burns on Monday, I have five days to prove her innocent, and by God that's what I intend to do!'
Woodward started to answer with some vinegar, but his strength failed him. 'Do what you must, ' he said. 'I can't... protect you from your nightbird, can I?'
'The only thing I fear is that Rachel is burned before I can prove who murdered her husband and Reverend Grove. If that happens, I don't know how I can live with myself.'
'Oh, my Christ.' It had been spoken as nearly a moan. Woodward closed his eyes, feeling faint. 'She has you so deeply... and you don't even realize it.'
'She has my trust, if that's what you infer.'
'She has your soul.' His eyes opened; in an instant they had become sunken and bloodshot. 'I long for the moment we shall leave this place. Return to Charles Town... civilization and sanity. When I am cured and in good health again, we'll put all this behind us. And then... when you can see clearly... you'll understand what danger tempted you.'
Matthew had to get out, because the magistrate had been reduced to babbling. He couldn't bear to see the man—so proud, so regal, and so correct—on the verge of becoming a fever-dulled imbecile. He said, 'I'm going, ' but he still hesitated before he left the bedchamber. His tone had softened; there was no point now in harshness. 'Can I get anything for you?'
Woodward drew in a suffering breath and released it. 'I want ... 'he began, but his agonized throat felt in jeopardy of closing and he had to start again. 'I want... things to be as they were... between us. Before we came to this wretched place. I want us to return to Charles Town... and go on, as if none of this ever happened.' He looked hopefully at Matthew. 'All right?'
Matthew stood at the window, staring out at the sunlit town. The sky was turning bright blue, though the way he felt it might have been a dismal downpour out there. He knew what the magistrate wanted him to say. He knew it would ease him, but it would be a lie. He said quietly, 'I wish it might be so, sir. But you and I both know it will not be. I may be your clerk... I may be under your watchcare, and live in your house... but I am a man, sir. If I fail to fight for the truth as I see it, then what kind of man am I? Surely not the kind you have taught me to be. So... you ask for something I am unable to give you, Isaac.'
There was a long, torturous silence. Then the magistrate spoke in his dry husk of a voice: 'Leave me.'
Matthew walked out, taking the hateful decree downstairs to where Bidwell was waiting.
twenty-six
THE MAGISTRATE HAS MADE HIS DECREE, ' Matthew said. Rachel, who was sitting on her bench with the coarse robe around her and the cowl shielding her face, hadn't moved when Matthew and Bidwell entered the gaol. Now she simply gave a brief nod, signifying her acknowledgment of the document that was about to be read.
'Go on, let's hear it!' Bidwell had been in such a hurry that he'd demanded they walk instead of waiting for the horses and carriage to be readied, and now he was truly champing at his bit.
Matthew stood beneath the roof hatch, which was open. He unrolled the document and began to read the preface in a calm, emotionless voice. Behind him, Bidwell paced back and forth. The master of Fount Royal abruptly stopped when Matthew reached the portion that began: 'On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove...' Matthew could hear the man's wolfish breathing at his back. 'I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty.'
There was a smack as Bidwell struck his palm with his fist in a gesture of triumph. Matthew flinched, but kept his attention focused on Rachel. She showed no reaction whatsoever. 'With a Stipulation, ' Matthew continued. 'That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or Associations.'
'Yes, but it's all the same, isn't it?' Bidwell crowed. 'She might as well have done it with her own hands!'
Matthew kept going by sheer force of will. 'On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty, With a Stipulation.' At the word guilty, this time Rachel had given a soft cry and lowered her head. 'That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or Associations.'
'Excellent, excellent!' Bidwell gleefully clapped his hands together.
Matthew looked fiercely into the man's grinning face. 'Would you please restrain yourself? This is not a five- pence play requiring comments from the idiots' gallery!'
Bidwell's grin only broadened. 'Oh, say what you like! Just keep reading that blessed decree!'
Matthew's task—performed so many times at the magistrate's behest over criminals common and extraordinary—had become a test of endurance. He had to go on.
'On the Charge of Witchcraft, ' he read to Rachel, 'I Find the Aforesaid Defendant...' and here his throat almost clenched shut to prevent him from speaking, but the horrible word had to be uttered, '... Guilty.'
'Ah, sweet deliverance!' Bidwell all but shouted.
Rachel made no sound, but she put a trembling hand to her cowl-shrouded face as if the word—which she had known would be delivered—had been a physical blow.
'By Virtue of the Power Ascribed to Me As Colonial Magistrate, ' Matthew read, 'I Hereby Sentence the Aforesaid Defendant Rachel Howarth to Burning at the Stake As Warranted by the King's Law. The Sentence to be Carried Out on Monday, the Twenty-Second of May, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine.' When the distasteful chore was finished, he dropped the document down by his side.
'Your hours are numbered!' Bidwell said, standing behind Matthew. 'Your master may have torched the schoolhouse last night, but we'll build it back!'
'I think you should leave, ' Matthew told him, though he was too drained to raise his voice.
'You may go to your reward knowing that all your work to destroy my town was for nothing!' Bidwell raved on. 'Once you're dead, Fount Royal shall rise to fame and glory!'
Rachel gave no response to these cutting comments, if indeed she felt them through her sphere of misery.
Still Bidwell wasn't done. 'This is truly the day that God made!' He couldn't help it; he had to reach out and clap Matthew on the back. 'A fine job you and the magistrate have done! And an excellent decision! Now... I must go start the preparations! There's a stake to be cut, and by Christ's blood it'll be the best stake any damned witch was ever burned on!' He glared at Rachel through the bars. 'Your master may send every demon in his barn to cause us woe between now and Monday morn, but we'll weather it! You may rely on that, witch! So tell your black-cocked dog that Robert Bidwell never failed at anything in his life and Fount Royal will be no exception! Do you hear me?' He was no longer speaking directly to Rachel now but was looking around the gaol, his voice thunderous and haughty as if he were sending a warning to the very ears of the Devil. 'We shall live and thrive here, no matter what treacheries you send against us!'
His chest-beating complete, Bidwell stalked to the door but stopped when he realized Matthew had not followed. 'Come along! I want you to read that decree in the streets!'
'I take my commands from the magistrate, sir. If he requires me to read it for the public, I shall, but not until he so orders it.'
'I've neither the time nor inclination to wrangle with you!' Bidwell's mouth had taken on an ugly sneer. 'Ohhhh... yes, I see why you wish to dawdle! You intend to console her! If Woodward could see this lovely scene, it would send him two steps nearer his death!'
Matthew's initial impulse was to advance upon Bidwell and strike his face so hard that what served as the man's brains might dribble from his ears, but the ensuing duel that would likely follow would provide no good purpose save work for the gravedigger and a probable misspelling of his own name on the marker. Therefore he reined in his inclination and simply glowered daggers at the man.
Bidwell laughed, which acted as a bellows to further heat Matthew's banked fires. 'A tender, touching moment between the witch and her latest conquest! I swear, you'd be better off lying in the lap of Mrs. Nettles! But do as you please!' He aimed his next jibe at Rachel. 'Demons, old men, or babes in the woods: it doesn't matter what flavor your suckets! Well, take your rapture, as you shall be paying dearly for it come Monday!' He turned and made his leave like the strutting bird whose gaudy blue colored his suit.
In the aftermath of Bidwell's departure, Matthew realized that words were not potent enough instruments with which to communicate his sorrow. He rolled up the document, as it would have to be placed on official file in
