Speaks The Nightbird Part 10

Woodward paused, putting his thoughts in order. "Silence is guilt, madam," he continued. "I want you to listen well to what I say. There is much talk here of nooses and hangings. You know of what you stand accused. Many witches in these colonies have met their deaths by hanging... but since you stand accused of murdering your husband, to whom by law you owed obedience, this is also a case of what is called 'petty treason.' The punishment for such treason is not the rope, but death by fire at the stake. Therefore it does you no good whatsoever to remain mute to my questions."

He may as well have been speaking to a gray-gowned statue. "This is absurd!" he protested to Bidwell. "It's all useless, if she refuses to speak! "

"Then we ought to get a stake ready, yes?"

"Sir?" Matthew said. "May I pose her a question?"

"Yes, go ahead!" Woodward answered, disgusted with the whole thing.

"Madam Howarth?" Matthew kept his voice as quiet and un-threatening as possible, though his heart was beating very hard. "Are you a witch?"

Bidwell gave an abrupt, nervous laugh that sounded like an ill-tuned trumpet. "That's a d.a.m.ned foolish question, boy! Of course course she's a witch! None of this would be necessary if she wasn't!" she's a witch! None of this would be necessary if she wasn't!"

"Mr. Bidwell?" Matthew speared the man with a cold gaze. "It was a question I posed to the woman, woman, not to you. I'd appreciate if you would not presume to answer for her." not to you. I'd appreciate if you would not presume to answer for her."

"Why, you're an impudent young c.o.c.k!" The blood flushed to the surface of Bidwell's jowls. "If you were more than half a man, I'd require satisfaction for that sharp tongue of-"

"I," spoke the woman, loud enough to command attention. Bidwell was immediately silent. "... am.. .judged .judged a witch," she said, and then nothing more. a witch," she said, and then nothing more.

Matthew's heart was now at full gallop. He cleared his throat. "Do you judge yourself one?"

There was a long pause. Matthew thought she wouldn't reply, but then the hooded head tilted a fraction. "My husband has been taken from me. My house and land have been taken." Her voice was wan but steady; it was the voice of a young woman, not that of a wizened crone as Matthew had expected. "My innocence has been taken from me, and my very soul has been beaten. Before I answer your question, you answer mine: what more do I possess?"

"A voice. And knowledge of the truth."

"Truth," she said acidly. "Truth in this town is a ghost, its life long departed." she said acidly. "Truth in this town is a ghost, its life long departed."

"There, listen!" Bidwell said, his excitement rampant. "She speaks of ghosts!"

Hus.h.!.+ Matthew almost snapped, but he restrained himself. "Madam, do you commune with Satan?" Matthew almost snapped, but he restrained himself. "Madam, do you commune with Satan?"

She took a long breath and let it go. "I do not."

"Did you not create poppets for use in spells of witchcraft?" Woodward asked, feeling he should endeavor to take command of this questioning.

The woman was silent. Woodward realized, uncomfortably, that she was indeed making a statement: for whatever reason, she would only speak to Matthew. He looked at his clerk, who was also discomfited by the woman's behavior, and gave a shrug of his shoulders.

"The poppets," Matthew said. "Did you make them?" Bid-well let out an exasperated snort, but Matthew paid him no heed. "No, I did not," the woman answered.

"Then how come they to be found in the floor of her house?" Paine asked. "I myself found them!"

"Madam Howarth, do you know how the poppets came to be in your house?"

"I do not," she said.

"This is a fool's court!" Bidwell was about to burst with impatience. "Of course she's going to deny her wickedness! Do you expect her to confess confess her sins?" her sins?"

Matthew turned to the captain of militia. "How did you know to investigate the floor of her house?"

"The locality of the poppets was seen in a dream by Cara Grunewald. Not the exact locality, but that the witch had something of importance hidden underneath the floor of her kitchen. I took some men there, and we found the poppets beneath a loosened board."

"Was Madam Howarth still living there when you made this discovery?"

"No, she was here in the cell by then."

"So this Cara Grunewald told you where to look?" Woodward asked. "According to the dictates of a vision?"

"That's correct."

"I should think we might want to speak to Madam Grunewald, as well," the magistrate decided.

"Impossible!" Bidwell said. "She, her husband, and four children left Fount Royal two months ago!"

Matthew frowned, rubbing his chin. "How long was Madam Howarth's house empty before these poppets were discovered?"

"Oh... two weeks, perhaps." Now it was Paine's turn to wear a furrowed brow. "What's your direction, young man?"

"No direction yet." Matthew offered a faint smile. "I'm only testing the compa.s.s."

"Magistrate, I protest this ridiculous behavior by your clerk!" clerk!" Bidwell had nearly snarled the word. "It's not his place to be posing these questions!" Bidwell had nearly snarled the word. "It's not his place to be posing these questions!"

"It is is his place to be his place to be helping helping me," Woodward said, his temper beginning to fray from the man's insinuations. "As we all desire to find the truth in this situation, anything my well-versed scrivener can add to that process is-to me, at least-entirely welcome." me," Woodward said, his temper beginning to fray from the man's insinuations. "As we all desire to find the truth in this situation, anything my well-versed scrivener can add to that process is-to me, at least-entirely welcome."

"The truth is already clear as gla.s.s, sir!" Bidwell retorted. "We should put the witch to death-fire, hanging, drowning, whatever-and be done with it!"

"It seems to me there are too many questions yet to be answered," Woodward said steadfastly.

"You want proof of her witchcraft, do you? Well, here it is then, and she won't have to speak a word! Green, remove the witch's clothing!" The burly gaol-keeper started into the cage. Instantly the gray-cloaked figure backed against the wall, so tightly as if to press herself into it. Green didn't hesitate; in another two strides he was upon her, reaching out to grasp a handful of sackcloth.

Suddenly the woman's right hand came up, its palm lodging against the man's chest to restrain him. "No," "No," she said, and the force of her voice stopped Green in his tracks. she said, and the force of her voice stopped Green in his tracks.

"Go on, Green!" Bidwell insisted. "Strip her!"

"I said no!" no!" the woman repeated. Her other hand came up from the folds, and suddenly her fingers were working at the wooden b.u.t.tons of her cloak. The gaol-keeper, realizing she had elected to disrobe herself, retreated to give her room. the woman repeated. Her other hand came up from the folds, and suddenly her fingers were working at the wooden b.u.t.tons of her cloak. The gaol-keeper, realizing she had elected to disrobe herself, retreated to give her room.

Her fingers were nimble. The b.u.t.tons came undone. Then she reached up, pushed the hood back from her face and head, shrugged quickly out of her clothes, and let the sorry garment slide into the hay.

Rachel Howarth stood naked before the world.

"Very well," she said, her eyes defiant. "Here is the witch."

Matthew almost fell down. Never in his life had he seen a naked woman; what's more, this woman was... well, there was no other description but belle exotique. belle exotique.

She was no wizened crone, being perhaps twenty-five years or thereabouts. Whether by nature or due to the gaol's diet, she was lean to the point of her rib cage being visible. Her flesh was of a swarthy mahogany hue, her Portuguese heritage. Her long, thick hair was black as midnight but in dire need of was.h.i.+ng. Matthew couldn't help but stare at her dark-nippled b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his face reddening with shame but his eyes wanton as those of a drunken seaman. When he removed his gaze from that area, he instantly was attracted to the mysterious triangle of black curls between her slim thighs. His head seemed to be mounted on a treacherous swivel. He gazed into the woman's face, and there found further undoing of his senses.

She was staring at the floor, but her eyes-pale amber-brown, verging on a strange and remarkable golden hue- burned so fiercely they might have set the hay aflame. Her face was most pleasing-heartshaped, her chin marked with a small cleft-and Matthew found himself imagining how she would appear if not in such dire circ.u.mstances. If his heart had been galloping before, now it was a runaway. The sight of this lovely woman naked was almost too much to bear; something about her was frail, deeply wounded perhaps, while her expression conveyed an inner strength the likes of which he'd never witnessed. It hurt him to view such a creature in this ign.o.ble fas.h.i.+on and he sought to rest his eyes somewhere else, but Rachel Howarth seemed the center of the world and there was nowhere he could look without seeing her.

"Here!" Bidwell said. "Look here!" He strode toward the woman, grasped her left breast in a rough grip, and lifted it. He pointed at a small brown blotch underneath. "This is one. Here is another!" He pressed a forefinger against a second mark on her right thigh, just above the knee. "Turn around!" he told her. She obeyed, her face blanked of emotion. "The third one, here!" He put his finger against a dark blotch-a bit larger than the others, though not by very much-on her left hip. "Devil's marks, one and all! This third one here even seems to be the impression of her master! Come, look closer!"

He was speaking to Woodward, who was having as difficult a time in the presence of this compelling nudity as was Matthew. The magistrate stepped forward to get a better view of the skin blotch that Bidwell was showing. "You see? Right here? And there too?" Bidwell asked. "Don't those appear to be horns growing from a devil's head?"

"I... well... I suppose so," Woodward answered, and then decorum dictated that he retreat a few paces.

"Her right arm," Matthew said, with an uptilt of his chin. He'd recognized two small, blood-crusted wounds near the elbow. "Rat bites, I think."

"Yes, I see. Another on the shoulder." Bidwell touched the shoulder wound, which was gray-rimmed with infection, and the woman winced but made no sound. "The rats have been after you, Madam?" She didn't reply, nor did she need to; it was obvious the rodents had been visiting. "All right, we can't have you eaten up in your sleep. I'll have Linch catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Put your clothes back on." He walked away from her and immediately she bent down, picked up her sackcloth, and covered herself. Then, shrouded once more, she huddled in the hay as she'd been at the beginning.

"There you have it!" Bidwell announced. "She cannot speak the Lord's Prayer, she created those poppets to enchant her victims, and she has the marks. For some unholy reason known only to herself and her master, she murdered or caused the murder of Burlton Grove and Daniel Howarth. She and her h.e.l.lish kin are responsible for the fires we've been lately enduring. She conjures phantasms and demons and I believe she's cursed our orchards and fields as well." He placed his hands on his hips, his chest bellowing out. "It is her plan to destroy Fount Royal, and on that account she has made great and terrible progress! What more remains to be said?"

"One question," Matthew said, and he saw Bidwell visibly flinch. "If indeed this woman commands such awesome and unholy powers-"

"She does!" Bidwell a.s.serted, and behind him Paine nodded.

"-then why," Matthew went on, "can she not strike mere rodents dead with a touch?"

"What?"

"The rats, sir. Why is she bitten?"

"A good point," Woodward agreed. "Why would she allow herself to be bitten by common rats, if she's joined with such a demonic league?"

"Because... because..." Bidwell looked for help from Green and Paine.

The militia captain came to his rescue. "Because," "Because," Paine said forcefully, "it's a trick. Would you not think it more peculiar that Noles was attacked by the rodents, but the witch was spared? Oh, she knows what she's doing, gentlemen!" He looked directly at Matthew. "She is attempting to blind you, young man. Her evil is well planned. If she has the bites of rodents on her flesh, it was done by her will and blasphemous blessing." Paine said forcefully, "it's a trick. Would you not think it more peculiar that Noles was attacked by the rodents, but the witch was spared? Oh, she knows what she's doing, gentlemen!" He looked directly at Matthew. "She is attempting to blind you, young man. Her evil is well planned. If she has the bites of rodents on her flesh, it was done by her will and blasphemous blessing."

Woodward nodded. "Yes, that sounds reasonable."

"Then there's no disagreement of the fact that she is is a witch?" Bidwell prompted. a witch?" Bidwell prompted.

Matthew said, "Sir, this is a matter for careful consideration."

"What d.a.m.ned consideration? Who else has poisoned my town but her? Who else murdered her husband and the reverend? Boy, the facts are there to be seen!" d.a.m.ned consideration? Who else has poisoned my town but her? Who else murdered her husband and the reverend? Boy, the facts are there to be seen!"

"Not facts. Contentions."

"You push me, boy! Remember, I'm your host here!"

"Would you take my clothes and turn me out into the forest if I refuse to view contentions as facts?"

"Please, please!" the magistrate said. "Nothing is being accomplished by this."

"My point exactly!" Bidwell steamed. "Your clerk seems determined to blunt the weapon you were brought here to wield!"

"And what weapon might that be, sir?" Woodward's raw throat and this dank gaol had combined to inflame his nerves. He felt his self-control slipping.

Bidwell's face might have been a pickled beet. "The law, law, of course!" of course!"

"Listen well to me." The magistrate's voice was calm but strained, and the power of it seized Bidwell like a hand around the scruff of a cur. "My clerk and I have come to this place to discover the truth, truth, not to use the privilege of law as a battering ram." Bidwell glowered at him but didn't speak. "You may be the master of Fount Royal, but I am the master of a larger realm. I will decide whether Madam Howarth is a witch or not, and I will determine her fate. And no man shall rush or shove me to judgment. You may take that as a fact. If you have some problem with it, Matthew and I will be glad to find other lodgings." not to use the privilege of law as a battering ram." Bidwell glowered at him but didn't speak. "You may be the master of Fount Royal, but I am the master of a larger realm. I will decide whether Madam Howarth is a witch or not, and I will determine her fate. And no man shall rush or shove me to judgment. You may take that as a fact. If you have some problem with it, Matthew and I will be glad to find other lodgings."

"Let me understand this fully, then!" Bidwell said. "Who is the magistrate and who is the clerk?"

Woodward clenched his teeth to restrain what he'd really like to say. "I need some air," he told Matthew. "Will you join me in walking back to Mr. Bidwell's house?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is that all?" Paine asked. "Aren't you going to interview the witch further?"

"Not today." Woodward motioned toward the woman's crumpled form. "I don't believe she's in a communicative mood, and I'm d.a.m.ned certain I'm I'm not! Matthew, come along!" He turned away and started for the exit. not! Matthew, come along!" He turned away and started for the exit.

"She needs a hot iron to loosen her tongue, is what she needs!" Bidwell shouted after them as they went along the corridor between the cages. Noles gave a snort and a spit as they pa.s.sed. His senses still shaken by his introduction to Rachel Howarth, Matthew knew he would win no contests of popularity hereabouts, and especially that he should beware making further enemies in the uncertain days to come.

Eight.

Outside the gaol, the humid air and clouded light seemed the breath and glow of paradise. Woodward disdained the carriage, where Goode sat on the driver's seat whittling a piece of wood with a small blade, and began walking in the direction of the spring. Matthew followed close behind.

"That man galls me!" Woodward said. "I may be a servant of the law, but I'm not his slave and neither are you!"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir." Matthew got beside him and kept pace. "As much as his manner grates, however, I can understand his anxiety."

"Well, aren't you the generous soul!"

"I might be as eager for an execution if I'd put so much money into Fount Royal, and now saw my investment near ruin."

"To the Devil with his investment!"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said. "I think that's what he fears."

Woodward slowed his pace and then stopped. He mopped beads of sweat from his face with his s.h.i.+rtsleeve, looked up at the ominous sky and then at his clerk. "That's why you're so invaluable to me, you know," he said, his anger dissolving. "At a glance you see the picture, the frame, the nail, and the wall."

"I see only what's there to be seen."

"Yes, and surely we've today seen a bit too much of Madam Howarth. She was... younger than I suspected. Much more handsome, as well. One might say lovely, if in different circ.u.mstances. When she disrobed, I... well, I haven't judged very many female defendants. Never have I stood and seen a woman disrobe willingly before strangers."

"Not willingly," Matthew said. "She knew her clothes would be taken from her, so she elected to remove them herself."

"Yes. What does that say about the woman?"

"That she wishes to retain some measure of control over herself. Or, at least, deny that control from Bidwell."

"Hmm." Woodward began walking west along Truth Street again, and Matthew walked alongside. Though the village still seemed very quiet, there were residents going about their daily business. Two women were crossing the street ahead, one of them carrying a large basket. A man at the reins of an oxcart pa.s.sed, hauling bales of hay and a few barrels. "I should like to know," the magistrate said, "... what intrigues you have with Mrs. Nettles."

"Sir?"