The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(30)

“If Nicholas wanted to be king, why didn’t he make his move after he supposedly killed Malcolm’s father? It would have been much easier to do then, only a Lord Protector and a boy heir to stand in the way.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’s biding his time.”

John’s eyes grow dark then, his thoughtful gaze slipping into anger.

“For what? So he could sit by and watch as his friends and family are forced to leave the country? Watch as they’re arrested, tried, and sentenced to die? So he could bide his time?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

“Well, I do. Have you ever seen one? A burning?” His voice is quiet with intensity. “They’re horrible. The worst kind of death there is. There’s no dignity in it, only torture and spectacle and—” He breaks off. “They have to be stopped. And we can’t stop them by walking away.”

“The king—the Inquisitor—they’ll never change the law,” I say. “Surely you know that.”

John turns back to the window and doesn’t reply.

“And, yes, I’ve seen burnings,” I add quietly. “They’re terrible. It’s a terrible death to die.”

I was fourteen the first time I saw one. Threw up right in the middle of Tyburn; it even shook Caleb. But Blackwell wanted us to see it. He said we needed to see it to understand his laws, to know what it meant to be on the other side of them. I remember how Caleb and I huddled together that night, unable to sleep, afraid to sleep. It was months before the nightmares went away. But eventually I hardened myself against them, we both did. We had to.

John turns to face me. He starts to speak but is cut off by the door banging open.

“How are we coming on?” George stumbles into the room, holding a goblet. He looks drunk.

“Fine,” John says, walking to the table and collecting his supplies. I notice his hands shaking as he piles everything back on the tray.

“What about you?” George walks over to me. I’m so busy watching John that I forget about my hand until he reaches over and grabs it.

“It still hurts,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. George doesn’t really notice. He just glances at it and drops it back into my lap. He’s definitely drunk.

“Nice work, John. As always.” George reaches for the pitcher of wine, refills his goblet, then slumps into the chair by the fireplace. “I’m on night watch again,” he tells me.

“Grand,” I say.

“Isn’t it?” He takes a drink and looks at John. “They want to see you.”

“Who does?”

“Well, Fifer. She needs more”—George glances at me—“something for Nicholas. The usual. Peter wants something to help him sleep. And Gareth says he’s got a headache.”

John closes his eyes and nods, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids. He looks exhausted: deathly pale, circles under his eyes so dark they look like bruises.

George winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” John says. “I’ll go now. But see she wraps that hand, will you?” He plucks a bandage from the tray and tosses it to George. “The cut wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but there’s no sense inviting infection.”

He slips out the door without another glance in my direction. I realize I never thanked him.

For anything.





I STAY THROUGH THE NIGHT.

I nearly didn’t; that encounter at dinner was too close for my liking. But the news that I’m now Anglia’s most wanted has complicated things. It’s not enough to escape here and get back to Upminster—not anymore. Because it’s not just Blackwell and his guards after me; it’s every mercenary in the city. It’s about as safe for me there as it is here, which is to say not at all.

Anglia’s most wanted.

It’s almost too much to believe. There’s something about it all that is too much to believe. I know Blackwell wants me dead. But more than he wants Nicholas dead? Even if he does think I’m a witch, a spy, and a traitor, I’m still not as dangerous to him as Nicholas.

I can’t go to Upminster, and I can’t stay in Anglia. I suppose I’ll have to escape to Gaul. It’s close, just across the channel. Provided I can find a ship to stow away on, it’ll be easy enough to get there. Their king is sympathetic to Anglican exiles; they won’t turn me away.

Then there’s Caleb.

I don’t know what to make of his being promoted to Inquisitor. Was Blackwell planning to do that all along, even before my arrest? Or did Caleb ask for it afterward, as a way to protect me? But if he took the position to protect me, why didn’t he come back to Fleet to get me? He didn’t leave me there to die. I don’t believe that. There must be another explanation.

Either way, today’s the day I escape.

Last night, George let it slip that everyone would be gone all morning, something about going to the black market to get supplies. It’s the opportunity I need to search the house. I can’t leave for Gaul empty-handed; I need to prepare. Get my bearings, steal money and other valuables to trade with, arm myself with whatever I can find or make. Then tonight, when we make the trip to visit the seer, run like hell. And kill whoever gets in my way.

George is still asleep. He’s splayed out on the floor at the end of my bed, completely passed out, a blanket tangled around his feet. He must have tripped over it at some point last night and fallen, either unwilling or unable to get up.