Hour of the Witch(76)
“Catherine,” Thomas commanded their servant, “go home and start dinner. We shan’t be far behind.”
The girl looked nervously between the two men and scurried ahead.
Her husband turned back toward Henry and said brusquely, “I know thee from the allegations of James Burden’s servant.”
“Yes. As I confessed to the Court of Assistants, I had a lapse in judgment and tried to take advantage of thy wife. I have expressed my regret to our God and to the magistrates, and, after that particularly fine sermon, I want to share with thee as well that I made a mistake and I am sorry.”
An idea came to Mary: Henry is doing this for me because he is worried that Thomas may be treating me worse than usual because he believes I was unfaithful—or, perhaps, had thoughts that suggested an illicit desire. Either way, Henry believed that an apology was going to help. She knew that he couldn’t have been more wrong.
“It seems thou hast worries for thy soul. I am not sure that is genuine regret. I would categorize it merely as fear,” Thomas told him.
“I heard the word of the Lord,” said Henry, smiling. “But after the lashing, I don’t fear much.”
“The lashing was but a small taste of what awaits.”
“Perhaps.”
“If we were still in England, I might demand satisfaction,” Thomas told him, and Mary felt his grip on her arm tightening. He may have spotted the derision behind Henry’s grin. “I think thou showest a cavalier lack of self-regard.”
“Let the aristocrats duel over there,” Henry said. “Over here? Let the humble apologize and the godly accept a concession in the lowly and sincere spirit in which it is offered.”
“I am not sure, despite thy claims, that thou were sufficiently humbled at the whipping post. Now, my dinner awaits. I urge thee to stay away,” her husband said, and Mary felt him pulling her forward. But Henry reached for her husband’s shoulder and spun him back.
“Thomas,” he began, but he didn’t get another word out, because with a speed and an agility that shocked Mary—even though she knew that her husband’s temper could crack with the suddenness of lightning—he released her, turned, and smacked Henry hard on his spine. Mary watched as the younger man flinched and started to rear up, but Thomas hit him again, this time joining his hands and using his arms as a club to pound one of the spots on Henry’s back where undoubtedly the flesh was raw from the whip. Even through his doublet and cloak, the pain had to have been excruciating, and Henry staggered. For a moment, she thought he was going to fall to the ground. But he righted himself, and Mary grabbed Thomas before he could strike the man again.
Thomas looked at her, his eyes wild, and then regained his composure. He prepared himself for any counterattack that Henry might offer, but Henry seemed to believe that he had earned this and had no plans to retaliate. He stood there, a little shocked, and when he said nothing, Thomas spoke: “I dare thee to tell either beadle or constable that I struck thee. See how they will respond to a cur the likes of thee.”
And with that Thomas took her arm, roughly this time, and started to pull her home.
* * *
Mary knew that Thomas would do nothing to hurt her with Catherine present over dinner. He was too crafty. The three of them ate in absolute silence.
And then they returned to church for the afternoon portion of the service. Mary saw no sign of Henry in the sanctuary.
* * *
The cold came again in the night, and the windows in the bedroom grew a glaze that resembled hoarfrost. They ate lobster chowder for supper, and Thomas spoke little, other than to observe that it was good to eat something warm when the ground was locking in for the season. Upstairs, he stripped off his clothes except for his stockings and pulled on his sleep shift, and then he extinguished the candle and climbed into bed. He had done nothing since attacking Henry, but she remained guarded. She undressed quickly because the room was cold and put on her own shift. She glanced once at her left hand and flexed her fingers. It mostly hurt now when she stretched them.
Then she got into bed and pulled up the coverlet. The moment she did, he was upon her. He rolled her onto her back, grabbed her by her wrists, and pressed her arms down onto the mattress. He leaned into her, his mouth beside her left ear, and whispered, “If ever again I see thee with Henry Simmons…if ever again I hear of thee with Henry Simmons…if ever again thou speakest the dog’s name…I will destroy him in just the same way that the girl beneath us plucked the claws from the lobsters and ripped the meat from their chests. That boy’s skin and ribs are but paper compared to the shell of those beasts, and I will treat him with savagery and without mercy. And thee? Thou wilt die a witch at the hanging platform. I will see to it: thy wrists bound behind thy back and with a rope carving slowly but surely into thy neck like a dagger in need of sharpening. Mark me, Mary Deerfield: the Hell that awaits most sinners is but sunshine and spring compared to the Hell I will rain down upon thee and that pathetic runt of the litter that darest to kiss thee. Dost thou hear my words?”
She nodded.
“Speak, woman,” he hissed, his breath beery, his voice cool. “Dost thou hear my words?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”