John doesn’t reply. He just keeps working on my hand.
But I keep going. “What’s wrong with him? Can’t you heal him? I mean, if you can heal me, and I had jail fever, then why not him? Jail fever is the worst thing out there. Except maybe plague, but he doesn’t have that, I’d have noticed. Is it sweating sickness? No, if it were that, he’d be dead by now.…”
I’m babbling, I know. Any second he’s going to notice something’s not right. That my hand isn’t as cut up as it should be. He’s going to put two and two together, and when he does, I’m going to have to take him out. For some reason, I don’t think I’ll enjoy it.
“It’s not an illness, at least not in the way you’re thinking,” John finally says. He drops the tweezers on the tray and picks up the herbs, crumbling them carefully into the water. I can’t believe it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing. “It’s a curse.”
“Nicholas is cursed?” I’m surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t be. Nicholas didn’t get to be the head of the Reformists without picking up a few enemies along the way.
“Yes. That’s what’s making him sick. On the outside, it looks like pneumonia. Which would be bad enough. But on the inside, it’s much worse than that. It’s eating him up. There are things I can do to make him feel better, but I can’t make it go away.” He takes my hand and gently places it in the bowl. The water smells like mint and makes my skin tingle pleasantly. “If we can’t find a way to stop it, eventually it will kill him.”
If Nicholas died, the Reformist movement would probably die along with him. The rebellions and protests would end; things would go back to normal. Normal for everyone except for Nicholas, the Reformists, and the witches and wizards on the stake, I suppose.
And me.
I’m aware of John watching me, of my hand in the bowl of warm, tingly water, of him still holding it, his long fingers lightly wrapped around my smaller ones.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say. “You seem very loyal to him. You all do. Your father—” I’m cut off by John’s sudden grin. “What?”
“Well, when sentences start with ‘your father,’ they have a tendency to not end well.”
I smile at that. I can’t help it.
“Sorry,” he continues. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing, really. Just that I’ve never heard of a Reformist pirate before.”
“Ah.” John pulls our hands from the water and dries his with a flick of his wrist. “He’s the only one, at least that I know of. Pirates aren’t generally known for being political, are they?”
“I guess not,” I say. “When did he join? And why?”
He hesitates before replying.
“It was about three years ago. Things were starting to get bad, you know? Malcolm had just become king; Blackwell had just become Inquisitor. The Thirteenth Tablet had just been created. The burnings hadn’t started yet, but they would soon enough.”
I swallow. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t brought it up.
“Piracy isn’t exactly the safest profession anyway. He traveled a lot, would be gone for weeks at a time. So he quit. He didn’t think it was safe to leave us alone until things got better.”
He stops, reaches for a bandage. Looks down, his eyes resting on my hand, but they don’t really see it. They’re far away, somewhere outside this room. I’m left wondering who he meant when he said “us.”
“Of course, things didn’t get better,” he says, finally. “My father wanted to help the Reformists fight back, but they didn’t think he’d be useful. Or, if I’m being honest, they didn’t think he was trustworthy. He’s a good man, my father. A little different, I grant you. But a good man nonetheless. Nicholas saw that even if the others didn’t.”
“And now he’s a Reformist.”
John nods. “Committed. Nicholas has that effect, you know. He wants to change things. To help people. To bring the country back where it used to be, finish what Malcolm’s father started. People believe he’s the one to do it. They believe it so much they’re willing to risk their lives to see him succeed.”
“Or is it the other way around?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks, his quiet voice turning sharp.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s just…” I shake my head. “You say Nicholas is trying to help people. But all he’s doing is helping them to the stakes.” John’s eyes narrow, but I go on. “Magic is against the law. You know this. Your lives depend on not doing it, yet you keep on. It seems to me that if he really wanted to help you, he’d make you stop.”
John stands up then, so quickly he bumps into the table, nearly overturning the pitcher of wine. He reaches out without looking and steadies it.
“So you’re saying that when Nicholas brought you to me, coughing and shaking and delirious and dying, it would have been better for me not to do anything? For me to stand by and watch you die, knowing all the while there was something I could do, and instead do nothing?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I think that’s exactly what you mean.” He swipes a hand across his jaw, frustrated. “Magic isn’t something you can just stop. It’s who you are. You’re born with it or you aren’t. You can make the most of it, as I do, as Fifer does, or you can ignore it. But you can’t make it go away.” He shakes his head. “I use it to help people. So I wouldn’t stop even if I could.”
Immediately, I’m reminded of the witches and wizards on the stake in the square, their expression mirrored in the way he’s looking at me now: anger and defiance on the surface of an almost desperate sadness.
“What about you? You were arrested with those herbs”—his eyes meet mine, steady and unabashed, and I know immediately he knows what I used them for—“and if Nicholas hadn’t come, hadn’t broken you out using magic, you’d be dead now. If not by fire, then by fever. Does that seem right to you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say. “Magic is against the law. I got exactly what I deserved.”
John walks to the window and pulls open the curtain. It’s completely dark outside now. He stands there for a long time, staring out the window. Finally, he speaks without turning around.
“Downstairs. You said you lost your parents. May I ask what happened to them?”
“Plague. First my father, then my mother a few days later. I was nine.”
That’s how I met Caleb. The plague that killed my parents killed his, too—along with a million others—during the hottest summer and the worst plague outbreak anyone could remember. It started in the crowded, hot cities and ran rampant, killing the young, the old, the poor, and the rich, before making its way to the country. It was less than a week before the population of Anglia had been decimated, leaving kids like Caleb and me to fend for ourselves.
The first time I saw him, I thought I was dreaming. I hadn’t seen anyone—at least, anyone who was still alive—for weeks. It felt as if I were the only one in the world still left. Water was scarce and the food had long since disappeared. I survived by eating grass, tree bark, and the odd surviving flower, and I wished—more than once—that one of them would poison me. Kill me and put me out of my misery.
The day Caleb found me, riding by my house on a stolen horse on his way to court to beg for a job, I was a mess. The bodies of my mother and father were still in the house, and the heat and the stench of their decay had forced me to live outside. He approached me, talking slowly and quietly as you might to an injured animal. I was covered in dirt and filth, hunched over in the mud, eating the last of the raw vegetables I managed to dig up from the garden. I remember screaming and throwing a half-eaten parsnip at him. I was long past reason.
But he picked me up, more like a man than an eleven-year-old boy, put me on his horse, and managed to get us to the king’s palace in Upminster. It was a three-day journey, b
ut he got us there safely. And he managed to secure us jobs—not terribly difficult since the plague had killed off most of the servants, along with the king himself.
His only surviving son, Malcolm, was just twelve and wouldn’t be able to run the country for four more years. So the business of running what was left of Anglia went to his uncle, Thomas Blackwell, who became Lord Protector of the kingdom. There was no queen to wait on then, but I wouldn’t have been fit for that anyway. Instead, I did laundry, worked in the kitchen when they needed help, ran errands into town. I was content to do this forever, but Caleb had other plans for us.
“I’m sorry about your family.” John turns to face me. “But if you could have done something to save them—even if it meant using magic, even if it meant breaking the law—wouldn’t you have done it anyway?”
I shake my head. “Magic is what killed them. A wizard started that plague—you know that. Some say Nicholas did it. That he was the one who killed Malcolm’s father—”
The fire roars sharply in the grate then, the flames shooting high into the chimney.
“Hastings, it’s fine.” John waves his hand toward the fire and it abruptly dies. “Nicholas didn’t start that plague. And he didn’t kill the king. He would never do anything like that.”
“Then who was it?” I demand. “Only a very powerful wizard could start a plague and spread it like that. And Nicholas is the most powerful wizard in Anglia.”
“What would Nicholas gain by wiping out half the country?”
I shrug. “Maybe being the most powerful wizard in Anglia isn’t enough for him. Maybe he wants more. Maybe he wants the throne, too.”
“If Nicholas wanted to be king, why didn’t he make his move after he supposedly killed Malcolm’s father? It would have been much easier to do then, only a Lord Protector and a boy heir to stand in the way.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’s biding his time.”
John’s eyes grow dark then, his thoughtful gaze slipping into anger.
“For what? So he could sit by and watch as his friends and family are forced to leave the country? Watch as they’re arrested, tried, and sentenced to die? So he could bide his time?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat.
“Well, I do. Have you ever seen one? A burning?” His voice is quiet with intensity. “They’re horrible. The worst kind of death there is. There’s no dignity in it, only torture and spectacle and—” He breaks off. “They have to be stopped. And we can’t stop them by walking away.”
“The king—the Inquisitor—they’ll never change the law,” I say. “Surely you know that.”
John turns back to the window and doesn’t reply.
“And, yes, I’ve seen burnings,” I add quietly. “They’re terrible. It’s a terrible death to die.”
I was fourteen the first time I saw one. Threw up right in the middle of Tyburn; it even shook Caleb. But Blackwell wanted us to see it. He said we needed to see it to understand his laws, to know what it meant to be on the other side of them. I remember how Caleb and I huddled together that night, unable to sleep, afraid to sleep. It was months before the nightmares went away. But eventually I hardened myself against them, we both did. We had to.
John turns to face me. He starts to speak but is cut off by the door banging open.
“How are we coming on?” George stumbles into the room, holding a goblet. He looks drunk.
“Fine,” John says, walking to the table and collecting his supplies. I notice his hands shaking as he piles everything back on the tray.
“What about you?” George walks over to me. I’m so busy watching John that I forget about my hand until he reaches over and grabs it.
“It still hurts,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. George doesn’t really notice. He just glances at it and drops it back into my lap. He’s definitely drunk.
“Nice work, John. As always.” George reaches for the pitcher of wine, refills his goblet, then slumps into the chair by the fireplace. “I’m on night watch again,” he tells me.
“Grand,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” He takes a drink and looks at John. “They want to see you.”
“Who does?”
“Well, Fifer. She needs more”—George glances at me—“something for Nicholas. The usual. Peter wants something to help him sleep. And Gareth says he’s got a headache.”
John closes his eyes and nods, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids. He looks exhausted: deathly pale, circles under his eyes so dark they look like bruises.
George winces. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” John says. “I’ll go now. But see she wraps that hand, will you?” He plucks a bandage from the tray and tosses it to George. “The cut wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but there’s no sense inviting infection.”
He slips out the door without another glance in my direction. I realize I never thanked him.
For anything.
I STAY THROUGH THE NIGHT.
I nearly didn’t; that encounter at dinner was too close for my liking. But the news that I’m now Anglia’s most wanted has complicated things. It’s not enough to escape here and get back to Upminster—not anymore. Because it’s not just Blackwell and his guards after me; it’s every mercenary in the city. It’s about as safe for me there as it is here, which is to say not at all.
Anglia’s most wanted.
It’s almost too much to believe. There’s something about it all that is too much to believe. I know Blackwell wants me dead. But more than he wants Nicholas dead? Even if he does think I’m a witch, a spy, and a traitor, I’m still not as dangerous to him as Nicholas.
I can’t go to Upminster, and I can’t stay in Anglia. I suppose I’ll have to escape to Gaul. It’s close, just across the channel. Provided I can find a ship to stow away on, it’ll be easy enough to get there. Their king is sympathetic to Anglican exiles; they won’t turn me away.
Then there’s Caleb.
I don’t know what to make of his being promoted to Inquisitor. Was Blackwell planning to do that all along, even before my arrest? Or did Caleb ask for it afterward, as a way to protect me? But if he took the position to protect me, why didn’t he come back to Fleet to get me? He didn’t leave me there to die. I don’t believe that. There must be another explanation.
Either way, today’s the day I escape.
Last night, George let it slip that everyone would be gone all morning, something about going to the black market to get supplies. It’s the opportunity I need to search the house. I can’t leave for Gaul empty-handed; I need to prepare. Get my bearings, steal money and other valuables to trade with, arm myself with whatever I can find or make. Then tonight, when we make the trip to visit the seer, run like hell. And kill whoever gets in my way.
George is still asleep. He’s splayed out on the floor at the end of my bed, completely passed out, a blanket tangled around his feet. He must have tripped over it at some point last night and fallen, either unwilling or unable to get up.
I dress quickly and quietly, putting on the same clothes I wore yesterday. It would be nice if I had something warmer or more practical. But they’ll have to do. I snatch George’s blanket from the floor and hastily tie it into a makeshift bag.
I glance at George. He doesn’t look as though he’ll be up for a while. I consider tying him up before I leave, just in case. But that might wake him, and then I’d have to hurt him. I don’t want to do that. He’s grown on me a little. So I let him be.
I open the door slowly, quietly. Tiptoe out, then down the hallway to the head of the stairs, and listen carefully. It’s silent: no voices, no sound of footsteps or dishes at the table. Nothing. I hurry down the stairs into the entrance hall.
First stop, dining room. Pewter plates, silverware, I’ll even take those ugly snake glasses if I have to. I rush to the cabinet where all the food was laid out last night and rip open the drawers, one after the other. They’re all empty. Damnation.
I cross
to the room on the other side of the entrance hall. It’s a sitting room, very grand. Tall stained glass windows line the room, each pane in a different shade of blue. A large fireplace takes up one wall, a tapestry of a pleasant woodland scene covers another. A table sits underneath it, surrounded by chairs covered in blue brocade.
I race around the room, searching. Under the rug for a loose floorboard. Behind the tapestry for a secret alcove. The underside of the table for hidden drawers. The seams along the walls for a concealed door. Nothing. Where the hell are all the weapons? I’m in the home of the biggest traitor in Anglia—sorry, make that second-biggest—and there’s not a single sharp, strung, or incendiary device in the whole place? It’s not possible. Nicholas hasn’t gotten this far by leading a rebellion with his bare hands.
The only place I haven’t looked is the kitchen. It’s risky. That’s Hastings’s territory. And servant or no, he’s still a ghost. I don’t know how Nicholas managed to tame his destructive side, but it’s there. With ghosts, it always is. Witch hunters are sometimes requested for hauntings, but it’s pointless. We can’t do anything except stand back and watch the chaos. The last haunting Caleb and I were called to, the ghost ripped a barn from the ground and sheared the entire flock of sheep inside. Scattered the wool for miles. Such a mess, it looked as if it were snowing in July. Caleb and I sat on a hill and watched, giggling like children.
I swallow hard and push him out of my head. I can’t think about Caleb right now.
Next to the dining room is a doorway that opens into a narrow, dark hall. I can’t be sure, but my guess is it leads to the kitchen. I step inside, pause, and listen. Silence. If Hastings is around, surely I’ll hear him? The hall is cold, dank, and drafty. That could be because it’s made entirely of stone, but it could also be Hastings. Ghosts make everything cold. I shiver a little and keep going.
Finally, the hall opens into the kitchen. I stop in the doorway and look around. It looks like a smaller version of the kitchen at Ravenscourt. To my left is the oven. It’s huge. The opening is tall enough for a man of Nicholas’s height to walk inside without having to duck. There’s a fire burning inside, and something turning on the roasting rack. It looks like deer.
The Witch Hunter Page 9