Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 4

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...Previous

   The risen sun had put an end to David’s first night on guard. Past the turn of the cell block corridor, across from the kitchen that formed the heart of Seagate castle, a room not much more than a closet had been fitted with hooks and shelves to serve as a coatroom. David retrieved his small canvas satchel from this little den and headed for the lobby. The only thing he needed that wouldn’t fit his pockets was the bottle of nerve tonic, but he felt strange carrying only it. He’d packed a change of clothes he didn’t really need. An unused notebook, and some pencils of similar wear. Filling out his satchel was their sole purpose in life.

   He passed the newcomer in her lonely corner. She was out of his sight at that angle. He stopped for a second to lean back, craning his neck; caught sight of her legs jutting out from her perch against the wall, and straightened up again. He kept walking before she could catch him staring.

   Though the sun was up, the day was hardly begun. Most of the prisoners still dozed, if not slept. He was unmolested on his walk to the iron gate blocking the corridor. After a chat with Jacob he’d be on his way. David flipped though his keys as he approached the bars.

   Wait.

   That word came unbidden to his mind. His hands slowed their search, his feet their pace, not in obedience but in confusion. It had been so clear, but it had not been the voice that usually put his thoughts to words. He tried to recall it to no avail. Another voice not his, however, did pipe up, this time in the realm of firm reality.

   “She’s my prisoner, I see her when I have need. If you object you can explain yourself to the majesties of the Crown. Keys.”

   “Uh…sir, I wasn’t told—“

   “Well I’m tellin’ you now! Keys.”

   “Ambrose,” said a new voice. David nearly dropped his own keys, fumbled them into his pocket and scurried backwards. “Sir, I’m Captain Bossard of the Blankston City Guard. Mr. Belvedere is not only my guest but a member of the Royal Elite. We need to see his prisoner. It’s official police business.”

   “Mr. Belvedere!” This was Jacob, fresh from the office that adjoined the lobby by a spiralling staircase. Clearly he had heard the tone of his visitors voices and was trying to counter it with cheer. “Captain! We weren’t expecting you so early.”

   “Weren’t expecting it either,” said Mr. Belvedere. “What I did expect was a shade more decorum from your officers.”

   “Of course,” said Jacob, with a disarming laugh. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. Give him your keys, Andrew. Mr. Belvedere can come and go as he pleases.”

   There was a jingle of an iron ring being snatched up. Bossard spoke again.

   “Thank you, Mr. Holbrook. Andrew,” he added.

   Run.

   That strange voice drowned out anything else that might have been said in the lobby. David sprinted back up the corridor, half-packed satchel jostling his leg. Stumbling around the turn, he paused out of sight. He heard the creak of the cell block door swinging on its hinges. The coatroom was only a short dash away. He made it before they’d closed the gate behind them.

   Before the juncture of the corridors, Mr. Belvedere waved his hand behind him, motioning his companions to stay put. Bossard held Marigold back by a gentle touch on her arm, next to the alcove where David had spent most of his first shift wondering the night away. The Elite Forces man continued to the lone cell in the corner.

   He caught the first shoe flying at his head. The second hit him in the chest with an ineffectual slap of sole on muscle. A growl of rage was his only greeting, as he bent to retrieve the matching pair. He stepped to the bars and held them out.

   “Next time, I won’t give ‘em back,” he said calmly. “Keep ‘em on your feet.”

   “Fuck you!” spat Guinevere. “Take them and fucking—“

   “Ms. van Allen,” he interrupted. Volume did not silence her; his tone did. “You have a visitor. Now’s not the time.” He motioned Marigold to come forward. Bossard escorted her, however little it was needed.

   “Who?” snapped the prisoner. “Another fucking pig come to fuck me over? Another…” She trailed off as she saw her apprentice on the Guard captain’s arm. In the unsure quiet, Mr. Belvedere set the shoes down next to the bars. He looked to the downcast young lady on his side of them.

   “Take your time, Ms. Baker,” he said. “The captain and I will be just past the gate. You yell if you need us.”

   The two men left without further ado. Guinevere did not put her shoes back on. She crossed her stocking feet as she sat down on her cot.

   “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she sighed. Marigold pressed her lips together.

   “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I wasn’t fast enough. Sir Roger came after me.”

   “No, not that,” said the witch. “I was expecting to be ash at this point. That wasn’t always the plan, don’t look so worried. Killing myself was not something I aspired to, but I preferred it to prison. Especially Crown prison. Some things aren’t to be.”

   She said this last with such melancholy that Marigold felt ready to excuse herself for being a bother. But she couldn’t. Not with so many questions and so much depending on them. She had only agreed to sign over her testimony if she could get some answers.

   “It’s not true, is it?” asked Marigold.

   “What’s ‘it’? What have they told you?”

   “Well…they said there were dozens of barrels of gunpowder found in the basement of Blankston Town Hall. All set with fuses made to go off at once. And they said it was meant to be done under a full hall at the Harvest Dance.”

   “Did they mention how they found out about it?”

   “No. Not to me,” admitted Marigold.

   “They haven’t arrested Alfaen yet,” said Guinevere. A statement, not a question. Marigold gasped softly.

   “Was he part of it?”

   “He was half of it, until he turned tail and tattled. If we’d been found out second-hand he’d have been arrested as quickly as me. The only explanation is that he’s ratted in exchange for his freedom.”

   “Guin, you’re not denying you did it,” said Marigold, close to tears. Guinevere kept a straight face as she studied her apprentice.

   “There’s no sense denying it. They wouldn’t believe me even if I was innocent. But I’m not. I did it, or tried to do it, and I’m not ashamed.”

   “Guin, I don’t understand,” said Marigold shakily. “There would have been innocent people in that hall. Women, and children.”

   “Innocent?” spat Guinevere, riveting on her. Marigold shied back. “Those innocent women who gossiped about all the demons I’d fucked? Those innocent children who threw stones and called me a hag? They’re as nasty and small-minded as the inquisitors. They have the same disease and they deserve the same fate. We could do with another Steadney if this is how they’re going to treat those that serve their Mither.”

   Marigold’s first instinct was to protest the violence of that statement, but she understood the feeling behind it; the frustrated, exhausted place it had come from. After a moment’s reflection, she chose a different subject.

   “I do want to thank you,” said Marigold quietly. “For trying to help me escape. It would have been easy to put some of the blame on me and I appreciate that you didn’t.”

   The witch had no response to this. Her apprentice asked it, then, the one question that had troubled her more than any others.

   “If they didn’t let me go…” said Marigold. “If they hadn’t let me pass…you wouldn’t have set off the nitre, would you?”

   “Marigold,” said the witch, “you wouldn’t have known a thing. It would have been instant. There would have been no pain.”

   Marigold was not the type to get angry. She never yelled, or chastised, even when it was deserved. She felt sick, instead. Nauseated to her very core. Her skin tightened, raising her fine hairs like hackles on a cat.

   “I appreciate your honesty, but, I don’t know what to say, Guin. I don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that freedom from prison meant more to you than our lives put together. And the lives of all those men…you would be free but we would all be dead. I didn’t even do anything wrong,” she added in a quaver. She had never felt betrayed before, since betrayal required trust, and Guinevere had been among only a handful of people in her life she had trusted. She did not know what to say or do about this new feeling. So, she walked away, fleeing the strange sick sensation and the woman who had caused it.

   “Marigold, it’s not that at all!” Guinevere’s shout fell on willfully deaf ears. “Wait! Marigold!”

   They listened to the distant hollow murmur of women’s voices down the corridor. Mr. Belvedere would lean over from time to time, peeking around the corner and through the cell block gate to the distant figure of Ms. Baker. Not that there was anywhere she could go, or much that could happen to her in there, but instinct made him check. Bossard leaned against the wall next to him, his hands flat on the small of his back, pressed between body and stone.

   “Our would-be destructress is chatty today,” observed Mr. Belvedere. “She hardly said a word to me outside admitting her guilt.”

   “Same here,” agreed Bossard.

   “I found it odd,” continued the Elite Forces man, “that she made no mention of fellow conspirators, though she clearly had them. I asked her point-blank about them. She refused to look at me until I changed the subject.”

   “Yes, I…got a similar response.”

   “But someone else wrote the letter you received, Julian. We know she had a friend in all this.”

   Bossard could feel the careful sideways probing of Mr. Belvedere’s eyes. He also refused to look over.

   “Are you not concerned that a wanted criminal knows your home address?” asked Mr. Belvedere.

   “He conspired with her to demolish a building,” said Bossard, “not to murder scores of innocent people. The letter made that clear, I thought. I don’t consider a bit of naive thuggery a reason to worry for my safety.”

   “I see your point,” admitted Mr. Belvedere. Then: “What makes you think this accomplice was a man?”

   “They usually are,” said Bossard quickly. “Ms. van Allen is a rare exception.”

   His tone couldn’t fool even himself.

   “I won’t ask how you know him,” began Mr. Belvedere. “That hardly matters. I won’t ask if you sat right beside him while he wrote his letter. I won’t even ask if your wife saw him that night, or if she might be persuaded to say so. You’re a good man, Julian. I trust your judgement as much as my own. Whatever reasons you have for protecting this person are the proper ones, I’m sure. But I will ask this, and I need an honest answer: is he gonna cause any more trouble?”

   Bossard still couldn’t stand to look him in the eye as he reflected on this question. Once he had his answer, however, he refused to look away.

   “He’s impulsive, and stupid, but he’s not a killer. Prison would turn him into one.” He paused, reflected some more. “We’re not the ones that worry him, Ambrose. He could handle a criminal record, but he couldn’t handle his mother’s disappointment. She’s all he has. He’s all she has. I couldn’t do that to either of them. Especially now, that’s he’s saved a town hall’s worth of people.”

   Their eyes remained locked as Bossard silently dared Mr. Belvedere to object. He didn’t.

   “So, no,” finished the captain. “I don’t think he’s going to cause any more trouble.” He crossed his arms and settled back against the wall, unconsciously mimicking Mr. Belvedere’s stance.

   In the silence that followed, they heard a distant cry. Mr. Belvedere peeked around the corner in a flash. Ms. Baker was striding down the corridor with a strange conviction in her step, ignoring the shouts behind her.

   “If he tries anything, Julian, it’s on you,” said Mr. Belvedere.

   “I know,” said Bossard. Mr. Belvedere nodded once.

   “Alright.”

   The two men stood to attention off the wall. Mr. Belvedere had eyes only for Marigold, though he addressed the captain.

   “What a lovely conversation we did not have,” he whispered. That was all. He met Marigold at the gate and held it open for her. Bossard came forward as Mr. Belvedere locked the cell block with his ill-gotten key.

   “Ms. Baker?” prompted the captain.

   She stood tall.

   “I’m ready to turn in my testimony.”

   Paula was already home from the bakery when he arrived. The morning rush for bread had been and gone. She had already changed out of her work clothes and was busy agitating the flour out of them in the washtub on the kitchen floor. He’d made a plan to sneak past to the bedroom without being noticed, in just such an event. He thought he’d been quiet in opening the front door, but Paula immediately called his name.

   “David, is that you?” she asked, when she was met with silence. He took a deep breath.

   “Yeah,” he sighed. He came forward to stand in the kitchen door. She remained on her knees, one hand on the washboard and the other full of sodden cotton. She had paused in her work and was riveted on him.

   “How was your morning?” asked David.

   “It was good,” said his wife. “What’s wrong?”

   “Nothing. Just tired.”

   “Did everything go okay?”

   “Yeah, it was quiet, just like I thought. Nothing eventful.”

   “You can talk to me, David. You don’t have to keep things secret when they bother you.”

   He looked to the washtub, avoiding her gaze. She stood and dried her hands on a teatowel hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.

   “I know it’s not easy for you to talk,” she said as she approached him, “but it’s not easy to watch you struggle alone, either.”

   “I’m not struggling. It’s nothing to worry about.”

   Paula grabbed his hand, and by that token, his attention.

   “But you’re worrying about it anyway,” she said. “Tell me what it is so I can help you stop. Was it something at the prison?”

   David sighed, resigned to his fate.

   “The captain came by just before I left. I thought he was gonna see me and have me fired.”

   She took his other hand to stop it fidgeting.

   “Can he do that?” she asked. “I thought Seagate was owned by town council.”

   “Sure, but…he could go over them. There are all kinds of lawyers and things for that.”

   “Why would he want you fired?”

   “Because he still thinks I’m crazy.”

   “David, you haven’t talked to him in weeks. How do you know what he thinks?”

   Paula could see him fighting to find and answer. She moved her hands to his shoulders, leaning in against him. She pressed her lips tightly together a moment in her own fight for words.

   “It seems to me,” she said quietly, “that if you were really and truly feeling well, you would have applied to return to the Guard. Instead you went to a place that wouldn’t ask how you were.”

   Still no answer. She continued.

   “You’re the only person not sure you should be working. You can project it onto Bossard all you like, but it’s your feeling, and it’s your decision. I want you to make it sooner than later if it’s going to cause you more distress.”

   “You want me to make the decision to leave us penniless,” he snapped. “What a thing to wish!”

   “David, we have enough. We will always have enough. What I don’t have right now, and what I want more than money, is a husband that’s both happy and healthy. I’ll never have that while you’re jumping at the captain’s shadow all night. I’ll never have that while you’re working strange hours at a stressful job.”

   “What about your strange hours?” demanded David. “What about your stressful jobs? I can’t stand the thought of you supporting us both, Paula.”

   “I can stand it,” she countered.

   “But I’m…” He paused, hesitated. “I’m the…”

   She held up her hand to silence him.

   “I know I have to listen, David, but I also have to stand up for myself. No - for us. Take that nonsense and put it where it belongs. If anyone gives you a hard time about having a working wife I will beat them to death with the washboard.”

   He had no reply to this. He looked to his shoes. Paula squeezed his shoulders and pecked him on the cheek.

   “Do you want some breakfast?” she asked quietly.

   “No,” he said, and meant it. “I just want to sleep.”

   It didn’t come to him, but he felt better for trying.

   Marigold had only told one small lie to the Guard. She had turned in her written testimony, all of which was true to the best of her knowledge. Really, there hadn’t been much to which she could testify. Yes, there had been lots of nitre salts delivered to the cottage, and sulphur, and charcoal, yet these could be used for plenty of other mixtures besides black powder. Yes, Guinevere had kept strange working hours, though Marigold had never been a part of these. Yes, she had run from the Elite, but she had been told that they were an angry mob of witch hunters by the accused. Her innocence was made official by Captain Bossard releasing her from custody. That was when the lie came, in the lobby of the guardhouse as he had her sign the requisite papers.

   “You can’t stay at the cottage, I’m afraid, Ms. Baker. It’ll be considered a crime scene for some time now. Do you have anywhere else to go?”

   “Yes, I have family nearby,” she said, and this part was true. “I’ll stay with them,” came the lie. Bossard smiled at this, glad that this poor woman might have some normalcy for the next little while. Marigold smiled back, glad that these poor overworked Guards would not be making more of a fuss over her than they already had. In addition to food, shelter, and her every request for tea being met, they had helped her gather her necessities from the now restricted cottage. It had been strange to be in Guin’s house with a police presence, but Marigold was glad they were there. She refused to let herself cry in front of them, and that was the only reason she didn’t break down when she saw the state of the kitchen.

   She had not been allowed to enter it, not that she’d tried, but she could see the shattered crockery and splinters of the cupboard that had housed it. There was a clean arc along the tiles where the forcible opening of the door had shoved it all aside. A splattermark stain before the threshold told of the boiling ointment that had injured a half dozen men who had gone forth too boldly. Three had needed a stay in hospital. One was still there, so she’d heard. All because of something that had happened in the kitchen where she used to bake and pickle and can.

   With the help of her escorts, she gathered up her things into a rucksack. All of her things. A few changes of clothes. A literal handful of keepsakes. The bit of money she could call her own. A toothbrush, a comb, and a glass jar of buttons. The needles and thread to attach them, of course. With one barely-full bag, she moved out of Guinevere’s cottage. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be back. Legally, she had no say in the place, and personally, she wasn’t sure she wanted one. The months of good memories had been overtaken by a single night of the bad.

   She was free by the early afternoon. The weather was nice, at least. Much easier to search for a roof when she didn’t need one. The only thing falling from the sky were a few red leaves getting a headstart on the autumn rush. Main Street ran long, the entire length of Blankston. There were four inns on it, all of which were large, and loud, and didn’t suit Marigold at all. The keeper at one of them gave her the rate in hours. It was a reasonable rate, but she thanked him and left, as politely as she had the others. She returned from this errand to the main square of Blankston. The side streets were her next destination. She wanted a bench to sit on as she thought about where to start and how long she might keep up the energy to explore the inns there.

   A small crowd had gathered in one corner of the square, not more than two dozen people, with children filling in the gaps. Marigold saw a familliar hat in the centre of it, a gaudy feather flying from the band. After a momentary panic, she realized he was too busy with the crowd to pay her any mind. His head was angled downwards, and the bodies surrounding him kept her safely out of view. She remembered his preference for the feather on the right side of his hat, and followed a trajectory to stay at his back as she snuck in for a closer look.

   Signing autographs. That’s what this hero of the people was doing. He was signing the journals, books, bits of card that were handed to him. He had a fountain pen in his hand, which he used to deface those beautiful blank papers. He signed a few of the wooden figures made in his likeness, offered by the tiny hands lower down. Those used to be trees, Marigold thought with a pang of sadness. He signed the band of several imitation Sir Roger Hats™.

   As he turned his head to grab another item to vandalize, she saw his face in profile. His bearded chin was wagging. She focused hard, to drown out the buzz of the streets, the stores, the crowd. She remembered the frequency of his voice, and tuned her ears to it.

   “…to the mill in the meadow to the north. It was easy, for a witch always leaves a trail. Her claws had rent the trees as she passed, splitting the bark in three great slashes as long as my arm!”

   He arced his hand through the air, the pages of the journal it held trilling in this sudden swift breeze.

   “Her tracks were small, even compared to a normal woman’s…their boots are cut short, for they have no toes.”

   Some of the children gasped at this.

   “I followed these prints to the miller’s old barn, where the door had been broken in. The smell of death was everywhere! And deep in the darkness, a flash of green skin and teeth as long as a wolf’s! I leapt aside as the first spell was cast, missing the edge of my cape by only an inch…“

   Marigold, no longer fearful of Sir Roger but still plenty annoyed, moved on with a roll of her eyes. There was an alley to the side streets a few paces behind her; what better place to start, she thought, than where I am now.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 3

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

In the darkness, and dampness, David wondered why he’d been given such a strictly starched uniform. The only people around were the prisoners, most of whom slept in these wee hours.

   He wondered why this prison was named Seagate. It wasn’t particularly close to the sea. Closer than the town, he supposed, so it made some sense. The canal nearby must have had something to do with it.

   He wondered why Paula had lied to him. She’d said he muttered in his sleep. He must be dreaming since he muttered in his sleep. Only he wasn’t sleeping, was he?

   He wondered how long he’d been sitting in this alcove, in this hallway, wondering all there was to wonder. His entire world consisted of a low-burning oil lamp, a wooden table with two kitchen chairs, and the murmurs of slumbering prisoners. Another patrol would do him good, he decided. Like walking the streets in the Guard. Only cold, and wet, and filled with echoes from stone halls.

   David was about to stand when he heard a metal gate swing on its hinges. The entryway to this wing of the prison. Every hall of the old castle has been blocked off with iron bars, just like the cells. He leaned in his chair to have a look. A lantern was coming his way, held in a hand with a starched cuff. Leather bootsteps marked its progress in echoes. They belonged to a guard he did not recognize, a man about his own age, fair, kindly-looking, who sat down at his alcove table without an invite. Two lamps burned in tandem on the tabletop.

   “David,” said the newcomer. He was quiet, careful to let the prisoners sleep.

   “Yes?” whispered David. The man offered his hand across the table.

   “Jacob Holbrook. I’m the graveyard supervisor.”

   “Oh. Thomas said you’d be by.” He shook Jacob’s hand.

   “Well, it’s my job, isn’t it? Being by,” said Jacob, smiling. “How’s your shift been? Did you find everything alright? Any problems?”

   “No, no problems. It’s been quiet.”

   “Good, we like that.” Jacob tilted his head, the smile still beaming. “Must be quieter than the Guard, I imagine.”

   “Er…compared to certain days, yes.”

   The newcomer chuckled at this. “I’m sure you’ve got a story or two to tell. Would you like anything? A break? Something from the kitchens?”

   “Oh. Thank you,” said David, “but I was just about to have a walk. I thought—“

   He was interrupted by a distant shout. He leaned to see down the hallway again; Jacob turned in his seat. Voices and scuffles drifted up from the lobby like a fine mist.

   “That would be the Elite,” murmured Jacob. “Excuse me, David. I wasn’t expecting them so soon. I’m sorry to run away.”

   “That’s alright,” said David, but his replacement supervisor was already hurrying back towards the gate, lantern light bobbing. David stood, ready to set off on his patrol, when he realized he hadn’t heard the gate lock behind Jacob. He had keys. He figured it was best to keep as many locks locked as possible in a prison.

   As he removed his new keyring from his trouser pocket, he picked up a few words of the conversation in the lobby. He paused to listen with his hand on the key and the key in the lock.

   “…anybody looked at it?” he heard Jacob say.

   “It’s patched up just fine,” said a deep drawling voice. “We’ll have the doctor come by in the morning. For now he’s busy with the half-dozen of my men that got doused in boiling ointment.”

   “Oh, my,” said Jacob. “That sounds—“

   David flinched at the sudden shout that followed, rattling his keyring.

   “They got what they deserved!” This female voice was deafening, scratched by apparent overuse. “Should have been the fucking lot of you! I hope they’re scarred for life!”

   “Miss van Allen,” said the drawl calmly, “this is an occupied facility. And it’s late. I imagine some people are tryin’ to sleep. Call me names if you like but please think of your neighbours.”

   “Fuck off!” came the reply, though, to the drawl’s credit, it was quieter.

   “You have a cell ready, Mr. Holbrook?”

   “Yes, of course, Mr. Belvedere. To your specifications exactly. I promise she’ll be as isolated as…”

   David realized too late that the voices were louder, the footsteps closer, the lantern light filling the corridor once more. He left the gate unlocked, ripping out his unused key in a flash and stuffing the ring back in his pocket. Not knowing what else to do, he opened the gate for the approaching party and held his lantern high.

   Jacob turned the corner first, leading a tall hulk of a man with two giant pistols slung on his hips. A young woman, her hands bound behind her back, followed him. She had one man behind her, armed similarly to the hulk, and two on either side holding her arms. Jacob smiled as he saw his fellow guard at the gate.

   “David, thank you,” he said, hurrying past the bars. “I’ll be back in just a moment, alright?”

   “Sure,” said David. The Elite Forces men paid him no mind as they approached. The woman, however, did. Not a nice part of her mind, judging by her glare. They locked eyes for a second over the shoulder of her nearest escort.

   In that second, she spat. David was quick enough to close his eyes, but not to raise his hand.

   “Hey!” snapped one of her three handlers. The one in behind grabbed her by the scruff of her dress and gave her a shove forward. Jacob and Mr. Belvedere turned to see David wiping shining spittle off his face. Mr. Belvedere riveted on his prisoner. He bent down to look her in the eye.

   “I’d ask you to apologize, but I know you won’t,” he said lowly. “So I’ll ask you to give me the same, instead. You wanna stick it to the man? Well, I’m the man.”

   She didn’t. She only glared, panting. Mr. Belvedere nodded at David.

   “He’s just doin’ his job. There’s nothin’ brave about givin’ him attitude.”

   “Get fucked!” shouted Guinevere, loud enough to elicit some stirrings from the cell block. Mr. Belvedere remained silent. He stood straight and crossed his arms.

   “David, are you alright?” whispered Jacob. David scrubbed away the last of the gob onto his freshly starched sleeve.

   “Uh, yeah,” he said, still numb with surprise. “Of course.”

   “Let’s go,” said Belvedere, turning his back on the prisoner. Jacob led him on, with one last look of concern over his shoulder at David. The three escorts hustled Guinevere away, her head now bowed, her eyes shut.
   Still feeling slightly sticky, and needing it now more than ever, David set off on his patrol.

   The last few days had not been easy on Captain Bossard. He would not have had it any other way, as it was in the execution of his duty, but he was starting to feel it catching up with his body. There were too many unknowns for him to start slowing down - did they have all the facts? Were there things the suspect had hidden, even from Alfie? Until he could be sure that the town was safe, he could not rest.

   There was one thing of which he was absolutely sure, one thing that he had known as soon as he had learned that Guinevere van Allen was a witch; the inquisitors would come around. They had been the town council until the horrific attack on Steadney last year, which had been declared the work of a witch despite the only evidence being the skeletal charcoal briquettes of buildings and greasy drifts of ash eventually lost to the wind.

   He’d been up late last night, waiting on word from Mr. Belvedere. Once it had come in the form of a suspect, he’d been up much later in the interrogation room. Bossard had hoped this morning would feel a little shorter, but his hopes were dashed when two councilmen entered his office. They had not knocked.

   The Guard captain had been preparing to leave, a packet of papers under his arm, a full mug in his hand. As if sensing his intentions, the office door swung open. Bossard locked eyes with one, and the other, and sighed.

   “Good morning, Mr. Harforth. Dr. Balmoral. How can I help you?”

   “We are not the ones in need of help, Bossard,” said the doctor. “The victims of Steadney are much more deserving than us.”

   “And yet, the captain of the Blankston Guard ignores their plight!” said Mr. Harforth.

   Bossard took a deep breath. Arguing never worked on the council. They were a storm one simply had to weather.

   “How have I ignored their plight this time, Mr. Harforth?”

   “By ignoring us, as usual! The very people trying to bring them closure.”

   “Someone has to, you see,” added Dr. Balmoral.

   “How long were you going to wait to tell us about this case?” demanded Harforth.

   “You already seem to know about it,” said the captain.

   “We do, Bossard - second-hand,” said Balmoral. “The Steadney inquest expects to have its reports on possible leads direct from law enforcement.”

   “I see. To which leads in particular do you refer? Just so I can correct my mistakes.”

   “It is our understanding, captain, that explosives were uncovered in the basement of town hall. We’ll start there, with an abundance of gunpowder.”

   “Targeting a municipal centre of business,” observed Mr. Harforth.

   “Even the time of year matches up,” said Balmoral. “Are we going too fast for you, Julian?”

   “Doctor, this is—“

   “Why were we not informed? How are we to bring justice to the perpetrators of the Steadney massacre if law enforcement keeps us in the dark?”

   “Or,” added Mr. Harforth, “if they hide suspects from us?”

   “I would call that highly suspicious,” agreed the doctor. “Why were we granted custody of one conspirator and not the other?”

   “Granted. Custody.”

   These two words cut through all others. Even from the door, Mr. Belvedere’s voice filled the room like the toll of a church bell.

   “My, but we do need to talk,” he sighed, as he came forward. The councilmen instinctively made way, small lean waves parting before a thick oaken hull. Mr. Belvedere handed the packet of papers tucked under his arm to Captain Bossard.

   “Your dispatches, sir.”

   “Thank you, Mr. Belvedere,” said Bossard, as he set them aside on his desk. The Elite Forces man fixed him with a smirk.

   “I have asked you upwards of one thousand times, captain, to call me Ambrose. I’m running out of patience.”

   He had already, it seemed, as he turned on the suddenly silent councilmen.

   “Two things,” he said. “First, the young lady whose custody you seek has not been charged with a crime. She is to be assessed in short order to determine any such charges and might I say, the order would be much shorter if I didn’t have to pause and explain due process to you. If she is to be charged, it would likely be as an accessory to treason. A crown offence to be tried with crown justice and therefore none of your concern. Second,” he dropped his voice, “Miss van Allen is not in your custody. She was never in your custody. I am allowing your officers at Seagate the privilege of assisting the currently understaffed Elite Forces by serving some guard duty. She remains my responsibility until I turn her over to the courts at Carrabon. Am I goin’ too fast for YOU, sirs?”

   “Not at all,” assured Harforth with haste.

   “Excuse us, Mr. Belvedere,” said the doctor calmly. “We appear to have misunderstood.”

   “Well, now,” said the Elite Forces man. “Aren’t you just so polite to the big ol’ bear with the crown on his arm! Now, is there any other business with which I may assist you?”

   Harforth, realizing he was the target of a man with much more political sway than himself, shrank back. He looked to Balmoral for help.

   “No, thank you, Mr. Belvedere,” said the doctor. “I believe we have what we came for. We must attend to other affairs today. If you would excuse us…”

   “I won’t,” said Belvedere. The councilmen paused, each turned halfway to the door. “I have some business with which you can assist me. Surely, you have time to help the Crown?”

   Dr. Balmoral met his gaze, and did not break it.

   “Of course,” he said, chin held high.

   “That’s what I like to hear, sir. Speaking of things I hear, your copper-headed friend told me something very interesting last night. When I asked him how he’d learned of an Elite maneuver, he said he’d heard, and I quote, ‘the inquisitors whispering’. Now, if I’m not mistaken, that would be you and your fellow councilmen. What I need to know is how you, any of you, had prior knowledge of a classified operation.”

   “We did not know the details, Mr. Belvedere. That something was happening, however, was clear as day. The Guard does not lock down a building, especially one as vital as town hall, without good reason. To then have the Royal Elite arrive…quite frankly, you couldn’t have made it more obvious that a criminal operation was afoot.”

   To his surprise, as well as Mr. Harforth’s, as well as Captain Bossard’s, Mr. Belvedere ignored his snippy attitude.

   “Fair enough. We were a bit hard to miss, weren’t we?”

   “Er…yes. You certainly were,” agreed Balmoral.

   “That does not explain,” continued Belvedere, “why Sir Roger was given permission to join said operation.”

   “Ah. He was not,” assured the doctor. “I’m afraid he took that initiative himself. The inquest will talk with him about that, I promise you.”

   “I’m glad. Now, he’s the one callin’ himself a witch hunter, correct?”

   Balmoral’s cold demeanour iced over a little further.

   “We have asked him not to,” he said, slowly and carefully.

   “I’m also glad. I’ll ignore, for the moment, his vigilante ways, if you’ll follow my logic. However reprehensible the idea of witch hunting may be, he was there last night to do so. He believed the gunpowder plot in question to be the work of witches. From where would that idea have come?”

   “I could not say. Our councilmen would never suggest such things without good reason. We hold inquisitions for suspected criminals, not witches.”

   “Yet, Seagate is entirely stocked with women known to be such.”

   Dr. Balmoral had no hair. Not enough, anyway, to stand up like a bristling cat’s. His manner tensed regardless.

   “We can’t help that, can we?” he snipped. Mr. Belvedere gave him a sideways appraisal.

   “Hm,” was his only response. The doctor sighed so low it was almost a growl.

   “I’ll have you know—“

   “I’ll have you get out of this office,” said the Elite Forces man. “Both of you. I have a full day even without your prattling. We have an interview to conduct ten minutes ago, Julian. I bid you good morning, gentlemen.”

   Harforth nearly ran out the door. Balmoral followed at a cooler pace, still vibrating, but relieved to have the eye of authority turned away. Belvedere shut the door firmly after them, and turned to the captain, who was staring in disbelief.

   “When did you have occasion to speak with Sir Roger last night?” asked Bossard numbly. Mr. Belvedere put up his hands in surrender.

   “Julian, it’s fine. He tagged along, that’s all.”

   “You never told me he was with you!”

   “I didn’t know he was, sir, until he nearly shot my ear off. He joined our party without my knowledge and most assuredly without my consent.”

   “What did he do? I swear to…” Bossard cut himself off with a deep breath.

   “It’s fine,” repeated Belvedere. “No one was hurt. Badly,” he added as an afterthought. His tone did not escape the Guard captain.

   “It was him, wasn’t it,” sighed Bossard. “He shot her through the hand.”

   “If he hadn’t, I would have,” assured Belvedere. “She was gonna light the place up. It had to be done and I don’t care that he did it.”

   “I care. I care that a civillian is running around thinking he has the law behind him. And I care that the Royal Elite would encourage that behaviour.”

   “Julian,” said Mr. Belvedere. The surrender had run out. “I did not encourage him. He got a talkin’-to after he’d served his purpose. If he had gotten in over his head I woulda drowned him, you understand? He only dipped in his toes, and that’s fine by me.”

   It was clearly not fine by Bossard, but he kept quiet.

   “Once we have Miss van Allen tucked away,” said Belvedere, “we can start in on Lord Blank. And after that I’ll have a lawyer or two pay a visit to town council. For now, we have other business.”

Marigold had been around guardsmen before. Her father had been escorted by them both to and from the house on a number of occasions during her childhood. Her mother had been spoken to dozens of times in relation to these and other indiscretions. Crimes in the surrounding counties could often be traced back to Marigold’s hometown. The Guard were a regular fixture on the streets.

   She had never been the focus of their attention, however. It made her more uncomfortable than she’d imagined it would. Marigold only had one response to discomfort: staying quiet, looking to the floor, trying to appear as small as possible. She had sat up all night in the guardhouse’s single holding cell doing exactly this. She felt more tired than she ever had before, but sleep was an impossibility.

   After the sun had risen, she’d been escorted to this bland grey interrogation room. There were no windows, only unblemished walls. A table and three chairs. A door that had been locked after her. After a few minutes it opened again.

   The first man she did not recognize, but he was clearly high up on the Guard’s chain of command. His badge and breastplate were the shiniest of all the guardsmen. He was young, not much older than herself, it seemed.

   The man that followed him made her look down again. It was the man from Guinevere’s cellar, the big one that had tried to be kind while aiming a crossbow at her. He carried no weapons today, at least not in this room. In a plain white shirt, his physique provided all the intimidation he needed. The muscles on his arms were as large as her entire head. He closed the door behind him but did not lock it. He sat at an angle to her, allowing the guardsman the chair opposite.

   To her surprise, he was not the one who spoke. The guardsman, after setting down his stack of books and papers on the table, looked to her with an awkward attempt at a friendly smile on his face.

   “Miss, I’m Captain Bossard of the Blankston City Guard. This is Mr. Belvedere of the Royal Elite. He’s overseeing this investigation in conjunction with the Guard.”

   Marigold made brief eye contact with Belvedere. Neither made a sound.

   “I have several important statements to make before we start the interview,” continued Bossard. “Your full attention and cooperation is appreciated at this time. Do you understand what I’ve said?”

   “Y-yes,” said Marigold, though she was unsure what most of that meant.

   “Alright. To start: there are no charges against you at this time. Anything you say during this interview may be held as evidence against you if you are to be charged at a later date. Any statements given by you during this interview, if found to be falsehoods, may be grounds for an accusation of perjury. Do you understand this?”

   “Yes…”

   “You have the right to have a lawyer present during this interview. This is not required. It is your responsibility, at any time during questioning, to request legal counsel if you feel it is needed, and it is the responsibility of the Guard to procure said counsel for you. With or without counsel present, you have to right to refuse to answer a question for any reason. Do you understand these statements?”

   “Uh…yes.”

   “Statements given during this interview may be used in evidence pertaining to a criminal investigation currently underway. You will not be identified to the accused as the source of this information by any member of the Guard or the greater legal community. Though you may be asked to bear witness in court, in writing, or both, you have the right to refuse, and at no point will you be coerced to do so. Do you understand this?”

   She nodded. The captain grimaced.

   “Unfortunately, miss, there’s a technicality that says I have to have verbal confirmation. If you could say ‘yes’, that would be appreciated.”

   “Oh. Uh, yes,” said Marigold meekly. She looked down at the table.

   “Thank you,” said Bossard. His face softened immediately. “I’m sorry about that. It’s a legal formality. I promise the questions aren’t as intimidating as they sound. Before we begin, is there anything you need? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

   “No, thank you.”

   “Would you be more comfortable with a female officer present?”

   “Probably not,” she admitted.

   “If you change your mind, if you need anything, please interrupt, and I’ll do my best to get it for you.” He waited until she looked up at him again. She was such a sweet, quiet little thing, big bright eyes shying behind curtains of long hair.

   “Miss, could you state your name for me?”

   “Marigold Baker,” she murmured. He should have asked her to repeat it loudly, but he didn’t want to. He wrote it down.

   “Marigold, do you know a woman named Guinevere van Allen?”

   “Yes.”

   “How do you know Miss van Allen?”

   “I’m…I mean, I was her apprentice. She was teaching me to be a witch.”

   Captain Bossard’s fountain pen was flowing now. “How long was this apprenticeship?”

   “A few months,” admitted Marigold, with a shrug. “I didn’t get very far.”

   “What kinds of things were you learning?”

   “Medicine, mostly. Setting broken bones, cures for stiff joints. Tonics for coughs and colds. Some midwifery, too. I helped deliver a few babies.”

   Bossard smiled at this. “Lovely. Were you ever taught anything besides medicine, Marigold?”

   The young lady thought about this for a moment.

   “I learned a bit of cookery, I suppose. And gardening, of course, to see to the herbs we needed.”

   “Nothing else?”

   Marigold shook her head absentmindedly.

   “Was weaponry ever a part of your instruction?”

   The young lady’s eyes went wide.

   “Weaponry?” she gasped. “Heavens, no! That isn’t witchcraft at all.”

   “Do you have experience with firearms, Marigold? Pistols? Rifles? Incendiary devices?”

   “No, I…” She trailed off.  “Well, I did fire a gun once. Last night. It was awful. I didn’t like it.” She paused again, looking worried. “Am I going to be in trouble for that?”

   “I don’t believe so. Did you hit anything?”

   “Only a sack of grain. I was trying…trying to hit Sir Roger, though,” she admitted, before she could stop herself. She tensed as Bossard narrowed his eyes at her. Slowly, his head rotated to the man beside him.

   “Julian, it’s fine,” muttered Mr. Belvedere.

   “What is she talking about?” whispered Bossard, as if Marigold could not hear.

   “If he hadn’t gone chasin’ after her, he woulda hung around gettin’ in my way,” said Belvedere. “It was for the best.”

   The captain glared a moment longer. Then he scribbled something on his notepad. It was clear, even from Marigold’s vantage point, that it had been in capital letters. He forced a smile back on to his face as he looked up at her.

   “That’s called self-defense, Marigold. You’re allowed that. But aside from last night, that’s it? You have no other experience with firearms?”

   “No! Incendiary devices? Rifles? I can’t even imagine touching one. I could barely pick up that pistol. Why in the world would you suspect I had?”

   Captain Bossard paused for a moment, tapping the end of his pen on his notepad. Mr. Belvedere spoke up without an invitation, not that he needed one.

   “Miss Baker, the Guard uncovered a plot to destroy Blankston Town Hall. Dozens of barrels of gunpowder were found hidden in the basement. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that Miss van Allen is involved.”

   Her wide, sad eyes got wider and sadder. Not in disbelief, Bossard noted, but in realization. Thought, not denial.

   “Marigold?” prompted the captain. She looked up at him.

   “May I talk to Guinevere?” she asked.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 2

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous   

   Guinevere had given her a few precious minutes of flight into the countryside, and she hadn’t wasted any. She hadn’t even looked back, lest she slow her feet by a fraction. Though her sides ached, and her breath stung in her throat, and her head pounded with worry over what might happen to Guinevere, she ran. She’d been told not to stop, and she was a good girl. The moon guided her way, pointing out farmer’s fences to leap over and creeks to splash through. Her dress became soaked to her knees, courtesy of evening dew in the tall meadow grass, but she did not let that slow her down.

   As she danced carefully over the roots of an ancient apple grove, her brain piped up with a thought not of Guinevere. She paused for the first time, leaning against a curlicue tree trunk to steady her ragged breath. The thought came again, her subconscious cutting through the panic in her mind: Listen. You must listen.

   She could hear no footsteps, no voices, only the hiss of a nearby river. Heart sinking, she crept forward, following the trajectory she’d been on since she’d fled Guinevere’s cottage. Between the mottled silhouettes of ancient trees, the great rushing river revealed itself. Flickers of white water. Rocks hidden in deep frothy flows. It roared at her, hungry for the reckless person who might try and cross its rapids. Taunted her with the safety of the thick forest on the facing bank.

   The mill, she thought. She’d bought some flour there just last week. Upstream. The waterwheel. Slow and shallow.

   She stifled a gasp as a branch snapped nearby. Marigold leapt back into her run, turning blindly upriver.

   Sir Roger followed the edge of the apple grove, listening carefully to pinpoint the girl. Before he’d been a witch hunter, which was not all that long ago, he’d been a gentleman of leisure. That leisure included deerstalking, in which his experience was now proving useful. This woman was much easier to follow than the average doe. Deer never gasped for breath, they didn’t often break large branches, and they were a hell of a lot faster than a frightened young lady.

   Up ahead he could see the bend of a raging river. No bridges in sight. This was good. He tuned out the rush of the water, focusing on the old orchard. Nothing. She had stopped.

   He raised the crossbow to his eye, scoping one crooked branch hanging low in the moonlight. A stark silhouette; the perfect target. He fired with a whispering twang. The bough snapped with a noise like breaking bone. Sir Roger heard a small gasp, then the crashing cacophony resumed. Upriver, he decided. With a flick of his cape, he gave chase.

   Her path through the apple grove was clear cut. He abandoned his stealthy silence, tromping over her dainty depressions with his own sturdy boots in order to gain some ground.

   Sir Roger slowed to a stop as the trees began to thin. He shied behind one, to observe. Before him was a vast meadow. There were no hiding places on that moonlit plain. He looked to his left, towards the river, and tightened his grip on his crossbow. There was a gristmill a few yards along the bank. The waterwheel spun silently, detached from the millstone for the night. The miller’s home was quiet as well, windows dark, shutters closed. Of greatest interest to him was the young woman running full tilt across the meadow for the little tangle of buildings.

   He had the bow loaded in an instant. Keeping it to his eye, he sidled out from between the trees, holding the quarrel aligned to his prey, in the very centre of her back. It would have killed her, had that been his intention.

   Instead, he raised his sight to the sky, and fired.

   The first quarrel buried its head in the ground a few steps in front of Marigold. She cried out, and stumbled, and fell backwards as she tried to dig in her heels. Trembling, she leapt back on her feet as quickly as she could. She wasn’t able to stop herself this time; she needed to see. She glanced over her shoulder as she ran.

   Only one man, emerging from the trees, but he was close. Close enough to be raining bolts upon her. A second one drilled into the dirt a few feet to her right; she flinched away from it, but kept her pace.

   A third quarrel missed her just before she ducked behind the miller’s ancient stone barn. She hated to stop, but running was no good either, not now. If she tried to cross the river, she knew she’d be shot dead before the water reached her knees. With a shaky hand, she reached in her pocket, and pulled out the pistol she’d taken from the men in Guinevere’s cottage. She had no bullets. She cold only hope there was one loaded already. One chance to defend herself.

   A fourth quarrel zipped past the corner where she hid, striking the wall of the mill opposite. She peeked, ever so slightly. Her assailant had halved the distance between them. She needed to hide, double back, and lose him for good. Guinevere had told her to run, but she no longer had the option. Marigold apologized silently to her as she unlatched the side door of the barn, which creaked loud enough as it opened to make her wince. She slipped in the smallest width possible and pulled it shut behind her.

   Slivers of moonlight punched through cracks in the old thatch roof. By this faint glow, Marigold saw the streets and alleys of a city of burlap. Huge gunny sacks were stacked as high as her head, all throughout the barn. A storehouse for the millers’ grain, and a hiding place for her.

   Slowly, quietly, Marigold slipped into the maze of maize. Rye, wheat, and shadows closed her in on all sides.

   She hadn’t crossed the yard, Sir Roger knew that much. It would have been impossible to miss her by the incandescent moon. The old stone barn was the only place she could have gone.

   The wide gates at the end were barred by a sturdy plank. He circled around to the small side door, closed but unlatched. He silently fastened it, too, and followed the wall to the back of the barn. At the far end, he looked up at the roof, and smiled. There was a loft door a few feet above his head.

   He slung his crossbow onto his back, next to the quiver that fed it. The ancient cobbles of the wall were big and rough, mortared together by amateur builders, perfect handholds for a quick climb. The leather of his gloves and the soles of his boots clung to the rock with a gratifying roughness. He reached the bale-sized loft door in no time at all.

   Marigold leapt to attention as light suddenly flooded the rafters. It brightened in time with the creak of an old wooden door. She peeked cautiously from her hiding place, a single eye and a strip of hair all that was visible.

   A man in a cape stood tall in the loft, picked out in grain dust dancing in the moonlight. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a feather flying from the band. As he turned his head, Marigold saw the outline of a long nose, a short, scraggly beard. She flinched as his voice filled the granary.

   “Marigold?”

   Her skin prickled so tightly it was painful. She’d never felt colder.

   “That was your name, wasn’t it? Marigold?”

   She pulled back into the shadows, quick and quiet. She listened to the whisper of cloak, the creak of rafters…then the sound of boots hitting the floor. She tightened her grip on the pistol.

   “You could have shot me just now, Marigold. I gave you plenty of time.” His voice started to circle behind her, fading from one ear to the other. “Were you more afraid to miss me or hit me?”

   He was following the wall of the barn, towards her. It was only a matter of time. In a panic, she darted further into the maze of gunny sacks. She listened to his footsteps come closer, then pause. She peeked out again. He was nowhere to be seen.

   “You don’t strike me as the hostile sort,” called the witch hunter. “I don’t think you’re dangerous, Marigold. I think you’ve just been mixed up in the wrong crowd. Is that fair to say?”

   She hadn’t heard him move, but the voice was closer. She scurried across an aisle to the next stack of grain, a few precious feet both closer to the door and further from him. She waited for another sound.

   “I won’t hurt you,” he assured, and her heart stopped. Those words had come from the other side of the barn, closer than ever. She didn’t understand how she had missed him, but had no time to question it. She raised the pistol in both hands. There were open alleys left and right. Her head snapped back and forth, desperately keeping tabs on her dim surroundings.

   “I won’t send you to inquisitors,” he continued. To her left, then. She thrust out the pistol, wide-eyed and ready to shoot, waiting for him to turn that corner. There was a pause, filled only by the sound of her panting.

   “I just want to help,” said a voice in her ear.

   With a scream of panic, she turned and fired. She’d never shot a gun before. It was more terrifying than all else that had happened to her tonight. The pistol jerked violently, bruising her fingers. It set off a plume of smoke so thick and choking she couldn’t breathe for the smell of fire and brimstone. Her ears rang with the explosion, granting her momentary deafness. She held the spent gun to her chest, shaking like a leaf. As the smoke started to clear, she saw movement within it. It hadn’t been a bad shot for her first one. Had the witch hunter been standing there, he would have been injured, but the only thing she’d hit was a gunny sack. A steady stream of wheat kernels from the bullet hole was piling up on the floor. Where Sir Roger stood, behind her with his arms spread wide like a bat in flight, he was safe.

   She screamed again as he pulled her into a hug, pressing himself to the curve of her body. Her arms were pinned by his. Two strong hands clad in black leather clamped over the pistol at her chest. She could feel its warmth pressing into her breastbone as she struggled. The warmth of his lips against her ear was even worse. The tickle of his beard made her skin want to crawl off her body.
   “Throwing your voice is such a useful skill, wouldn’t you agree?” he breathed, this time genuinely into her ear. His hands tightened on hers as she tried to wrench the pistol loose. “Drop it, please, Marigold. There’s nothing more you can do.”

   

   David never forgot the shadows. The sickly trees faded into the background with the rest of the forest. The rubble of burned houses was the same as any consumed by woodfire. The ashen plain where the market square had been was as blank as the sheaf of paper it resembled. All of these he only half-remembered; David would forget his wife’s face, he would forget his own name, before he forgot the living shadows.

   Some were long and thin, some crumpled and short. Some were muddled and strange, some all too clear. Humans burned onto the remains of the town. Human shapes, he had to tell himself daily. Human shapes.

   A shadow woman knelt beside her garden wall, tending the ghosts of plants that had vapourized even more readily than she. Silhouetted children played on the hollow shells of burned-out houses, wrapped around the stone as if it were a gift. A man leant a ladder against his shed, the roof he’d hope to reach long since destroyed.

   They hadn’t known, David told himself. The shadow people were going about their days. They weren’t standing, staring at the oncoming wave of whatever had sealed them to the bricks. They did not know that they had died. He tried, and largely failed, to be comforted by that.

   The Guard had been the first to attend the destruction at Steadney. They had come from all neighbouring outposts: Braichlie, Blankston, and Felltown all had squads dispatched. All officers were steeled for their task, including David: help the living, remove the dead.

   It soon became clear that there were no living. A few within the radius of destruction still breathed and bled, but to call them alive was an insult to the Mither. They were helped in the only way they could be and wrapped in shrouds alongside the cold corpses of their neighbours.

   David died along with them. His heart continued to beat, his brain continued to tick, but the rhythm they kept was unrecognizable. He couldn’t focus on very much for very long. His bitterness turned to anger turned to melancholy; of these moods, none were much use to a man sworn to keep the peace. David’s fellow officers, and Captain Bossard, noticed fairly quickly. One day as he returned from patrol, he was told that Bossard wished to see him before he went home. The captain had been at his desk in the office upstairs. David was invited to take the seat across from him.

   “David, I just want to be clear…you’re not fired.”

   He knew what was coming next. As soon as the desk sergeant had told him he was expected upstairs, he knew.

   “You can always come back, any time you’re ready. For now, though, I have to put you on leave. Starting tomorrow.”

   David had no illusions about his behaviour. It still hurt to hear it aloud. Hurt enough to break him. The tears had come forth unbidden.

   “Please, captain,” he’d warbled softly. “I can’t!”

   “You can’t be here either, David. Not like this!” Bossard had bobbed his hand up and down to indicate the extent of the damage. “This isn’t good for you, or the force. The only proper course of action is for you to take a break.”

   David had leaned forward, folding in his chair to place his entwined hands on the desk before the captain.

   “I’ll do anything, Captain, please, just don’t let me go! What about desk duty? Can you put me on desk duty?”

     Bossard had leaned in, as well, covering David’s pleading fingers with his own.

   “If I thought that would be good for you, I would,” said the captain. “I would love for you to stay, David; I would love for you to get better even more. You’re a fine constable, and a good man, but you haven’t been the same since Steadney. None of of us have,” he added quietly. “I don’t want to tell you that your emotions are wrong, or that it’s a shortcoming to have them. What it is, for us, is a liability. This is the Guard. Mistakes get made when emotions come into play. People can get hurt, including our officers. If I don’t have level heads in the force, I can’t ensure the safety of the Guard or the public, and that’s my only job. I’m sorry that I have to favour my responsibilities over yours.”

   In truth, David had only one responsibility; not that she was any less important than the Guard.

   “My wife…” he sobbed.

   “…cares more about you than a wage, David. I guarantee it.”

   Bossard had been right about that. Paula hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told her. She’d held him as he’d cried, and ranted, and cursed, without offering any of her own. Only hugs and reassurances.

   He started to sleep again after a few days at home. The visions that kept him awake began to fade, and he slept even more, and the visions faded further. Shadows stopped following him. Meat on the dinner table no longer looked human. Wind in the trees was just that, and the moans of those too weak to end themselves. He felt better, more grounded, at least for a short time.

   Then he began to notice the toll he was taking on Paula. She was working for the both of them. The baker had her up early, and the alewife kept her out late. He could ease her workload around the house, of course, but it wasn’t enough. Guilt began to fill the space left vacant by anxiety. He no longer needed his doomsday visions to stay awake. He lost weight. He aged ten years in ten days. Paula, despite her busy schedule, caught on right away. She made her husband promise to see a doctor, and after a few more weeks of withering away, she took him there herself.

   Dr. Balmoral did make him feel better, but not because of the medicine he prescribed.

   “Are you working right now, David?”

   “No,” he’d been forced to admit. “Captain Bossard said it would be better if I wasn’t.”

   “Hm. I suppose he had his reasons,” mused the doctor. “However, I think gainful employment would do you good. Keeping busy prevents those nasty thoughts from getting in. Has Bossard said when you can return?”

   “Not really. He just said, when I feel better.”

   “I see,” said Balmoral, dripping skepticism. “Yet he leaves you with idle hands.” His own hands sprang into action, drawing ink and paper close. He wrote with clipped efficiency.

   “I’m going to write you two prescriptions, David. One is for a tonic of St. Frida’s Wort; it eases the nerves. The other is for a job application. We - town council, that is - are hiring at Seagate.”

   David hadn’t been sure what to make of this.

   “The witch prison?” he asked. Balmoral had paused, fixed him with a hard look, continued.

   “The prison, yes,” he said firmly. “Where we keep criminals. We can’t help that most of them happen to be witches, can we? Now,” he said, handing two illegible notes to David, “I encourage you to apply. I think a Guardsman would be a wonderful fit, don’t you?”

   Paula liked the nerve tonic. She didn’t care as much for the job offer, but in the end, there was little she could do to stop him applying, and even less to stop his application from being accepted.

   The uniform was drab green instead of denim blue, starched linen instead of rough cotton, ironed shirt instead of iron plate. Even the cap had been stiffened, it seemed. No expenses spared at Seagate Prison. David dressed in front of the single small mirror that Paula kept in their bedroom, admiring his sharply laundered clothes by the last of the day’s light. They’d given him the night shift, of course, the only place for a new recruit.

   David didn’t know exactly how long his wife had been standing in the doorway. He only noticed her when he finished buttoning his crisp white shirt and looked up to grab his jacket off the bed. Her arms were folded over her chest. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He turned towards the mirror a bit more.

   “Are you still having nightmares?” she asked quietly.

   “No,” he said, sliding his arms into the jacket. “Hardly dreaming at all, actually.”

   Paula studied his face carefully in their smudgy little mirror. He studied his jacket just as intently.

   “You mutter a lot,” she said. “In your sleep. Are you sure you’re not dreaming?”

   “Well, I don’t remember it, if I am.”

   She waited until his hands stopped fiddling with his buttons.

   “You don’t have to go.”

   “My shift’s in an hour,” sighed David. “It’s too late to have this discussion again.”

   Paula came forward and took him by the elbow, pulling herself close to whisper in his ear.

   “If you start feeling worse,” she said, enunciating every word, “come home. Don’t push yourself.”

   “I won’t,” he muttered.

   “Have you taken your tonic?”

   “Yes,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Could you trust me to do one thing on my own, please?”

   “I was asking a question.” She paused. Breathed. There would not be a fight, so help her god. Not this time. “Because I love you, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

   He also paused. Breathed. Just like they had agreed.

   “I am,” he said. “And I’d be better if you didn’t doubt me.”

   “I’m not,” she insisted. “I am NOT doubting you. I know you can do this job. What I doubt is that it’s a good thing for you right now.”

   “Doubt away,” said David. “I can’t back out an hour before I start. What good is it telling me this now?”

   “I told you weeks ago and you didn’t listen. If you had…”

   He grabbed his cap off the bed.

   “I’m gonna go,” he announced, “before we fight again.”

   “David…”

   “Good luck at the pub tonight.”

   She paused. Breathed. And he was already gone, pushing past her out the door.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 1

If you have not already, please start here!

   Autumn of the following year was a warm one, and dry. On these clear days, the citizens of Blankston could see the shadow in the hills that had been Steadney only one year ago. The shadow was small, all things considered; not more than a mole on the vast green face of the mountains. It cast a yellow penumbra on the surrounding trees, which seemed to have sickened at its touch. Some of the more imaginative citizens claimed these trees gave off a glow in the night, though nobody dared get close enough to check. After a handful of first responders had come down with unspeakable and sometimes fatal illnesses, even the teenaged boys stayed away.

   Marceline had loved a teenaged boy. She had been a teenaged girl, of course; she would never be so unseemly. She had loved him as a young lady, and as a woman, and had married him in the end. He was now Captain of the Guard in Blankston, and she loved him all the same. She loved him all the more because he helped with the dishes and did his share of the laundry. She had chosen wisely, as had her husband. Captain Bossard knew his wife had no interest in joining the force, which was a tragedy for the force.

   He was sweeping the kitchen floor, picking his way through the maze of table and chair legs. The opened stove at the head of the table was burning low, casting just enough glow by which he could stab at errant crumbs. At the basin under the window, Marceline was drying the last of the dishes and storing them away.

   Gazing out into the night, Marceline suddenly stilled her hands. Calmly, quietly, she set down the bowl she held. She towelled off her fingers, and placed the cloth neatly down on the counter. Then she reached for the drawer beside her. Captain Bossard only looked up at this strange display when he heard the squeak of metal on metal. He saw his wife staring out the window, a sturdy carving knife in her hand.

   “Marcy?” he said cautiously.

   “There’s a man in the garden,” she replied, without turning around. The ever-present Guard in him took over immediately. Moving swiftly and silently, he crossed to the cupboard tucked away behind the stove, where mops and brooms made their happy home. He replaced his broom with a click against the stone, then turned to the wall opposite. An ironing board slouched there. He pushed it aside to get at the huge flintlock pistol hanging underneath, for just such an occasion. When he turned around, his wife was already standing beside him.

   “Just one?” he asked.

   “That I could see. Hooded.”

   They tensed as someone knocked quietly at the front door. They could see it through the kitchen archway. Both waited, listening with all their might. Silence. The door remained untouched. No one rattled it on its hinges. No one tried the latch. After all of this nothing, the knock came again, loud and clear. Mr. and Mrs. crept towards it, keeping half an eye on the windows. Marcy set her hand on the latch, ready to pull the door open and shield herself behind it. Her husband took up on the other side, flat against the wall, pistol at the ready. They made eye contact across the span of the front archway.

   “Who is it?” asked the captain, of his late visitor.

   “Julian?” came the excited whisper. “It’s Alfie.”

   Captain Bossard wished he could have set his pistol down immediately and thrown the door open, relieved that the danger had all been imagined. For any other friend, he would have. For Alfie, he hesitated. He reflected carefully for a moment, though his wife opened the door before he could reach a conclusion. He stepped back a bit from the swinging edge to allow his hooded visitor to wheedle in. He hid his pistol hastily in his trouser waist. Alfie didn’t seem to notice this. He began to speak even before he’d crossed the threshold, riveting immediately on the Guard captain.

   “Thank the mither,” he whispered. “Julian, I’m—“

   He cut himself off with a startled cry. Marcy had stepped out from behind the door and walloped him across the back of the head with a firm hand.

   “You scared us half to death!” she snapped, shutting the door behind him with a similar cadence. “What are you doing sneaking in the back garden this time of night?!”

   Captain Bossard knew Alfie as a proud man. His pride had caused trouble through their boyhood and beyond. His pride had made one of his friends hesitate to open a door for him, unsure of whom he might have made angry this time. Whom he had talked back to erroneously. Whom he had tried to punch. This prideful little maniac, for once in his life, bowed his head in deference. That was the moment that Julian knew this was no ordinary escapade.

   “I’m sorry, Marcy!” said Alfie. “I’m so sorry! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important!”

   “I’m sure,” she spat. “Why didn’t you take the front walk?”

   “I…I didn’t want to be seen,” said Alfie shakily. “I mean, not that I’ve done anything, I just had to be careful. I—“

   She stepped up to him, towering as best she could, though they were of a similar height.

   “Whatever you’ve done, I hope Julian arrests you for it. Like he should have,” she continued, looking to her husband, “a long time ago. I’m going to bed.”

   She turned, knife still in hand, and stormed back into the kitchen. The two men in the front hall watched the fading flicker of a candle on the walls as she headed for the back of the house.

   “What ARE you doing here, Alfie?” sighed Bossard tiredly. Alfie darted forward and took him by the arms.

   “I swear it’s important, Julian! I’m sorry to come so late! I had to make sure you knew as soon as you could.” He leaned in, his hands still gripping tightly. “Someone’s plotting to destroy town hall!”

   She heard the sounds, all at once, and she knew. A single blast from a pistol, the shattering of wood, the remains of the lock bolt breaking through the wall as the front door was kicked in. Orders shouted, clipped and clear. A stampede of heavy footsteps. She knew exactly what they wanted. Knew that escape would not be easy.

   Her young apprentice was at her side in that same instant, drawing herself close. Guinevere thought of her as ‘the girl’, though they had less than a decade’s difference in age. The girl’s hands closed gently on her upper arm.

   “Guin, what’s going on?”

   Guinevere saw the first wave of men charging through the dark beyond the kitchen door. She reached past her apprentice to the stove, where the girl had been minding a bubbling pot of topical ointment. It was turning oily and yellow, just as it should. The girl had done a fine job.

   Guinevere ignored the stinging heat in the handle. It would only take a moment. She hurled the contents of the pot in a graceful arc, adding the pot itself for good measure. The screams were instantaneous. She muffled them by slamming the kitchen door. She leapt at the crockery cupboard in the corner and tipped it over across the threshold, blocking the entryway in a thunderous crash of plates and teapots.

   When she turned to her apprentice, the girl was pale and frozen. Her eyes were the size of the shattered platters on the floor. Guinevere took her by the hand and pulled her towards the cellar door.

   “Everything’s going to be okay, Marigold. You’ll be fine if you do what I say.”

   “I will,” squeaked the girl. “Who are they, Guin?”

   “Witch hunters. You mustn’t panic,” she said calmly, as Marigold’s expression twisted in fear. “You’re going to be alright, do you hear me?” She nudged the girl in front of her. “Get down the stairs. Go!”

   Marigold staggered down into the dark cellar as fast as her nervous knees could take her. From a nearby counter, Guinevere snatched up the candle by whose light the girl had been reading her recipe. She hurried after her apprentice, pausing only to bolt the cellar door behind her.

   “Come here,” she ordered, as her feet hit the stone floor. Marigold followed her closely to the corner opposite the stairs. There were barrels grouped here, dozens of them, each as big around as Marigold was tall. Guinevere held the candle out to her apprentice.

   “Hold it away from the barrels,” she warned, as the girl took the flame. The witch dove down and grabbed the end of Marigold’s tidy white apron before she could react. Guinevere tore it up one side and down the other, making a neat rectangle. She began to twist this into a rope. With one hand, she wrenched the lid off a barrel near the centre of the pack, and with the other plunged the makeshift fuse deep into the white crystalline contents. She withdrew her fist and slammed the lid back down overtop the dangling cotton. It slunk from the barrel like a sickly cow’s tongue.

   A deafening roar sounded above them. Marigold looked to the floorbeams in fright, dust and cobwebs falling over her face as the cellar ceiling shook. Once, pause. Twice, pause. The scrape of a fallen crockery cupboard on an old wooden floor, as the door behind it was forced ajar by a legion of strong men.

   “Guin…?” she whispered.

   “Stay calm, Marigold.” The witch had crossed to a shelf on the far wall, overtop the potato bins and jarred cucumbers, and was taking down a bright blue bottle from among its fellows. When she returned to the barrels, she wrenched the cork out with her teeth and started to pour the contents over the sickly tongue. It was clear liquid, easily mistakable for water were the smell not so strong. Guinevere splashed some of it over the barrels once the fuse was sodden. When it was empty, she spat out the cork and threw the bottle across the cellar towards the stairs, where it shattered in a dim blue supernova. It was obvious from the pounding footsteps above them that the witch hunters had good boots, but there was never harm in a sharp greeting mat.

   Guinevere’s strange ritual was drawing to a close. As the cellar door began to splinter, raining even more sharps down the stairs, the witch pulled the candle out of her apprentice’s hands. She hooked her other arm around Marigold’s shoulders, drawing her further into the corner beside the barrels.

   “You’re going to be alright,” she assured in a whisper. The first of the good boots were coming down the stairs, now, lanterns throwing monstrous shadows around the stairwell. Marigold huddled close to her teacher.

   “If I’m going to die, you can tell me,” the girl whispered back. “I-I can handle it.”

   Guinevere removed her arm from the girl’s shoulders and reached for her chin instead. She guided Marigold’s gaze to meet her own.

   “You won’t,” insisted the witch. “I might, but you will not. I am going to get you out safe, I promise.”

   “But, Guin—“

   “Hold up!”

   The shout from the stairs made them jump. They knew the men were there, could see them plainly, but the volume had surprised them both. They riveted on the intruders; one man in particular, the one at the front of the pack who had shouted. He had his hand up, an order for his fellows to stop. He stood on the last step. Two huge pistols hung at his hips. He seemed to be listening for something. Then, he inhaled deeply. Across the dim cellar, he made eye contact with Guinevere.

   “Kerosene,” he remarked.

   “Damned right,” barked the witch. “And a dozen barrels of nitre salts. All I need now is a little provocation.”

   The man scanned the floor below him; jagged, but dry. He stepped down onto the shards of glass with a quiet jangle. His soldiers waited for his word.

   “Provocation’s the last thing on our minds, dear.”

   “Is that why you kicked down my door?”

   Mr. Kerosene smiled at this. “We had to hurry, my lovely. No time to knock. Now that we know you’re safe, we can take our time.”

   He took a long step forward, crinkling more glass. His hands stayed firmly in the air.

   “I’m gon’ to reach for my pistols, now,” he said plainly. “An’ I’m gon’ hand them to the fellas behind me.” He pulled one out of its holster and dangled it back over his shoulder, never looking away from the witch. A lackey behind him took it with a quiet crunch of glass. “And then the fellas behind me are gon’ do the same. We’re gon’ trade bullet for quarrel so nobody’s itchy finger gets us in trouble. Did we all hear that, fellas?” he asked, as he handed the second pistol away. The only sound of assent was the quiet rustle of steel on leather as pistols were passed up the stairs. In that brief pause, Mr. Kerosene unslung a monstrously big crossbow from his back. He simply held it, loose and lax like his pistols; he did not aim it. Most of his men did the same.

   “There,” said Mr. Kerosene. “Now nobody’s gon’ set a spark they shouldn’t. Fire’s all in your hands. An’ you don’t wanna die, do ya?”

   “I don’t want to see the inquisitors, either,” said Guinevere.

   “Of course you don’t,” said the man, quietly. “Come forward, gents. Fan out.”

   A dozen men came trickling down the stairs, all with crossbows ready at their chests. They formed a loose semi-circle beyond Guinevere’s candlelight. As they tightened formation, the witch took a step back, releasing her apprentice and taking up the cotton wick instead.

   “Come closer,” she breathed. “I dare you.”

   “Nobody doin’ no such thing,” said Mr. Kerosene. “We’re stayin’ right here, ahn’t we?”

   His men did not move.

   “Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now we can talk.”

   “Not yet, we can’t,” snapped Guinevere. “We’ll talk after you let the girl go.”

   Mr. Kerosene turned his attention briefly to Marigold.

   “This girl, here?” he asked. “Where’s she gon’ to?”

   “Anywhere that isn’t here. She’s getting out of this cellar alive.”

   “I’d like nothin’ more, lovely. I want all of us outta this alive! If we talk, we can make it happen, don’t you think?”

   Guinevere’s grip on the cotton wick tightened, squeezing out a few drops of kerosene onto the floor. She didn’t look at Marigold. She only had eyes for the man before her.

   “She had nothing to do with it,” whispered the witch. “I’ll come with you, but she won’t. She’s innocent. She didn’t even know.”

   Mr. Kerosene’s hazel-bright gaze flicked to Marigold once more.

   “She looks it,” he said kindly. “You know she won’t be hurt, don’t you?”

   “I don’t know anything when it comes to you people. I need her safe.”

   “You will be, honey, if you come to me,” said Mr. Kerosene. To Guinevere’s horror, she realized he was addressing Marigold directly. He let his crossbow hang a bit as he extended a gloved hand her way. “I can tell you ain’t a part of this. Would you like to get outta here?”

   “Don’t listen to him!” snapped Guinevere. The harshness in her tone made Marigold flinch. The girl hadn’t moved at all, frozen in discombobulation. The witch glared at Mr. Kerosene, and brought the candle closer to the fuse. The width of her body was all the distance between them now.

   “If you speak to her again you’ll have her blood on your hands,” breathed the witch. Her voice could have melted glass. Mr. Kerosene, for the moment, kept his tongue. Guinevere turned her tone on her apprentice.

   “Marigold, do as I say, and don’t argue. These men are going to let you pass. Just walk by. Don’t look at them, don’t listen to them. When you get upstairs, take one of their pistols. They will let you. Don’t worry. Once you have one, run. Run as fast as you can for as long as you can. Do not look back and do not stop, not for anything. Do you understand?”

   Her apprentice was staring at her with huge, sad eyes. Guinevere did not look her way once, instead watching every tiny movement of the witch hunters.

   “Guin, what about you?” whispered the girl.

   “Don’t worry about me. Go, now. If you’ve ever loved me, go!”

   She raised her voice as her apprentice made no move. Then, she raised it to the men surrounding them. “If you so much as look at her you’re all dead, do you hear me?”

   They obeyed, even more amenably than the apprentice. Marigold inched past their ranks at a snail’s pace, hands up in surrender. She didn’t know where she was going, could barely grasp the situation as it was, but she knew she had been given an order.

   Once the creaking of the stairs had stopped, and the sound of Marigold’s running feet on the floor above had faded, the cellar came to silence.

   “Happy?” asked Mr. Kerosene quietly.

   “No,” said Guinevere. “Not ’til we’re burning in hell together.”

   She heard the whisper of a quarrel zipping past her ear, and a stark stony clunk as it hit the wall behind. Let them shoot, she thought, as she brought candle and wick together in her hands.

   The wick did not catch. It only took a second for Guinevere to realize there was nothing in her hand to catch it with. She held only half of the candle; the other half was on the floor, neatly cut at an angle. The flame burned harmlessly against the dry stone floor.

   “Touch it,” said a new voice, “and you lose the hand. Put them up if you want to keep them.”

   She would never have paused, should never have paused, but her previous assailants seemed just as taken aback as she that the voice had spoken. Mr. Kerosene tilted his head to see behind him, one curious eyebrow raised.

   Guinevere could see this new man only in shadow. He had come forward from the very back of the throng, but stayed behind the men’s lantern light. She could see the outline of a broad-brimmed hat. He was holding his crossbow to his eye.

   Enraged, she dove for the candle top, throwing the useless nub of wax to the winds. Another whisper crossed her path. Pain exploded through her hand as it was jerked aside by a sudden silent force. Gasping, she looked to her palm, pierced through by a quarrel. Blood welled up around the shaft, running in tiny rivulets down the head, droplets hitting the stone in time with the shaking of her hand. She cried out as her fingers curled instinctively, driving the pain up her arm.

   The man with the crossbow had already reloaded. He stepped out from among the men, keeping his weapon firmly on the witch.

   “Cuffs, now,” he said flatly. “And watch that hand.”

   The men made no move.

   “Do as he says,” sighed Mr. Kerosene, his own bow trained on the witch in sync with the newcomer’s. Guinevere grunted as her arms were twisted behind her back by two men, a third between them with a pair of iron shackles. The pain in her hand was excruciating, but she swallowed her cries. She gritted her teeth and glared at the crossbowman instead. She knew that face. That hat. Those wide brown eyes. Everyone knew them these days. He stared back, smiling the tiniest of smiles. Once the shackles were on, he lowered his weapon. Mr. Kerosene did the same.

   “I don’ recall your assignment to this case, Sir Roger. Could you refresh my memory?”

   “Certainly, Mr. Belvedere. Only a moment ago, you were flirting dangerously with fiery death. I assigned myself to save you.”

   “You’d know if I was flirtin’, son. That there was hardly a come-hither.” Mr. Belvedere reslung his crossbow onto his back. “Now’d someone tell you where we’d be, or’d you follow from town?”

   “A little of both, my comrade in arms. Naturally, I’d heard the inquisitors whispering. And, also naturally, I was surprised that they hadn’t approached their best witch hunter for help. So, I took matters into my own hands.”

   “They approached their best elite forces, Roger, which is exactly what they should’ve done. This is hardly to do with witches. It’s all to do with dangerous criminals.”

   Sir Roger spread his hands in a gesture of truce.

   “Why in the world should we bicker? You have your suspect, I have my tale of derring-do, we can all go home and chalk this up as a success.”

   The witch hunter sauntered towards the shackled Guinevere, now upright with a man at either side. He knelt down to retrieve the still-burning stub of candle at her feet. He studied it thoughtfully for a moment, the orange twinkle reflecting in his deep brown eyes, then looked to the witch.

   “…or can we?” he mused. “I feel as though something’s missing.”

   He was well within her reach, and would have regretted this had her arms not been shackled behind her back. She could only stew silently in her guards’ embraces. He blew the flame out in front of her with a tiny puff of breath.

   “I’ll see to the girl.”

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