They took me kicking and yelling all the way back to Bridgwater. I didn’t remember much of the journey, but I knew that if they’d let go of me for an instant, I’d have run for my life.
In a chamber inside the town hall, two different soldiers took charge of me. Though it was a relief to be rid of Dr Blood, I didn’t fancy my chances with these two, either. Both soldiers were as big as bears, with swords like that man on the moors who’d stopped Mother, and it put even more fear into me, thinking they’d readily use them.
‘Stop your squirming, brat!’ the fiercest soldier growled.
‘I’m not a witch!’ I protested for the umpteenth time. ‘I shouldn’t be here!’
‘Save your breath for the expert,’ Fierce Soldier replied as the chamber door was unlocked. ‘This’ll be him now.’
The door swung open, admitting a man I didn’t recognise. He had something wrong with the left side of his face, like a burn or a birthmark, and wore the cleanest white collar and cuffs I’d ever seen. He didn’t introduce himself. But from the fresh panic coursing through me, I guessed he was the famous witch hunter from Essex, Mr Hopkins.
‘You must be Fortune Sharpe,’ the man said.
‘I am, and I’m no witch.’
‘Indeed, it is what most of them say,’ he replied, not looking at me but at a spot of sunlight on the wall.
‘I speak the truth. I’m not a liar.’
Mr Hopkins pursed his lips, pressing his fingertips against them. For one wildly hopeful moment I thought he was considering letting me go.
‘Take her down to the strong room,’ he said to the soldiers.
The speed of it left me no time to scream. We went along a passageway, down a set of stone steps so fast I tripped over my own feet. The lack of windows and smell of damp told me we were now underneath the town hall. The room we entered had one stool in its centre, and stank of tallow candles and fear. Hands on my shoulders pressed me down on to the seat. The soldiers stood either side of me, Mr Hopkins directly in front.
‘You’re here on charges of witchcraft,’ he said, a long scroll unravelling in his hands. ‘Dr Blood tells me you knew the flood was coming months beforehand. That you influenced Susannah Spicer’s sewing to cover any suspicions that might arise from your own second sight. And that on the morning of 6th January you did cast a wicked spell on the sea.’
‘No!’ I insisted. ‘None of that is true!’
He glanced up from the scroll. ‘I warn you, whatever you say will be written down for the court.’
I breathed through my nose, trying to calm myself. Yet here I was, locked up like a sheep-stealer or a jewel-robber, all because of what the sea had done. Mr Hopkins must be insane to believe what Dr Blood told him. And that was the baffling thing, because he didn’t seem mad in the slightest. He spoke gently, politely, much like our curate did if you passed him in the lane.
‘The locals say you’ve always had a close affinity with the sea. Are they right?’ Mr Hopkins asked.
I wondered who he’d spoken to: my neighbours? My family? Jem? Any of them might’ve told him. In Fair Maidens Lane it was common knowledge I loved the beach, though that hardly made me a witch.
He waited for my answer, pen hovering, with the look of someone who had all day. Whereas I didn’t. I needed to know my family and friends were safe. Plus, in my panicked brain, Maira’s offer was becoming more appealing by the second.
‘How long will I be here?’ I asked.
‘I cannot say.’
‘Please, can we hurry?’
Mr Hopkins sighed. Marked something on his paper. Moved down the page. ‘Have you ever built a boat?’
I scowled. ‘A what?’
‘A boat,’ he repeated patiently. ‘The more you tell me, the quicker this will be over.’
And I’d be free to leave, I hoped. Which was all I wanted. I sat a little straighter on the stool.
‘Yes,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice level. ‘I built a boat with my brother Jem, just for a jape. Only a little boat – more of a dugout, really.’
‘You were ready for the flood when it arrived, then?’
‘Hardly! It let in too much water. It was a pretty useless craft, all told.’
But he didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Indeed, Dr Blood suggests you had prior knowledge of the flood coming?’
‘How? I’ve never seen a sea like it in my life.’
‘But you’d made a boat beforehand,’ he insisted. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as a strange coincidence?’
‘I hoped it might be useful for travelling along the coast. In winter, rain can turn our roads into swamps.’
Mr Hopkins changed tack. ‘What age are you, thirteen?’
I was glad of a sensible question.
‘Fourteen next year,’ I replied. ‘Though that depends which calendar you’re following.’ In the countryside, our year still started the olden way in March, though in the cities it had already changed to begin in January.
Mr Hopkins nodded. He’d written down what he wanted.
‘On the sixth day of January, the day of the flood, you were employed at Berrow Hall, as a servant to the son of a Mr Thomas Spicer?’ he asked.
I said I was.
‘And you were on the beach when the wave struck?’
‘Yes, looking for Master Ellis, who we’d reason to believe had run off with a troupe of travelling actors.’
Up until this point the soldiers had been as still as stone. Now one of them sniggered.
Mr Hopkins tutted irritably. ‘Tell me about the wave. You saw it first-hand?’
‘I did. The sea disappeared completely like you wouldn’t believe. It was all just wet sand. Then it started coming in—’
‘Wait,’ he interrupted. ‘Who made the sea disappear? Who called it back in again?’
‘What do you mean, who?’
‘Was it you, Fortune?’
‘Of course it wasn’t!’ I cried. ‘The sea isn’t like a dog! You can’t bid it to come and go at will!’
‘Did you cast a spell on Susannah Spicer’s needlework, then?’
‘No! I’ve told you, I’m not a witch!’
Mr Hopkins put his pen aside and folded his arms. ‘Yet the evidence is stacked against you. If only Mr Spicer were still here to clear your name. But he perished that day, didn’t he? Dr Blood tells me you weren’t overly fond of the man.’
I didn’t speak.
‘Well?’ he asked.
I ground my teeth in frustration.
‘Come now,’ Mr Hopkins said, impatience creeping into his tone. ‘Has the devil stolen your tongue?’
Still, I didn’t answer: he’d only twist my words if I did.
‘Very well. We’ll try something else.’ He snapped his fingers at the soldiers. ‘Search her for moles, birthmarks, anything unusual. A witch will bear the marks of her kind.’
I shrank back in my seat. The soldiers grabbed my arms, pushing up my sleeves. When they didn’t find what they were looking for, they yanked off my cap, pulling at my hair, checking behind my ears. I ducked away, which made them rougher.
It was only when I finally started crying that they stopped – and hastily too, jumping away from me as if I was poxed.
‘Don’t ever touch a witch’s tears!’ Fierce Soldier warned. ‘She’ll use them to curse us!’
‘Isn’t it that witches don’t cry?’ the other soldier asked.
They both looked at me, suddenly not sure what I was.
Mr Hopkins dropped to his knees, seizing my feet before I’d the wit to kick him.
‘Look harder, friends,’ he said, almost gleeful. ‘See this mark here on her left foot?’
I tried to wriggle free, but he held me impossibly tight.
‘It’s a birthmark, that’s all!’ I stammered. The mark was only small, about the size of an acorn and as unremarkable. It’d been there all my life.
Yet you’d have thought Mr Hopkins had found manna from heaven. From his pocket, he produced an implement that might’ve been for opening wine flagons or coring a cheese, except it ended in a needle – a hefty one too. The sight of it made me tremble.
‘This,’ he explained, to the soldiers rather than me, ‘is my witch tester. I’m going to put it to use.’