Witch Hunter (7 page)

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

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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.’

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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.’

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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

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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

practising 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 towards 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 backwards, search

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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—’

‘Then you betrayed me. Disobeyed me. Now you’re

nothing to me. And I am finished with you.’ And he

doesn’t have to say it, but I know he’s thinking it: What’s

done is done; it cannot be undone. His steadfast motto, the

one he lives by.

The one I will die by.

Blackwell snaps his fingers. Before I can get up, two

guards burst in, haul me to my feet. I struggle, but it’s no

use. Terror has sapped my strength, and shame has robbed

me of my determination to fight. Because I know – deep

down, I know – I’m getting what I deserve.

They take me to Fleet.

Less prison than purgatory: a state of waiting, of

suffering; a place where people wait with no hope, wait to

die; a place to pass through before you reach the end of the

world. It ends the same for everyone here: in fire and ash,

disgrace and dishonour.

There’s no special treatment for me. They take my cloak,

my shoes. They throw me in a cell with the rest of the

criminals and heretics, as if I were a criminal or heretic.

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I am a criminal and heretic.

To my right, a small window is set into the wall, a slice of

early-morning sky visible through the small iron bars. To

my left is another set of bars and a door that leads out into

a dark hallway. The floor is caked with dirt and rat droppings

and completely devoid of furniture.

In the cell with me is another woman, a witch by the

looks of her. She lies across from me, stretched out on the

floor. She looks like a rag doll. Her arms and legs are broken

and disjointed, sticking out at odd angles. Her chest whistles

as she breathes in and out. Every now and again, she moans.

She’s been pulled apart on the rack. Shredded. I back away

from her, as far as the cell will allow me. Away from her

suffering, as if it were contagious.

I hear footsteps then, echoing down the dark stone

hallway. Someone is coming. I jump to my feet, push down

my mounting panic, and step to the door. I won’t let them

take me. I won’t let them torture me. I will kill them or

I will die trying.

When he emerges from the shadows, I nearly collapse

in relief.

‘Caleb!’

‘Elizabeth. Oh my God—’ Caleb grips the bars of my

cell, his eyes wide. ‘Are you okay? No, of course you’re not.’

He pushes his hair off his forehead in a frantic swipe. ‘Are

you hurt?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m okay.’

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‘I got here as soon as I could. I waited for you, outside

your room, as I promised. And when you didn’t show up, I

went looking for you. I found some guards, and they told

me what happened. But by the time I found out you were

here, they wouldn’t let me in.’

I notice his hands then, still wrapped around the bars,

the knuckles scuffed and raw and bloody.

‘What happened?’

He shrugs. ‘I told you. They wouldn’t let me in.’

His eyes meet mine and we both fall silent.

‘What am I going to do, Caleb?’ I say, finally. ‘Blackwell

sentenced me to death. To be burned alive. I’m going

to die—’

‘No, you’re not.’ He reaches through the bars, grips my

shoulders, gives them a little shake. ‘Do you hear me? You

are not going to die. I won’t allow it.’

‘But Blackwell—’

‘Isn’t thinking,’ Caleb finishes for me. ‘He’s been under a

lot of pressure lately, these damned Reformist protests…’

He shakes his head. ‘When he realises what he’s done, he’ll

issue a pardon. I’m sure of it.’

I frown. Blackwell has never been one to forgive. To

apologise. To admit when he’s been wrong, if he’s ever been

wrong. Caleb knows this as well as I do.

‘I’ll go to him today,’ he continues. ‘Plead for you.

Remind him how valuable you are. How good you are.’

‘But I haven’t been good,’ I say. ‘Not lately. You’ve had

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to cover for me four times in as many weeks. You’ve never

had to do that before.’

‘No, but there’s a reason for that, isn’t there?’ He

looks at me, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched in a hard,

tight line. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? About the king, I mean?

If you’d told me, I could have helped you. Stopped

it, maybe—’

‘You couldn’t have stopped it,’ I say. ‘You know that.’

Caleb goes quiet.

‘I guess not,’ he admits, finally. ‘But I knew something

was wrong with you. I should have tried harder to find out

what it was.’ He winces and looks away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault. It just happened.’

‘Because I wasn’t paying attention.’ Caleb turns back to

me. ‘I didn’t see what everyone else saw. What he saw. If I

had, I would have seen that you…’ He looks at me as if he’s

never seen me before. ‘That you’re not…’

‘That I’m not what?’

‘That you’re not a girl anymore,’ Caleb gestures at me

with a sweep of his hand. ‘You grew up.’

If this were a different time, or a different place, I might

have felt something. Pleased that he finally saw me.

Displeased, maybe, that it took him so long. I might wonder

what he thinks of me now, if things might change between

us. But it isn’t. So I don’t.

‘If I didn’t notice, I guarantee Blackwell didn’t,’ Caleb

continues. ‘He probably still sees you the way you were

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when you started. A small, scrawny, little thing. Far more

trouble than you were worth.’

He means to be reassuring, I know. But it’s so close to