clothes that were—from the smell and stiffness of them—fit to be boiled in a kettle and cut into rags. Instantly he thought how petty were his own discomforts, as Rachel's sackcloth robe was surely torment to her flesh by now and the punishment she faced was far more terrible—and more final—than a trio of whipstrikes.
So much was whirling through his mind that it seemed hot as a hearth, though his body was cold. He might wish for sleep, but he was his own hardest taskmaster and such relief was withheld. He sat up, folding his arms around himself, and stared into the dark as if he might see some answer there to the questions that plagued him.
The poppets. The testimony of Violet Adams. The three Devil's familiars who could not have sprung from the rather simple mind of Jeremiah Buckner. And how to explain the dwarf-creature—the "imp"—that both Buckner and Violet Adams had seen at different times and locales? What also of the cloak with six buttons? And the Devil's commandment to the child to "tell them to free my Rachel"? Could there be any more damning a decree?
But another thing kept bothering Matthew: what the child had said about hearing a man's voice, singing in the darkness of another room at that house. Was it a fragment of nothing? Or was it a shadow of great importance?
"You're awake." It had been a statement, not a question.
"Yes," Matthew said.
"I can't sleep either."
"Little wonder." He listened to the noise of rain dripping from the roof. Again there came the dull rumble of thunder.
"I have remembered something," Rachel said. "I don't know how important it is, but at the time I thought it was unusual."
"What is it?" He looked toward her shape in the darkness.
"The night before Daniel was murdered ... he asked me if I loved him."
"This was an unusual question?"
"Yes. For him, I mean. Daniel was a good man, but he was never one to speak of his feelings ... at least not where love was concerned."
"Might I ask what was your reply?"
"I told him I did love him," she answered. "And then he said that I had made him very happy in the six years of our marriage. He said ... it made no matter to him that I had never borne a child, that I was his joy in life and no man could change that fact."
"Those were his exact words, as best you recall?"
"Yes."
"You say he was not normally so concerned with emotions? Had anything occurred in the previous few days that might have made him wish to express such feelings? A quarrel, perhaps?"
"I recall no quarrel. Not to say that we didn't have them, but they were never allowed to linger."
Matthew nodded, though he realized she couldn't see it. He laced his fingers around his knees. "You were both well matched, would you say? Even though there was such a difference in ages?"
"We both desired the same things," Rachel said. "Peace at home, and success for our farm. As for the difference in our ages, it mattered some at the beginning but not so much as the years passed."
"Then he had no reason to doubt that you loved him? Why would he ask such a question, if it was against his usual nature?"
"I don't know. Do you think it means anything?"
"I can't say. There's so much about this that begs questions. Things that should fit don't, and things that shouldn't fit do. Well, when I get out of here I plan on trying to find out why."
"What?" She sounded surprised. "Even after the child's testimony?"
"Yes. Her testimony was—pardon my bluntness—the worst blow that could have been dealt to you. Of course you didn't help your case by violating the Holy Book. But still. . . there are questions that need answers. I can't close my eyes to them."
"But Magistrate Woodward can?"
"I don't think he's able to see them as I do," Matthew said. "Because I'm a clerk and not a jurist, my opinions on witchcraft have not been formed by court records and the articles of de-monology."
"Meaning," she said, "that you don't believe in witches?"
"I certainly do believe in the power of the Devil to do wickedness through men—and women. But as for your being a witch and having murdered Reverend Grove and your husband ..." He hesitated, knowing that he was about to throw himself into the flames of commitment. "I don't believe it," he said.
Rachel said something, very quietly, that gave him a twinge deep in his stomach. "You could be wrong. I could be casting a spell on you this moment."
Matthew considered this point carefully before he answered. "Yes, I could be wrong. But if Satan is your master, he has lost his grip on logic. He wishes you released from the gaol, when he personally went to great lengths to put you here. And if his aim is to destroy Fount Royal, why doesn't he just burn the whole town in one night instead of an empty house here and there? I don't think Satan would care if a house was empty before it burned, do you? And what are these tricks of bringing the three demons out to parade them as if in a stageplay? Why would you appear to Jeremiah Buckner and invite him to view a scene that would certainly send you to the stake?" He waited for a response but there was none. "Buckner may have sworn truth on the Bible, yes. He may believe that what he saw was the truth. But my question is: what is it that two men—and a little girl—may see that appears to be true but is in reality a cunning
fiction? It must be more than a dream, because certainly Violet Adams was not dreaming when she walked into that house in the afternoon. Who would create such a fiction, and how could it possibly be disguised as the truth?"
"I can't see how any man could do it," Rachel said.
"I can't either, but I believe it has somehow been done. My task is to find out first of all how. Then to find out the why of it. I hope from those two answers will come the third: who."
"And if you can't find them? What then?"
"Then . . ." Matthew paused, knowing the reply but unwilling to give it, "that bridge is best crossed when it is reached."
Rachel was silent. Even the few rats that had returned to the walls after Linch's massacre had stilled themselves. Matthew lay down again, trying to get his thoughts in order. The sound of thunder was louder; its power seemed to shake the very earth to its deepest foundations.
"Matthew?" Rachel said.
"Yes?"
"Would you . . . would you hold my hand?"
"Pardon?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.
"Would you hold my hand?" she asked again. "Just for a moment. I don't like the thunder."
"Oh." His heart was beating harder. Though he knew full well that the magistrate would look askance on such a thing, it seemed wrong to deny her a small comfort. "All right," he said, and he stood up. When he went to the bars that separated them, he couldn't find her.
"I'm here." She was sitting on the floor.
Matthew sat down as well. Her hand slipped between the bars, groping, and touched his shoulder. He said, "Here," and grasped her hand with his. At the intertwining of their fingers, Matthew felt a shock of heat that was first intense and then softened as it seemed to course slowly up his forearm. His heart was drumming; he was surprised she couldn't hear it, as surely a military march was being played next to her ear. It had occurred to him that his might be the last hand ever offered her.
The thunder again announced itself, and again the earth gave a tremble. Matthew felt Rachel's grip tighten. He couldn't help but think that in seven days she would be dead. She would be bones and ashes, nothing left of her voice or her touch or her compelling presence. Her beautiful tawny eyes would be burnt blind, her ebony hair sheared by the flames.
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