“Oh. But of course you are here to ask Diana to cure Bidwell.” Matthew made a sound of regret. “There is so much idle gossip. Has the news of my wife’s skill spread already?”
In this period medicinal knowledge was perilously close to a witch’s lore. Was Matthew trying to get me in trouble?
Bidwell wanted to respond, but all he could manage was a gurgle and a shake of his head.
“If you are not here for physic, then you must be here to deliver Diana’s shoes.” Matthew looked at me fondly, then to the minister. “As you have no doubt heard, my wife’s possessions were lost during our journey, Mr. Danforth.” Matthew’s attention returned to the shoemaker, and a shade of reproach crept into his tone. “I know you are a busy man, Bidwell, but I hope you’ve finished the pattens at least. Diana is determined to go to church this week, and the path to the vestry is often flooded. Someone really should see to it.”
Iffley’s chest had been swelling with indignation since Matthew had started speaking. Finally the man could stand it no more.
“Bidwell brought the shoes you paid for, but we are not here to secure your wife’s services or trifle with pattens and puddles!” Iffley drew his cloak around his hips in a gesture that was intended to convey dignity, but the soaked wool only emphasized his resemblance to a drowned rat, with his pointy nose and beady eyes. “Tell her, Mr. Danforth.”
The Reverend Danforth looked as though he would rather be roasting in hell than standing in Matthew Roydon’s house, confronting his wife.
“Go on. Tell her,” urged Iffley.
“Allegations have been made—” That was far as Danforth got before Walter, Henry, and Hancock closed ranks.
“If you are here to make allegations, sir, you can direct them to me or to his lordship,” Walter said sharply.
“Or to me,” George piped up. “I am well read in the law.” “Ah . . . Er . . . Yes . . . Well . . .” The cleric subsided into silence. “Widow Beaton has fallen ill. So has young Bidwell,” said Iffley, determined to forge on in spite of Danforth’s failing nerve.
“No doubt it is the same ague that afflicted me and now the boy’s father,” my husband said softly. His fingers tightened on mine. Behind me Gallowglass swore under his breath. “Of what, exactly, are you accusing my wife, Iffley?”
“Widow Beaton refused to join her in some evil business. Mistress Roydon vowed to afflict her joints and head with pains.”
“My son has lost his hearing,” Bidwell complained, his voice thick with misery and phlegm. “There is a fierce ringing in his ears, like unto the sound of a bell. Widow Beaton says he has been bewitched.”
“No,” I whispered. The blood left my head in a sudden, startling drop. Gallowglass’s hands were on my shoulders in an instant, keeping me upright.
The word “bewitched” had me staring into a familiar abyss. My greatest fear had always been that humans would discover I was descended from Bridget Bishop. Then the curious glances would start, and the suspicions. The only possible response was flight. I tried to worm my fingers from Matthew’s grasp, but he might have been made of stone for all the good it did me, and Gallowglass still had charge of my shoulders.
“Widow Beaton has long suffered from rheumatism, and Bidwell’s son has recurrent putrid throats. They often cause pain and deafness. These illnesses occurred before my wife came to Woodstock.” Matthew made a lazy, dismissive gesture with his free hand. “The old woman is jealous of Diana’s skill, and young Joseph was taken with her beauty and envious of my married state. These are not allegations, but idle imaginings.”
“As a man of God, Master Roydon, it is my responsibility to take them seriously. I have been reading.” Mr. Danforth reached into his black robes and pulled out a tattered sheaf of papers. It was no more than a few dozen sheets crudely stitched together with coarse string. Time and heavy use had softened the papers’ fibers, fraying the edges and turning the pages gray. I was too far away to make out the title page. All three vampires saw it, though. So did George, who blanched.
“That’s part of the Malleus Maleficarum. I did not know that your Latin was good enough to comprehend such a difficult work, Mr. Danforth,” Matthew said. It was the most influential witch-hunting manual ever produced, and a title that struck terror into a witch’s heart.
The minister looked affronted. “I attended university, Master Roydon.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. That book shouldn’t be in the possession of the weak-minded or superstitious.”