The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(12)

“She’s a witch,” he says. “I can’t let her go.” He reaches for his belt, pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

“She’s not a witch,” Caleb says. “She just—”

He cuts himself off, but I know what he was going to say: She’s not a witch, she just has witches’ herbs. Caleb knows the laws, just as I do. What I have, what I was using them for, it’s enough to send me to the rack for torture, to prison for detainment, to the stake for burning.

I turn to run, but lose my balance again and slip to the floor. Caleb reaches for me, but Richard pushes him away and grabs the back of my cloak, hauling me to my feet. He yanks my arms roughly behind my back and slaps the bindings over my wrists.

“Elizabeth Grey, by the authority of King Malcolm of Anglia, I am commanded to arrest you for the crime of witchcraft. You are hereby ordered to return with us to Fleet prison for detention and to await your trial, presided over by the Inquisitor, Lord Blackwell, Duke of Norwich. If you are found guilty, you will be executed by burning, your land and goods forfeit to the crown.” A pause. “So help you God.”

“You can’t take her to prison!” Caleb shouts. “You don’t have the authority. Not without Blackwell’s consent.”

Richard considers this.

“Then I won’t take her to prison,” he says. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, but he adds, “I’ll take her to see Blackwell.”





PRISON WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER.

Caleb takes my arm. “You’re not taking her. Not without me.”

Richard jerks me from his grasp. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he growls. “She’s in enough trouble as it is. Your trailing after her like a puppy isn’t going to help.”

“He’s right, Caleb,” I say. “You’ll only make it worse. Just go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be back soon.”

Caleb glances between us, weighing his decision.

“Fine. I’ll wait. But not in my room. I’ll wait here. If you’re not back in an hour, I’m coming for you.”

Richard hauls me out the door, into the empty courtyard, across the grounds, and up a flight of stairs that leads to the living quarters. Ravenscourt is the main residence of the king and queen, but Blackwell keeps apartments here, too, more for status than necessity as his own home is a short boat ride down the river.

He thrusts me down the shadowed hall until it ends in a set of wide double doors: shiny dark oak, glittering brass handles, a pair of guards dressed in black and red. As we approach, they uncross their pikes with a clink, the blades flashing like lightning, reflecting the candles flickering along the wall.

The door swings open, and a boy slips out and scurries past me. A servant, maybe, though he seems little more than a child. The guards don’t seem to notice; they act as if he’s not there. Maybe he isn’t—maybe I’m imagining him. Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing.

Inside, a fire crackles in the hearth; the scent of rosemary drifts from the fresh rushes strewn on the floor. Blackwell sits behind his desk, papers spread before him, working as though it were twelve noon instead of twelve midnight. If he’s surprised to see me standing there, in his chambers, handcuffed and escorted by one of Malcolm’s guards, he doesn’t show it. His eyes flick from my face to my bound hands to Richard, then back to me again.

He’s not an old man, nor is he young. I don’t actually know his age, but he looks the same now as he always has: dark hair, uncut by gray, closely trimmed to his head. Short, cropped beard. A long, thin face, a nose that stops just short of being called big. Tall, well over six feet. He might be attractive were it not for his eyes, like chips of wet coal. Cold, hard, black.

“Uncuff her,” he says to Richard.

“But—don’t you want to know what she’s here for before I release her?”

“I give the orders here, and I ask the questions,” Blackwell replies. “Uncuff her.”

Richard steps forward, unlocks my bindings. They snap open with a quiet click.

“I want to know why you’re here,” Blackwell says, his attention still on Richard. “Why you’ve brought one of my witch hunters to me in the middle of the night shackled like a common criminal. And why you”—he shifts his gaze to me—“allowed it to happen.”

Richard glances at me, as if willing me to speak first. I look straight ahead and say nothing. If he thinks I’m indicting myself in front of this judge and jury, he’s got another thing coming.

“You tell me,” Blackwell repeats, his voice a quiet menace. “Now.”

“I—I went to her chambers. To take her to the king. He requested her presence,” Richard stammers. “And she had these. They fell out of her pocket.”

He pulls out the herbs, drops them on Blackwell’s desk. Green, fragrant; pretty, even; tied into a bundle with a snip of twine, like a simple posy a boy might give a girl. So innocent-looking. Yet so very damning.

I close my eyes against the deafening silence that follows, resigning myself to what comes next. I never imagined that coming back to Ravenscourt could lead to this. First I’m disguised as a maid, then I’m introduced to the king. Then I’m summoned before the king, and the next thing I know I’m on a skiff downriver at midnight, to a bathhouse in search of a wisewoman and a bundle of herbs. I paid that old hag three months’ wages: two for her knowledge, one for her silence, for all the good it did me.…