The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. You just don’t seem yourself. You’re so quiet. Normally, I can’t get you to shut up.” He smiles. “And you say I never come to see you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten an invitation.”

  “You used to not need one.”

  “Yes. Well. We were kids then. I can’t exactly show up at your room without an invitation now, can I? I shouldn’t even be here now. What would people think?”

  I know exactly what they’d think. My hand goes to my pocket again.

  “Anyway, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me. You used to be able to tell me anything.”

  I was able to tell him anything—once. But that was before he grew tall and I stayed short, he got handsome while I stayed cute, and he opened all the doors I wanted to keep shut.

  “I’m fine, Caleb. I’m just tired. I’ll feel better in the morning.”

  He’s quiet for a moment.

  “If you say so,” he finally says. “Can I at least help you to your room?”

  I nod. He slips his arm around my shoulder and I lean into him, and for a second, it feels as if it’s just us. As if it’s always been. I think for a second that maybe I can tell him what’s happening with me, what’s happening to me. I’m trying out the words in my head, and I actually open my mouth to say them. But when I look up, I see he’s looking over my head and frowning.

  I turn around just as he steps out of the shadows: one of King Malcolm’s guards, standing next to my door in his crisp black-and-red uniform, holding his pike.

  Oh no, I think. Not now.

  A flicker of surprise crosses Caleb’s face.

  “Richard.” Caleb nods. “Are you looking for me?”

  Richard clears his throat. “No. I’m here to, ah, you know.”

  “No, I don’t.” Caleb’s surprise turns into a scowl. “Care to tell me?”

  Richard glances at me but doesn’t reply.

  “Elizabeth?” Caleb looks at me. “What is Richard doing here?”

  I shake my head, too horrified to speak.

  Caleb releases me and starts toward Richard. I slump against the wall, pressing my cheek against the cool stone. I hear his footsteps tap the floor as he moves down the hall.

  “I’ll ask you again: What are you doing here?”

  Again, Richard doesn’t reply. But I know Caleb won’t let it go until he does.

  “Answer me!”

  “Caleb, stop.” I peel myself off the wall. Start toward him. I don’t make it more than a few steps before everything starts spinning out of control again. I pitch forward wildly and tumble to the floor in a heap.

  “Elizabeth!” Caleb rushes to my side.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter. But I’m not. Every time I open my eyes, everything goes topsy-turvy. The air is dark and suffocating, and the walls feel as if they’re closing in on me.

  “Let’s get you inside.” Caleb pulls me to my feet. We start toward my room again, but Richard steps forward to block us.

  “She’s to come with me,” Richard says.

  “She’s not going anywhere with you,” Caleb snaps. “And if you don’t get out of my way, I swear to you, you’ll be sorry.”

  I wince, waiting for Richard to yell, maybe throw a punch. Instead, they both go quiet. Caleb releases me. I open my eyes to find him crouched beside me, clutching a bundle of herbs. I recognize them immediately: purple spiky pennyroyal, yellow flowering silphium. My hand goes immediately to my pocket but I already know it’ll be empty.

  He gets to his feet. “Elizabeth, where did these come from?”

  “Her pocket. They fell out of her pocket.” Richard’s eyes are wide. “I saw them.”

  Caleb turns them over in his hand. Examines them closely. Frowns.

  “This is pennyroyal,” he says. “And silphium. Women use these if they’re, you know”—I can hear the discomfort in his voice—“trying to prevent a baby. They’re witches’ herbs.” He looks up at me. “Why would you have these?”

  It’s a long, silent, dreadful moment before he speaks, as he works out what he knows against what he wishes he didn’t.

  “Baby,” he repeats, his face going pale. “And you… you’re going with him.” He jerks his head at Richard. “At midnight. To see the king.”

  I shake my head. Look for a denial. An excuse. Anything. Only there isn’t one.

  Caleb spins on his heel to face Richard.

  “You didn’t see anything,” he says. “She was never here. She never had these. I’ve got money. I’ll pay you to keep quiet.…”

  Caleb starts pulling coins out of his pocket. But Richard is already backing away, his thumb placed between his first two fingers: the old sign against witchcraft.

  “She’s a witch,” he says. “I can’t let her go.” He reaches for his belt, pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

  “She’s not a witch,” Caleb says. “She just—”

  He cuts himself off, but I know what he was going to say: She’s not a witch, she just has witches’ herbs. Caleb knows the laws, just as I do. What I have, what I was using them for, it’s enough to send me to the rack for torture, to prison for detainment, to the stake for burning.

  I turn to run, but lose my balance again and slip to the floor. Caleb reaches for me, but Richard pushes him away and grabs the back of my cloak, hauling me to my feet. He yanks my arms roughly behind my back and slaps the bindings over my wrists.

  “Elizabeth Grey, by the authority of King Malcolm of Anglia, I am commanded to arrest you for the crime of witchcraft. You are hereby ordered to return with us to Fleet prison for detention and to await your trial, presided over by the Inquisitor, Lord Blackwell, Duke of Norwich. If you are found guilty, you will be executed by burning, your land and goods forfeit to the crown.” A pause. “So help you God.”

  “You can’t take her to prison!” Caleb shouts. “You don’t have the authority. Not without Blackwell’s consent.”

  Richard considers this.

  “Then I won’t take her to prison,” he says. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, but he adds, “I’ll take her to see Blackwell.”

  PRISON WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER.

  Caleb takes my arm. “You’re not taking her. Not without me.”

  Richard jerks me from his grasp. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he growls. “She’s in enough trouble as it is. Your trailing after her like a puppy isn’t going to help.”

  “He’s right, Caleb,” I say. “You’ll only make it worse. Just go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be back soon.”

  Caleb glances between us, weighing his decision.

  “Fine. I’ll wait. But not in my room. I’ll wait here. If you’re not back in an hour, I’m coming for you.”

  Richard hauls me out the door, into the empty courtyard, across the grounds, and up a flight of stairs that leads to the living quarters. Ravenscourt is the main residence of the king and queen, but Blackwell keeps apartments here, too, more for status than necessity as his own home is a short boat ride down the river.

  He thrusts me down the shadowed hall until it ends in a set of wide double doors: shiny dark oak, glittering brass handles, a pair of guards dressed in black and red. As we approach, they uncross their pikes with a clink, the blades flashing like lightning, reflecting the candles flickering along the wall.

  The door swings open, and a boy slips out and scurries past me. A servant, maybe, though he seems little more than a child. The guards don’t seem to notice; they act as if he’s not there. Maybe he isn’t—maybe I’m imagining him. Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing.

  Inside, a fire crackles in the hearth; the scent of rosemary drifts from the fresh rushes strewn on the floor. Blackwell sits behind his desk, papers spread before him, working as though it were twelve noon instead of twelve midnight. If he’s surprised to see me standing there, in his chambers, handcuffed and escorted by one of Malcolm’s guards, he doesn’t show it. His eyes flick from my face to my bound hands to Richard, then back
to me again.

  He’s not an old man, nor is he young. I don’t actually know his age, but he looks the same now as he always has: dark hair, uncut by gray, closely trimmed to his head. Short, cropped beard. A long, thin face, a nose that stops just short of being called big. Tall, well over six feet. He might be attractive were it not for his eyes, like chips of wet coal. Cold, hard, black.

  “Uncuff her,” he says to Richard.

  “But—don’t you want to know what she’s here for before I release her?”

  “I give the orders here, and I ask the questions,” Blackwell replies. “Uncuff her.”

  Richard steps forward, unlocks my bindings. They snap open with a quiet click.

  “I want to know why you’re here,” Blackwell says, his attention still on Richard. “Why you’ve brought one of my witch hunters to me in the middle of the night shackled like a common criminal. And why you”—he shifts his gaze to me—“allowed it to happen.”

  Richard glances at me, as if willing me to speak first. I look straight ahead and say nothing. If he thinks I’m indicting myself in front of this judge and jury, he’s got another thing coming.

  “You tell me,” Blackwell repeats, his voice a quiet menace. “Now.”

  “I—I went to her chambers. To take her to the king. He requested her presence,” Richard stammers. “And she had these. They fell out of her pocket.”

  He pulls out the herbs, drops them on Blackwell’s desk. Green, fragrant; pretty, even; tied into a bundle with a snip of twine, like a simple posy a boy might give a girl. So innocent-looking. Yet so very damning.

  I close my eyes against the deafening silence that follows, resigning myself to what comes next. I never imagined that coming back to Ravenscourt could lead to this. First I’m disguised as a maid, then I’m introduced to the king. Then I’m summoned before the king, and the next thing I know I’m on a skiff downriver at midnight, to a bathhouse in search of a wisewoman and a bundle of herbs. I paid that old hag three months’ wages: two for her knowledge, one for her silence, for all the good it did me.…

  “Leave us,” Blackwell says.

  My eyes fly open. Richard glances at me, and I see a flicker of something pass across his face: It almost looks like guilt. He nods at Blackwell, spins on his heel, and leaves the room.

  Blackwell leans back in his chair, a high-backed wooden thing padded in crimson velvet. It could be a throne. By the power he has over me, it may as well be one. He clasps his hands on the desk in front of him and stares. This is his way. He will stare at me until I have no choice but to say something.

  But I won’t say anything—I swear I won’t. There’s no point anyway. I’m in trouble and nothing I can say will change that. Seconds turn into minutes and, still, he remains silent. I begin to sway on my feet: tired, my head fuzzy from the absinthe, my gut churning with nausea and nerves.

  Maybe I’m making things worse by not speaking. Maybe Blackwell sees my silence as defiance. And the last thing I need right now is for him to think I’m defying him.

  Again.

  “It wasn’t anything I wanted. With the king, I mean.” I begin like this, preemptively, the words harsh against the silence in the room. There’s no way to mitigate the truth of them, so I don’t even try. “I didn’t encourage it, if that’s what you’re thinking. He sent for me. With a note.”

  That’s how it started: with a note. Written in the king’s own hand and given to his guard, passed to a page to a servant then to me, dropped into my lap one night during dinner. I remember unfolding the thick parchment with a smile, thinking it was from Caleb.

  It wasn’t.

  “He asked me to wait in the hall outside my room at midnight. But I didn’t. Not at first. Why would I? It was a mistake—it had to be. What would the king want with me?”

  But it’s a lie. I knew what he wanted. How could I not? There were too many sidelong glances, too many invitations to sit near him and talk about nothing, too much interest paid to someone who should have been no one. Even without all that, I would know. As Caleb always reminded me: Nothing good comes to a girl after midnight.

  “The notes kept coming, and I kept ignoring them. Then one night he sent one of his guards for me. I had to go with him. To him. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Blackwell doesn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to. Still, I go on. Now that I’ve started I can’t seem to stop.

  “I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I could make sure nothing else did. I couldn’t have the king’s child.” I swallow. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud, the possibility of it, what I was trying to prevent. “I knew he’d send me away. That he’d shut me in an abbey, to live behind walls forever. Everyone would know. I didn’t want that. I don’t want that. I want to stay. Here, with you.”

  If Blackwell is moved by my plea, he doesn’t show it. He continues to stare at me, his face cold, hard, carved in stone. I can read nothing from it.

  Finally, he speaks. “How long have you known?”

  “How long have I known what?”

  “That you’re a witch.”

  “A witch?” I shriek the word as if I’ve never heard it before. “I’m not a witch! I’m not—”

  “You. Had. Herbs.” His words are a growl; they may as well be a shout. “Witches’ herbs. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you a witch.”

  “I’m not a witch,” I repeat. “I mean, I did have witches’ herbs. And I did take them. But I’m not a witch.” Even to me, this sounds weak.

  “What else do you have tucked away, besides these herbs?” Blackwell flicks his wrist at them, still lying on his desk. “Wax dolls? Witch’s ladder? Spellbooks? A familiar?”

  “Nothing! I have nothing tucked away. I hate witchcraft, just as you do!”

  “Not as I do.” His voice is a shower of winter rain down my back. “Not I.”

  He falls silent. The only sounds in the room are the crackle of the fire, my own heavy breathing, my own thudding heart.

  “I’m not a witch,” I say again.

  Blackwell opens a drawer in his desk, pulls out a sheet of parchment. Takes up his pen, dips it in ink, and begins writing. I can hear the nib scratching the paper.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Elizabeth.” A pause. “Very disappointed.”

  I take a breath. Hold it.

  “You have spent years with me, have you not? You were one of my best witch hunters, were you not?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I had my doubts, you know,” he continues, still writing. “When Caleb first brought you to me, he said he could make something of you. I didn’t believe him.” Another pause as he signs the paper, his hand looping out his waving, scrawling signature. He scatters sand on the ink to dry, shakes the excess onto the floor. “But you surprised me. I didn’t expect you to live past the first week.”

  I shiver at his bleak analysis. At his thoughts about my chances of surviving, at his tone that tells me it didn’t much matter to him if I hadn’t.

  “But you did. And here you are.”

  Finally, Blackwell looks up at me, takes me in with a sweep of those cold, black eyes.

  “I expected more of you. What I did not expect is this.” He waves his hand. “You broke one law by possessing those herbs. Another when you killed that necromancer”—he gleams at me, so he knows about that, too—“and you have become a liability. I cannot have witch hunters breaking my laws. These are laws I created—your king created—to keep this country safe. You break them, you will be punished for them.”

  Punished.

  I knew it was coming; there was no way it wasn’t. I imagine the things he could do: demote me, send me back to the kitchens, shut me behind the walls of a nunnery, just as I feared.

  I don’t say anything. I just nod.

  He stands then, abrupt. It’s then I notice he’s dressed for daytime: black trousers; black doublet, the wrists ringed with dark fur; his collar of office draped around his neck, heavy and gold.
Clothes to remind me of his power, his influence. Of his power to do anything, to anyone.

  As if I needed reminding.

  He lifts the parchment from the desk, holds it up. It looks official enough: long and scrolled, his signature just above the royal seal at the bottom. I can just make out a rose, the flower of his house—same as the king’s house—pressed into the hard red wax.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s a Bill of Attainder.” With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it onto the desk. It slides across the slick wooden surface, curls onto the floor. It’s this: this momentary loss of control that tips me to his anger, simmering below the surface like a pot left to boil too long. And I know that whatever this Bill of Attainder is, it isn’t a pardon. “It proclaims your sentence.”

  “My… sentence?” The word sticks in my throat. “What sentence?”

  “The sentence I have given you, in punishment for your crime.”

  My crime. I suck in a breath.

  “You are accused of witchcraft. You have admitted to practicing witchcraft. This is treason. The punishment for witchcraft, and for treason, is death.”

  “Death?” I repeat the word, I whisper it.

  “Yes.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But… I’m a witch hunter,” I cry. “Your witch hunter! You can’t just send me to prison, to the pyre… you can’t just burn me alive in front of everyone! You can’t!”

  Blackwell shrugs, careless. “I can, and I have. It’s done. You will be taken to Fleet to await your execution at Tyburn, where you will be burned alive at the stake.” He flicks his hand toward the fire roaring in the grate. “Alongside the rest of the lawbreakers and heretics.”

  The floor rocks underneath me then, as if I were standing on the deck of a ship. I stumble backward, search for something to hold. But there’s nothing. Nothing to save me. Nothing at all. I crumple to the floor in a heap.

  “I lived with you,” I whisper against the lump rising in my throat. I can’t cry, I won’t cry. It won’t help. “I did everything you asked me to. I was loyal to you. You said it yourself: I was one of your best witch hunters—”