“What is it?” He looked toward her shape in the darkness.
“The night before Daniel was murdered…he asked me if I loved him.”
“This was an unusual question?”
“Yes. For him, I mean. Daniel was a good man, but he was never one to speak of his feelings…at least not where love was concerned.”
“Might I ask what was your reply?”
“I told him I did love him,” she answered. “And then he said that I had made him very happy in the six years of our marriage. He said…it made no matter to him that I had never borne a child, that I was his joy in life and no man could change that fact.”
“Those were his exact words, as best you recall?”
“Yes.”
“You say he was not normally so concerned with emotions? Had anything occurred in the previous few days that might have made him wish to express such feelings? A quarrel, perhaps?”
“I recall no quarrel. Not to say that we didn’t have them, but they were never allowed to linger.”
Matthew nodded, though he realized she couldn’t see it. He laced his fingers around his knees. “You were both well matched, would you say? Even though there was such a difference in ages?”
“We both desired the same things,” Rachel said. “Peace at home, and success for our farm. As for the difference in our ages, it mattered some at the beginning but not so much as the years passed.”
“Then he had no reason to doubt that you loved him? Why would he ask such a question, if it was against his usual nature?”
“I don’t know. Do you think it means anything?”
“I can’t say. There’s so much about this that begs questions. Things that should fit don’t, and things that shouldn’t fit do. Well, when I get out of here I plan on trying to find out why.”
“What?” She sounded surprised. “Even after the child’s testimony?”
“Yes. Her testimony was—pardon my bluntness—the worst blow that could have been dealt to you. Of course you didn’t help your case by violating the Holy Book. But still…there are questions that need answers. I can’t close my eyes to them.”
“But Magistrate Woodward can?”
“I don’t think he’s able to see them as I do,” Matthew said. “Because I’m a clerk and not a jurist, my opinions on witchcraft have not been formed by court records and the articles of demonology.”
“Meaning,” she said, “that you don’t believe in witches?”
“I certainly do believe in the power of the Devil to do wickedness through men—and women. But as for your being a witch and having murdered Reverend Grove and your husband…” He hesitated, knowing that he was about to throw himself into the flames of commitment. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
Rachel said something, very quietly, that gave him a twinge deep in his stomach. “You could be wrong. I could be casting a spell on you this moment.”
Matthew considered this point carefully before he answered. “Yes, I could be wrong. But if Satan is your master, he has lost his grip on logic. He wishes you released from the gaol, when he personally went to great lengths to put you here. And if his aim is to destroy Fount Royal, why doesn’t he just burn the whole town in one night instead of an empty house here and there? I don’t think Satan would care if a house was empty before it burned, do you? And what are these tricks of bringing the three demons out to parade them as if in a stageplay? Why would you appear to Jeremiah Buckner and invite him to view a scene that would certainly send you to the stake?” He waited for a response but there was none. “Buckner may have sworn truth on the Bible, yes. He may believe that what he saw was the truth. But my question is: what is it that two men—and a little girl—may see that appears to be true but is in reality a cunning fiction? It must be more than a dream, because certainly Violet Adams was not dreaming when she walked into that house in the afternoon. Who would create such a fiction, and how could it possibly be disguised as the truth?”
“I can’t see how any man could do it,” Rachel said.
“I can’t either, but I believe it has somehow been done. My task is to find out first of all how. Then to find out the why of it. I hope from those two answers will come the third: who.”
“And if you can’t find them? What then?”
“Then…” Matthew paused, knowing the reply but unwilling to give it, “that bridge is best crossed when it is reached.”
Rachel was silent. Even the few rats that had returned to the walls after Linch’s massacre had stilled themselves. Matthew lay down again, trying to get his thoughts in order. The sound of thunder was louder; its power seemed to shake the very earth to its deepest foundations.
“Matthew?” Rachel said.
“Yes?”
“Would you…would you hold my hand?”
“Pardon?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.
“Would you hold my hand?” she asked again. “Just for a moment. I don’t like the thunder.”
“Oh.” His heart was beating harder. Though he knew full well that the magistrate would look askance on such a thing, it seemed wrong to deny her a small comfort. “All right,” he said, and he stood up. When he went to the bars that separated them, he couldn’t find her.
“I’m here.” She was sitting on the floor.
Matthew sat down as well. Her hand slipped between the bars, groping, and touched his shoulder. He said, “Here,” and grasped her hand with his. At the intertwining of their fingers, Matthew felt a shock of heat that was first intense and then softened as it seemed to course slowly up his forearm. His heart was drumming; he was surprised she couldn’t hear it, as surely a military march was being played next to her ear. It had occurred to him that his might be the last hand ever offered her.
The thunder again announced itself, and again the earth gave a tremble. Matthew felt Rachel’s grip tighten. He couldn’t help but think that in seven days she would be dead. She would be bones and ashes, nothing left of her voice or her touch or her compelling presence. Her beautiful tawny eyes would be burnt blind, her ebony hair sheared by the flames.
In seven days.
“Would you lie with me?” Rachel asked.
“What?”
“Would you lie down with me?” Her voice sounded very weary, as if now that the trial had ended her strength of spirit had been all but overwhelmed by the evidence arrayed against her. “I think I might sleep, if you were to hold my hand.”
“Yes,” he answered, and he eased down onto his back with his hand still gripping hers. She also reclined alongside the bars, so near to him that he felt the heat of her body even through the coarse and dirty sackcloth.
The thunder spoke, closer still and more powerful. Rachel’s hand squeezed his, almost to the point of pain. He said nothing, as the sound of his heartbeat made speech impossible.
For a while the thunder was a raging young bully above Fount Royal, but at last it began to move away toward the sea and became aged and muttering in its decrease. The hands of the two prisoners remained bound together, even as sleep took them in different paths. Matthew awakened once, and listened in the quiet dark. His mind was groggy, but he thought he’d heard a sound that might have been a hushed sobbing.
If the sound had been real or not, it was not repeated. He squeezed Rachel’s hand. She gave an answering pressure.
That was all.
twenty
MATTHEW EMERGED FROM SLEEP before the first rooster crowed. He found his hand still embracing Rachel’s. When Matthew gently tried to work his hand free, Rachel’s eyes opened and she sat up in the gray gloom with bits of straw in her hair.
The morning of mixed blessings had arrived; his lashing and his freedom were both soon to be delivered. Rachel made no statement to him, but retreated to the other side of her cage for an illusion of privacy with her waste bucket. Matthew moved to the far side of his own cell and spent a moment splashing cold water upon his face, then he too reached for the necessary bucket. Such an arrange
ment had horrified him when he’d first entered the gaol, but now it was something to be done and over with as quickly as possible.
He ate a piece of stale bread that he’d saved from last night, and then he sat on his bench, his head lowered, waiting for the sound of the door opening.
It wasn’t a long wait. Hannibal Green entered the gaol carrying a lantern. Behind him was the magistrate, bundled in coat and scarf, the bitter reek of liniment around him and his face more chalky now than gray, with dark purplish hollows beneath his swollen eyes. Woodward’s ghastly appearance frightened Matthew more than the expectation of the lashes, and the magistrate moved with a slow, painful step.
“It’s time.” Green unlocked Matthew’s cell. “Out with you.” Matthew stood up. He was afraid, but there was no use in delay. He walked out of the cell.
“Matthew?” Rachel was standing at the bars. He gave her his full attention. “No matter what happens to me,” she said quietly, the lantern’s light reflecting in her amber eyes, “I wish to thank you for listening.” He nodded. Green gave him a prod in the ribs to move him along. “Have courage,” she said.
“And you,” he replied. He wanted to remember her in that moment; she was beautiful and proud, and there was nothing in her face that betrayed the fact she faced a hideous death. She lingered, staring into his eyes, and then she turned away and went back to her bench, where she eased down and shrouded herself in the sackcloth gown once more.
“Move on!” Green rumbled.
Woodward grasped Matthew’s shoulder, in almost a paternal gesture, and led him out of the gaol. At the doorway, Matthew resisted the desire to look back again at Rachel, for even though he felt he was abandoning her, he knew as well that, once free, he could better work for her benefit.
It occurred to him, as he walked out into the misty, meager light of morning, that he had accepted—to the best of his ability—the unfamiliar role of champion.
Green closed the gaol’s door. “Over there,” he said, and he took hold of Matthew’s left arm and pulled him rather roughly away from Woodward, directing him toward the pillory that stood in front of the gaolhouse.
“Is there need for that, sir?” Woodward’s voice, though still weak, was somewhat more able than the previous day.
Green didn’t bother to answer. As he was being led to be pilloried, Matthew saw that the novelty of a lashing had brought a dozen or so citizens out of their homes to be entertained. Among them were Seth Hazelton, whose grinning face was still swaddled by a dirty bandage, and Lucretia Vaughan, who had brought along a basket of breads and teacakes that she was in the process of selling to the assembly. Sitting in his carriage nearby was the master of Fount Royal himself, come to make sure justice was done, while Goode sat up front slowly whittling on a piece of wood.
“Tear his back open, Green!” Hazelton urged. “Split it like he done split my face!”
Green used a key from his ring to unlatch the top half of the pillory, which he then lifted up. “Take your shirt off,” he told Matthew. As Matthew did Green’s bidding, he saw with a sick jolt to his stomach that coiled around a hitching-post to his right was a braided leather whip perhaps two feet in length. It certainly was not as formidable as a bullwhip or a cat-o’-nine, but the braid could do considerable damage if delivered with any sort of strength—and Green, at the moment, resembled nothing less than a fearsome, red-bearded Goliath.
“In the pillory with you,” the giant said. Matthew put his arms into the depressions meant for them and then laid his neck against the damp wood. Green closed the pillory and locked it, trapping Matthew’s head and arms. Matthew now was bent into a crouch, his naked back offered to the whip. He couldn’t move his head to follow Green, but he heard the noise of the braid as it slithered off the hitching-post.
The whip cracked as Green tested it. Matthew flinched, the skin crawling across his spine. “Give it to ’im good!” Hazelton yelled. Matthew was unable to either lift or lower his head to any great degree. A feeling of dreadful helplessness swept over him. He clenched his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut.
“One!” Green said, and by that Matthew knew the first strike was about to be made. Standing close by, the magistrate had to turn away and stare at the ground. He felt he might have to spew at any second.
Matthew waited. Then he sensed rather than heard Green drawing back. The onlookers were silent. Matthew realized the whip was up and about to—
Crack!
—across his shoulders, a hot pain that grew hotter, a flame, an inferno that scorched his flesh and brought tears to his sealed eyes. He heard himself gasp with the shock of it, but he had enough presence of mind to open his mouth lest he bite into his tongue. After the whip had been withdrawn, the strip of skin it had bitten continued to burn hotter and hotter; it was the worst physical pain Matthew had ever experienced—and the second and third strikes were yet to fall.
“Damn it, Green!” Hazelton bawled. “Show us some blood!”
“Shut your mouth!” Green hollered back. “This ain’t no ha’-penny circus!”
Again, Matthew waited with his eyes tightly closed. Again he sensed Green drawing back the whip, sensed the man putting his strength into the lash as it hissed down through the sodden air. “Two!” Green shouted.
Crack! it came once more, exactly upon the same strip of blistered flesh.
For an instant Matthew saw bright crimson and deepest ebony swirling in his mind like the colors of war flags, and then the truest, keenest, most savage pain under the sky of God gnawed into him. As this pain bloomed down his back and up his neck to the very top of his skull, he heard himself give an animalish groan but he was able to restrain the cry that fairly leapt from his throat.
“Three!” Green announced.
Here came the whip’s hiss. Matthew felt tears on his cheeks. Oh God, he thought. Oh God oh God oh—
Crack! This time the braid had struck a few inches lower than the first two lashes, but its bite was no less agonizing. Matthew trembled, his knees about to give way. So fierce was the pain that he feared his bladder might also empty itself, so he concentrated solely on damming the flow. Thankfully, it did not. He opened his eyes. And then he heard Green say something that he would remember with joy the rest of his life: “Done, Mr. Bidwell!”
“No!” It was Hazelton’s angry snarl. “You held back, damn you! I seen you hold back!”
“Watch that tongue, Seth, or by God I’ll blister it!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Bidwell had stepped down from his carriage, and made his way to the pillory. “I think we’ve had violence enough for this morning.” He leaned down to peer into Matthew’s sweat-slick face. “Have you learned your lesson, clerk?”
“Green held back!” the blacksmith insisted. “It ain’t fair to go so easy on that boy, when he done scarred me for life!”
“We agreed on the punishment, Mr. Hazelton,” Bidwell reminded him. “I believe Mr. Green applied the lash with proper consideration. Wouldn’t you say, Magistrate?”
Woodward had seen the red welts that had risen across Matthew’s shoulders. “I would.”
“I pronounce the punishment correctly administered and the young man free to go. Release him, Mr. Green.”
But Hazelton was so enraged he was nearly dancing a jig. “I ain’t satisfied! You didn’t draw no blood!”
“I could remedy that,” Green warned, as he coiled the braid and then went about unlocking the pillory.
Hazelton took two strides forward and thrust his ugly face at Matthew. “You set foot on my land again, and I’ll strop your hide myself! I won’t hold back, neither!” He drew himself up again and cast a baleful stare at Bidwell. “Mark this as a black day for justice!” he said, and with that he stalked away in the direction of his home.
The latch was opened. Matthew stood up from the pillory’s embrace and had to bite his lip as a fresh wave of pain coursed through his shoulders. If Green had indeed held back, Matthew would have hated to be on t
he receiving end of a whip that the giant put his full power behind. He felt light-headed and stood for a moment with one hand grasping the pillory.
“Are you all right?” Woodward was standing beside him.
“Yes, sir. I shall be, I mean.”
“Come along!” Bidwell was wearing a smirk that was not very much disguised. “You look in need of some breakfast!”
Matthew followed Bidwell to the carriage, with the magistrate walking at his side. The onlookers were going away to their daily business, the small excitement over. Suddenly a woman stepped in front of Matthew and said brightly, “My compliments!”
It took Matthew a few seconds to register that Lucretia Vaughan was offering him a teacake from her basket. “Please take one!” she said. “They’re freshly baked!” He felt numbed of mind and scorched of shoulders, but he didn’t wish to offend her so he did accept a teacake.
“The lashing wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.
“I’m gratified it’s over.”
“Madam, we have breakfast to attend to!” Bidwell had already secured his seat in the carriage. “Would you let him pass, please?”
She kept her eyes locked on Matthew’s. “You will come to dinner on Thursday evening, will you not? I have made plans for it.”
“Dinner?” He frowned.
“My mistake,” Woodward said to the woman. “I neglected to inform him.”
“Oh? Then I shall make the invitation myself. Would you come to dinner on Thursday evening? At six o’clock?” She gave Woodward a brief, rather tight smile. “I would invite you also, Magistrate, but seeing as how you are so feeble I fear an evening out might only worsen your health.” She turned her rapacious attention upon Matthew once more. He thought that the shine of her blue eyes was glassy enough to indicate fever. “May I count on your arrival?”
“Well…I thank you,” he said, “but I—”
“You will find my home very hospitable,” she plowed on. “I do know how to set a table, and you might ask anyone as to the quality of my kitchen.” She leaned her head forward, as if offering to share a secret. “Mr. Green is quite fond of my onion bread. He told me that the loaf I presented to him yesterday afternoon was the finest he’d ever set eyes on. The thing about onion bread,” and here she lowered her voice so that Bidwell might not hear, “is that it is a great persuader. A meal of it, and mercy follows.”