Part 22 (1/2)
When the magistrate stood from his chair, his legs almost betrayed him. His head was swimming and strange lights seemed to dance behind his eyes. But the pain in his throat had all but vanished, and his breathing was miraculously cleared. The doctor's remedy, he thought, was surely a wonder drug.
”Sometimes the smoke does play tricks with the balance,” s.h.i.+elds said. ”Here, take my arm and a'tavern we shall go!”
”A tavern, a tavern!” Woodward said. ”My kingdom for a tavern!” This struck him as riotously funny, and he began to laugh at his own wit. The laughter was a little too loud and a little too harsh, however, and even in his lightened state of mind he knew what he was trying to cloak.
Fourteen.
With the fading of the light, the rats grew bold. Matthew had heard their squeakings and rustlings all the afternoon, but they'd not yet made an appearance. He'd been relieved to find that the rodents had not emerged to attack either his lunch or supper-meager beef broth and two slices of black bread, humble but stomach-filling-but now, ever since Green had closed the roof hatch and left only a single lantern burning on its hook, the creatures were creeping out of their nooks and crannies to claim the place.
”Watch your fingers,” Rachel told him, sitting on her bench. ”They'll give you a bite if you try to strike them. If one crawls on you tonight, it's best to lie perfectly still. They'll be sniffing at you, that's all.”
”The one that bit your shoulder,” Matthew said. He was standing up, his back against the wall. ”Was it only sniffing?”
”No, I tried to get that one away from my waterbucket. I found out they can jump like cats, and I also learned they're going to have your water no matter what you do.”
Matthew picked up his own bucket of water, which Green had recently filled from a larger container, and he drank copiously from it. Enough, he hoped, to quench his thirst for the night.
Then he placed the bucket on the floor in the opposite corner, as far away from his bed of straw as possible.
”Green only brings fresh water every other day,” Rachel said, watching him. ”You won't mind drinking after the rats when you get thirsty enough.”
Another quandary had presented itself to Matthew, far worse than the problem of the rodents and the waterbucket. Green had also brought in a fresh bucket to be used for elimination. Matthew had realized he was going to have to pull down his breeches and use it-sooner or later-right in front of the woman. And, likewise, she would be using her own without benefit of a shade or screen. He thought he might endure two more lashes added to his sentence if he could have at least a modic.u.m of privacy, but it was not to be.
Suddenly a dark shape darted from a small crevice in the wall of Matthew's cell and went straight for the bucket. As Matthew watched, the rodent-black-furred, red-eyed, and as long as his hand-climbed swiftly up the bucket's side and leaned over its rim to lap the water, its claws gripping the wood. A second one followed, and then a third. The things interrupted their drinking to chatter like washerwomen trading gossip at the common well, and then they broke ranks and squeezed their bodies again into the crevice.
It was going to be a very long night.
Matthew had several books on hand, courtesy of the magistrate, who'd brought the tomes from Bidwell's library that afternoon, but as the light was so meager there would be no reading tonight. Woodward had told him he'd had an interesting conversation with Dr. s.h.i.+elds, and would reveal more when Matthew was set free. Now, though, Matthew felt the walls and bars closing in upon him; without proper light by which to read or write, and with rats scratching and scurrying in the logs, he feared he might lose his grip on his decorum and shame himself before Rachel Howarth. It shouldn't matter, of course, because after all she was an accused murderess-and much worse-but still he desired to present himself as a st.u.r.dy oak, not the thin willow he felt to be.
It was warm and steamy in the gaol. Rachel cupped her hands into her waterbucket and dampened her face, was.h.i.+ng off the salty perspiration that had collected on her cheeks and forehead. She cooled her throat with the water as well, and paid no heed when two rats squeaked and fought in the corner of her cage.
”How long is it that you've been here?” Matthew asked, sitting on his bench with his knees pulled up to his chin. ”This is the second week of May, is it not?”
”Yes.”
”I was brought here on the third day of March.”
Matthew flinched at the very thought of it. No matter what she might have done, she was made of sterner stuff than he. ”How do you stand it, day after day?”
She finished bathing her throat before she replied. ”Do I have any choice but to stand it? I suppose I could become a gibbering fool. I suppose I could break down, fall to my knees, and confess witchcraft at the boots of fine Mr. Bidwell, but should I go to my death that way?”
”You could recite the Lord's Prayer before him. That might win you some mercy.”
”No,” she said, and she aimed those fierce amber eyes at him, ”it would not. As I told you, I refuse to recite something that has no meaning in this town. And my recitation of it would change no one's mind about my guilt.” She cupped her hands again and this time let the water flow through her wild mane of ebony hair. ”You heard what the magistrate said. If I spoke the Lord's Prayer, it might be a trick of the Devil to save my skin.”
Matthew nodded. ”I grant you, you're right. Bidwell and the others have made their opinions about you, and nothing will shake them.”
”Except one thing,” she said firmly. ”Discovering who really murdered the reverend and my husband, and who plotted this evil against me.”
”Discovery is only half the solution. The other half would be the presentation of proof, without which discovery is hollow.”
When Matthew was silent again he was aware of the noises the rats were making, so he chose to speak in an effort to keep his mind busied. ”Who would have cause to commit those crimes? Do you have any idea?”
”No.”
”Did your husband anger someone? Did he cheat someone? Did he-”
”This is not about Daniel,” she interrupted. ”It is about me. me. I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different... someone to be I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different... someone to be feared, feared, because I am different?” because I am different?”
Matthew had thought of another reason, as well: her exotic beauty. He doubted that a woman more comely than Rachel Howarth had ever set foot in Fount Royal. Her nigrescent coloring was surely objectionable to many-if not most-in this society of pallid whitebreads, but that very same hue was as the burnished flesh of a forbidden fruit. He'd never in his life seen anyone the equal of her. She seemed more proud animal than suffering human, and he thought that this quality too could stir the fire of a man's l.u.s.t. Or fan the crackling embers of another woman's jealousy.
”The evidence against you,” he said, and quickly amended himself: ”The apparent apparent evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in... shall we say... intimate accord with Satan.” evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in... shall we say... intimate accord with Satan.”
”Lies,” she said.
”I have to disagree. I don't think they're lying.”
”So you do do believe me to be a witch, then?” believe me to be a witch, then?”
”I don't know what I believe,” he said. ”Take the poppets, for instance. They were found under a floorboard of your kitchen. A woman named Cara-”
”Grunewald,” Rachel said. ”She pinched her husband's ear for speaking to me, long before any of this happened.”
”Madam Grunewald saw the location of the poppets in a dream,” Matthew continued. ”How do you account for that?”
”Simply. She made the poppets and put them there herself.”
”If she hated you so deeply, then why did she leave Fount Royal? Why did she not stay to testify before the magistrate? Why did she not satisfy her hatred by remaining here to watch your execution?”
Now Rachel was staring at the floor. She shook her head.
Matthew said, ”If I I had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them.” had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them.”
”Nicholas Paine,” Rachel said suddenly, and looked again at Matthew. ”He was one of the three men who broke down my door that March morning, bound me with ropes, and threw me into the back of a wagon. He also was one of the men who found the poppets.”
”Who were the other two men who took you into custody?”
”Hannibal Green and Aaron Windom. I never shall forget that dawn. They dragged me from my bed, and Green locked his arm around my throat to stop my screaming. I spat in Windom's face and got a slap for it.”
”Paine, Garrick, James Reed, and Kelvin Bonnard discovered the poppets,” Matthew said, recalling what Garrick had said on the night of their arrival. ”Can you think of any possible reason Paine or any of those others might have fas.h.i.+oned them and hidden them there?”
”No.”
”All right, then.” Matthew saw another dark streak go across the floor. He watched the rat climb up the side of the waterbucket and drink. ”Let us say that Paine, for whatever reason, did make the poppets and put them under the floorboard. Why should it be Madam Grunewald who saw their location in a dream? Why should it not be Paine himself, if he was so eager to present physical evidence against you?” He pondered the question and thought he might have an answer. ”Did Paine have... uh... a relations.h.i.+p with Madam Grunewald?”
”I don't think so,” Rachel replied. ”Cara Grunewald was as fat as a pig and had half her nose eaten away by the pox.”