Chapter 56
Avice
Avice would not go gently to what she suspected was her doom.
Why else had the men not been able to pass through the ward?
They had come to harm her. It struck her then that Nell had not entered her garden either.
She had called to Avice from beyond Trewoofe’s magic.
Her stomach twisted at the realisation. They had manipulated Nell into luring Avice outside of her garden, promising the girl her brother would be safe.
Where is John?
She tripped on something along the overgrown path and snapped from her ruminations.
Two of her captors hauled her up. Through the suffocating sack, she heard the third man grunting and hacking through the flora.
He must have been trying to cut a path through the overgrown woods.
It seemed that the plants only liked to bend an easy path for those deemed worthy of it.
Avice dug in her heels, dropped her weight, threw herself back, and thrashed in their iron grips.
She bore the agony of the white-hot pain from her side with every rebellion she made.
She would do anything to buy precious time for Ashling to find Trewoofe.
She knew her Knucker would save her; she just needed to stay alive until he did.
Tears streamed down her face for poor Bramble.
The echoes of his whimpering and writhing were like a knife to her gut.
She could still hear him through the woods, even as they hauled her further and further away.
Find him first, Lord. I cannot bear it if he should die.
Finally, their footfalls changed from the softened cadence of leaf litter to harsh taps on the cobblestones.
She knew they were in the village. Blood roared in her ears as they hauled her towards the Lamorna square.
Avice felt the crush of people around her.
She heard muffled murmurs, the rustle of clothing, and tentative bootsteps.
She even caught the sound of an agitated nicker.
There were horses in the square. Why were there horses?
Then there was the smell. The pungent press of bodies overpowered the pleasant perfume of flowers and green leaves, leaving a bitter taste in the back of her throat.
The nausea from her pain multiplied with the stench.
“Move!” Avice heard Simon yell, then the thud of a body, and a shrieking protest.
She panted heavily beneath the sack, gritting her teeth against the gag to help with the agony of every breath.
Her ribs were broken, and the blade had just missed her lung.
Avice knew she would not last much longer without medical intervention.
Her skirts were saturated with blood. She felt it soak all the way to her stocking and pool in her boot.
Sweat poured from her skin and stung her eyes.
Silent tears streamed down her face for the journey to central Lamorna, but she would not give her captors the satisfaction of hearing her sob.
“What in God’s name happened to all of you?
” She knew that voice. Father Peter. He was close but sounded slightly above her.
Avice furrowed her brow at that, her exhausted mind working despite the throbbing agony that muddled it.
She sniffed heavily and caught the earthy scent of horse through the sack.
“The witch happened to us,” Robert ground out from behind her. “We will have to send for Jacob Farmer’s body to be collected later.” He dug his fingers into Avice’s wound, and she let out a muffled yelp. “She used her witching words; got him to cut his own throat.”
The horse shifted and let out a nicker.
“We will add it to her list of charges,” Father Peter said. “Put her in the cage next to the other one.”
Other one?
Avice bit down on her gag. Nell had said something about John. Was he the ‘other one’? Had the Moot council found out about John and his Sidhe King? Did they discover that he preferred the company of men? Did they know he had the sight too?
Robert hauled her away and a harsh metal creak pierced her ears.
Avice knew exactly where she was. The iron cages next to the gallows.
Her panting increased as the sack was ripped from her head.
She was shoved inside and the door slammed behind her.
She was momentarily dazzled by the change in light and blinked several times to see the figure cowering in the cage next to her.
Jonathan Fisher.
His wrists were bound but he was not gagged.
“Avice!” he shouted, his fingers threading through the bars that they shared.
She could only grunt back.
His blackened eyes widened in horror as he ran them over her. “Are you alright?”
She shook her head and immediately wished she had not.
She had already been woozy, and black spots dotted her vision.
The movement only worsened it. She raised her purple hands and touched her numb fingertips to his.
He tried to clutch her through the bars.
She took in his appearance: bruised face, bloody nose, split lips, and torn tunic.
Clearly the brutes who had apprehended her had taken their pound of flesh from John as well.
Avice took in their prison. The vines that had dominated the cages and gallows just two days prior had been hacked, and judging by the acrid smell, burnt away. It did not stop them from trying to reclaim the iron, tiny curling shoots had already grown around the lower bars of their cages.
“What do we do?” John asked, stroking his fingers over hers.
He looked so earnest, so hopeful, that she may figure out a way. She had already sent Ashling for Trewoofe, but what if he did not find him in time? Her Knucker could be deep within in his Kingdom hunting the Tall One.
Avice squeezed her eyes shut as her mind turned like a spinning wheel.
She had to figure out a way, something that would help them now.
An idea struck her and she touched her bound hands to her chest. Her lungs tightened as she realised her pendant was gone.
With everything that had happened, she had forgotten Robert had ripped it from her in their scuffle.
Burning tears ran rivers down her face.
For the first time in her life, she did not know what to do.
She had been ignoring the growing chatters behind her but slowly shifted around, putting her back to John as she heard Father Peter address the crowd. “SILENCE!”
Every villager of Lamorna stood in front of the gallows.
She had not seen so many of them in one place since that horrendous day in the church, when Trewoofe had called for her help.
That fateful day that changed everything; when the priest had poisoned the Underneath in an attempt on the Knucker King’s life and to end his Kingdom.
The crowd grew silent. Avice turned back to John, an idea sparking within her. She had used her voice without a Good Neighbour to pull on when the men attacked her. She could do it again, if only she could speak. She wiggled her eyebrows at John and tapped her gagged mouth with her bound hands.
John arched a brow at her, before he grinned in understanding. “You want me to see if I can get that off?”
Avice nodded and pressed her face against the cold iron. John tried to hook his fingers through, fumbling with the rag, loosening it at a pace slower than a snail.
“Avice Gardener and Jonathan Fisher have been found guilty of several crimes,” Father Peter continued. She wanted to flinch at the sound of their names but held firm as John tugged at the gag. “These crimes have been against the church, Lamorna, Cornwall, Wessex, the King, and Christendom itself.”
There were collective murmurs behind her back, and a woman called out, “What crimes, and found guilty by who?”
Avice could not be sure, but it sounded like Joan. The young woman shivering on the pallet just days ago was the only one who voiced a protest.
Silence followed.
One heartbeat.
Two.
“By the esteemed members of the Moot council.” This was a different voice. Another one she knew, George Courier. The man whose cousin she had saved was one of the men who had found her guilty of crimes they had not even explained.
A different woman’s voice replied; Avice thought it may have been Matilda. “You heard Goodwife Joan! What crimes?”
A loud banging on the bars had her stumbling back, falling painfully on her rear, sending a jolt of agony up her spine.
“Stop that!” Robert barked, brandishing a club high above his head. “You will only use your tongue to admit to your crimes, and not for your filthy witching words.”
She grunted in response, eyes burning with fury. She was weak. The blood loss and pain made it difficult to focus on much besides the throbbing agony on her side.
“Avice?” John asked. “Can you stand? Are you alright?”
She shook her head and struggled to keep her eyes open. She caught snippets of the crimes listed. Their words muffled in her ears, as though the speaker was covered in a veil.
“Speaking with the little devils in the woods, witchcraft, heresy, and fornicating with serpents,” Father Peter declared.
“Where are your witnesses?!” a woman screeched; Avice fancied it could be Catherine.
“Me!”
The new voice was vaguely familiar to Avice, and she turned her throbbing head to the front of the gallows.
It was Lucille, the young woman present at Boarden’s birth and Father Peter’s intended.
She turned to the iron cages and extended her arm.
Avice never expected the knife in her back to come from the point of another woman’s finger.
“I saw them both fornicating with serpents at Lamorna Cove just yesterday!” she declared primly.
“Thank you, Miss Lucille,” Father Peter praised.
Avice dropped her chin to her chest.
“Help me.”
Help me.
She jolted.
The words were both inside and outside her head.