“Thomas!” Her good eye narrowed as he closed the doors behind him; the other stared in outrage at a spot on the wall some twenty degrees to his left. “Well, well. That did not last long, did it? That Doughby woman, the nerve of her! What are you doing here? If you thought that I would take you back, you are much deceived…”
“My lady. It is - uh, a pleasure to see you again…”
“Idiot!” Arabella snapped, her head projecting forward, like a turtle’s, then jamming back against her neck.
Thomas’s heart sank. This was not going to be easy. He had to steel himself, bite back tears.
“I am not asking you to take me back, madam, I…”
“I shall see to it that you never—do you understand me?—never have a place again…”
He had to interrupt her before his courage gave out. “But ma’am—I came about Bess. She…”
“The witch! Your lady love! Aha!” Her mouth puckered in a travesty of amorous smooching. “How sweet! Of course! You want me to have her set free!”
“Madam, please. She has served your family well for fifteen years, and does, I think, deserve a fair…”
“Ha! You are asking me! Ha!” The suggestion struck Arabella as so funny that she brayed with jeering laughter.
At this, something in Thomas snapped. Years of resentment spilled out of every capillary in his body, drowning him in hatred for this nasty, this domineering, this bullying creature.
“My lady,” he said in a low voice, the pauses between the words indicating a pressing need for self-control. “Hear—me—now. If you won’t help us—the Lord help me—”
“A threat!” she interrupted him gaily. “Well, well!”
“So help me God—then I shall tell all who will listen—”
“Tell what?” jeered Arabella. She was a little shaken; not once in her life had a servant ever spoken to her like this.
“…tell all who will listen,” he continued haltingly, “that you - YOU! Are a witch. Yourself.”
The threat that had come out of his mouth was just as appalling to Thomas as it was to Arabella. He swallowed, and looked around in a daze, to see if someone else could have uttered those preposterous words. Lord!
And yet—it wasn’t totally off the mark, was it? Was it now? Just look at her. Wasn’t she unspeakably nasty? Wasn’t it the first thing you thought of when you saw her face and had to listen to her ranting and raving? Not only Thomas; the other servants felt it as well. Hadn’t he heard “ugly old witch” whispered behind her back a thousand times?
The blood drained from Arabella’s face and collected in patches all along her neck. It took her a good minute to think of her next retort. She coughed lengthily, raspily, to give herself time.
“Well then,” she finally said, “As God is my witness. I shall accuse you of the same. In turn.”
They stared at each other a long moment in blank amazement.
“And then we shall see,” she continued, her voice cracking ever so slightly, “whom they believe. The mistress or the servant.”
In a flash, Thomas realized he had just done something truly heroic. And, like most heroes, realized that there is a very fine line between a hero and a fool.
Yet—unaccountably—he found in himself some remaining shreds of courage. A few tattered shreds of pluck and the remnants of a just and roaring indignation that made him stand his ground.
“Yes, we’ll see, won’t we?” he said, trying to inject some cool amusement into his wobbly voice. “We shall see.”
21
A TIDY CATCH
Arabella did not wait to see if Thomas would make good his threat. At the conclusion of their confrontation she ordered Thomas to be locked up in the scullery at once.
When Matthias Boulderdash rode up to the manor, he found Lady Arabella anxiously waiting outside, on the front steps.
“I did not expect to return here so soon, my lady,” the witch-finder said, suppressing a satisfied smirk.
“No indeed, Mr. Boulderdash,” she replied primly.
“You wished me to examine another suspect?”
“If you will,” said Arabella. “The man in question is Bessie Goose’s—uh—erstwhile paramour.”
“Yes?” he asked, discretion glinting in his respectful smile.
“They were not joined before God, you understand…”
“Witches seldom are, my lady,” said Master Boulderdash. “They revel in their unholy lusting.”
Arabella cleared her throat, a hint that she should perhaps be spared a subject so far removed from her own experience. She cast about for the best way of conveying what she had to say.
“Well, shall we…?” Matthias was anxious to get a look at his new victim.
“But first, sir…I must warn you. He has threatened to—to…” She threw him a sidelong appeal for sympathy, her voice rising to a tight, unpleasant whine, “to tell evil lies about myself, to cast aspersions on my person. It is understandable, of course, he wishes to take his revenge on me, being the instrument of his arrest, but I felt I must bring it to your attention…”
“Of course. You did well, my lady.” Matthias remained calmly polite and reassuring. But he was excited, very, very excited to hear it. Matthias could sniff a cull here, a tidy catch: a member of the nobility, perhaps, thrown in for good measure. The lady in question fit the bill perfectly, both in looks and in reputed temperament. Yes, what a masterstroke, if he reeled in such a prize!
“If my lady will lead me to this warlock,” he said smoothly, “she may of course rest assured that I will use the full force of my influence and authority to defend her august name against such a patent absurdity.”
The only positive outcome from Thomas’ heroism was that he and Bessie were finally reunited. They appreciated that for what it was worth, considering that the reunion took place in the coal-black jail pit, with a wall of wooden stakes between them.
“Oh Thomas!” moaned Bessie. “How did this happen? How could you let it happen? Now we’re both in the same pickle, with no hope, no hope at all…”
Thomas had tried to explain to her what had happened, but the scene between him and Lady Arabella lost something in the retelling. Since Thomas felt it necessary to put as positive a spin on it as possible, it sounded as if he had been uncharacteristically bold; provocative, even. While he had in fact approached Arabella with his usual deference, and this appalling outcome had been the farthest thing from his mind.
“Why?” Bessie moaned. “Why, why, oh why? It’s bad enough they think I’m a witch—but you…? I told you to be careful, how could you do something like that, talking back to Lady Arabella, you know how vicious she can be…”
“Bess!” he interrupted at last. “Bess. I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Because without you—”
“Oh Thomas…”
“No, without you I…”
There was a crack between two of the dividing boards, and Thomas managed to squeeze two of his fingers through to Bessie’s side. She held those fingers lightly, and they concentrated a while on the throbbing, warm-blood feeling.
“You know what I wish, Bess?”
“What?”
“I wish you had never left.”
A long wistful sigh caught in her throat. “It was nice, wasn’t it—”
“Yes, but I mean…”
“I know what you mean, Thomas.”
There was no need for further explanation.
22
WISH COME TRUE
Be careful what you wish for! If ever Jupiter, or a magic fish, should come along and grant you three wishes or your heart’s desire, you are well advised to step back and consider the offer for a while. For there is almost always a catch. Instead of a golden carriage, a kingdom, or happiness beyond your wildest dreams, you could find yourself saddled with a sausage stuck on the end of your nose—in other words, worse off than you were before.
A brown day.
Lucinda was kneeling at the window of the nursery, her nose pressed to the cold pane. She turned around. Spots danced before her eyes, her nose was numb and her dry eyes stung. A smoldering fire was doing very little to dispel the chill. An urge came over her to escape the thick air and inhale some freshness. Without a word, she jumped down and ran out the door.
Downstairs, she pushed against the heavy outer door with her hip and shoulder, shaking her hair to rid it of the acrid odor. Even out here the air smelled of chimney-smoke, although somewhat diluted by the wind and rustling trees. She pushed out her chest and took some deep gulps.
Anguish clung to her like the smoke. There was no one to turn to now. There was nothing she could do for Bessie. Thomas had tried to do something, and what good had that done? Poor Thomas. Poor, dear, sweet-natured Thomas. And Aunt Arabella, too! Locked up in her chamber, with a guard outside the door and all the servants and children whispering, hugging each other with excitement…
The only thing she could do now was pray. To God, desperately. And to the king, in case he could hear her. To her parents in heaven. And of course to Henry—
Where was Henry? Why wasn’t he here? He was the one who would clear up this mess, and she ached, ached for him. He was her hero; he would come to the rescue. She wished, she willed, she begged him to come. She ordered him to. Come, Henry! Now! At once!
Of course Lucinda did not seriously believe that fervent prayer can make a wish come true. She knew perfectly well that if a wish ever does come true, sensible people attribute it to luck, not to supernatural intervention. And yet, despite being an eminently sensible young woman, Lucinda often found herself in silent communion with God, or Fortune, or the stars, appealing to them, bargaining with them, hoping against hope for some signal that her mind had—nevertheless—been read and that her wish would—nevertheless—be granted.
So what was she to make of it when, standing in the side yard, she suddenly heard a clatter of hooves? And when, moments later, she spied three profiles bobbing along the top of the hedge—Uncle Edmund’s, Robert’s, and…Henry’s?
She did not stop to debate whether it was coincidence or destiny. She ran. She flew. She streaked along the gravel path, through the archway, tripping on some stone steps and almost tumbling headlong into the forecourt.
There she stopped short, panting. Three male faces whipped around toward her as if they had been caught in some secret act; but they were merely dismounting.
“Uncle Edmund! My lord!” She could not risk looking at Henry, nor acknowledge him. “You—you have returned!”
“We are back.” Uncle Edmund was smirking at her.
“You haven’t heard—” she stated breathlessly.
“Heard what, my dear?”
“The news—”
“What news?”
“Oh, the…It…” Her throat would not stay open long enough to let the words out. She swallowed a few times, but her mouth stayed dry and thick. She chanced a glance in Henry’s direction. He was giving the reins of his steed to a groom, staring at her dolefully.
She tried again. “There…” But choked on a sob, and burst into wrenching, ugly, shameful tears. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to fall into Henry’s arms. Instead, here she was talking to her wicked uncle as if to a friend—a friend! And Henry looking on like a disinterested stranger…
Wait! He was saying something. She stifled her sobs in order to hear what Henry was muttering.
“…tell blacksmith to be careful with her. She may have pulled her fetlock…”
The tears came even more profusely now.
“What is it?” asked her uncle, impatient now.
But she could not make herself understood, and it was her cousin Sebastian (he had raced downstairs when he’d heard the horses) who gave them the news, shouting excitedly as he scrambled down the steps.
“It’s Mother! She’s—she’s sick. She’s gone dumb!”
“Who. Your mother?” demanded his father, disbelieving.
“Yes. It was witchcraft, and Bessie, you know, her old nurse,” (waving at the sobbing Lucinda) “she’s been arrested, and some other fellow as well, and Aunt Arabella. She’s a witch too. We’ve got her locked up, she can’t escape, come look!”
“Wait a minute. Wait!” said his father sternly. “Sebastian. You too, my lord. Inside, please. And call Fields and Mrs. Limpid. They will have to explain what this nonsense is all about. And you, gel. Stop your sniveling.” Turning to his guest, he smiled urbanely. “Domestic trouble. It’s always the same thing, isn’t it. One crisis after another…”
“Indeed,” said Henry, following his host up the steps.
The wind starched Lucinda’s wet cheeks. She threw her head back and noted with despair that her sky had lost its arc.
The sky hung low overhead, flat and heavy as a slab.
Just as Bitterbury’s jail was a primitive one, so too was its panoply of torture. Sophisticated mechanisms such as the thumbscrew or leg-vise had recently been introduced to England from the Continent, but the townspeople of Bitterbury had never heard of such contraptions. The method they employed for extracting confessions was the time-honored one of binding the ankles and wrists of the accused with ropes and tying him, hands stretched overhead, to a rack—in this case, an ordinary ladder. All the interrogator had to do was to keep twisting the rope a few notches tighter around some pegs or a cleat, like trimming a ship’s sails, except that in this case, it was the human body that was being stretched bit by bit.
Bessie’s stints on the rack did not last long, since the humiliation of being exposed naked to her tormentors made her cave in after the first turns of the tourniquet. Breathlessly, tearfully, she agreed to whatever they coached her to say, upon which they untied her, allowing her to put her disgracefully soiled garments back on.
The problem was that in order for the confession to be valid, it had to be repeated by the witch freely in a court of law, without resort to torture. But when Bessie, fully clothed once again, was tested on the validity of her admissions, she always found the courage, or rather the outrage, to recant, tearfully invoking every prayer she knew, scolding her torturers and vaunting her innocence before God. And so time and time again her confession had to be declared invalid. Matthias Boulderdash was not wholly discouraged, however; even if a confession could not be extracted, it did not much matter in this case. The woman had freely confessed to supplying Lady Clarissa with the belladonna confiscated by Dr. Hoogschotel; it was sufficient to condemn her. The only reason Matthias was persevering with her was that a confession of witchcraft would net him an additional eighteen shillings.
The newly accused warlock, Thomas Boothby, was another matter altogether. The evidence in his case was thin—the only accusation against him having been made by Lady Arabella Steppys, who was herself a suspect. And since this man was a stranger in town, it was hard to find any past mischief to pin on him. Not only that: the fellow seemed better able to withstand the torture, and underwent the procedure with a silly, determined grin on his face. To every question, he gave the same infuriating answer.
Matthias: Thou art a creature of the devil, art thou not!
Thomas (ingratiating, entreating): The Lord preserve me?
Matthias: In what form hath Satan appeared to thee?
Thomas (through gritted teeth): The Lord preserve me.
Matthias: What are the names of thy familiars? Tell us the names of thy familiars.
Thomas (groaning):…Lord! preserve me.
Matthias: We have reason to believe thou wert seen at a witches’ sabbath in Hampshire last May, supping in fiendish company.
Thomas (almost unintelligibly):…Lord…pre…ser…vme.
Matthias: And there didst drink thy fill of the blood of innocent babes. What sayst-thou to that?
Thomas (howling): Lord p…fff me!
As you can see, Matthias was getting nowhere with this one. What was particularly galling was the warlock’s fawning
expression—as if he truly wished to help Matthias out, and was chagrined at not being able to do so. To make matters worse, the fellow had the cheek to faint at inopportune times, thus wasting any momentum gained.
It was during the eighth or ninth interrogation—even Matthias was starting to lose count—that he decided more drastic measures were in order. And so he suggested to Robert Fetshank, the town’s butcher and part-time executioner who was assisting him in these exercises, that the next time the accused said the words, “The Lord preserve me,” he should take the cudgel to him.
“An excellent idea, sir,” said Robert, who was beginning to feel a little peckish, and was thinking of the capon his wife had promised to roast for his supper.
“Thomas Boothby,” the witch-finder intoned. “Thou art a witch, a warlock, a wizard, and a wretch. Thou hast indulged in lewd couplings with thy fellow-witches and hast even—yea, hast even been buggered by Satan himself!”
“Lord preserve me!” gasped Thomas, who had been holding his tongue tightly between his front teeth after hearing Matthias’ threat, but whose outrage at this most unjust and shameful accusation was not to be muzzled.
“Right!” crowed Robert Fetshank, and swung his cudgel.
The blow hit Thomas below the belt (although he was not wearing a belt or any other item of clothing). And it was the fearful shock of seeing the cudgel’s trajectory aimed at his very manhood that now caused in Thomas a massive, fatal coronary.
Matthias Boulderdash, noting that untying the accused and employing the usual revival techniques did nothing to arrest the grey pallor seeping into Thomas’s face and spreading silently along his limbs, had finally, regretfully, to pronounce him dead.
Slipper Page 13