‘No!’ cried out Makepeace, in tones as plaintive and piercing as she could make them. ‘Don’t go! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you where I hid the—’
‘Hush!’ Symond swiftly closed the door and locked it. ‘Keep your voice down!’ And then, as Makepeace had hoped, he crossed the room so that she could murmur to him.
At the last moment, he saw her body tense, but before he could react she was leaping to her feet. Bear had Symond’s scent. Symond smelt of thrown stones, dragged chains, blood and cruelty.
Makepeace let the roar erupt from her, knowing that it would echo through the woods. She lashed out at Symond’s face, knocking him backwards. He struck his head against the wall, and slid groggily down it.
Makepeace grabbed Symond by his collar. For a moment she felt that she might break his neck. Then she remembered herself, and her plan.
Now, Morgan!
There was a brief, shuddersome sensation as though a piece of clammy gauze had been pulled out of her ear. A smoky, sinuous shape was weaving its way down her arm towards Symond’s face.
Outside the room she could hear muffled shouts and loud attempts to kick the door in. Morgan’s wraith reached Symond’s mouth and was drawn in by his breath, half a second before the door yielded with a splintering crash.
The new arrivals managed to wrestle Symond away from Makepeace, and drag him from the room. They were too wise to try to subdue her straight away, though. Only when there were four of them did they venture back into the cell, throw a blanket over her head and bind her with ropes.
Later, when they thought she seemed calmer, they brought her back to see their leader. They kept her bound, for they had a hearty, superstitious respect for the strength of the Evil One.
‘You are leaving me few options,’ the man in black said.
‘You could let me go,’ said Makepeace, with sudden boldness. ‘All I ever wanted was to be left alone. Let me go and I swear I will never harm anybody.’
‘You know that I cannot do that,’ he answered. ‘Such powers as yours can come only from an evil source, and can only lead to evil. We must save you, and save others from you.
‘There are burns on your hands,’ he continued, leaning forward and lacing his fingers, ‘from cooking pots and kettles. Such pain when an inch of our flesh burns, even for a second! But imagine that your hand was held against that red-hot kettle for ten seconds, not one. Now imagine the agony of a full minute, unable to pull away, or do anything but watch your skin blacken.
‘Now . . . imagine a searing anguish through every inch of you, that went on for a week, a year, a lifetime, a million lifetimes. Imagine the despair of knowing that this, and a thousand other torments, would never, ever end. Imagine the grief of knowing that you might have known true happiness, but that you traded it for an eternity of horrors.
‘That . . . is Hell.’
Makepeace felt goosebumps prickle over her arms. There was something about this man that reminded her of the minister in Poplar. His faith was fierce like a blade, but one more likely to cut others than himself.
‘It would perhaps be a kindness,’ he went on, ‘if I held your hand in the candle-flame, to give you taste of the suffering that might be yours if you do not forswear evil. Better to lose a hand than your soul.’
‘The Bible says we should know a tree by the fruit it bears,’ Makepeace replied, a little sharply. ‘If you burn my hand off, what should I think of you?’
‘Suffering is sometimes the greatest blessing,’ the witch-finder answered calmly. ‘The child learns from the cane as well as the book. The sorrows of our lives teach and cleanse us.’
‘God send you many blessings,’ muttered Makepeace, but too quietly for him to hear.
‘You can perhaps be saved, you see,’ he went on. ‘Would you not wish to be clean and free again? Would your soul not sing?’
Makepeace stayed quiet for a long time, pretending to consider his words, then broke down into choking sobs that she hoped were convincing.
‘It would,’ she whimpered. ‘Oh, if such a thing were possible! There is a demon in me — ’tis all true — but I never asked for it! I think the Fellmottes sent it to plague me!’
‘And why should they do that?’
‘Because I . . .’ Makepeace dropped her gaze again and let herself stammer. ‘I . . . stole from them when I ran away. There was a piece of parchment they treated as more precious than gold, so I took it with me to see if I could sell it. But when I looked at it, I was frightened — it was a fancy-lettered thing, talking of the family’s dealings with spirits. And there was the King’s signature on it too, and a wax seal as big as a conker.’
‘Are you sure?’ All the blood drained out of the interrogator’s face. His eyes had the exultant but panicky expression of one who has just hooked a whale while fishing for trout, and now needs to haul it to shore. ‘The King’s signature? Where is it now?’
‘I sent it to a friend and asked her to hold it for safekeeping,’ Makepeace lied blithely.
‘Where?’
‘Oxfordshire — not far from Brill.’
His face fell. As Makepeace knew all too well, Brill was in the perilous zone between the two armies. But she could see him calculating the risk, and judging the worth of the gamble. A document linking the King to witches!
‘Where is her house?’ he asked. ‘How should we find it?’
‘Oh, she will not give it to anybody but me,’ Makepeace said promptly. ‘I told her anyone else who came after it was probably a Fellmotte spy, no matter what they looked like.’
‘Then you must come with us,’ he said grimly. ‘This can be the start of your penance, and proof of your repentance. No time must be lost, for the Fellmottes will be seeking this paper too, and who knows how their imps may help them trace it! We shall set off today — as soon as Lord Fellmotte is well enough to ride.’
A few hours later, in warmer clothes, Makepeace was led out into daylight that seemed uncommonly bright. What strange beasts people are, she thought. We adjust to everything so quickly. Perhaps we would even get used to Hell.
To her dismay, she found that she was to share a horse with Symond. He did not look happy about this either. There was a storm-coloured bruise on his jaw, but it looked as though it were fading, not darkening. Perhaps adding ghosts to his diet allowed him to heal more quickly.
Makepeace was helped up to sit sideways in front of him, and her wrists and ankles retied. Evidently they were taking no chances. Makepeace’s interrogator and his two colleagues each had their own horses.
How far can we rely upon Morgan? asked the doctor.
I asked her to tell the Fellmottes that I was being taken to Brill, Makepeace answered him silently. I fancy she’ll do that whether she decides to betray us or not. With luck, by now the cunning spymistress had used Symond to write a coded letter while he slept, and placed it somewhere Helen would find it.
Makepeace had been dealt a poor hand, and her only hope was to dash the cards from the other players’ grasps. Chaos sounded better than hopelessness.
‘Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work.’ Symond’s muttered words cut uncomfortably into Makepeace’s thoughts. ‘Sooner or later you’ll need me as a friend. If you get that charter to me somehow, I’ll pardon you. But if it ends up in anyone else’s hands, I swear I’ll see you hanged for a witch on a hawthorn tree. And then I’ll come for your ghost. I’ll flay your mind away, one sliver at a time, over a whole week, until there’s only a whimper of you left. Then I’ll keep that forever to frighten other ghosts, like a hunting trophy on my wall.’