Speaks the Nightbird

'So much for the healing properties of the sun,' Woodward said.

Smoke was still drifting from the charred ruins of what had yesterday been a farmhouse. Along Truth Street the acrid odor of burning remained strong. Presently Goode bade the horses slow and reined them in before the gaol. The giant red-haired and red-bearded Mr. Green was waiting outside for them, along with Edward Winston.

'Your wishes have been met,' Winston said, eager to please. 'I've even donated my own desk and Bible to the cause.'

Green took them all inside. Matthew was relieved to see that Noles had been released and had fled his coop. The roof hatch was open, allowing in the hazy gray light, and Green had lit several lanterns and hung them from wallhooks. Back in the last cell, the woman was huddled in the straw, her sackcloth clothing bundled about her.

'This is where you'll be,' Green rumbled, opening the door of the cage opposite the one in which Noles had been confined. Clean straw had been laid down. In a corner had been placed two buckets, one empty and the other brimmed with fresh water. At the center of the cell stood a desk and chair, a leatherbound Bible (suitable for swearing truth upon) atop the desk, and the chair holding a comfortable-looking blue cushion. Before the desk was a stool for the witness. To the right of the magistrate's position was a second, smaller combination desk and chair—removed from the schoolhouse, Matthew presumed—and atop it another blotter and a rectangular wooden box. Matthew's first act upon entering the cell was to lift the box's lid; he found within it a thick sheaf of rather yellowed paper, a well of black ink, three quills, a small brush, and a square of coarse brown cloth with which to clean clots of ink from the writing instruments.

'Is everything satisfactory?' Winston asked, waiting at the cell's threshold as Matthew inspected his tools and the magistrate tested the firmness of the cushion with the palm of his hand.

'I believe it is,' Woodward decided. 'One request, though: I'd like a pot of tea.'

'Yes sir, I'll see to it.'

'A large pot, please. With three cups.'

'Certainly. Mr. Paine has gone to fetch Jeremiah Buckner, and should be returning presently.'

'Very good.' Woodward was loath to sit down yet, as he didn't fancy these surroundings. In his career there'd never been an equal to this set of circumstances. He heard the rustling of straw, and both he and Matthew saw Rachel Howarth rise up from her repose. She stood at the middle of her cage, her head and face hooded by her garment.

'Not to be alarmed, madam,' Winston told her. 'Your court is about to convene.' She was silent, but Matthew sensed she was well aware of what was in preparation.

'There'll be no disruptions from you, hear?' Green warned. 'Mr. Bidwell's given me the authority to bind and gag you if I must!'

She made a sound that might have been a bitter laugh. She said, 'Aren't you feared to touch me? I might conjure you into a frog and stomp you flat!'

'Did you hear?' Green's eyes had widened; he looked from Woodward to Winston and back again. 'She's threatenin' me!'

'Steady,' Woodward said. 'She's talking, nothing more.' He raised his voice to address the woman. 'Madam, I would suggest to you that such claims of ability are not helpful to your position.'

'My position? What position?' Now she reached up, pulled back her hood, and her fiercely beautiful face was fully exposed, her black hair dirty and wild, her amber eyes aflame. 'My position is already hopeless! What lesser depth can there be?'

'Mind that tongue!' Green shouted, but it seemed to Matthew that he was trying to make up in volume for what he might be lacking elsewhere.

'No, it's all right.' The magistrate walked to the bars and peered through them into the woman's face. 'You may speak your mind in my court. Within reason of course.'

'There is no reason here! And this is not a court!'

'It is a court, because I have decreed it so. And as for the matter of reason, I am here to find it. I am going to be questioning witnesses who have some knowledge of your activities, and it will be for your benefit if you don't attempt to make a mockery of the proceedings.'

'A mockery,' she repeated, and she laughed again. Some of her fire, however, had been extinguished by the magistrate's calmness of tone. 'Why don't you go ahead and pronounce me guilty? Put me to the rope or the stake, or whatever. I can't receive a fair trial in this town.'

'On the contrary. I am sworn before the law to make certain you do receive a fair trial. We are holding court here because my clerk has been sentenced to three days—'

'Oh?' Her gaze fixed on Matthew. 'Have they pronounced you a warlock?'

'Three days,' Woodward repeated, shifting his position so that he stood between the woman and his clerk, 'for a crime that does not concern you. If I were not interested in the fairness of your trial, I should have you taken to some other location and kept confined. But I wish for you to be present and hear the accusations, under the tenets of English law. That does not mean, however'—and here he lifted a finger for emphasis—'that you will be suffered to speak during the questioning.' He had to pause for a moment, to clear his ravaged throat of what felt like a slow, thick stream of phlegm. He was going to need the acidity of the tea to get through this day. 'Your time to speak will come, and you shall have all the opportunity you need to refute, explain, or otherwise defend yourself. If you choose the path of disruption, you shall be bound and gagged. If, when the opportunity of your speaking arrives, you choose silence as the cornerstone of your defense, that is your privilege. Now: do we have an understanding?'

She stared at him, saying nothing. Then, 'Are you really a magistrate?'

'Yes, I really am.'

'From where?' Her eyes narrowed, like those of a suspicious cat.

'Charles Town. But I originally served the bench in London for many years.'

'You have experience in witch trials?'

'No, I do not. I do, however, have much experience in murder trials.' He offered a faint smile. 'All the jurists I know who have experience in witchcraft trials are either writing books or selling lectures.'

'Is that what you hope to do?'

'Madam, I hope to find the truth,' Woodward said. 'That is my profit.'

'And where's Bidwell, then? Isn't he attending?'

'No. I've instructed him to keep his distance.' She cocked her head to one side. Her eyes were still slightly narrowed, but Woodward could tell that this last bit of information had cooled her coals.

'If you please?' Winston said, desiring the magistrate's attention. 'I'll go fetch your tea now. As I said, Nicholas should be here shortly with Mr. Buckner. Three cups, did you say?'

'Three. For me, my clerk, and the witness. Wait. Make that four. A cup for Madam Howarth as well.'

'This is a gaol!' Green protested. 'It ain't no social club!'

'Today it's a court,' Woodward said. 'My court, and I'll preside over it as I please. At the end of the day, it will be a gaol again. Four cups, Mr. Winston.'

Winston left without another word, but Green shook his red-maned head and grumbled his disapproval. The magistrate paid him no further heed, and sat down in the desk's chair. Likewise, Matthew situated himself at his clerk's station. He took a sheet of paper from the box, set it before him, and then shook the inkwell to mix the pigments and opened it. He chose a quill, dipped the nib, and made some circles so as to get the feel of the instrument; all quills might look similar, he'd learned, but some were far more suited for the task of writing than others. This one, he found directly, was a wretched tool. Its nib was much too broad, and unevenly split so that the ink came out in spots and dollops rather than a smooth flow. He snapped it in two, dropped it to the floor, and chose a second quill. This one was better; it was a neater point and the ink flowed sufficiently well, but its shape was so crooked that the hand would be paralyzed before an hour's work was finished.

'Horrible,' Matthew said, but he decided not to break the second one before he tested the third. His regular quills—the ones carried in a leather holder that had been lost back at Shawcombe's tavern—were precision instruments that, not unlike fine horses, required only the lightest of touches to perform their task. He longed for them now, as he tried the third quill and found it to be the sorriest of the batch, with a crack down its center that caused ink to bleed into the feathers. He broke it at once, and therefore was wed to the handkiller.