“What can I get you, Friend?” the barman asked.
“Rum will do,” Henry said. “And some information, if you have it.”
The man did not respond until he’d placed a cup in front of Henry. “What kind?”
“I’m looking for a man. Name is Robert Carter but he may be known by another version of it.”
The barman shrugged. “We have many transients. Few have names.”
“He has a scar,” Henry said. “On his right arm. He uses it limply.”
A spark of recognition shifted in the other man’s eyes, then quickly dulled. “Like I said, few have names.”
Henry took a long but shallow swallow of the drink and set down the cup. He then removed a generous amount of coin from his pocket and placed it on the counter. It was likely enough to drink handily for a week, but Henry needed something far more potent than the weak alcohol the barman served.
He needed information.
The barman’s eyes widened at the money between them.
“Few may have names,” Henry said, looking from under his brim. “But some do.”
“Indeed,” said the barman, eyes still upon the coin.
“Light hair and light eyes. Rather hard to forget once you’ve seen them. The scar on his arm extends to his hand, but even if you miss it, the weakness is easy to notice.”
“I may have seen him around,” the barman said.
“And where might I find him?”
“He works the ships’ cargo. I know because when he comes in the other men give him a bad time of his arm. Tell him they should pay half because he only does half the work.”
Henry pushed the coin closer to his new friend, but did not release his hold upon the stack. “Does he come here often?”
“Regularly over time, but not in the last several days.”
“Who can tell me where I might find him?”
“You can try the docks, or you can wait until the men end their work for the day and any tavern will do.” With another glance at the money, he added, “But you are certainly welcome to return here.”
Henry slid the coin toward the barman but did not display it. “This stays between us.”
“If that is your price, it stays exactly as you say.”
“Very well then.” Henry released the coin, turned up his drink until empty, and dropped it to the bar. When the barman reached for the glass, Henry held up a hand, indicating he had enough. He nodded toward the other patrons, none of whom seemed to pay him mind, and exited the tavern.
Robert’s location was confirmed. Henry felt it in his bones.
Still determined to fulfill his curiosity, he had walked a block in the direction of the water when he heard his name called by a familiar voice. He turned to see Andrew riding up on… Willard?
Before Henry could react further, Andrew and Willard were upon him.
“What is it, Andrew? Where is Lydia?”
“Forgive me for borrowing your mount,” the young man said breathlessly, “but I have not a horse of my own and I knew you would want this news with haste.”
“It’s fine, Andrew. Tell me, where is Lydia?”
“Denounced as a witch,” Andrew said. “The magistrate collected her and took her to jail.”
The words could not be real. Though his insides dulled and writhed, Henry wasted no time in acting. He removed from his pocket a large sum of coin and handed it to Andrew, who had already slid from Willard’s back. “Take this,” Henry said, pointing in the direction of the stable where Benedict waited. “My horse is there—a bay gelding with a star. I grossly overpaid his board for the day, so someone will remember. If they will not allow you to take him, offer this in bribe. Bring him home for me.”
“I will,” Andrew said, offering Henry a leg up.
Henry put his foot in Andrew’s joined hands and, with the boost landed easily on Willard’s bare back. Without further transaction, he dug his heels into Willard’s sides and the stallion burst forward at a gallop. Though he drew the attention of every bystander on the streets of Salem Town—effectively ending Henry’s ruse of a common man—Henry did not care.
He would find Lydia and put an end to this witchcraft nonsense, and if that meant ruining his chances to find his brother, so be it.
…
Even within the confines of jail, God-fearing Puritans were trusted. There were no bars or locks, and it was a wonder a great many prisoners did not simply walk to their freedom, though the magistrate had made clear upon his exit if she escaped, she would be found. And likely killed.
The room in which they left her reeked of filth, but if she could not smell it she would consider it by appearance simply plain and in need of a scrubbing to remove the dirt and cobwebs from its corners. Though it furnished a chair, Lydia was too restless to sit, so she paced the floor. She walked hundreds of tight circles, during which she tried to maintain reason—she was innocent, and Henry would come for her—but no amount of settlement could ease the ache.
As Henry had said, witches had long been maligned and persecuted. But in recent days here in Salem, already three had been arrested. Three among them! Something horrible was happening, and Lydia had no hope of freedom if neighbors known for many years were accused and jailed. Already the day felt hours too long, and though she could not determine the passage of the sun from her prison, she did note the voices from the tavern grew loud. The greater activity indicated the approach of evening, when working men joined the drunkards within the ill reputable walls. Thinking she might overhear conversation, Lydia stilled to listen by the door.
Doctor arrested.
Hang ‘em all.
Burn them in hell.
From there, a painfully lively, brutish exchange ensued over whether the accused should be burned or hanged. Lydia winced, but did not give up her position at the door. Soon the two men moved on to lewd discussion of the bar maid, and Lydia’s attention drifted, whereupon it landed on two words.
Witch’s cake.
Lydia knew of the cake. Made from rye and the urine of the girls who first claimed affliction of witchcraft, it was fed to a dog. The process was to cause harm to the witch or witches who affected the girls, but common sense would suggest the only one harmed by such a procedure would be the dog. The nonsensical aspect did little to settle her fears, however, for the very people who believed so wholly in the validity of such an experiment were the ones who would determine her fate.
Heart heavy, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Dare she risk walking out? She was not at all familiar with the layout of the jail, so the idea was foolish to start. But the charge of spectral evidence could not be overcome, and her chances of escape—no matter how slim—were surely better than those of surviving a trial she could not win.
From the tavern, a deep, familiar voice caught her attention. “…shamed?”
Henry!
But not the warm tones to which she had become accustomed. She strained to listen.
“…a pound!” Obstreperous laughter followed. “No witch is worth such a fee.”
“Henry,” Lydia whispered. “No.” She fought to hear more, but could not determine with which of the many voices he held conversation. Laughter provided bursts of distraction, further disorienting her.
“What man… lay claim… shameful.” His voice. Through the thin opening and the din, he sounded of disgust.
Tears heated her eyes, but she did not entertain the thought of succumbing. Perhaps Henry’s words were chosen for reason. He had only been in town a few days, and when not at her home he had spent much of his time in travels to Salem Town. This tavern—one of the more undesirable due to its location at the jail—was likely full of strangers.
She reconsidered his promise made that very morning and thought no more. Throwing open the door, she stepped into the hall and shouted his name.
Every man within view at the end of the narrow length of hall turned her way. For several beats she did not see Henry, but then she found h
im with a companion at the close end of bar. She anticipated his surprise or relief, but all she received was a cold, piercing glare. He shook his head—his only acknowledgement of her—then turned away, lifting his drink to his mouth.
His name formed soundlessly on her lips, but the silent call did not return his attention to her. He took not a glimpse, not even when the first cries of “Witch!” rang from the back of the room. The jeer was quickly picked up by the mass of them, everyone seeming to turn on her at once.
Everyone but Henry.
She was so stunned she did not resist when a constable grabbed her and jerked her away from the tavern, far from her room. Far from the husband who claimed her no more.
Lydia thought she could pay no worse for her mistake than to see Henry’s dismissal of her, but the deeper the constable led her into the jail, the more she realized the error of her judgment. Deeper into the scourge, the rats were so emboldened they did not scurry from their approach; instead, they merely lifted their heads to watch as Lydia passed.
“Thou hast been warned not to make escape, Witch.” Without ceremony, he shoved her ahead into a long, dark room. At distance, a figure sat against the wall. Rats moved freely through the room’s filth and stench.
Lydia fought to keep down her stomach’s contents.
Her jailer led her to a set of shackles affixed to the wall near the other prisoner. She was a woman. Another accused of witchcraft? Could this be Tituba, as the magistrate had indicated upon Lydia’s arrest? Whoever the prisoner, she did not look up as Lydia was shackled and left. Once the jailer’s footsteps faded, the only sound was that of the vermin. Just as Lydia thought she’d go mad from the sound, the other woman spoke.
“Are you a witch?” The woman’s voice was of a foreign—or perhaps native—tongue.
Lydia cast a long, suspicious look at the floor before sitting against the wall. “Accused, but wrongly.”
“Confess. Ask for forgiveness, and you might walk free.”
“But I am not a witch!”
“It matters not. Your days in here will bring endless harm.”
“No more harm than a false confession.”
“You are wrong. If you do not confess, your family will be harassed to pay your fines and tortured for admission of your sins.”
“My fines?”
The woman gave a humorless laugh. “You are charged with more than witchcraft. You must pay for your room, your food and water, and even the shackles you now wear.”
“And what if I cannot pay?”
“As I said, your family will.”
Lydia waved away a curious rat, the horrible implications of her companion’s words weighing heavily. Snippets of the earlier conversations from the tavern surfaced. “A pound.”
The other woman peered through dark eyes, but did not respond.
“It was said no witch is worth a pound. Do you know what that means?”
The woman lifted a shoulder. “It is known for the price of one pound your family may buy your freedom for the day. Perhaps the price is too high for whoever spoke those words.”
The words crushed Lydia. One pound was no amount of money for Henry—how easy it would be for him to take her from this place. She as his wife would take his name, and verily they would remain free from further onslaught. But he had not looked her way.
Lydia was on her own.
But she refused to feel sorry for herself. She was guilty. And now truly, horribly, it was time to pay.
Not for witchcraft, but for murder.
Chapter Fifteen
Henry’s eyes watered from the tavern’s foul air. He found tolerable the overwhelming scents of alcohol and tobacco smoke, but the added stench of waste and filth turned his stomach. Knowing Lydia was shut in the deeper bowls of this horrid place made him want to tear down the walls in search of her, but Henry forced himself still. The situation was largely static, so there was little to be gained without forethought.
Lost in deliberations, Henry had not noticed the man who took the neighboring seat until the man spoke. Casually, he said, “Hear they arrested another one.”
Henry, still in Andrew’s well-worn clothing, nodded. “So they have.”
The man signaled for a drink and tapped the bar while he waited. “Good to clear the street of witches,” he said. “Terrible, the effect on those kids.”
The man spoke of Henry’s wife. Of her honor. Henry’s head began to throb under his borrowed felt hat, but he kept his frustrations to himself.
The stranger picked up the drink delivered by the barman and took from it a long pull. “And to rid the town of their families, all the better.”
This drew Henry’s attention. “What do you mean?”
After another swill, the man looked to Henry and answered. “If the prisoner does not confess, the next pursuit is to torture the family. Their admission is as good as that of the accused, and their money spends well.”
Henry’s hand clenched around his cup. Mindful of Lydia’s dislike of the drink, he only held it as a matter of circumstance but now felt compelled to take a hearty swig. When he brought down the cup, the man’s eyes were fixed on Henry’s face.
“Are you ailing?” the stranger asked. “You do not look well.”
Henry judged the man’s manner of speech and the good condition of his garments and determined he was not likely a drunkard. “Are you a physician?” Henry asked.
“More of an apprentice. I have accompanied Griggs, who was called upon to examine the Abbot children.”
“Did he determine they were afflicted?”
The man nodded. “Possessed by the devil himself. And it was the physician charged.”
“Griggs?”
“No, no. The woman physician of Salem. Colson, it is.”
Though he knew already of the answer, the mention of Lydia’s name seized Henry’s chest. He adjusted his hat in hopes of hiding his lack of indifference.
“She denounced upon her arrest,” the man continued, “but she will confess. The families are treated almost as badly as the prisoners. Confession is an act of mercy for all involved.”
It was the man’s second reference to the treatment of families. Though gossip of Lydia’s husband’s return had surely expounded, few of Salem’s residents had actually met Henry, and it began to sound as if this was a blessing. “Forgive me, for I am not familiar with the trials. What becomes of the families?”
The physician’s assistant looked fully at Henry before turning to see to his drink. “When prisoners cannot pay their costs, the families are expected to procure the funds. If they cannot pay, they are pursued until the funds are secured.”
“But shamed?”
“Yes. Great shame is earned by the association. It has always been the case, but particularly so with witches. Relations are beaten just as the prisoners, as a confession from one is as good as the other.” He paused for another swallow of his drink, then cast an appraising eye over Henry. “But for a pound, you can procure a day’s visit. Might be good to talk the witch into a confession. Save the…family some grief.”
The man’s strange tone lent Henry pause. Was he recognized? If so, was he known as Lydia’s husband or as the son of John Dunham, one of the wealthiest shipbuilders in all of New England? Unsure, Henry took the side of denial. “A pound!” He forced a dark laugh. “No witch is worth a fee.”
His companion cast a glance over his shoulder, appearing to seek someone, before returning his attention to Henry. “To a husband, perhaps.”
Henry snorted. “What man would lay claim to an association so shameful? Is it not a reason to disavow the union?”
The man stared long and hard. After another glance over his shoulder, he leaned close. “Is that what you plan to do, Mister Dunham? Disavow your wife?”
Henry jerked as if stung. Too late, he tried to control his response. “You are well mistaken, Good Sir.”
“There is a man who differs in opinion, though he appears to have moved on this ni
ght.”
Henry straightened. “What man?”
The stranger’s brow lifted. Surprise touched his features. “You offer no denial?”
“There is nothing to deny. I am but a traveler, and no less wary of witches than any of the townsmen who live among them. Who has told you otherwise?”
“As I said, he appears to have moved on. He was able to offer great detail of you, however.”
“Describe him.”
The stranger looked on, wordlessly.
“Was he of fallow hair?” Henry asked, his tone growing urgent. “With an arm of little use?”
Slow acknowledgment crept across his companion’s face. “It seems he may know of you after all. Is it true, then? You are of the Dunham line?”
“Henry!”
Lydia. Stunned, he turned to see her in the hall, her clothing disheveled and her hair wild about her face. He nearly crumbled at the sight of her, but he fought to harden his features. If his companion’s precautions were true, claiming Lydia could only hurt her. But he could not ignore her freely, so he dipped his head in slight acknowledgment and lifted his drink as cries of “Witch!” broke out among the men packing the tavern.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a constable grab her and drag her into the depths of the prison. Never had Henry felt such pain in denial, but he could not help her without his freedom, and he knew not what confines he would face in admitting his position as her husband. Anonymity could be a blessing for them both, but it came at a terrible cost.
And he would make it right.
Through the din of drunkards, he turned to the stranger. “Do you know where this man has gone?”
“If you are Dunham, worry not for this man. I saw how she looked at you. If you have indeed taken her as your wife, your family’s name will soon be in shambles, and the business will follow. The best thing you can do is rid yourself of all association of Salem and be on your way.”
Henry considered the stranger’s advice, weighing heavily the options handed him.
Her Wicked Sin Page 14