The Witch Hunter's Tale(12)

While few of the Castle’s jailors could match Samuel in the strangeness of their appearance, Hester’s was quite a sight all the same. He could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years of age, and his wizened face had been slashed in two by a scar that ran through what used to be his left eye.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I have been awaiting your arrival with the same anticipation I await the return of Jesus Christ himself.” I did not know whether all jailors spoke so impudently to their betters, but he already lived in a gaol overseeing the worst prisoners in the Castle. What else could I do to him? “My name is Benjamin Hunter. Welcome to my tower.” A ghost of a smile flitted across Martha’s lips at Hunter’s performance.

“Thank you,” I replied. “We are here to see Hester Jackson.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “The Warden said you would come today. Not a moment too soon, either, for on the morrow her only visitor will be the hangman, and after that she’ll be of no use at all, except for the anatomists.” He stared at me for a moment, but he made no move to unlock the door that led to the cells. I glanced at Martha, utterly confused as to the jailor’s game.

“You can imagine the number of people who have come here in hope of seeing a witch,” Hunter said at last. “Hundreds have paid their money.”

Ah, I thought, he just wants his bribe. I slipped him a few pennies, and he led us down the spiral stairs to the lowest room in the tower. When we reached the last cell, Hunter handed me a lantern and unlocked Hester’s door.

“Here you are, my lady,” he said. “I introduce to you, Hester Jackson, widow and witch.”





Chapter 4

As I stepped into Hester’s cell, my mouth went dry and my heart began to race. It was said that arresting a witch broke her power, but if a woman could kill with words, why would prison walls make a difference? I glanced at Martha, hoping to draw some courage from her, but fear shone in her eyes as well.

Hester Jackson sat on the edge of the rough wood pallet that served as her bed, staring at the floor before her. When she looked up, it was as if we were staring at the face of death itself. In the guttering light of the jailor’s lantern, Hester’s cheeks were all hollows and bone, as if time and rot refused to wait for her death before they stripped her skull of its skin and flesh. She stared at us with empty sockets, and for a moment I wondered if her eyes had been put out. Strands of hair hung on either side of her face, deepening the shadows of her sunken cheeks. I had not known Hester well, but at that moment I would have sworn that she was a witch and I wanted nothing more than to run from the cell as fast as I could.

When she tried to stand, the entire illusion fell away. She was halfway to her feet when her breath caught and she began to cough great body-shaking coughs. She fell back on her bed and drew her knees to her chest. By the time she finished coughing, Hester was weeping. When she could finally sit up I saw that chains bound both her hands and feet.

“You laid her in double irons?” I asked Hunter incredulously. “To what end?”

“To the end of keeping my place,” the jailor replied. “The Warden tells me to do something, I do it. And after the madness of last summer, I’d be a fool to take chances. I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

I thought back to the previous summer, when a prisoner had slipped from his irons and hanged himself. How many deaths had that caused? Two? Three? I did not know when to stop counting. Perhaps I had not yet finished.

“Have you come to take my bucket?” Hester asked the jailor. She pointed at a small wooden bucket in the corner; the smell that rose from it made clear its purpose.

“I’ll take it in the evening like I always do,” Hunter growled. “Ask again before then and you’ll be wearing it.” To emphasize his point, he tipped it partway with his foot, threatening to spill its contents into the filthy rushes that covered the floor.

“Take the bucket,” I commanded. “I’ll not have it in here when I speak to her.”

Hunter looked at me in surprise. His mouth flopped open for a moment before he snapped it shut. “Yes, my lady,” he replied at last.

“Now, leave us be,” I said. “I will let you know when we are finished.”

Hunter nodded, picked up the bucket, and shuffled back up the stairs.

“Hester, I am Lady Bridget Hodgson,” I said. “Do you know me?”

“My mind’s not so far gone yet,” the old woman replied. “I know you. But who is she?” she thrust her jaw in Martha’s direction.