Witch Hunt. #2
Briefly, I was lost in a memory. No longer was I at the seedy brothel but on the castle grounds, hiding from prying eyes beside the lake.
The earthy scent of spring grass filled my nostrils and prickled against my forearm as I lay above Avice.
She rested her hands on my back, delicately pressing her tongue against mine.
Her gentle voice played in my mind: For a moment, I forgot you weren’t a man, and I recalled how her words stung.
Then, abruptly, Margaret grabbed my crotch, snapping me back to the dingy chamber. I struggled to wrangle her hand away from my groin, but it was too late. Her grip tightened, as if to confirm I wasn’t an unfortunately endowed man.
“Woman,” she muttered under her breath.
As her eyes widened, I feared she might cry out for Mr. Bednot, exposing that I wasn’t a man.
I’d be sent back to the Wetlands, where the Lord would relentlessly interrogate me about Avice’s death.
I knew he wouldn’t rest until I was branded a witch and hanged in the village square for all of Green Vale to see.
I also feared for my family—the very people I’d tried to protect by keeping my secret from them—and dreaded that they might be accused of harboring magic.
I even imagined little Henry awaiting his turn on the gallows, and in that moment, I lost all sense of morality, resolving to use force to uncover the truth.
I grappled with Margaret’s hand, using my position on top to hold her down.
She tried to buck me off, but I pressed my forearm against her neck, slowly suffocating her as I struggled to remove her dainty glove.
As the color drained from her face, she relented, allowing me to yank the fabric away.
Just as I suspected, her palms were a deep shade of purple.
I released my choke hold, and she gasped for air.
“Wicce.” Witch, I said, twisting her discolored hand toward her face.
Margaret panted as her cheeks flooded pink. “Alihtan me.” Dismount me, she demanded in a trembling voice.
I rolled off, allowing her to sit upright beside me on the bedstead. Her hair fell in front of her panicked face as she tried to catch her breath.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” she snapped, thumping a fist into my chest.
The anger in her tone confirmed what I already knew: Deceit wasn’t an honorable way to uncover the truth.
“Sorry,” I murmured, giving Margaret a sheepish smile. I only hoped my desperation hadn’t ruined my chances of enlisting her aid. “I needed to be sure you were a witch before I asked for your help.”
Margaret scrunched her small mouth. “Why would you need my help?” she asked, snatching back her glove.
“My commander has tasked me with creating a secret army of wizards to use magic against Regina’s forces. I want to recruit you—and perhaps the other women, too, if they are witches,” I explained.
Margaret squinted, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Your commander…” Her words dwindled into a breath. “You mean, Prince Fitzroy?” she asked, her gaze impatiently scanning mine for the answer.
I nodded.
Her hand shot to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
“Are you telling me that he’s…” She hesitated, glancing at the door as if checking it was still sealed shut.
Leaning in close, she whispered, “A wizard?”
I’d once believed that sharing secrets tore people apart, but now I knew that was a lie. My close bonds with both Fitzroy and Bash had begun when I’d told the truth Mother made me swear to never utter.
I gave Margaret another nod, confirming Fitzroy’s wizardry, before wondering if the other women concealed magic in their veins.
“Are the other ladies witches?” I asked quietly.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed into slits—understandably wary.
“I cannot speak on behalf of Jane or Emma,” she said as she rose to her feet. “Come, let’s go talk to them.”
I quickly caught her arm to hold her in place. “No one knows I’m a woman,” I murmured.
“I understand, love,” she replied with a sympathetic smile. “Women do what needs must to survive.”
As I took one final glance around her dreary bedchamber, I knew she understood.
“Emma,” Margaret called out as I followed her into the dark hallway lined with three doors. “Emma?”
The middle one opened a crack.
Emma peered out, hiding her body behind the splintering wood. “What is it?” she asked while wiping spittle off her chin. “I’m busy.”
“Once you’re done, your services will be required in Jane’s chamber,” Margaret said.
Emma tutted peevishly, while she reached around the door, revealing she was in the nude. Her perky breasts jiggled as she placed a feather-topped hat on the handle.
“When I’m working, don’t come knocking,” Emma snapped. “He was just about to come—now I’ve got to rile him up again,” she continued, her frustration evident, before sharply slamming the door shut.
As I tried to recall where I’d seen that fluttering feather before, my ears pricked to the sound of Bash’s voice.
Through the parchment-thin walls, I heard every word.
“It doesn’t look impressive, but it goes deep,” he murmured.
A wave of nausea hit me as I worried that he’d succumbed to his desires.
“Jane,” Margaret called, raising her fist to knock on the wood.
But impatience got the better of me. I nudged her aside and pushed the door open.
Stepping into the candlelit bedchamber, relief washed over me at the sight of a fully clothed Bash perched on the bedstead. His linen sleeve was rolled up as he showed the prettiest prostitute a thick scar on his burly bicep.
“That’s why I’ll never gamble with pirates again.” Bash finished his story before looking in my direction.
“Sorry, love,” Margaret said to Jane, before shooting me a glare. “Can we interrupt, or should we come back?”
“Come back,” Bash replied. “I’ve a few more war wounds to show—unless, of course, you’d all like to see them?”
Jane laughed beneath her breath, though I couldn’t quite understand what she found so amusing in his words.
Before Jane could flirt once more, I caught Bash’s eye. “We’ve more helping hands,” I said, grinning—because I was right.
The whores were witches.
Margaret explained to Jane that their magical assistance was needed to win the war, while I took a seat beside Bash.
He squeezed my leg, gaining my undivided attention.
“How did you manage to get that information out of her?” he asked.
“With a plan not unlike the one you suggested.”
Before I could elaborate, the door swung open.
Now fully clothed, Emma bounced into the chamber, her brown kirtle swishing as she shut the door behind her. She twirled toward us, then startled like a bunny caught out in a storm at the sight of Bash and me.
“Good eve,” she said.
Though her words were meant for the two of us, her gaze lingered on Margaret.
“God aefung.” Good evening, I offered in Yfelle, knowing the tongue would set her at ease.
Emma’s eyes filled with wonder. “Thee’ar wiccas?” You are wizards? she asked.
Bash and I nodded in unison.
“Entriken.” Interesting, Emma said as she lowered herself to the floorboards, hugging her knees to her chest.
Then, in a lilting cadence, she intoned:
“One from the sea and one from the land,
One will be a woman, the other a man.
A lost language and locket shall show them the way,
A tempest will blow on their visiting day.
Both will have magic marking their hands,
Take our advice and heed their demands.”
Bash politely clapped at Emma’s performance, though his furrowed brow hinted at his confusion.
“Was that a nursery rhyme?” I asked, joining in the applause.
Emma gave me a girlish giggle. “No—it was a prophecy I heard in my dreams last night.”
“She has the gift of sight,” Margaret explained. “She can foresee the future.”
Emma shook her head, her braids swaying like rope swings. “I cannot see anything, but I can hear what’s coming. Sometimes the prophecies are vague, like hushed whispers in a crowded chamber. Other times, the voices are deafeningly loud.”
Her eyes widened as she continued, “When the soldiers visit the Anchor, I can hear a hum of what their future holds. I know who’s destined to perish at sea or on the sands.”
“You don’t try to save them?” I asked, my thoughts drifting to slain Tom—my little prodigy.
“I’ve tried,” Emma admitted. “I’ve stood on the cliffs, casting incantations to protect men destined to die. But once the words are spoken, their fate seems set in stone,” she said, frustration tinting her voice.
“Why stay in Cambas if your prophecies cannot change anything?” Bash asked, and I thought that was a valid question—Cambas was a bleak place.
Emma dropped her eyes. “We all have our reasons. I’m a runaway, with nowhere else to go.”
Jane sighed. “Orphaned.”
“Widowed,” Margaret added. Her gaze grew distant. “Most townsfolk fled when the first wave of soldiers arrived. With so many men flooding in, the Anchor is now busier than ever. I desperately need the coinage.”
A moment of silence settled over the chamber while each woman stared pensively at her lap. The weight of their burdens hung heavy in the air, stirring deep sorrow within me for their plight.
Knowing my words would bring no comfort, I pressed on. “I’ve a favor to ask—from the prince himself.”
“Fitzroy?” Jane asked, a dazzle in her doe eyes at the mention of him.
I nodded, knowing that though his lips were tempting, if she heard the words that came out of them, that flicker would be doused.
“If only he was as kind as he’s handsome,” Emma mumbled, fiddling with her plaits as she spoke. “When he visited the Anchor, he asked if the fishy smell in Cambas came from the docks—or between my legs.”
Bash chuckled, and so did I. Fitzroy certainly had a way with words.
“He has an awful sense of humor,” I lied, knowing Fitzroy was being purposefully cruel. “But he has a great battle plan. He wants to create a secret army of wizards and witches. And I suspect you know some powerful incantations.”
Margaret folded her arms, scowling in suspicion. “What makes you say that?” she asked me.
“Was it not you three I saw casting spells on the cliffs?”
Margaret nodded slowly.