“Oh, so now we have a gang of thieves! The schoolmaster, Dr. Shields, Mr. Paine, Winston, and Mrs. Nettles! A fearsome five, indeed!”
“Make light as you wish,” Matthew said, “but I think one of those five entered this house and took my gold coin.”
“Not me!” the woman said sharply. “Surely you don’t mean me!”
“Of course he means you!” Bidwell assured her. “If he can accuse a cripple of running down a staircase in the dark, he can accuse whomever the hell he pleases!”
“It wasn’t the doctor.” Woodward placed his hand against his bruised shoulder. “The man who hit me had some size to him. Six feet he was, at least. A giant, possibly. And he moved as swiftly as a snake.”
“Yes, sir.” Matthew gave a faint smile. “And we fought off Shawcombe with candles versus daggers, didn’t we?”
Woodward understood his meaning, and tucked his head down an inch or so. Bidwell slammed the tankard down upon the nearest tabletop. “I’m going back up to bed, for whatever sleep I can find! I daresay it won’t be much!” He focused his gaze directly at Matthew. “First light will be here in two hours. I’ll expect you to be ready to carry out your sentence.”
“I shall be.”
Bidwell picked up a lantern and took three weary steps toward the staircase. Then he abruptly stopped and looked back, his face daubed yellow in the glow. “Is there something in particular about that coin I should know?”
Matthew recalled the conversation he’d had with Woodward, concerning the theory that there might be an encampment of Spanish soldiers near the Indians’ village. Now, however, seemed not the moment to bring it up with Bidwell, his being in such a fractious temperament.
“What I’m asking is,” Bidwell continued, “why would someone risk entering my house for one gold coin?”
Matthew said, “I don’t know.”
“No ideas? Have your theories failed you?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“I think,” Bidwell said bluntly, “that you know much more about this than you wish to say. But I’ll let it go, as I’m in no mood for a fencing match with you. Good night, gentlemen.” Bidwell ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Nettles gave the two men a crisp good night—her face a solemn mask that told Matthew she was quite offended at his accusation of thievery—and went about her business.
Woodward waited until he was positive they were alone. Then he gave a quiet laugh. “Of course you have a theory, don’t you? You have a theory for everything under the sun.”
“If you mean I fervently desire to know the why of things, you’re correct.”
“The why of things,” Woodward repeated, and there was a bitter edge in his voice. “Knowing the why of things can kill a man, Matthew.” He put his hand to his throat and massaged it. “Sometimes it’s best not to ask too many questions. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“It’s not my nature, sir,” Matthew replied; he felt sure that Woodward’s attitude in this matter of the why had to do with the man’s past life in London.
“You are young. I am old. That makes all the difference.” He let go a long, pained sigh. “All right, then. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“We may have had a visit tonight,” Matthew said quietly, “from the Spanish spy.” Woodward didn’t respond. He scratched the mosquito bite on his cheek. “That coin may be evidence of the Spanish presence near the Indians’ village, wherever it might be,” Matthew continued, keeping his voice hushed. “The spy may have felt it necessary to remove it from sight.”
“But the damage has been done. Bidwell already knows about the coin. The entire population does, it seems.”
“Yes, sir, but—as Bidwell might say—a hole in a ship must be patched, regardless how much water has already flooded the hull. The thief didn’t expect to be interrupted. Perhaps he hoped I might believe the coin to be misplaced. But removing it from sight would also remove it as an object of Bidwell’s interest.”
“And of course,” Woodward added, “the spy wouldn’t know your suspicions.”
“Exactly.”
“What action do you propose, then?”
“I propose…to serve my sentence and scribe the answers of the witnesses. Then I propose to endure the whip as best I can, and hope I neither weep in public nor soil my breeches. I propose for you to visit Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic.”
“Matthew, I told you that I’m—”
“You’re ill, sir,” Matthew said firmly. “And you might worsen, without help. I shall not retreat on this subject.”
Woodward made a sound of exasperation. He knew the young man could be as tenacious as a dockside dog trying to gnaw through a crab’s shell. “All right,” he relented. “I’ll go.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes. Tomorrow.”
“Your visit should be twofold,” Matthew said. “One, to aid your health. Two, to make some inquiries—subtle, of course—about Mr. Paine, Mr. Winston, and Schoolmaster Johnstone.”
“The schoolmaster? It can’t be him, Matthew! His deformed knee!”
“I should like to know if Dr. Shields has ever inspected it.”
“You’re accusing an Oxford brother,” Woodward said, with an uptilt of his chin. “I find that objectionable.”
“I’m accusing no one, sir. But I would wish to know the schoolmaster’s history, just as I would wish to know the histories of Mr. Winston and Mr. Paine.”
“And what of Dr. Shields’s history?”
“His, too. But I think the doctor may be less than candid about his own life, therefore other sources will have to be tapped.”
“All this is well and good.” Woodward eased himself to his feet. “However, we can’t forget our main purpose here. We’re primarily concerned with a witch, not a spy.”
“A woman accused of witchcraft,” Matthew corrected. He had spoken it a little too sternly, and he had to amend his tone. “Sir,” he said.
“Of course.” The magistrate nodded, his eyelids drooping. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” Matthew let him start walking away before he decided, on an impulse, to say the next thing that left his lips. “Magistrate? Who is in pain when you call to Ann?”
Woodward stopped as if he had collided with a wall. He stood very still.
“I couldn’t help but overhear. But it’s not something I haven’t heard before, sir.” There was no response. “Forgive my intrusion. I had to ask.”
“No.” Woodward’s voice was tight. “You did not have to ask.” He remained standing exactly as he was, his back toward the young man. “This is one why you should leave be, Matthew. Heed what I say. Leave it be.”
Matthew said nothing more. He watched as the magistrate walked out of the parlor, his back ramrod-straight.
And thus the night ended, with more questions and no answers.
eleven
A SMALL BUT IMPORTANT MIRACLE greeted Matthew as he awakened, responding to the insistent fist of Robert Bidwell upon his chamber door: the sun had appeared.
It was a weak sun, yes, and in imminent danger of being clouded over by the jealous sky, but there it was all the same. The early light, a misty golden sheen, had brought forth Fount Royal’s roosters in fine trumpeting form. As Matthew shaved and dressed, he listened to the orchestra of cocks vying for vocal dominance. His gaze kept slipping down to where the Spanish coin had been resting atop the dresser, and he couldn’t help but wonder whose boots had crossed the floor to steal it. But today another matter was supreme. He would have to forswear his mind from the subject of the coin and the spy and concentrate fully on his task—which was, after all, his raison d’être.
A breakfast of eggs, fried potatoes, and corncakes filled Matthew’s belly, all washed down with a cup of sturdy dark brown tea. Woodward was late to the table, his eyes swollen and his breathing harsh; he appeared to have either slept not at all for the remainder of the night or suffered dreams that prevented rest. Before Matthew could speak, Woodward lift
ed a hand and said in a croaking voice, “I promised I would visit Dr. Shields today, and I shall. As soon as we have interviewed Mr. Buckner.”
“Surely you’re going to interview more than one witness today, aren’t you? As tomorrow is the Sabbath, I mean.” Bidwell was sitting at the head of the table, his breakfast platter already scraped clean. Though he’d been severely tried by the recent events, he was clean-shaven, freshly washed, and dressed in a tan-colored suit. The ringlets of his lavish wig cascaded down around his shoulders.
“I will interview Mr. Buckner this morning.” Woodward seated himself on the bench across the table from Matthew. “Then I’m going to visit Dr. Shields. If I am up to the task, I will interview Mr. Garrick in the afternoon.”
“All right, then. Just so there is some movement, I should be satisfied.”
“I, too, should be satisfied with a movement,” Woodward said. “My system has been clogged by these country meals.” He pushed aside his breakfast dish, which had been loaded with food by a servant girl in preparation for his arrival. Instead he reached for the green ceramic teapot and poured a cup, which he drank down with several noisy swallows.
“You’ll be feeling better before long,” Bidwell assured him. “The sun cures all ills.”
“Thank you, sir, but I do not desire platitudes. Will we have the proper furnishings on hand when we reach the gaol?”
“I’ve arranged for Mr. Winston and Mr. Green to take care of what you need. And I must say, there’s no reason to be snappish. This is a great day, sir, for the history of Fount Royal.”
“No day is great when murder is involved.” Woodward poured a second cup of tea and that, too, went down his hatch.
It came time to leave. Bidwell announced that Goode was already waiting in front with the carriage, and he wished them both—as he put it—“good hunting.” Woodward felt positively feeble as he left the house, his bones heated and flesh clammy, his throat paved by Hell’s burning brimstone. It was all he could do to suck in a breath, as his nostrils were so constricted. But he would have to carry on, and hopefully Dr. Shields could relieve his discomfort later in the day.
Clouds had moved in, obscuring the blessed sun, as Goode flicked the reins and the carriage wheels began to turn. But as they passed the spring—where two women were already drawing water into buckets—the sun’s rays slipped their bondage and shone down upon the surface. Matthew saw the spring suddenly glow golden with a marvelously beautiful light. Around the water, the green tops of oak trees were cast with the same gilded lumination, and for a moment Matthew realized the power that Fount Royal held over its citizens: a place carved from the wild, fenced and tamed, baptized in sweat and tears, made useful by sheer human will and muscle. It was a dream and a damnation too, this desiring to control the wilderness, to shape it with axeblade and shovel. Many had perished in the building of this town; many more would die before it was a harbor city. But who could deny the temptation and challenge of the land?
In some old Latin tome on philosophy he’d read, Matthew recalled that the author had assigned all reflection, peace, and piety to God; to the Devil had been assigned the need of man to go forth and conquer, to break asunder and rework, to question and reach beyond all hope of grasping.
It seemed to him, then, that according to that philosophy the Devil was indeed at work in Fount Royal. And the Devil was indeed at work in him, because the question of why was rooted in the tree of forbidden fruit. But what would this land—this world—be without such a question? And where would it be without those instincts and needs—seeds from the Devil, some might say—that caused men to wish for more than God had given them?
The clouds shifted, and suddenly yet again the sun had vanished. Matthew looked up and saw patches of blue amid the gray, but they were becoming slimmer and smaller. In another moment, the gray clouds held dominion once more.
“So much for the healing properties of the sun,” Woodward said.
Smoke was still drifting from the charred ruins of what had yesterday been a farmhouse. Along Truth Street the acrid odor of burning remained strong. Presently Goode bade the horses slow and reined them in before the gaol. The giant redhaired and red-bearded Mr. Green was waiting outside for them, along with Edward Winston.
“Your wishes have been met,” Winston said, eager to please. “I’ve even donated my own desk and Bible to the cause.”
Green took them all inside. Matthew was relieved to see that Noles had been released and had fled his coop. The roof hatch was open, allowing in the hazy gray light, and Green had lit several lanterns and hung them from wallhooks. Back in the last cell, the woman was huddled in the straw, her sackcloth clothing bundled about her.
“This is where you’ll be,” Green rumbled, opening the door of the cage opposite the one in which Noles had been confined. Clean straw had been laid down. In a corner had been placed two buckets, one empty and the other brimmed with fresh water. At the center of the cell stood a desk and chair, a leatherbound Bible (suitable for swearing truth upon) atop the desk, and the chair holding a comfortable-looking blue cushion. Before the desk was a stool for the witness. To the right of the magistrate’s position was a second, smaller combination desk and chair—removed from the schoolhouse, Matthew presumed—and atop it another blotter and a rectangular wooden box. Matthew’s first act upon entering the cell was to lift the box’s lid; he found within it a thick sheaf of rather yellowed paper, a well of black ink, three quills, a small brush, and a square of coarse brown cloth with which to clean clots of ink from the writing instruments.
“Is everything satisfactory?” Winston asked, waiting at the cell’s threshold as Matthew inspected his tools and the magistrate tested the firmness of the cushion with the palm of his hand.
“I believe it is,” Woodward decided. “One request, though: I’d like a pot of tea.”
“Yes sir, I’ll see to it.”
“A large pot, please. With three cups.”
“Certainly. Mr. Paine has gone to fetch Jeremiah Buckner, and should be returning presently.”
“Very good.” Woodward was loath to sit down yet, as he didn’t fancy these surroundings. In his career there’d never been an equal to this set of circumstances. He heard the rustling of straw, and both he and Matthew saw Rachel Howarth rise up from her repose. She stood at the middle of her cage, her head and face hooded by her garment.
“Not to be alarmed, madam,” Winston told her. “Your court is about to convene.” She was silent, but Matthew sensed she was well aware of what was in preparation.
“There’ll be no disruptions from you, hear?” Green warned. “Mr. Bidwell’s given me the authority to bind and gag you if I must!”
She made a sound that might have been a bitter laugh. She said, “Aren’t you feared to touch me? I might conjure you into a frog and stomp you flat!”
“Did you hear?” Green’s eyes had widened; he looked from Woodward to Winston and back again. “She’s threatenin’ me!”
“Steady,” Woodward said. “She’s talking, nothing more.” He raised his voice to address the woman. “Madam, I would suggest to you that such claims of ability are not helpful to your position.”
“My position? What position?” Now she reached up, pulled back her hood, and her fiercely beautiful face was fully exposed, her black hair dirty and wild, her amber eyes aflame. “My position is already hopeless! What lesser depth can there be?”
“Mind that tongue!” Green shouted, but it seemed to Matthew that he was trying to make up in volume for what he might be lacking elsewhere.
“No, it’s all right.” The magistrate walked to the bars and peered through them into the woman’s face. “You may speak your mind in my court. Within reason of course.”
“There is no reason here! And this is not a court!”
“It is a court, because I have decreed it so. And as for the matter of reason, I am here to find it. I am going to be questioning witnesses who have some knowledge of your activities, and
it will be for your benefit if you don’t attempt to make a mockery of the proceedings.”
“A mockery,” she repeated, and she laughed again. Some of her fire, however, had been extinguished by the magistrate’s calmness of tone. “Why don’t you go ahead and pronounce me guilty? Put me to the rope or the stake, or whatever. I can’t receive a fair trial in this town.”
“On the contrary. I am sworn before the law to make certain you do receive a fair trial. We are holding court here because my clerk has been sentenced to three days—”
“Oh?” Her gaze fixed on Matthew. “Have they pronounced you a warlock?”
“Three days,” Woodward repeated, shifting his position so that he stood between the woman and his clerk, “for a crime that does not concern you. If I were not interested in the fairness of your trial, I should have you taken to some other location and kept confined. But I wish for you to be present and hear the accusations, under the tenets of English law. That does not mean, however”—and here he lifted a finger for emphasis—“that you will be suffered to speak during the questioning.” He had to pause for a moment, to clear his ravaged throat of what felt like a slow, thick stream of phlegm. He was going to need the acidity of the tea to get through this day. “Your time to speak will come, and you shall have all the opportunity you need to refute, explain, or otherwise defend yourself. If you choose the path of disruption, you shall be bound and gagged. If, when the opportunity of your speaking arrives, you choose silence as the cornerstone of your defense, that is your privilege. Now: do we have an understanding?”
She stared at him, saying nothing. Then, “Are you really a magistrate?”
“Yes, I really am.”
“From where?” Her eyes narrowed, like those of a suspicious cat.
“Charles Town. But I originally served the bench in London for many years.”
“You have experience in witch trials?”
“No, I do not. I do, however, have much experience in murder trials.” He offered a faint smile. “All the jurists I know who have experience in witchcraft trials are either writing books or selling lectures.”