To Snare A Witch Read online

  Clearly racked with painful spasms, she regurgitated mouthfuls of the disgusting water. Despite her piteous state there was no mercy from the villagers, no hope of reprieve.

  “Do not untie her,” Thomas commanded his helpers, to a loud clamour of approval. “We cannot allow her to use her hands. Who knows what fiendish conjurations she is still able to perform.”

  Careful not to step in the growing puddle around the crone, he ordered her to be placed back on the wagon. “Take her to the magistrate’s house. She shall be dealt with shortly.”

  The crowd cheered as the cart rolled away, the children so caught up in the deadly excitement that they chased after it, cruelly repeating the Mother Goose rhyme.

  It was time to disperse the multitude, Thomas decided. They had served their purpose. The church bells began again – this time a joyous, celebratory peal, more akin to a wedding than a witch trial.

  Understanding the instruction in the chiming, the crowd slowly dispersed, muttering in awe amongst themselves.

  “It would seem an opportune moment to collect our reward,” Thomas suggested contentedly.

  “And depart as swiftly as possible.” Matthew jerked his head towards the dispersing mob. “While the dim-witted rustics are still stunned and grateful.”

  The priest blocked their path.

  “Bless you, my sons,” he told them. “This was a grim task to undertake. A dreadful business. Still, we can take comfort that we have done the Lord’s work...”

  “Very true, Father.”

  “…and that we all played our part as was needed.”

  Thomas allowed himself a cynical grin. It always came to this. The priest’s proffered hand might seem a gesture of friendship, but to Thomas and Matthew the message was clear.

  “Father, your assistance was invaluable. Let me give you some coins,” Thomas said, allowing half a beat before adding: “…for the bell ringers.”

  “Yes, we were particularly impressed with their efforts,” Matthew agreed, dryly. “We appreciate those who are skilled with a rope.”

  The sarcasm was either lost on the cleric or he chose to ignore it. Coughing awkwardly, he thrust the gold deep into his robes, and scuttled off without a backward glance.

  Inquisitor and assistant watched him go with resignation. The preacher wouldn’t be the only leech who’d want his cut. The magistrate would no doubt tell them he had unexpected expenses.

  Still, there was plenty of witch geld to go around.

  “On to the next village,” Thomas proposed, as they headed towards the tavern to pick up their horses and belongings. “I’m sure word has already made its way there and they’ll be selecting us a likely victim even as we speak.”

  He expected his associate to share his eagerness but Matthew bit his lip worriedly. “We’ve been pushing our luck sticking to the same county for four months. I say we should head North. Let the dust settle.”

  “You worry too much. I sometimes think you’re not happy unless you have something to fret about.”

  “And you don’t worry enough,” Matthew fired back. “Remember, this is just like the old life. The rules are the same. Keep moving. Never stay too long in one region, one locality. Always leave them wanting more.”

  “Always get out before we’re rumbled, you mean?” Thomas teased.

  Their exchange absorbed the pair so intently that he didn’t spot the coach until they were level with it.

  “What the-?”

  The vehicle was beautiful, a testament to wealth, luxury and good taste. It was immense and imposing. Everything about it, from the flawless craftsmanship to the gilt fixtures and exquisite drapes, spoke of the exalted status of its owner. As did the uniformed driver and the heavily armed attendants, the sleek black stallions, and the flamboyant coat of arms emblazoned on its paintwork.

  It was at once the most enchanting and disturbing thing that either man had ever seen. They stopped, staring in awe and puzzlement.

  What was a fine coach doing in such a woe-begotten, flea-ridden hamlet? And why was it here now – of all times?

  A sudden tremor ran through Thomas. Grabbing Matthew’s sleeve, he hissed: “We need to go. Right now.”

  But it was too late.

  The coach door swung open, and from the impenetrable darkness within they heard a deep, humorousless chuckle.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the two fellows I’ve been searching all over for,” an icy voice said.

  Higgledy, Piggledy, my black hen

  She lays eggs for gentlemen…

  Every instinct of self-preservation told Thomas to flee, but even as the adrenalin surged through his body he knew it was futile. They wouldn’t get far. The detachment of thugs would catch them within yards.

  “Come closer, Inquisitor Gaunt,” the voice instructed. “Let me see you. And you too, Matthew Stiles.”

  Thomas felt his stomach knot.

  Stay calm, he thought. Show no consternation. Keep in character.

  “I have heard so much about you,” the commanding voice went on. “And after this morning’s performance I can see why. Bravo, bravo. It was a most entertaining interlude.”

  “I am gratified that you were able to witness our work, and that it met with your approval,” Thomas replied, peering worriedly into the coach, trying to work out who was addressing them. “The mission to rid this country of evil enchantresses is a heavy burden but a necessary assignment that we are sworn to fulfill for the common good.”

  “Ah – so very selfless of you to put yourselves to such inconvenience and hardship.” The voice was laced with derision. “However, I am sure this public service has other compensations. I hear it pays rather well.”

  With that the figure leant forward, face revealed in the daylight.

  Matthew gasped.

  For a fleeting moment, Thomas assumed the stocky, grizzled-haired man facing them must have some deformity, his visage ugly or startling to have provoked such a reaction from his friend. Then he looked more closely at the newcomer, and instantly understood.

  It couldn’t be.

  Oh Heavens, no….

  Sir Henry Cruttendon, the 3rd Earl of Banbury, one of England’s richest land owners and by far its darkest and most ruthless nobleman, studied them with a steady hawk’s glare.

  “I see no introductions are necessary,” he observed with a wintery grin.

  Both men bowed, tales of the aristocrat’s brutality and vindictiveness racing through their minds.

  “We’re done for,” Matthew whispered.

  Thomas shot him a warning look.

  “It is indeed a true honour to make your acquaintance, My Lord, but may I enquire what you want with us?” Thomas ventured, mouth drying.

  Sir Henry stroked his goatee with a gloved hand, his large signet ring glinting.

  “I have heard so much about your endeavours that I decided I must see for myself,” he answered. “You have become a veritable phenomenon over these last few years, and I must admit to a certain curiosity.”

  “Curiosity, My Lord?”

  “Yes, I am intrigued – about your work, your methods, what drives you to such lengths.”

  He jabbed a finger at one of his menacingly-looking attendants, telling him: “Instruct that oaf of an innkeeper to open up and prepare breakfast. I want the very best victuals he can provide. And wine, plenty of fine wine.”

  Turning his attention back to the two, he said: “I insist you join me… for some enlightening conversation. There’s so much I want to learn, so much to discuss, and you must be famished. I always find a good witch dunking is so wonderfully stimulating to the appetite, don’t you?”

  The interior of the tavern was warm, homely and welcoming, with fresh straw on the floor, tables scrubbed and set, logs smoldering in the grate. Yet Thomas’s body felt numb, iced through. He shivered, hand shaking as he raised the flagon to his lips.

  “What will happen to the sorceress now?” Sir Henry enquired, selecting a hard-boiled egg fr
om the heaped platter and biting savagely into its fleshy whiteness.

  “She will face the gallows,” Matthew explained, voice rising in pitch with his obvious fear. “The magistrate will have her transported to the nearest town and she will dance the hangman’s jig.”

  “How depressingly mundane. I was hoping for something more inventive than a routine neck-stretching. There is no excitement in that at all.” The noble ripped the leg from a roasted chicken, waving it as he spoke. “I feel it’s a great pity that we don’t burn witches at the stake, as our cousins do on the Continent. It is so much more dramatic. Don’t you think, Master Gaunt?”

  Thomas nodded, saying nothing. His mind whirled. The way the Earl had subtly emphasized the word ‘dramatic’ resonated ominously.

  He’s toying with us, he told himself; he suspects.

  “You’re not eating, gentlemen,” Sir Henry observed. “You must have your fill, I insist.”

  His intimidating gaze remained fixed on them until they reluctantly picked up small morsels of food and chewed without enthusiasm.

  “Yes, the Europeans have the right approach. Let the bitches burn, I say. It’s only logical and fair. Some would describe it as poetic justice. They want to commune with the Devil so why not give them a foretaste of what the fires of Hell will be like?”

  Gesturing to Matthew, he enquired: “Wouldn’t that be more satisfying to stage, Master Stiles? A huge bonfire, crackling twigs, orange flames leaping into the air, smoke swirling… and screams, so many banshee screams?”

  The assistant inquisitor stopped in mid chew. “If you say so, My Lord,” he agreed, uncertainly. “But if I may be forgiven for mentioning it, you appear to be labouring under a misapprehension. We play no part in the execution. We are merely witch-finders. Our task is simply to detect the harridans, to drag them from their hiding places. It is for others to dispatch them from this mortal existence.”

  The noble gave a mock bow. “Of course. I am indebted to you for clarifying your role. It is, however, an idea I feel you should consider. I can picture how magnificent you would both be as executioners, as well as judge and jury. This morning’s show was diverting, a mere glimpse of what you could achieve. You had the villagers totally engrossed. Almost – if you forgive an unfortunate witticism – spellbound.” He mused. “Yes, indeed. It was quite a production. One might have imagined oneself at the theatre. So gripping, so thrilling, and appealing to so many of the emotions.”

  Thomas gulped. He knows, he thought sickly. Cruttendon knows everything!

  “And you were both masterful, compelling, displaying such presence. If one didn’t know better one could believe you were both professional actors. The way you recited your lines, the authority of your voices…”

  “You’re most kind to say so, but—”

  “…in fact, you remind me very much of some travelling players I had the fortune to witness several years back. An extremely talented troupe, as I recall.”

  The Earl smiled, but there was no trace of warmth in his steely blue eyes.

  “You know, my esteemed inquisitor, this will amuse you. When I first laid sight on you I thought that you and Master Stiles were the spitting image of two of those very performers. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  Matthew jerked back on his stool as though he’d been hit. “Yes, yes, ridiculous,” he repeated, a little too quickly.

  Thomas tried not to react, but knew he had blanched.

  “That’s what I told myself,” Sir Henry said, feigning puzzlement. “It couldn’t be possible. For these men of which I speak were uncouth painted clowns, vagabond troubadours, lowly jesters – not upstanding and respectable servants of the Crown such as yourselves.”

  He reached into his tunic and produced a tattered fragment of yellowed and creased parchment. It looked terrifyingly familiar.

  “I am such a hoarder. I can never throw anything away. Not even old playbills. This one is of particular interest.”

  He pushed the damning document across the table. “Have a look. I think you’ll find it fascinating.”

  Neither man moved, each paralysed with fright.

  Shrugging, the noble picked up the paper and read aloud: “Let's see if I can decipher the handwriting. Ah yes, taking the part of the old Duke, Matthew Stiles. His faithful manservant and retainer, Bartholomew, played by Thomas Gaunt.”

  He sniffed dismissively. “It would appear that these days the roles of master and servant are reversed. Nevertheless, the play acting continues.”

  Thomas looked round frantically for a means of escape. The Earl’s men blocked every doorway, hands ready by their swords.

  He was aware of his comrade falling to his knees, hands clasped together. “My Lord, it’s not how it seems. It’s all a mistake. I can explain, there is a perfectly reasonable answer…” Matthew was babbling, just as fearful and desperate as Agnes Simmons had been just minutes before.

  Thomas wasn’t listening. He knew they were dead for sure, and his traumatised mind began to drift, leaving the smoky alehouse, travelling back in time, remembering how it had all started…

  Hark, hark, the dogs do bark

  The beggars come to town…

  It was nine years ago, but the memories were still fresh. There’d been a pack of hounds , mangy, tic-infested mongrels, snarling threateningly at them as the troupe had entered the outskirts of London.

  It was the same reception in every town and village, and Thomas had chided himself back then for imagining it would be any different in the metropolis.

  He’d been against venturing into the heaving, maggot-filled cesspit of filth, debauchery and casual violence that was the capital. The others, alas, had over-ruled him. The players were ravenous, hadn’t eaten more than scraps for days, and needed a large, gullible, ale-addled audience to fleece.

  He suspected that some of the company were just as interested in dice games and pick-pocketing as in putting on a show, thinking petty crime and gambling as good a way to earn a crust as any.

  The actors certainly looked like crooks – vagrants in rags and threadbare costumes. As the tallest in the troupe, Thomas was marginally better dressed. He’d donned the long purple velvet robe that the ensemble used whenever an actor had to play a King, a sorcerer or a high-born noble. Yet it, too, was moth-eaten and falling apart at the seams.

  God, it was difficult not to despair. His heart ached as he looked around the milling, chaotic, sewage-filled streets.

  “Now I know we’ve really hit rock bottom,” Matthew grumbled, warily scanning the raucous taverns, vomiting drunks, pox-ridden bawdy houses and beckoning bare-bosomed doxies, “having to rub shoulders with the scum of humanity. We’ll be lucky if we get out of here without having our throats cut.”

  “Life in the gutter is truly woeful,” Thomas agreed. “Nothing on God’s earth can be more cause for despair. Still, I doubt we need worry about footpads and robbers. We don’t look like we’ve got a halfpenny piece between us.”

  Matthew made a dubious face, muttering that the dead-eyed villains lurking around the alleyways would probably attack them anyway for the sheer sport of it.

  A rat scampered past, chased by a young girl brandishing a long blade. “Come here you little pipsqueak,” she hissed, grabbing its tail and plunging the dagger deep into its haunches.

  “Plenty of meat on this,” she said triumphantly, holding the twitching, squeaking animal aloft as a trophy. “Interested, gents? My stall’s just over there. Stuff yourselves to bursting. Best stew this side of the river.”

  The thought was repulsive, but Thomas’s belly had rumbled pleadingly at the idea of food; any food.

  “Maybe later,” he said.

  They pressed on, ignoring the cockfight pits, passing the chained bears bellowing in anger and frustration as hunting hounds nipped and tore at their legs, and strode close to the boxing booths where stupefied, blood-splattered brutes pummelled one another for a shot of grog.

  It wasn’t far now. Their destinatio
n loomed up ahead, right by the edge of the Thames, its circular shape standing tall, overshadowing the squat Tudor buildings around it. It was impossible to miss – the holy shrine of all players, minstrels and struggling actors… The Globe Theatre.

  “Are you sure your idea will work?” Matthew enquired, doubts clear in his slouched shoulders as much as his voice.

  “It must,” Thomas had replied bleakly, “or we starve.”

  It was a simple stratagem – the troupe would set up outside The Globe and put on an impromptu performance to entertain the crowds as they queued to get in.

  The patrons, all ready for a night’s beer-fuelled revels and eager for entertainment, would be easy pickings. With a bit of luck, the impoverished players would filch enough coins for a meal and some place to bed down for the night.

  That was the plan. It made total sense, so Thomas couldn’t explain what transpired that evening, what unaccountable madness overtook him. Later, as darkness fell and Matthew scuttled away to round up the others, Thomas had wandered to the outside wall of the hallowed playhouse and reverently placed his hand on the coarse dung and plaster wall.

  Shakespeare’s Globe. The most famous venue in the land.

  A tingling sensation passed through his fingers as he imagined what it must have been like to have been there decades before, when the great bard stood in the wings, watching as his newly penned masterpieces were first performed to unbelievable acclaim. Oh, to have been in the audience then or, even more incredible, to have been one of the actors, one of the esteemed Chamberlain’s Men company.

  Inexplicably, Thomas found himself overcome with emotion, teary-eyed, lips trembling.

  The poster above his head advertised that night’s show, one of the playwright’s most notorious and sinister works—the Scottish play.

  The decision seemed logical at that moment and he instantly forgot the others and their desperate plight. Instead of standing outside to entertain the gathering throng, he joined the jostling mass – paying the last money he had in the world to venture inside.