Chapter 38
THEN
Corbridge was bitterly cold. The snow was lying in the streets, piled up against the walls of the buildings, cartwheel tracks, hoof marks and footprints turning it into an icy, filthy slush.
Thankfully, the inches-deep covering in the side streets helped disguise the sound of Emory’s horse walking along but, just in case, he dismounted a few streets away from The Head Inn, walking in the slush to hide his tracks so his footsteps merged with a hundred others.
But Emory wasn’t going to one of the cosy houses in the town, or dropping down the hill to walk along the river; his intentions were far more dangerous. As well as the dagger, he had brought a pistol with him. He had yet to decide which weapon he would despatch Nicholson with.
Hatred had propelled him, there through the darkness and the blizzards, and he didn’t care that the cold and the damp were seeping through his clothes, chilling him to the bone.
He was damn well sober now as well, more’s the pity.
But his mind was cracking and breaking, the hatred building until it was like a living thing, urging him forwards, her voice in his head constantly.
He walked to the back of the inn and slipped inside, pressing himself against the walls in the dank corridors to make his way into the main part of the building.
If he crept in this way, he could sit in a corner, and nobody would take any notice of him or see him coming through the front door.
If he sat with his coat collar up, his kerchief covering most of his face and his hat pulled down, and his dark hair hanging loose around his face rather than tied back, he was as anonymous as he could be.
And he could watch and wait.
He didn’t have to wait long. A tall, gaunt, arrogant man came in and banged his stick on the floor to get the attention of the woman pouring flagons of ale – Tess, the innkeeper’s wife.
‘I demand service!’ the man bellowed. ‘I have an important journey to make tomorrow, and I must awake early and refreshed.’
The woman glared at him. ‘You can wait your turn, sir, like everyone else.’
The man drew himself up to his full, intimidating height and peered down at the woman.
‘Insolent,’ he hissed. ‘Do you know how important my task is?’ He lifted his stick and poked it in the woman’s chest. ‘One test, madam, and you’ll not be seeing the light of day for a very long time.
’ His gaze raked the woman from head to toe.
‘There’s a place in Hexham Gaol for you.
’ He pushed the stick into her chest further, but she simply took hold of it and moved it away as three other men came towards the man and stood behind Tess.
The man wavered a little, and removed the stick, banging it off the floor.
‘I do not hold with bullies,’ said Tess coldly. ‘They are usually cowards. If you would like to take a seat, we will attend to you in due course.’
The man stood, his mouth working as if he wanted to say more, but then he turned and stomped away to a booth in the corner where he arranged his cloak around him and tapped his fingernails loudly and impatiently on the wooden tabletop.
Hexham Gaol? Emory stared at the man, knowing through gossip that one of the witches Kincaid had apparently called to account had been a Hexham woman – Jane Martin, wife of a miller, had been held in the old dungeon there before being transported to Newcastle for trial.
The woman had not been hanged – but had vanished without trace after the trial.
Emory fixed his gaze on the man. That had to be him. Emory’s hands were splayed on the table, and he dug his nails into the wood for fear that he would launch himself at Nicholson immediately.
Emory’s heart continued to bounce around his chest, and he forced himself to wait and take stock of the situation. He wanted to enjoy it, after all.
His fingers slipped into his waistband and he found the dagger again, and more of its energy and strength pulsed into his body.
Meg’s face came into his mind, laughing as her hair blew in the wind and she held it back with her hand on her forehead.
Then a vision of the pile of ash came to him, memories of how it had felt in his hands as he threw her into the river so she could be free…
Enjoy your ale, Nicholson, he thought. It will be the last you ever taste.
* * *
Emory sat for two hours staring at Nicholson. It was sorely tempting to go for him right there, to plunge the dagger into his evil heart and twist the blade while he watched him writhe and splutter in his final moments.
But that came with a risk – the risk that he, Emory, would be dragged off the man and held to account.
No. He had to wait.
And eventually, his patience paid off.
Nicholson stood up and stormed off towards the staircase that led to the accommodation, and Emory stood just after the man swept past him.
He followed him to the stairs and looked up. Nicholson had turned right and Emory heard him storming along the corridor. Four loud footsteps and then a door crashed open and slammed shut.
Emory climbed the stairs and turned right.
There were three rooms along there. ‘Dammit!’ Emory muttered.
Which room had he gone into? Emory took four long strides, guessing at the pace and distance the man had walked.
It pitched him up outside the second room.
Emory took hold of the handle, fully intending to throw the door open and go for Nicholson at that moment – but then he imagined something like a hand on his arm, half-warning him and half-halting him.
Of course. She would tell him to wait, to be less impulsive; to attack when the vile monster was least expecting it.
Emory looked around and had three choices.
He could hide in one of these rooms and hope that they weren’t occupied.
He could sit down at the far end of the corridor, pressing himself into the shadows of the dark panelled walls; or he could go back outside the inn and try to climb up the wall and access the man’s room that way.
He cursed again, wondering what to do, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as he looked around him. ‘Meg – what would you do?’ he murmured.
Images of Meg in the village of Newbrough poured into his mind’s eye: the way she pressed herself into the shadows; the way she flickered, barely there, as people swarmed around the streets, intent on their business. The darkness in her cottage that she would emerge from when he called on her…
Her smile, the light in her eyes, the joy she tried to conceal when she saw him.
Bile rose in his throat as he remembered again what Nicholson had done to her.
‘You were innocent, Meg,’ he whispered. He clutched the dagger, glad of its solidity and glad that her energy lingered within it. ‘He shall pay with his life.’
And it was Emory’s turn to melt into the shadows.
He waited until the sounds had ceased downstairs in the inn. He waited until he heard Tess calling goodnight to her two burly sons; he waited as Tess giggled, her husband saying something to her as they made their way to their quarters.
He waited until it was deadly silent in the inn.
It was just after midnight. She had died yesterday.
Emory walked to Nicholson’s door. His feet made no sound on the floorboards, the door opened at the barest touch; in his tormented mind, she was there, guiding him, showing him what to do.
Nicholson was sprawled in the bed, on his back, snoring.
The moonlight was trickling thought the mullioned windows, and Emory could see the so-called witch-pricking stick by Nicholson’s bed, on top of his cloak.
Emory glared at the stick, and forced himself to walk closer.
He did not want to think how many women this had harmed.
He did not want to think about how it determined whether a woman bled or not; whether she lived or died.
But he had to know – revenge for Meg was urging him forwards and he approached the thing.
Quietly, he reached down and picked it up. He could feel the evil emanating from it, so bad, it almost burned him. Then, as he examined the thing, he felt something like a hidden catch on the shaft. Emory pressed the button, and something glinted at the end of the stick.
A pin.
He pressed the button again.
The pin retracted.
‘Mother of God!’ he breathed, horrified.
The stick was nothing more than a torture device, built to try innocent victims and find them guilty of witchcraft at Nicholson’s whim.
If they didn’t bleed, they were deemed witches – but if there was no pin – the accused wouldn’t bleed.
It was all based on what Nicholson desired.
The rage consumed Emory – the unfairness, the evil, the whole idea of it. And what this man had done to Meg, because he wanted to kill her, he wanted to make her suffer…
That was enough to draw the veil of red across his vision again.
He bit back a yell, still having enough wits about him to know that he was in a precarious position and someone could come running into the room to see what the commotion was.
Instead, he took the kerchief from his neck and twisted it into a rope of sorts, staring at the man the entire time.
This had not been his original plan – his original plan was to simply stab the man and be done with it.
But that would be too quick for this monster. Emory wanted to see him suffer.
Emory took a deep breath and made his move.
And somehow, he was on the bed, kneeling on the man’s chest, pressing his gloved hand over Nicholson’s face.
Nicholson woke and writhed and struggled, trying to scream, fear in his bloodshot eyes, but Emory was too strong for him.
He grabbed the man’s long, straggly hair and yanked his head from the pillow, silencing him with a knee in his face, wrapping the kerchief around his neck.
He pulled and pulled on it, his gaze never leaving Nicholson’s face.
And when it was almost over and almost done, he took the dagger and raised it above Nicholson’s chest. ‘Do you bleed, Nicholson?’ he hissed. ‘Let us see.’ Then he plunged it into the man’s body.
Emory felt her presence as he did it. Felt her hand curl around his, lending him the strength to force it as deeply as possible. Blood began spilling out of Nicholson’s chest, and Emory pulled the dagger out, feeling detached as more blood spurted out of Nicholson like a fountain.
‘How do you like it, Nicholson?’ he whispered. ‘Does that satisfy you? At least I have proved you weren’t a witch. You are now free to go.’ He climbed off the bed and bowed elaborately to the man as he thrashed his last on the straw mattress, the bedding flooded scarlet.
Emory peered into his eyes, forcing himself to watch as the life drained out of Nicholson. ‘That was for Meg,’ he murmured. Then he turned and threw the window open, and slung his leg over the sill. Taking one last look at the scene behind him, he fled.