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Breakfast was a slab of fried ham, some stewed fruit and a piece of fried dough. He tore through it, more ravenous than he had been in some time, and ate hardly tasting the food. He ordered a second plateful and was rewarded with an extra slice of fried dough, Mrs. Beamon, the mistress of the inn, being delighted in what she took as a compliment to her cooking. He was just tucking in when the tavern door opened and a trio of rough-looking fellows made their way in, clamoring for ale.
“You know I serve naught but small beer before sunset," Mrs. Beamon admonished them. And though they grumbled, they happily partook.
Malcolm did not recognize them from the preceding evening, and they struck him as the types better avoided, judging by the hard glances thrown his way as they settled around a nearby table.
He tried to ignore their presence and sipped his own small beer, thinking on the day ahead. If he left before midday he would have time to make it home by dark, even sparing a small detour to the weaver’s cottage. He did not desire to disturb Daniel but he could not shake the despair born from those last moments in the cottage. Despite the warnings of this vicious grandfather who must now be returned, he needed to know that Daniel was safe. That the night had not left him shattered. And a lovely bolt of crimson material would be just the gift to return to his sister with, so trade gave him an excuse for a visit.
A commotion at the door interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see a young woman entering with a basket on her arm. One of the men who had been glaring at Malcolm stood, holding his cap to his chest.
“On my good lord, Alse Staughton,” he declared, waggling his eyebrows at the young woman, “you are a diamond of the first water.”
“And you, Elias Rawthorn,” she replied with a grimace of disgust, “are a tap-hackled old goat of a lecher. Be quiet with you.”
Elias’ cronies cried out in laughter and he fell into his chair, feigning a wound. As Elias leaned back, he turned his head in Malcolm’s direction. He sneered at Malcolm, his lip lifting to expose two blackened front teeth. Malcolm set his jaw and leaned forward on the table, returning the menacing expression.
"Oh, it will look just magnificent," cried Mrs. Beamon, distracting both men.
Alse smiled and nodded. In her arms, she held a folded length of material, pale green in color with a surface that shone like silk. Grandly, Alse let a fold on the material fall in front of her, resting against her body. Mrs. Beamon beamed in appreciation and ran the back of her hand against the soft surface.
“With her coloring and hair, I think it would be the perfect complement,” said Alse. “I cannot wait to begin making it.”
“Where did you get that, you wet goose?” Elias called out.
Alse grimaced at Mrs. Beamon and rolled her eyes.
“You know well where I got it,” she replied, without sparing a glance at Elias.
“You will regret frolicking with that heathen, that you will, Alse Staughton. You ought to keep a keen eye before you are sullied yourself.”
“I shall regret many a thing in my life, I am sure,” answered Alse. “Most especially entertaining the talk of empty-headed frogs such as I see before me. But I shall never regret trading with Old Man Weaver.”
“He’s a sinner!” cried Elias.
Alse put her hand on her hip and leveled him with a look.
“And what of you? Deep in your cups at every hour of the day? Cast not stones, Elias Rawthorn.”
“Don’t you chastise me, you wench. I am old enough to be your father. And you should be grateful that someone cares about your soul.”
“I should be grateful that we have such a craftsman among us. He’s the nearest point I have within a day’s ride, and he is willing to trade for far less than his handiwork is worth. And, come to that, you beef wit, he weaves the most beautiful fabric. He has the touch of an artist.”
“He has the touch of Lucifer, he has,” said Elias. “He should have been made to kiss the rope long ago.”
“Let it lay,” interceded Mrs. Beamon. "The old man does no harm. 'Tis but him and his loom in that old cottage, and he hardly sees another soul.”
“But what of his grandson?” Malcolm surprised even himself in speaking up. But the thought of discussing the very man who had consumed his thoughts all morning was too much.
Elias Rawthorn shot up from his chair and turned towards Malcolm. Mrs. Beamon exchanged a concerned glance with Alse.
“What do you know of his grandson?” asked Elias, his tone rough and threatening.
Malcolm regretted speaking, but he knew better than to be cowed by a type like Elias.
“Only that I met him last night.”
“Met him?” Elias erupted. He moved swiftly towards Malcolm’s table. He slammed his fists down on its top. “And where did you meet this creature?”
Malcolm calmly took a sip of his small beer before he answered.
“Here,” he replied, looking up at Elias, his tone cool. “Just outside this very tavern.”
Mrs. Beamon gasped.
Elias leaned farther forward, the stench of his breath hitting Malcolm in the face.
“And did you follow this man to his cottage?” he asked with a sneer.
Malcolm was suddenly alert. Had he been seen leaving with Daniel? Who could possibly have known where they went? But he did not let his doubt show. He stood, shoving the table forward roughly and knocking Elias back so that he almost lost his footing.
"You will watch your filthy mouth," Malcolm roared. He pushed aside his topcoat and laid his hand on his pistol.
Mrs. Beamon rushed forward.
“None of that!” she cried. She turned to Malcolm. “Elias has the tongue of a loose fish, to be sure, and I do apologize for his coarse and rude words, but your tale is disconcerting here.”
“Exchanging pleasantries with a stranger is a tale disconcerting?” Malcolm asked. “Madam, you confuse me.”
"Not a stranger, my lord," said Mrs. Beamon, still watching him with a wary eye. “With a witch.”
"A witch?" exclaimed Malcolm. "What are these nursery tales you spin?"
“This grandson you speak of,” spat Elias, “is the old man himself.”
Malcolm stared at Elias; he felt a coldness grip his insides.
“Ridiculous,” he managed to say.
"He is only ever seen during the harvest moon," offered Mrs. Beamon. "When it is said Old Man Weaver takes the form of a beautiful young man and roams the woods.”
“Looking for fresh sacrifices,” added Elias.
The discarded knife by the fire. And yet he had escaped—had been forced to go, in fact, by Daniel. It did not signify. Malcolm stood mutely, searching the faces that watched him.
“Well, I think you're all telling Banbury stories.” The bright voice of Alse punctured the silence. Malcolm was grateful for her interruption; confusion reigned in his mind. “I've never seen such fine work in all my life. And Old Man Weaver has never been anything but kind to me. All these foul words are nothing but nonsense.”
“'Tis not nonsense, little girl,” croaked a voice from the corner of the room.
All turned to the look at the old woman there. She was an ancient specimen, her skin as lined and dark as the walls of the tavern. Her lids hung low and Malcolm would have declared her aslumber if she had not spoken. Her gnarled hands clasped the head of a thick walking stick, polished until it shone.
“Old Man Weaver has signed the Devil’s book as sure as the water runs through the river, and I am sure of it,” she declared.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Alse.
“The old man appeared in our village when my own mam was but a young sapling and I a new babe at her side. Yet here he has remained the whole of my own life, and I’ve not seen the dawn of youth in anyone’s remembrance. He told us that he came from somewhere in East Anglia, where he had made his trade as a weaver like his father and his grandfather before him. But my mam and those who lived here then came upon the knowledge that many a weaver had been driven from that very area by the Witchfinder General himself and that they had been made to wander all over the countryside seeking out refuge and new homes.”
“You don’t mean the Witchfinder Matthew Hopkins?” asked Malcolm, incredulous.
“Aye, but I do, young man. Many of those cast out were caught along the way and killed for the black practitioners they were, but some did escape. And they moved on and on, traveling alone, finding villages to attach themselves to, draining them of life and faith.”
"That seems beyond fathoming, grandmother," said Malcolm. "The Witchfinder General has been dead for almost two hundred years."
The old woman gave a sharp shake of her head.
“Do a one of you remember a time when Old Man Weaver has not lived in this village?” she asked, looking around the tavern. “Nay, you do not. And do you a one of you remember him when he was not old and grey? Nay, you do not.”
“But how is that possible?” asked Malcolm.
“Because he is a witch,” she answered with a small downward jerk of her cane so that it struck the wooden floor like a judge’s gavel. “There are those who visit our hamlet. They come on the night of a harvest moon in the shadow of Mabon, stopping here, for respite or relief.” She waved her hand, fanning out her fingers. “And then they disappear like morning dew from the grass. Gone. Leaving behind all they carried—their coin, their clothing, their horses, their carriages, everything a man needs. Abandoned.”
She cast her rheumy eyes on Malcolm.
“And they are all last seen in the company of a young man with flame-colored hair.”
Malcolm froze, feeling as if his body was suddenly made of stone. He wanted to admonish the old woman, tell her that she was a fabulist and full of superstition. He wanted to laugh in the faces of them all. Yet he could not shake the queer feeling that had overtaken him—that he had somehow managed to escape the very fate of which she spoke.
From across the room, Alse guffawed.
“Silence, you beef-wit,” barked Elias. “What do you know of anything in this world?”
Alse pursed her lips tightly and looked as if she might spit.
“I have a wedding dress to make,” she declared. "I know that much if nothing more. You may all wallow in the mire of your superstitious tales, but I’d rather see how life goes on. You moan about murder and curses, but I have something of love to occupy me."
She gathered up her basket and headed for the door.
“I too must take my leave,” said Malcolm, shaken from his mental freeze. "You have left me with much fat to chew on during my journey, but I must get home before dark. My horse is packed for the ride, and I have family waiting on me. Mrs. Beamon, if you will allow me to settle my bill.”
He did so, feeling all eyes watching him. Mrs. Beamon handed him his change and he thanked her for her hospitality and made to leave. As he neared the door, he felt a hand grab his arm. It was Elias, suddenly beside him.
“Perhaps it is you,” said Elias, his voice heavy.
“What?”
“Perhaps you are the one sent to free us of the curse,” ventured Elias. “Perhaps you are the one who was sent to destroy him finally.”
Malcolm recoiled from the naked entreaty in the man’s gaze. He wrenched free his arm of Elias’ grip.
"I wish you a good day, sir."
Once astride Grannus, although his mind was a clutter of so many thoughts and feelings, there was no longer a debate. Under the guise of trade or no, he must visit the weaver's cottage. He must see for himself whether there was only the old man or if Daniel remained as well. Common sense told him that, of course, they would both be in residence. These people were clearly completely entrenched in their superstitions and backwards beliefs—only Alse seemed to have a shred of clear-mindedness. So far-fetched were their assertions that he wondered if it had not clouded their sanity, if perhaps they had been too far removed for too long out here, so that even the appearance of a stranger caused a queer pandemonium of emotion. No wonder these former visitors were never heard from or seen again; Malcolm imagined they had likely fled the strange village as quickly as possible. If Elias and his lot were any indication, there might have been quite a fear of brutalization or attack felt in the breast of any stranger.
And yet for as much as he yearned to dismiss their fables and speculation, he could not shake the feeling of seeing Daniel so exposed the previous evening. He had been wracked with a battle of emotions such that Malcolm had never witnessed before—his manner, his body, his voice, the whole experience seemed almost otherworldly. He could not deny that somehow the man had seemed possessed, of a sorrow, yes, but something far deeper than even that. Something that tore at his very soul. A decision had been made last night in that cottage; a decision, that if the villagers were to be believed, might have spared Malcolm his life. But why? And to what end? He knew how moved he had been by his time with Daniel, how he had felt for a few hours a rare comfort. When he had lain with Daniel, when he had cradled him in his arms, he felt no worry, no hurts of past heartaches, no troubling thoughts of future duties. He could talk freely of his childhood, of his beloved mother, of all the things that had shaped the man he had become, and yet he registered no injury, no judgment. He had felt, for perhaps the first time he could remember, completely and utterly free, unencumbered by the expectations of the world.