Gallows at Twilight (22 page)

‘Witchfinder General!’

The guard’s voice echoed up the stairs. At his call, the mental link between Jake and Leonard Lanyon was broken. While Monks and the Earl turned to the arched doorway that led to the stairs, Lanyon locked eyes with Jake and pressed his finger to his lips.

‘Take heart,’ he whispered. ‘I will aid you if I can. In the meantime, whatever is done to you, you must
not
confess.’

Footsteps on the stairs. A shadow sweeping across the wall. Under the darkness of the doorway, a figure paused, his tall staff clutched in a bony fist. A pair of watery blue eyes shaded under a wide-brimmed hat passed from face to face.

‘God be with you, gentlemen,’ said the stranger. ‘I have come in answer to your call. Now, show me to the witch.’

Chapter 19

The Subtle Art of Torture

The Witchfinder General stepped into the light.

Although his body was painfully thin, Matthew Hopkins was nothing like the wizened scarecrow Jake had seen depicted in old horror movies. This man was in his early to mid-twenties, he was of average height and slight build. His face was pinched, his features unremarkable. Ash-blond hair and a neatly cut beard curled down over the broad linen collar of his shirt. He wore a high-crowned hat, buckled boots with spurs, and a three-quarter-length cloak. Jake thought that he looked like the most ordinary little man he had ever seen.

‘My apologies,’ the Witchfinder said, ‘I have not introduced myself. I am Matthew Hopkins.’

Perhaps it was the fact that he was now deaf in one ear, but Hopkins’s voice was so low and rasping that Jake could barely hear it. The Witchfinder’s weak blue eyes moved between Sergeant Monks, Mr Lanyon, and Earl Richard. At last, they came to rest on Jake.

Hopkins’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open in surprise and his hand clutched at his staff. A moment later, he had rearranged his face into an expression of grave sincerity and was bowing before the Earl.

‘My lord, since I received your summons the weather has been fair and the roads and bridges sound. God indeed wished me to come here.’

‘You are most welcome, Master Witchfinder,’ the Earl said. ‘I’d wager we have here a case unlike any you have yet investigated.’

‘That is quite likely, my lord,’ Mr Lanyon cut in. ‘For I have heard that Master Hopkins has been hunting witches only a short time.’

Hopkins’s eyes flashed with anger, but again he managed to mask his emotions.

‘Quite true, Mr … ?’

‘Leonard Lanyon. I am the rector of the Holy Trinity church here in Cravenmouth.’

Hopkins bowed deeply. ‘My campaign to free this land from devilry is indeed still in its infancy, sir. Earlier this year, in my home town of Manningtree, I experienced at first hand the evil of witchcraft. While investigating a coven, I was set upon by a demon that came to my bedchamber in the shape of a great bear. It had been sent by those fiendish witches that I had made it my business to hunt down. That very night I heard the call of my Lord and Saviour:
You must seek out all such sorcerers and devils,
He said.
Find them and destroy them
. You no doubt recall what the Bible tells us, Mr Lanyon? The Book of Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen—“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”’

‘I remember another commandment from Exodus,’ Lanyon said. ‘ “Thou shalt
not
kill.” Life is precious, Master Hopkins, and there is need of great inquisition before it is taken away. And remember also the Law of the Land which prevents witchfinders from torturing a confession from their prisoners. I will be watching closely, sir.’

With that, the vicar turned on his heel and left the chamber. Hopkins watched him go, his face unreadable.

‘Well, I too must away,’ said the Earl, fussing with his calfskin gloves. ‘I trust that you have read carefully the letter we sent setting out the story of how the suspect arrived here?’

‘I have. But the evidence of eyewitnesses can be proved false, my lord. I cannot be sure of the prisoner’s guilt until I have gathered evidence from his own lips. I propose the usual methods to get the truth out of him.’

‘Which are?’

‘Watching and Walking, for a start. We may also have use of the bodkin. All effective techniques for seeking out witchcraft, I assure you. Regrettably my usual associates, Mr John Stearne and Mother Briggs, are not with me, and so I will need at least one person to act as my assistant. Perhaps this fine gentleman?’

Sergeant Monks flushed red. ‘It would be my honour, sir.’

‘Excellent. Now, I should like a moment alone with the prisoner.’

‘Is that wise?’ the Earl said, eyeing Jake as if he might escape his bonds and strike them dead at any minute. ‘What if his demons appear?’

‘Have no fear, my lord. It is well known that, once a sorcerer is caught and properly examined according to God’s Law, then his magic will no longer avail him.’

‘Then God be with you in your task, sir. Come, Sergeant.’

Monks followed the Earl out of the banqueting chamber, leaving the Witchfinder alone with Jake.

Matthew Hopkins moved slowly across the room. By the way he walked, legs bowed, footsteps faltering, Jake saw that the tall staff he carried was not just used for effect. A dry cough rattled at the back of Hopkins’s throat and his eyes crinkled with pain. Taking a brown-spotted handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his lips. The legendary Witchfinder General stood in front of Jake, a dark, spidery figure silhouetted against the sunlit window.

‘I have to talk to you,’ Jake blurted out. ‘I have to explain—’

‘Explain what, old friend?’ Hopkins asked in his reedy voice.

‘W-what?’

‘What do you wish to explain, Brother Witchfinder?’

‘I don’t understand. Who do you think I am?’

‘Let us not play games, sir. They have treated you quite roughly, but I have sharp eyes and a thousand bruises could not deceive me. I’d heard tell that you had died a few months ago. Perished in a little village on the coast, so the story went, the victim of a foul witch master. Instead I find you here, looking younger and healthier than ever. It is good to see you, Josiah.’

In a flash, Jake understood. Hopkins believed that
he
was Josiah Hobarron. Jake remembered Sidney Tinsmouth telling him that Hopkins had known Josiah. Not only that, but that Josiah had often thwarted the Witchfinder General’s work. As if echoing these thoughts, Hopkins’s lip curled over his stunted grey teeth and he whispered, ‘I have always suspected you of being in league with demonic forces, Josiah Hobarron. The way you turned the minds of magistrates against me! The passion with which you saved all those wretched women from the gallows! Well, no more. Now I have your life in my hands, sir. Now you will pay a hundredfold for your insolence.’

‘But I’m not Josiah Hobarron! I’m—’

‘A dead man,’ Hopkins said quietly. ‘But before you die, you will suffer. By God, you
will
.’

‘Just wait and listen!’ Jake cried. ‘You have to believe me, I’m
not
Josiah Hobarron.’

‘Stopper his mouth, Mr Monks.’

Summoned by the Witchfinder’s call, the sergeant had returned. He crossed the chamber and slapped a hand over Jake’s mouth. With his other hand, he tore a filthy neckerchief from his throat and, quick as a flash, lodged it between the prisoner’s teeth.

‘Much better,’ Hopkins approved. ‘Now we can begin. Mr Monks, I am about to teach you the secrets of my trade. Please attend carefully.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Monks made a clumsy little bow that, in other circumstances, Jake would have found funny.

‘To prove the existence of a witch there is a hierarchy of evidence. In descending order we have: confessions, eyewitness reports of demonic familiars and, lastly, the witch’s mark. We begin, as always, on the lowest rung of this evidential ladder. I have left an old saddlebag on the stairs—will you retrieve it for me?’

‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

‘A table, about yay big.’

Hopkins tapped a finger against his hip and held out his arms at full stretch. While Monks bustled away, Hopkins put his lips to Jake’s good ear.

‘Let us start gently, Josiah. Ease you into the agony.’

Monks returned, bag in hand, his fleshy face flushed with excitement. Another of the guards carried in a heavy wooden table and set it down in front of Jake’s chair.

‘Who is your friend, Sergeant?’

‘Walter Utterson.’

‘If Mr Utterson will stay with us and act as witness … ’ Hopkins said, dropping to one knee and rummaging through the bag, ‘ … we can begin.’

The Witchfinder brought out a huge pair of rusty scissors and a knife with a curved blade. He snipped the scissors through the air, an inch from Jake’s busted nose.

‘Strip him of his clothes and tie him face down to the table,’ Hopkins instructed.

Jake tried to fight against the hands that bundled him from the chair. He was so weak that it was like a puppy fighting against tigers. Monks and Utterson dragged the coarse prison clothes from his body and slammed him naked across the table. He felt the burn of ropes being tied across his back, locking him into position.

‘Good, good,’ Hopkins cooed. ‘Now we must shave the boy.’

‘Shave him?’ Monks frowned.

‘We must examine every inch of his body if we are to find his witch marks.’

‘Sorry, sir, but what are “witch marks” exactly?’

‘I have not said? Forgive me. I sometimes forget that not everyone has studied the demonological texts as closely as I. Well, in short, to sustain his demon familiar a witch must suckle the creature. Every witch will have a place on his body where his demon draws blood, and this place will be insensible to pain. Cunning witches often hide the mark beneath their hair, and so … ’

Hopkins flourished the scissors.

Monks and Utterson held Jake steady while the Witchfinder went to work. Within a few minutes, Jake’s long hair had been hacked into stubby tufts, but Hopkins was not finished yet. He ordered soap and water to mix a lather, which he spread across Jake’s scalp. With the curved knife, he removed the last few clumps of hair.

‘And so the real work begins, gentlemen. Witch marks are not always obvious to the naked eye. We must sometimes seek them out with the bodkin.’

Hopkins delved into his bag and brought out three shining implements with carved wooden handles. At the end of each was a thin needle, about seven centimetres long, its tip pointed.

‘One for you and one for you.’ Hopkins handed the guards their bodkins. ‘Our task now is to test the suspect’s skin. If you believe you have discovered a witch mark, you must plunge the needle into the flesh. If it is a true mark, Mr Hobarron here will feel no pain and he will not bleed. Now, it is possible that people like your vicar, Mr Lanyon, would call this torture, but remember that we are trying to save this man’s immortal soul. Is that not worth a little pain?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the guards responded.

‘Excellent. Now watch how it is done.’

Like a diviner searching for an underground spring, Hopkins teased the bodkin along Jake’s spine. Its cold tip pressed against the flesh just behind his left lung.

‘Perhaps here … ’

The needle punctured his back, and Jake screamed. He felt the shaft twist inside his body and then pop back out again. Blood pulsed from the wound and ran in hot trickles down his side.

‘Alas, I was mistaken,’ Hopkins sighed. ‘Your turn, Mr Monks.’

For over half an hour they used Jake’s body as a pincushion. At first, the Witchfinder’s assistants were hesitant, even delicate, testing at random points for those areas that did not result in a scream. But as the minutes wore on, and Jake’s cries continued to rumble in his chest, their examination became impatient and brutal. They pierced and pried and probed; they jabbed and stabbed and hacked.

‘What about here, Master Hopkins?’ Monks asked the question like a school swot desperate to please his teacher. ‘We’d never see the mark underneath all this dried blood.’

Monks tapped the bodkin against the closed hole that had been Jake’s right ear. Sensing the needle point, the raw, exposed nerves sent tendrils of agony lashing into Jake’s brain.

‘An excellent idea, Mr Monks,’ Hopkins crowed. ‘We will make a witchfinder of you yet. Yes, I think you should probe a little deeper there.’

‘N’aw!’ Jake screamed through the gag. ‘P’ease. Down’t!’

Hopkins smiled and nodded at Monks. From some place deep inside the blasted organ of his ear, Jake could hear a rustle as Monks positioned the needle point.

‘Confess,’ Hopkins whispered, ‘and your torment will be at an end.’

Jake closed his eyes. His thoughts turned away from the torture chamber and he reached back inside his mind. It did not take long to find what he was looking for. The Khepra Beetle was still lodged happily between the hemispheres of his brain. If he was about to die, the scarab would have shifted by now.
It
knew that Hopkins was bluffing. Jake refocused on the Witchfinder.

‘G-go to he-ell.’

Chapter 20

Walked, Watched, Swum

‘Bring him to the stool.’

The gag was removed, the ropes slackened, and Jake was dragged to his feet. He felt blood ooze from the dozens of wounds made by the bodkins.

‘Before we proceed … ’ Hopkins rummaged inside his saddlebag and brought out a quill, a bottle of ink, and a large book, ‘ … I must make a note in my ledger of our discoveries thus far.’ He rested the ledger on the bloodstained torture table, dipped his quill and started to write: ‘ “Examination for witch marks on the person of Master Josiah Hobarron. Found: two points just below the right and left shoulder blades. Both with hardened skin. Both insensible to pain.” ’

‘THAT’S A LIE!’

Ignoring Jake’s outburst, Hopkins put his ledger aside.

‘Good. Now, gentlemen, place the prisoner on the stool exactly as I instruct.’

Lifted by the arms, Jake was made to kneel on the seat of a high wooden stool. His legs were tucked beneath him and crossed at the ankles. His feet were tied together and his hands secured behind his back with heavy manacles. He knelt there like a penitent priest.