Part 42 (1/2)

”The blemish is on your vow, sir!” Woodward said, with a measure of fire that belied his watery const.i.tution.

”Very well, then! I'm going.” Bidwell reached up and adjusted his wig, which had become somewhat tilted during his ascent from the floor. ”Can you blame me for wanting to know? I've waited so long for it!”

”You can wait a little longer, then.” Woodward motioned him away. ”Matthew, close the door.” Matthew resettled himself, with the box on his knees and the writing materials and paper before him.

”Read it again, ” Woodward said.

”Yes, sir.” Matthew took a deep breath. ”On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant-”

”Guilty, ” came the whispered answer. ”With a stipulation. That the defendant did not actually commit the murder... but caused it to be committed by her words, deeds, or a.s.sociations.”

”Sir!” Matthew said, his heart pounding. ”Please! There's absolutely no evidence to-”

”Silence!” Woodward lifted himself up on his elbows, his face contorted with a mixture of anger, frustration, and pain. ”I'll have no more of your second opinions, do you hear me?” He locked his gaze with Matthew's. ”Scribe the next charge.”

Matthew might have thrown down the quill and upset the inkjar, but he did not. He knew his duties, whether or not he agreed with the magistrate's decision. Therefore he swallowed the bitter gall in his throat, redipped the quill-that b.a.s.t.a.r.d weapon of blind destruction-and spoke again as he wrote: ”On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant-”

”Guilty, with a stipulation. The same as above.” Woodward glared at him when Matthew's hand failed to make the entry. ”I should like to finish this sometime today.”

Matthew had no choice but to write down the decree. The heat of shame flared in his cheeks. Now, of course, he knew what the next decision must be. ”On the Charge of Witchcraft... I Find the Aforesaid Defendant-”

”Guilty, ” Woodward said quickly. He closed his eyes and rested his head back down on the stained pillow, his breathing harsh. Matthew heard a rattling sound deep in the magistrate's lungs. ”Scribe the preface to sentencing.”

Matthew wrote it as if in a trance. By Virtue of the Power Ascribed to Me As Colonial Magistrate, I Hereby Sentence the Aforesaid Defendant Rachel Howarth to... He lifted his quill from the paper and waited.

Woodward opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. A moment pa.s.sed, during which could be heard the singing of birds in the springtime sunlight. ”Burning at the stake, as warranted by the King's law, ” Woodward said. ”The sentence to be carried out on Monday, the twenty-second of May, sixteen-ninety-nine.

In case of inclement weather... the earliest necessary date following.” His gaze ticked toward Matthew, who had not moved. ”Enter it.”

Again, he was simply the unwitting flesh behind the instrument. Somehow the lines were quilled on the paper.

”Give it here.” Woodward held out his hand and took the doc.u.ment. He squinted, reading it by the light that streamed through the window, and then he nodded with satisfaction. ”The quill, please.” Matthew had the presence of mind-or rather the dignity of his job-to dip the quill in the inkjar and blot the excess before he handed it over.

Woodward signed his full name and, below it, the t.i.tle Colonial Magistrate. Ordinarily an official wax seal would be added, but the seal had been lost to that blackhearted Will Shawcombe. He then returned the paper and the quill to Matthew, who knew what was expected of him. Still moving as if enveloped in a gray haze, Matthew signed his name beneath Woodward's, along with the t.i.tle Magistrate's Clerk.

And it was done.

”You may read it to the defendant, ” Woodward said, avoiding looking at his clerk's face because he knew what he would see there. ”Take Bidwell with you, as he should also hear it.”

Matthew realized there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He slowly stood up, his mind yet fogged, and walked to the door with the decree in hand.

”Matthew?” Woodward said, ”For whatever this is worth... I know you must think me heartless and cruel.” He hesitated, swallowing thick pus. ”But the proper sentence has been given. The witch must be burned... for the good of everyone.”

”She is innocent, ” Matthew managed to say, his gaze cast to the floor. ”I can't prove anything yet, but I intend to keep-”

”You delude yourself... and it is time for delusions to cease.”

Matthew turned toward the man, his eyes coldly furious. ”You are wrong, sir, ” he added. ”Rachel is not a witch, she's a p.a.w.n. Oh yes, all the conditions for a burning at the stake have been met, and all is in order with the law, sir, but I am d.a.m.ned if I'll let someone I know to be innocent lose her life on hearsay and fantasy!”

Woodward rasped, ”Your task is to read the decree! No more and no less!”

”I'll read it.” Matthew nodded. ”Then I'll drink rum to wash my mouth out, but I will not surrender! If she burns on Monday, I have five days to prove her innocent, and by G.o.d that's what I intend to do!”

Woodward started to answer with some vinegar, but his strength failed him. ”Do what you must, ” he said. ”I can't... protect you from your nightbird, can I?”

”The only thing I fear is that Rachel is burned before I can prove who murdered her husband and Reverend Grove. If that happens, I don't know how I can live with myself.”

”Oh, my Christ.” It had been spoken as nearly a moan. Woodward closed his eyes, feeling faint. ”She has you so deeply... and you don't even realize it.”

”She has my trust, if that's what you infer.”

”She has your soul.” His eyes opened; in an instant they had become sunken and bloodshot. ”I long for the moment we shall leave this place. Return to Charles Town... civilization and sanity. When I am cured and in good health again, we'll put all this behind us. And then... when you can see clearly... you'll understand what danger tempted you.”

Matthew had to get out, because the magistrate had been reduced to babbling. He couldn't bear to see the man-so proud, so regal, and so correct-on the verge of becoming a fever-dulled imbecile. He said, ”I'm going, ” but he still hesitated before he left the bedchamber. His tone had softened; there was no point now in harshness. ”Can I get anything for you?”

Woodward drew in a suffering breath and released it. ”I want... ”he began, but his agonized throat felt in jeopardy of closing and he had to start again. ”I want... things to be as they were... between us. Before we came to this wretched place. I want us to return to Charles Town... and go on, as if none of this ever happened.” He looked hopefully at Matthew. ”All right?”

Matthew stood at the window, staring out at the sunlit town. The sky was turning bright blue, though the way he felt it might have been a dismal downpour out there. He knew what the magistrate wanted him to say. He knew it would ease him, but it would be a lie. He said quietly, ”I wish it might be so, sir. But you and I both know it will not be. I may be your clerk... I may be under your watchcare, and live in your house... but I am a man, sir. If I fail to fight for the truth as I see it, then what kind of man am I? Surely not the kind you have taught me to be. So... you ask for something I am unable to give you, Isaac.”

There was a long, torturous silence. Then the magistrate spoke in his dry husk of a voice: ”Leave me.”

Matthew walked out, taking the hateful decree downstairs to where Bidwell was waiting.

Twenty-Six.

”The magistrate has made his decree,” Matthew said. Rachel, who was sitting on her bench with the coa.r.s.e robe around her and the cowl s.h.i.+elding her face, hadn't moved when Matthew and Bidwell entered the gaol. Now she simply gave a brief nod, signifying her acknowledgment of the doc.u.ment that was about to be read.

”Go on, let's hear it!” Bidwell had been in such a hurry that he'd demanded they walk instead of waiting for the horses and carriage to be readied, and now he was truly champing at his bit.

Matthew stood beneath the roof hatch, which was open. He unrolled the doc.u.ment and began to read the preface in a calm, emotionless voice. Behind him, Bidwell paced back and forth. The master of Fount Royal abruptly stopped when Matthew reached the portion that began: ”On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove...” Matthew could hear the man's wolfish breathing at his back. ”I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty.”

There was a smack as Bidwell struck his palm with his fist in a gesture of triumph. Matthew flinched, but kept his attention focused on Rachel. She showed no reaction whatsoever. ”With a Stipulation, ” Matthew continued. ”That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or a.s.sociations.”

”Yes, but it's all the same, isn't it?” Bidwell crowed. ”She might as well have done it with her own hands!”

Matthew kept going by sheer force of will. ”On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty, With a Stipulation.” At the word guilty, this time Rachel had given a soft cry and lowered her head. ”That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or a.s.sociations.”

”Excellent, excellent!” Bidwell gleefully clapped his hands together.

Matthew looked fiercely into the man's grinning face. ”Would you please restrain yourself? This is not a five-pence play requiring comments from the idiots' gallery!”

Bidwell's grin only broadened. ”Oh, say what you like! Just keep reading that blessed decree!”

Matthew's task-performed so many times at the magistrate's behest over criminals common and extraordinary-had become a test of endurance. He had to go on.

”On the Charge of Witchcraft, ” he read to Rachel, ”I Find the Aforesaid Defendant...” and here his throat almost clenched shut to prevent him from speaking, but the horrible word had to be uttered, ”... Guilty.”