Witch Finder (11 page)

‘It was my uncle’s idea,’ he said. It was the truth – and the words slipped out without him even thinking about them. ‘Not mine. I wanted – I want – to be a farrier like him, a blacksmith. I always have.’

‘It’s a good trade,’ she said quietly. ‘There’ll always be horses needing to be shod.’

‘My uncle says it’s a fool’s game. He says you end up scarred from your mistakes, and deaf from the hammering, and that no one wants to pay for proper smithing any more, they want cheap factory-made metal that any fool can break and bend.’

That was true too. The relief of speaking the truth for once – of not dissembling and deceiving – was so great he felt like weeping. Why was it so hard to lie to this girl? No –
not
a girl. A witch. She was a witch and an abomination in the sight of man and God. So why was it so hard to pay her in her own coin, with deceit and trickery and betrayal?

‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think . . .’ He stopped. What could he say?
I’ve never wanted anything else but a forge of my own, and a couple of horses, and a woman to come home to of a night and maybe make a child with, one day.

But that was not the truth. Or not all the truth. Because there was something else he wanted more. Revenge. Justice for his father and mother. To be able to close his eyes at night and know that he was not a coward, that he had avenged his parents’ memory at last.

‘I think sometimes we can’t get what we want,’ he said slowly, picking his way between the truth and the lies, like he walked the streets of Spitalfields of an evening, picking his way between the putrid fruit and the thin-running streams of shit and rubbish. ‘Leastways, not all of it. Not at the same time.’

She looked away at that, as if the words hit very near to home, but said nothing.

‘And I think that my uncle wants to see me succeed. And so do I.’

‘So you’re an ambitious man, Luke Welling?’

‘I suppose so,’ he said shortly. Then, in an effort to change the subject on to less dangerous ground, ‘But you should be sitting, miss. Mr Knyvet won’t thank me if he comes back to find you standing around on the leg we’re supposed to be sparing. Please. Sit down. Save me a ticking off.’

‘All right.’ She looked at the bench and then nodded. ‘But only if you sit too.’

‘I couldn’t,’ he said automatically, his fingers tightening on the reins. ‘Castor – Cherry . . .’

‘Nonsense,’ she said, and smiled. ‘The horses are tired. They’ll stand. Loop their reins over the post if you’re worried.’

She was right. He looped the reins over the end of the bench and sat, stiff as a post, and as far away from her as he possibly could. For a moment she looked at him, puzzled, and then she seemed to shake her head and sit back, enjoying the rare winter sun.

Luke sat back too, feeling the thin sunshine soak into his limbs, through his thin, worn jacket and into his exhausted muscles and aching bones, into his shoulders where the brand-mark still ached and throbbed.

He felt tired, so tired he could have lain down his head right there on the hard bench. He had failed. The girl was alive. And the thought of starting all over again made him want to weep.

Rosa couldn’t help wincing as Sebastian lifted her into the phaeton. It was high and built for racing, not for transporting ladies.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, seeing the look on her face, and the way she gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘I wanted the carriage, but my father had taken it. This was the only thing available.’

‘Truly, don’t apologize,’ Rosa said. ‘It doesn’t hurt now.’ It wasn’t true. During the long wait on the bench her foot had swelled painfully and now it throbbed every time the carriage lurched on its springs. She couldn’t wait to get home where she could heal it, behind closed doors, where the servants couldn’t see. She would just have to remember to fake a limp a little, at breakfast, until she could plausibly be better.

Sebastian seated himself beside her and arranged a rug over her knees, then clicked to the horses.

‘You look pale,’ he said as they began to pick up speed. ‘I don’t believe it doesn’t hurt.’

‘Distract me,’ Rosa said with a forced smile. ‘Tell me about India.’

‘India? It’s a strange place, of great wealth and great poverty. The maharajahs have almost unimaginable wealth – you can’t conceive of their fortunes, their diamonds and rubies and the servants they have. On the other hand the beggars are beyond anything we have in London. The heat. The stench. The flies and the sickness . . .’

He trailed off.

‘Though we have plenty of sickness and poverty in London,’ Rosa ventured. Sebastian nodded.

‘Yes. That’s true. Have you ever been to Limehouse and Spitalfields and the like?’

‘No, never. What’s it like?’

‘Stinking. A different stink from India, but worse in a way. The river has picked up all the foul, foetid material all the way along its journey through London, and in Spitalfields and Wapping and Limehouse it dumps all this filth on the banks of the Thames. There are children who go through the mud, scavenging for coins and objects they can sell. And the streets themselves are no better, strewn with beggars huddling round their fires and women touting their wares.’

Rosa thought of Luke. He didn’t seem to fit with the picture Sebastian was painting. But she had seen enough of London to know that prosperity and great poverty could live side by side, cheek by jowl, sometimes even in the same street.

‘You know it well?’ she asked. ‘East London?’

‘My father has factories there, just off Brick Lane. Some criticize him for basing his operations there. They claim that it’s the cheap labour that draws him. But I think, why not operate in a way that helps both the rich man
and
the poor? For it’s the poverty which breeds misery – men and women without work or hope of finding it. At least with honest employment men and women can hope to better themselves and keep their families fed and clothed. For those who don’t work, of course, there’s little hope.’

‘But surely there are those who
cannot
work?’

‘Some, yes. And for those my father has a soup kitchen attached to one of his factories. The truly deserving get a hot meal, at least, and perhaps a job if they are fit enough. But there are many more who
will
not work, through idleness or by making themselves unfit for work through their own folly.’

‘Drink, do you mean?’ Rosa thought of Alexis, pouring brandy down his throat until he lay slumped and snoring on the chaise longue in front of the fire. Once he had drunk until he wet his drawers and James had had to carry him to bed and strip him down.

‘Drink, yes. Or worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Opium,’ Sebastian said shortly. Then he laughed, a short mirthless laugh. ‘But we should not be talking like this, Miss Greenwood. Your mother would be shocked to hear me speaking of such things to her innocent daughter. So would mine.’

‘Ignorance is not innocence,’ Rosa said slowly. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

‘If you wish, and your mother permits, I will take you to visit the factories one of these days.’ Sebastian looked at her very seriously. ‘But I warn you, the East End is not for shrinking violets.’

‘I know. And I’m no shrinking violet.’

‘No.’ His hands on the reins were steady and he looked at her, his eyes shadowed by the top hat. ‘No. I can see that. You are very far from that, Miss Greenwood.’

‘Rosa,’ she said suddenly, impulsively.

Sebastian smiled and he flicked his whip at the horse so that their pace quickened to a jolly, rollicking trot.

‘Rosa.’

‘W
hew.’ Becky put her head around the stable door as Luke finished brushing down Cherry. ‘What happened out in the Row then?’

‘Nothing,’ Luke said curtly. He couldn’t bear to relive it all again – the sickening crack of the girth, Rosa’s body dragged along in the dirt like a rag doll . . .

‘Nothing!’ Becky put her hands on her hips, her apron strings fluttering in the breeze. ‘Nothing, he says, when you come home with two horses and a face like thunder, and Miss Rosa gets brought home in state in Mr Knyvet’s carriage? If that’s your idea of nothing, Luke Welling, I’d like to see what you’d call “something”.’

‘I meant all’s well that ends well,’ he said. ‘She’s all right, in’t she? So nothing happened.’

‘From the look on Mr Knyvet’s face I’d say something happened all right. And maybe that something will end in a proposal if our miss plays her cards right.’

‘Don’t be so common, Becky.’ Ellen’s voice rang out across the courtyard and Becky jumped and swung round, her face a mix of annoyance and guilt.

‘What? It’s a free country, ain’t it?’

‘Not while you’re in employment under Mrs Ramsbottom. If she heard you talking like that . . . not to mention flirting with the stable-hands.’ She shot a look at Luke.

‘You’re one to talk.’ Becky tossed her head. ‘Anyhow, it’s Wednesday. I’m on me afternoon off. So’s Luke.’ She turned back to Luke. ‘What about it then, Luke? When I’ve changed my apron, d’you fancy a stroll across the park? Show the swells we can enjoy a sunny afternoon as good as them?’

Afternoon off. The relief washed over him like a wave. The chance to get away from all this. Away from it all.

‘I can’t,’ he found himself saying. ‘I’ve to get back to my uncle’s. Family business.’

‘All the way to Spitalfields?’ Becky’s lips made a pout. ‘Are you sure? You don’t want to waste your afternoon traipsing across London and back.’

‘I have to. What time have I got to be back?’

‘The curfew’s nine o’clock.’ Ellen gave a marked glance up at the stable clock, which showed three already. ‘And Mr James locks up the kitchen door at ten past, sharp, so woe betide any maids who’re late. But the stable’s got its own entrance.’

‘So what does that mean?’ Luke asked impatiently.

‘It means, don’t get caught.’ Ellen raised one eyebrow.

Luke was already shrugging into his coat.

‘Ain’t you going to scrape your boots and brush the straw off yerself?’ Becky asked, shocked. Luke shook his head. Time enough for that when he got to the forge – and William wouldn’t care anyway.

‘No. I’m off. Tell Mrs Ramsbottom I’ll not be back for supper.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Becky said, her face a little doleful as Luke walked out of the stable yard and into the Knightsbridge throng without a backward glance.

It was getting dark as he finally made his way into Spitalfields. The market was long shut up, but there were small children scavenging in the piles of rubbish for scraps to take home for their dinner and the beggar men were huddled around piles of burning packing to keep warm. The sky had stayed clear and now the night was turning cold, with a bite to it like a bad-tempered dog.

Luke’s breath was white in the air and he clapped his arms around himself as he walked, to try to keep from shivering. He wished he hadn’t left his muffler in the room above the stable.

As he passed the Cock Tavern the door flung open and a figure came stumbling out into the road, nearly hitting Luke full in the chest before sprawling on his knees in the road.

‘And stay out, you good-for-nothing drunkard!’ the landlord yelled. Then he slammed the door shut, leaving Luke to help the man to his feet.

It was Nick Sykes, Minna’s dad. He looked up at Luke with bleary eyes.

‘Got a penny, mister?’

Luke turned his face away from his reeking breath and tried not to breathe in.

‘No,’ he said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. If he’d had money to spare it would be for Minna, not for her worthless dad to spend on more rot-gut gin.

‘Ha’penny then, kind mister?’ Nick Sykes whined. There was no trace of recognition in his slumped, blotchy face.

‘I said, no,’ Luke snarled. He let go of Sykes’s jacket and the man stumbled to the ground. Luke wiped his hands against his shirt and carried on, into the cold night.

He heard the forge before he saw it, the clear bell-like ring of William’s hammer on hot metal. And then he saw the smoke and sparks from the chimney disappearing into the night sky.

Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward.
The words came to him unbidden and he shivered as he turned the corner into the lane.

Even on this cold night the door to the forge stood open, trying to relieve the intense heat inside. But Luke could have crawled inside and shut the door and lain like a salamander, soaking up the good, clean fiery heat of the force and the fire, the heat and the roar of the bellow and the clang of the hammer driving out all the hatred and fear in his heart.

He walked the last few yards across the cobbles, thinking about whether William would be glad to see him, and what he would say when he was asked about his task and how he was faring.

And then, without warning, there was a cracking sound and something huge and heavy flew through the air, just missing his head, and smacked into the wall of the alley with a sound like a thunderclap.

There was silence from the forge and then the sound of William swearing, long and low. He came out into the yard, wiping his hands on his leather apron. His face was full of weary irritation – and then he saw Luke and it changed to a kind of blank surprise and then, just as swiftly, a huge smile.

‘Luke!’ He lumbered across the cobbles to clap him on the back. ‘Luke, lad! Is it done?’

‘No.’ Luke shook his head, and his uncle’s face fell a little. ‘No, it’s just my afternoon off.’

‘Well, I’m right glad to see you, lad. But is it wise to leave so soon, do you think? The full moon’s halfway gone.’

‘I know!’ Luke snapped angrily. And then he felt wretched for taking his fury out on William. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I know. I know I’ve not got much time, but I couldn’t take it one more day. It’s all, it’s just . . .’ He stopped, horrified to find treacherous tears rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. He turned away, pretending to cough.

‘Never mind,’ William said kindly. ‘Never mind, lad. I’ve finished for the day anyway. That were my good hammer flew past your head just then.’ He bent and picked it up from the lane, looking at it with exasperation. ‘The shaft just split clean off in my hand.’

‘How did that happen?’ Luke asked, more as a way to swallow away the tears than for really wanting to know. His uncle gave a short laugh.

‘Who knows. It just went – a sign I’ve been working too long, I dare say. Never work hot metal when you’re tired, or you’ll end up burnt, that’s what I’ve always said, and it’s a good motto. But without you here it’s a struggle to get through the work. I won’t deny I’ll be right glad to see you back, Luke.’ He stood for a moment, the broken hammer loose in his hand, and then clapped Luke on the back again, his face full of weary smiles.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s get some supper into both of us. You look half clemmed yourself. Ain’t they feeding you at that place?’

For a long time there were no words, just Luke and William side by side at the table, spooning the good hot broth into their mouths and tearing off hunks of bread to dip into the soup. At last, when his spoon had scraped the bowl clean for the second time, Luke spoke.

‘I saw Nick Sykes being chucked out the Cock earlier. How’s Minna?’

‘Bad.’ William wiped out his bowl with a piece of bread. His face was troubled. ‘She’s got laid off at the dairy.’

‘Laid off?’ Luke put down his spoon. ‘What happened?’

‘Her horse is sick. She can’t do the round without Bess. I told her she should have sold the nag while the going was good. Now she’s stuck with a sick horse and no money to pay for its keep.’

‘What’ll she do?’

‘Lord knows. I’m afraid it’ll be the streets. Or the match factories. I don’t know which is worse for a young girl like her.’

Luke thought of it, chewing mechanically on a mouthful of bread that seemed suddenly dry and tasteless as chalk. He thought of Phoebe and Miriam touting themselves outside the Cock, and the idea of Minna dressed in scarlet petticoats, selling herself to any passing stranger for a few pennies, made him flush hot with rage. But William was right – what was the alternative? The match factories: where the young girls worked hour after hour after hour, until their faces rotted from the phosphorus and they died in agonies, their brains eaten away by the dreaded phossy jaw, unable even to speak.

‘Come on, lad, don’t take on.’ William was watching his face. ‘Bess has been sick before, she’ll pull through. Anyway, that’s not what was eating you before this, was it?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Luke swallowed the dry bread and kept his eyes on his plate, afraid of what he might see reflected back at him in William’s gaze.

‘Whatever brought you back here. It’s not Minna that’s been troubling you since you walked through that door, you didn’t know about her until ten minutes ago. What is it, lad? You look like a dog that’s been whipped.’

‘I . . .’ Suddenly it was a relief to let it out and the words came tumbling. ‘Oh God, Uncle, I tried to do it. I weakened the buckle on her girth and it snapped, but she wasn’t going fast enough. She fell, but she wasn’t killed, or even hurt bad. I risked everything and I screwed it up like a fool.’ He put his fist against his forehead, grinding the knuckles against bone.

‘Hey, hey.’ William put his hand on Luke’s arm. ‘Don’t take on. It was a first attempt. There’ll be others.’

There’ll be others.

Yes. He would try again. He would
have
to try again.

He swallowed.

‘I didn’t think . . . I didn’t know . . .’

‘What?’

But how could he say it? That he didn’t think she would be a girl? He didn’t know she would have red hair that twined in curls at the nape of her neck? That he didn’t think she would have a dusting of nutmeg freckles across her nose, or that her eyes would be golden-brown, or her wrist small enough to encompass with his hand?

‘I didn’t think she’d be kind,’ he said. He heard his own voice crack and despised himself for his weakness. ‘She looks so . . . so innocent.’

‘She’s
not
kind,’ William said. His voice was steady but his eyes were troubled. ‘And she’s not innocent. You know the truth of it, Luke. She’s a witch – and she’s learnt to dissemble and twist and deceive from her cradle. This is all part of the test. But you must hold fast to your faith, just as you held fast to the hilt of the knife when you drove it into your own side. You didn’t flinch then, did you? Though you
knew
yourself to be innocent and you knew it would be your own death to push the knife home. Well then – don’t flinch now. Drive the knife home. Don’t worry about guilt or innocence; let God and the Malleus deal with the consequences.’

‘I’m not a killer,’ he found himself saying. ‘I wish I could be – but—’

‘You are
not
a killer,’ his uncle said firmly. ‘Listen to me, Luke. You are not the hand here, you are the hammer. Remember that. You’re just an instrument. It’s for God and the Malleus to guide you, show you where to strike. You’re no more guilty of murder than the hammer itself.’

Be the hammer
.

Luke swallowed. And then he found himself asking the question, the unthinkable, the unaskable.

‘Who was your first, Uncle?’

William didn’t need to ask ‘First what?’
He just sighed.

‘You know I can’t tell you that, not outside the meeting house. Not until you’re a Brother.’

If I’m a Brother
, Luke thought.
I must make it. I must.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said aloud. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

There was a long silence while the fire crackled and shifted in the grate. Luke stared at it until his eyes hurt. At its heart it was pure white gold, the colour of iron when you’d overheated it, almost to the point of melting. Above it flickered little orange flames, the same colour as metal when it was forging heat and ripe for working. And at the outside, a smoky, guttering, deep red that flickered and shimmered in the draught from the window. It was so exactly the colour of Rosa’s hair that he closed his eyes, trying to shut it out, shut out the memory of the first time he’d seen her, standing in the stable like an avenging angel, a halo of fire around her head.

It was into this darkness that William spoke unexpectedly, his voice quiet but quite clear above the crackles of the fire.

‘It was an old woman. She’d been selling potions to young girls, spells to rid them of their babies. Sometimes they worked, killed the child. Sometimes they killed the girl. What she didn’t say was that even if the girl lived, her womb was poison. Nothing could live there. The old witch-woman didn’t just take the unwanted babe, she took them all, all the children those girls might have had and loved. I asked her to stop and she laughed at me. Said she’d see me dead along with all the others and my loins as dried up as those girls’ wombs.’