Witch Hunter (22 page)

‘No,’ Nicholas says. ‘But you’re not looking for the tablet

there. Remember what Veda said? Come third winter’s

night, go underground in green. What holds him in death

will lead you to thirteen. What you’re looking for in Stepney

Green is the thing that will lead you to the tablet, not the

tablet itself.’

‘That’s all I have to go on?’

‘Yes. But it’s enough, at least for now.’

‘How?’ I say. ‘It doesn’t tell me anything. Veda said more

after that, a lot more. What did it all mean?’

Nicholas hesitates. ‘There is nothing I can tell you that

you will not learn for yourself.’

‘So you do know, then. You know what’s going to

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happen.’ It hits me then, what he knows. ‘You know I’m

going to die.’

‘We all die,’ Nicholas says. ‘That’s not a prophecy; it’s a

certainty.’

‘Don’t mince words,’ I snap.

‘Elizabeth, this is your prophecy. How it plays out is

entirely in your hands. I can’t tell you what to do or what to

find, because I don’t know. All I can do is put you in the

right place at the right time and trust that you’ll know it

when you see it.’

I feel a sudden surge of anger. At putting my fate in the

hands of a child, into a string of meaningless words.

‘I realise this seems far-fetched to you,’ Nicholas says.

‘That’s not quite the word I would use,’ I mutter.

‘I’ve been deciphering prophecies for a long time,’

Nicholas replies. ‘Veda’s for as long as she could talk,

countless others’ before her. Some are simple, some

complex. Some are more riddle than vision. But regardless,

all prophecies require a measure of conjecture.’

There’s a soft tapping on the door, and John steps inside.

He’s dressed in a heavy black coat, his bag slung over

his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he says. ‘But we’re ready to go.

I need to check on you one last time before we do.’

‘We’re nearly done,’ Nicholas says. John nods, glances at

me, then closes the door.

I spread my hands. ‘So I go to Stepney Green. Look for

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the thing that will lead me to the tablet. Then what?’

Nicholas smiles. ‘I cannot tell you that, either. But the

answer will present itself in time.’

I bite back my frustration. ‘Is there anything you can

tell me?’

‘Use your judgment. That’s very important. Do what

feels right to you, in whatever circumstance you find

yourself in, even if it seems improbable or even impossible.

And have faith. Everything else will follow.’

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An hour later Peter sees us off. It’s a six-hour walk to

Humbert’s home in Stepney Green. We can’t ride; it would

call too much attention to ourselves, make it harder to hide

if we came upon unwanted company. It’s just as well.

Nicholas has only one horse anyway.

Peter rubs his face with both hands and sighs. ‘Stay off

the main roads as much as possible. Stick together, but

don’t travel in a group. John, you lead the way. George can

bring up the rear. Cover your tracks. If there’s any sign of

trouble, or you think you’re being followed…’

‘Father.’ John places his arm on Peter’s shoulder. ‘We’ll

be fine.’

Peter nods and lets out a series of short whistles. An

enormous falcon swoops down from the sky and settles on

John’s outstretched arm.

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‘Send him back here the moment you arrive at

Humbert’s,’ Peter says. ‘If you don’t, I’ll assume something’s

happened. But if you don’t send him and nothing’s

happened…’ He looks at John sternly. ‘I swear to you, John

Paracelsus Raleigh, when I’m finished with you, you’ll

wish something had.’

George gapes at John. ‘Your middle name is Paracelsus?’

‘Shut it,’ John snaps. He turns to Peter, flushing

slightly. ‘I’ll send Horace. Everything will be fine. Please try

not to worry.’

‘Hmph,’ Peter grunts. He wraps John in a tight embrace,

patting his back softly. Then he releases him and looks

at us. ‘We’re taking Nicholas to Harrow so the healers there

can watch over him. Once he’s settled and we see Avis

and Veda to a safe house, I’ll meet you at Humbert’s. I’ll be

there as soon as I can.’

He unbolts the door and pushes it open, a flurry of

snowflakes rushing into the hall. The first snow of the

season. I pull my coat tightly around me and step outside.

‘Be safe,’ Peter says, his face still etched with worry. ‘If

you see anything, anything at all, just run.’

The four of us trudge across the wide gravel path and the

grass, into the woods. Fifer and John walk ahead of us, their

heads bent towards each other, murmuring. All the while

Nicholas’s voice is whispering in my ear: Blackwell is a

wizard. Blackwell is a wizard.

Blackwell is a wizard.

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‘What’s with you?’ George falls into step beside me.

‘You’ve barely said three words since you left Nicholas’s

room.’ A pause. ‘Did he put a spell on you? You know. To

keep you from getting all –’ He mimes choking and stabbing

motions with his hands.

I burst into a fit of giggles then. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s

nerves. Maybe I’ve gone mad. The whole world has gone

mad; seems right I should go down with it. My laughter

echoes through the trees, the only sound in the otherwise

silent forest. John spins around and flashes me a grin. Fifer

punches him in the arm and he turns back to her, a scowl

replacing his smile.

I compose myself. ‘No. I’m just…you know. I don’t

know.’

‘Mmm. Clarity is vastly overrated.’

I shoot him a look. ‘You know what I mean. It’s going to

be hard enough finding this tablet without having to hide

who I am from everyone.’

George nods. ‘Aye. But it’s important. Nicholas wouldn’t

ask it if it weren’t.’

‘Why? You know and aren’t getting all –’ I mimic his

choking and stabbing motions. ‘Why does it matter if

they know?’

He squints up ahead, in the direction of John and

Fifer. It looks as if they’re arguing now; Fifer is gesturing

furiously while John shakes his head. She glances back at

me and scowls.

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‘She doesn’t like me, does she?’

George shrugs. ‘Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t like

anyone except John. He’s the only one who can put up with

her anyway. He’s got the patience of a saint.’

I turn my attention to John then, watch as he walks

through the trees up ahead.

He’s so tall that he’s having a hard time avoiding all but

the highest branches. They brush against his face, the leaves

and twigs getting caught up in his dark hair. When he stops

to disentangle a cluster of leaves, he sees me watching him.

He gives me a little wave, then yanks the leaves out and

throws them to the ground, a grin lighting up his face.

Suddenly, my stomach feels as if someone tied a knot in it.

Without thinking, I smile back.

George elbows me. ‘Stop that.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Smiling. You can’t go around smiling at people like that.

It’s…’ He trails off, searching for the right word. ‘Distracting.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not. Look, there’s something you need to know.’ He

glances at John, making sure he’s not paying attention. He’s

not; he and Fifer are back to whispering again. ‘John’s

mother and sister were captured by witch hunters and

burned at the stake for witchcraft. They were healers.’

‘What?’ The knot in my stomach grows tighter. ‘When?’

George sighs. ‘Last year. One morning Anne and Jane –

they’re his mother and sister – left Harrow, presumably

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to see a patient. John and Peter didn’t even know they’d

gone. Anyway, they never returned. I guess you know

what that means.’

I shake my head. But, of course, I know.

‘Peter and John knew, too. They both went to Upminster,

did everything they could. But Anne and Jane went to the

stakes anyway. At one point, John tried to get to them, in

the fire…’ George’s voice breaks. ‘I don’t know what he was

thinking. He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, too; I don’t know

why he wasn’t. The guards got ahold of him, beat him

senseless. He lay there in the dirt, beaten and bloody, and

watched his mother and sister die right in front of him.’

I stop walking. Remember what John told me back at

Nicholas’s about the burnings. I hadn’t realised he was

talking about his own mother and sister. Never imagined he

had to see that. I feel sweaty, queasy. I wonder vaguely

if I might throw up.

‘I didn’t do it,’ I whisper. ‘Capture them, I mean.

I remember everyone I’ve ever arrested. It wasn’t me.’

‘Even so,’ George says. ‘He can’t know. He wouldn’t kill

you, but that’s not really what I’m worried about. Do you

understand what I’m telling you?’

‘Yes,’ I whisper.

‘On we go, then.’

We keep walking. I keep my eyes on the ground in front

of me, on the snow-dusted leaves and twigs that snap

underfoot like breaking bones. I can feel George’s eyes on

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me, watching me carefully. I ignore him.

But I can’t ignore the feeling that’s crept into my chest,

that uncomfortable twist of guilt, like a vine curling its way

inside, threatening to choke me. I may not have captured

John’s mother and sister, but I’ve captured others like them.

I’ve been responsible for their deaths, for ruining families

the way John’s was ruined, and for what? I thought I was

doing what was best for the country, to keep it safe.

It was all a lie.

After several hours the woods eventually break, giving

way to pastures. Rolling green hills, wide swaths of

browning, early winter grass framed by low stone walls and

dotted with sheep, fluffy in their thick white winter coats.

The land stretches ahead of us for miles, a narrow dirt road

our only passage through. The snow has now switched to

rain, accompanied by a low rumbling of thunder. After

being ensconced in the relative safety of the woods, I feel

vulnerable being out in the open like this.

‘We split up, I think,’ John says. ‘I’ll go ahead. George,

you follow behind. If there’s anything unexpected, Horace

will let us know. So if you see him, run. Hide. I’ll come and

find you when I think it’s safe.’

The falcon has spent most of the journey circling the sky

over our heads, but he is now resting on John’s outstretched

arm. We agree, and he releases Horace and takes off in

a slow run, down the road and over the first hill until he’s

out of sight.

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George hangs back, letting Fifer and me walk ahead. She

makes a show of ignoring me, so we’re quiet for the next

few miles, concentrating on the path in front of us. The rain

is still coming down, turning the road into a river of mud.

It’s slow going, trudging through the ankle-deep sludge.

Fifer is shivering under her wet cloak, her lips nearly

blue with cold. When she steps into a pothole and trips, I

grab her arm to keep her from falling. She looks grateful,

for a second. Then she yanks away from me and storms off,

muttering under her breath.

‘You’re welcome,’ I say.

She whirls around, a look of disgust on her face.

‘What are you doing here?’

I smirk. I can’t help it. ‘Theologists have long believed

that our time here on earth is—’

‘Not that, you idiot,’ she flares. ‘What I mean is, can you

do anything? Nicholas said you’re a witch, so I’m asking

you if you can do any magic.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘No.’

‘You’ve never done any spells? Curses?’

I shake my head.

‘Not even by accident? Say, wished harm on anyone and

caused it to come true?’

‘No,’ I repeat.

‘Well, do you get lucky a lot? That’s what happens to

untrained witches, you know. They do magic without

realising it and think they’re just lucky.’

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‘Do I seem lucky to you?’

Fifer snorts, her face softening a bit. ‘I guess not.

Although you did survive jail fever. I guess now you

know why.’ She purses her lips, thinking. ‘There must be

something you can do. Otherwise—’

She’s cut off by Horace, soaring towards us and clipping

the tops of our heads with his outstretched wing.

‘Run!’

We sprint across the muddy road, hurling over the wall

and into the fields, searching for somewhere to hide. The