Chapter Twenty
Sybil
Sybil was led to a room in better repair than the rest of the prison, long and narrow with wood paneling that likely masked
crumbling walls beneath. A great desk sat at the rear, where a sconce provided ample light. Behind that desk sat the man she
could only assume to be Matthew Hopkins.
The Witchfinder General himself.
He looked up when she entered, studying her as she formed her own assessment of him. His broad linen collar and wide-brimmed
hat with a polished silver buckle spoke of a man who believed himself significant.
A mean little mustache traced the hard line of his mouth and glistened with oil. His hair was likewise well-groomed, having
been brushed to a shine that fell in gentle waves about his shoulders.
This was a man who cared greatly for how others perceived him.
Such men were dangerous.
Men who knew how to get what they wanted, to ensure they received the praise and approbation they craved. At any cost.
He set aside his quill. “Mrs. Henry Brantham,” he said by way of greeting.
She notched her chin at a haughty angle. “Mr. Hopkins, I presume?”
He flushed with prideful pleasure. “I have not had so esteemed a person on the other side of my desk as yet.”
Ah, then she was a grand prize.
But Sybil would not be taken in so easily. Christine de Pizan’s words came to her at once. “There is no man so valiant that he cannot be wounded by a woman’s heart and courage.”
The line bolstered Sybil, arming her with that very heart and courage. “I fail to understand why I am here at all.”
His smile was mirrored by his oiled mustache. “I should like to ask you some questions.” He indicated the chair.
She did not sit.
His nod was directed behind her, and the guards who’d escorted her into the room gripped her by the shoulders, shoving her
down until her knees buckled. In the end, she was forced to sit on the hard-backed wooden chair whether she wanted to or not.
“Please, Mrs. Brantham.” He said her name like a disappointment. “You are a gentlewoman. Surely, we can speak as equals, me
being elevated from my birth as a vicar’s son and you being elevated from your life as a cunning woman’s daughter.”
Sybil schooled her features to keep from reflecting her shock.
He knew more of her than she would have liked.
Mother never called herself a cunning woman, or a wise woman, or anything of that nature. She was a daughter of the earth,
a nurse who tended to the ill and the wounded. To others, she was simply a friend.
Matthew Hopkins leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped and resting on the desk’s surface before him. “You are surprised that I know as much about you. Sybil Brantham. I assure you, I know much more.”
Sybil kept her expression impassive and he plunged on, “I know your mother had knowledge of herbs and many sought her skills.
I know they seek you now for such purpose, though you offer aid without charge. You need no additional coin. Henry Brantham
was flush with the wealth of his wool merchant’s legacy when he took an interest in your mother’s learning. And then she became
ill.”
He offered a small pout, more condescending than earnest. “She died, leaving you and your sister to fend for yourselves. And
you did for some time, before Henry took pity on you and married you, sweeping you from that pathetic little cottage into
a great manor. How high you rose.” His lips quirked at his crude statement.
Sybil did not deign to reply.
“You both had what you wanted,” Hopkins continued. “He had a young new wife that was far comelier and more fertile than the
nag who failed at her role to deliver him a child. And you and your sister—well, you had anything you could ever want.” He
spread his hands out. “Is that the whole of it?”
He was certainly missing some chapters in her life’s story.
Which was for the best.
And most men only saw what they wished to see.
If he wanted to see her as a vapid girl who used her youth and looks to secure a rich husband, so be it. She would allow him
to underestimate her.
“Yet that new life wasn’t enough for you.” Hopkins tilted his head and a lock of curled hair rolled over his shoulder. “I
understand, Mrs. Brantham. I am a man who appreciates finery myself. A man who always wants more.”
He offered a self-indulgent smile and glanced down at his stately attire, clearly new by his jacket’s crisp appearance.
“Except you killed your husband for your wealth.” He tsked.
“I did not, but you clearly killed innocent women for yours.” She spoke with a calmness belied only by her frantic pulse.
Color flooded his cheeks. “Mind yourself, Mrs. Brantham.” The playfulness of his tone held an edge.
She would not be so easily put off. “The clothing upon your person was paid for with the blood of the four women you murdered
in Manningtree.”
“They spoke of witchcraft.” Hopkins exploded to his feet, his fist slamming upon the wood in a sharp, hollow thud. “As God
as my witness, I heard them with my own ears. I purged the earth of their condemned souls.”
His hat tumbled from his head and those careful curls were a wild riot about his shoulders. He paused, drew in a deep breath
and tugged his doublet over his paunch where the fabric had bunched. With great care, he retrieved his hat and sank into his
seat, once more composed, cheeks still florid with his fury.
In that moment, she had seen the man he was, beyond the genteel clothes and nature, beyond his affected manner.
He was a man plagued by guilt.
And paid handsomely for his unforgivable transgressions.
“Tell me of how your lover bade you kill your husband.” Gone was his genial tone. In its place was the flatness of unfeeling
apathy.
She understood then. In his mind, he had shown her kindness, he had offered a part of himself which she had exploited. For
that one brief moment, when he’d lost himself to his rage as she’d remained stoic and composed, she had possessed the power.
He would not make such a mistake again. She was equally as certain that he would no longer see her as similar to himself. No, he would regard her as he did the others—inhuman. Incapable of feeling.
Unworthy of mercy.
“Did your lover also have you turn the milk at the Bryon’s farm?” he asked when she did not answer. “Was it also your lover
who made the Andersons’ horse go lame?”
“No,” Sybil replied firmly.
Hopkins raised his brows so they disappeared beneath the over-wide brim of his ridiculous hat. “No, it was not your lover?
You must speak plainly.”
“What lover?” Sybil demanded.
“Why, the Devil, of course. You have taken him as your lover, have you not?”
“Of course I have not,” Sybil cried, incredulous.
Was this what the other prisoners endured?
Hopkins turned his attention to the parchment in front of him and began to write, the scratch of his quill overly loud in
the quiet room.
“So, you have not lain with the Devil?” He asked the preposterous question with such sincerity, she might have burst into
laughter under other circumstances.
“I have not,” Sybil repeated sternly.
“Have you met Mother Cornell?”
She shook her head, brow pinching in confusion. “No.”
“Has the Devil come to you in the form of a small boy?”
“No,” Sybil said again, tamping down her exasperation.
Clearly, Hopkins wanted to inspire a passionate reply, to pique her ire that she might have a slip of the tongue he could
twist into condemnation.
Every word she spoke was measured, every action carefully weighed. “I have neither met nor known the Devil in his form or
any form.”
“Did you attend the sabbath with the Devil?”
“I could not when I have never met him.” She tried to keep the cynicism from her tone.
“Then you must have familiars.” Matthew Hopkins looked up from his writing, mustache glistening in the candlelight.
“Familiars?”
“Animals that are connected to you.”
This, she understood.
Daughters of the earth had animals they befriended with their hearts and souls. After all, those with gifts often lived in
solitude. Like Edith.
The affinity between a woman of the earth and the animals they connected to was precious, akin to the bond between a mother
and child.
Animals offered comfort and companionship, two lost pieces that fit together in the great world. Like Sybil’s own steadfast
Brixton, and Jacinda’s kestrel, who never let a human lay hand upon him until Jacinda. Like Kat’s squirrel that never ceased
moving, and Edith’s plain woodlark, whose song was lovelier than all the others.
The attachment between them was beautiful, forged by similar features possessed by woman and animal alike, a connection broken
only by death.
But then Hopkins continued. “These familiars suckle blood from teats upon your person, and act as conduits to the Devil himself.”
Sybil could not stop the look of horror that crossed her face. These witch hunters had taken even the wondrous nature of the
friendship between woman and animal and wrenched it into the prurient and vulgar.
“Absolutely not,” she replied, unable to keep the vehement denial from her tone.
“Do you testify you have spoken the truth?” Hopkins asked, quill poised over the parchment.
A drop of black ink slid from the tip and blotted the page like a spatter of blood.
“I do,” Sybil replied. “I will sign my own name stating as much.”
“That is not necessary.” Hopkins scribbled with flourish. “Think on your words,” he cautioned. “When you return next, I hope
you shall speak the truth.”
“I have spoken the truth.”
Ignoring her words, the guards grabbed her shoulders and roughly hauled her to her feet. The chains at her wrists rattled,
the heavy manacles cutting into her skin.
“And remember,” Hopkins said as she was led toward the exit, “your sister has your mother’s cunning blood as well.”
He looked up, watching as she was dragged away, the threat apparent in the gleam in his eyes. A man like him would not be
happy with only Sybil.
Jacinda was in danger, too.