The Witchfinder Wars Read online

  The Witchfinder Wars

  by K.G. McAbee & Cynthia D. Witherspoon

  Story © copyright K.G. McAbee & Cynthia D. Witherspoon 2014

  This book was previously published under another title.

  Cover art: public domain image

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Also by K.G. McAbee at Smashwords:

  Cabbages and Kings

  Tezek: Last Lord of the Three Lands

  Also by Cynthia D. Witherspoon at Smashwords:

  Blinded

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Authors

  Prologue

  Colchester, England 1646

  The water...I've got to reach the water...

  My thoughts raced like a whirlwind. I stumbled, quick to catch myself as I fell against the needle covered path I had memorized carefully in previous days. I pushed upward and ran; heavy branches slapped against my flushed skin while I raced through their gauntlet.

  Silence. The first thing I shattered as I barreled down toward the water's edge, my feet pounding as I snapped the less fortunate branches. At last, the shore spread out in front of me. The relief made me careless. I could almost forget the sounds of hooves and the howls of the dogs following so close behind me.

  At the last, the roots captured me, not the Witchfinders. My ankle twisted and tangled with one so thick it snaked upward off the ground. I slammed to the earth; the sound of a bone snapping in my foot reminiscent of the branches broken behind me only moments before.

  My pursuers, dogs and men alike, were on top of me before I could move. The men who prided themselves on capturing the evil witches of England grabbed me up with rough hands. Their leader pulled his steed to a halt before us.

  No introductions were needed between us. For I knew to fear him for his great evil...even as well as he knew to fear me for mine.

  Matthew Hopkins. England's one and only Witchfinder General.

  His thick blonde hair showed beneath a hat askew from his ride. His dark eyes glared down at me before he spoke.

  "Bridget Sinclair. You are hereby placed under arrest by order of his Royal Majesty for the crimes of witchcraft, sorcery and consorting with the Dark One. You are to come with us at once."

  As if I had a choice in the matter. As if my woman's voice had a place amongst them.

  The fear coursing through me revived my strength, helped me forget about my broken ankle. Such a charge was not unexpected. Nearly every unwed woman in Colchester had been named as a witch; falsely accused, near all of them.

  Except this time, the Witchfinders had found what they sought.

  A Chosen One. A true witch.

  But to go to my death with ease, without struggle, was something I could never do.

  I would not do.

  They tied my arms behind me with sleek leather bonds, but my palms opened as I called forth to the waters lining the shores to my back. I could hear the waves churning behind me.

  Rising at my Lady's command.

  If I had ever needed the Great Goddess, it was at this dire moment.

  The waters responded to my pleas for help. They rose until the waves were crashing against the sloping shore, rising far enough to slap against the boots of the men who held me in place. I would drown these men, all of them, if I could, if I must.

  I had little choice. I knew what was in store for me if I failed.

  Torture. Confession. Death. And not a quick one, either.

  Hopkins pulled back, his men jerking me with them as they scrambled to dryer lands.

  "Gentleman, stop her, I pray you! She is calling upon the Evil One to aid her!"

  I saw the large fist coming; it met the side of my head and left me dazed, unable to focus. The waters receded at once to their former placid state.

  I had already begun the desperate attempt to call them forward once more before another blow struck me; the world shifted, then darkened into blackness.

  ***

  Hopkins himself came to question me in the cell that had become my home. His clothes spoke for his status as an official; his mannerisms told me just how new he was to the wealth which accompanied it. Hopkins was too confident, too sure nothing could harm him.

  I was hoping to find a way to do so.

  No matter how impossible it seemed to me.

  The jailer unhooked my shackles and led me to the small table set up for the questioning. I rubbed my fingers against the raw skin the metal had left behind as I examined the gentleman who waited for me on the other side. His lean form was the tallest I'd ever seen. The confidence radiating from him allowed Hopkins the luxury of lounging back in the chair, as if he owned it instead of the King he called master. I shrank down in my seat to meet his eyes in silence.

  "Mistress Sinclair. I am Matthew Hopkins, appointed by authorities as England's Witchfinder General. You may answer my questions here, in the comfort of your cell. Or on the rack or other, less pleasant options. It is your choice."

  My eyes flickered around the small space in search of the comfort he spoke of. The stones were slick from the fall rains seeping through the open window. The cot was nothing more than moldy straw; it itched worse than the bugs skittering across the chill floor. I could not help it. My eyebrow rose in mocking response before I nodded.

  "Here, then, sir." My voice sounded strange to me, so long it had been since I had heard it.

  These men—no, this man—knew nothing of my, of all our folk's great secrets. The voice within me, which had been my guide since I first discovered my gifts, would show me how to protect myself and my abilities. Of this, I made no doubt. My lies would fall as true to his ears as did the gospel the Witchfinder heard at his worship each Sunday.

  Hopkins leaned forward and grabbed hold of my right arm, flipping it over to expose the scar of the moon's phases on my wrist. This indeed was the very mark labeling me as special, as powerful, and one among the very few. As a Chosen One. I waited for him to speak as my Goddess began to whisper the answers to questions he had yet to ask in my mind.

  She was with me; my Queen of Witches, my Lady of Darkness. She would create the lies I could not make up myself.

  "How did you control the waters on the day we caught you, witch?"

  My shoulders lifted and a small laugh, humble as I could make it, forced itself up through the fear.

  "M'lord, surely you have experienced the weather of our mother country as often as I. Storms blow forth, winds which no mere human can control. It was this stirred the waves. Not I. I am but a helpless maiden, weak and poor and with no one to give
me aid or assist me."

  Those dark eyes returned my laugh as he leaned forward. His fingers dug into the bones of my wrist until I winced against their pressure.

  "You must be seeking the rack indeed, mistress. You are not the first witch I have encountered; nor will you be the last. Your actions are commanded by Satan, as are all of your ilk. Your lies here before me confirm it."

  "Then what is the point of your questioning me at all, Master Hopkins, if you are so sure of the answers?"

  I hissed against pain as those fingers pressed further into my raw flesh.

  "Tell me this, Mistress Sinclair. This sign, this sigil, this mark of the Devil burned into your very flesh. How did the dark lord give it you? When did you become his companion? When did you give yourself over into his fleshly lusts, his evil commands?"

  Lusts.

  She was always with me; thinking when I could not. The Goddess whispered softly in my ear as I recognized the desire unchecked in his eyes.

  Matthew Hopkins was a very powerful man.

  But he was still a man.

  And I, a maid.

  A maid willing to do anything to set herself free.

  My head dropped forward and I shook the thick curtain of blonde hair to curl around my face. Thoughts of love and adoration from him toward me suffused my cheeks with a blush; my thoughts flowed toward him like the icy water running the length of my veins. The contact he had with my skin made passing those thoughts into him a deed most simple. The grip Hopkins had on my arm was loosened the moment my enchantment hit him, but the touch was still there. Enough so that he couldn't stop the magic my Goddess was casting on him.

  If he loved me, he couldn't kill me. No matter what he would lose from the council by preventing my death.

  I raised my emerald eyes, so prized by my multitude of suitors, up to meet his face, and I rejoiced in my secret heart; his skin was flushed, his eyes dazed by my magic.

  "Master Hopkins, the Devil has never been my companion. But perhaps...you can be, if you so will it."

  The Witchfinder General dropped my wrist as if fire had erupted from my hands. The shock on his face exposed the truth I had suspected, and I had the desire to laugh aloud despite the danger surrounding me in this place.

  Matthew Hopkins was a very powerful man, indeed. But he was still a man.

  And I could see, as clear as I could hear my Goddess whisper in the darkness, Hopkins wanted me for his own.

  He stood so fast the chair scraped back against the stone floor and slammed into the door. I stood as well when he threw a stiff nod and a single word in my direction.

  "Madam."

  He near ran from the room, and the door crashed closed behind him.

  I covered my face with my hands—hands he had forgotten, or not dared, to shackle—not to hide my tears but my smile.

  The hours passed and found me more and more anxious. If my spell had failed, then I would meet my end sooner than expected. Yet if it had been successful, then perchance I had saved myself.

  The doubts plaguing me proved unfounded. Later that very day, creature comforts began to arrive to my tiny cell. The food, no longer cast before me as if to some mongrel, became edible. The water clean. The straw for my bedding was changed.

  During the second week of my confinement, my nights were spent in the arms of the most powerful man in England, saving only the embattled king himself. Words of love were whispered—from him to me, and I replied as he wished to hear, so the spell would continue to be woven. Words of adoration and devotion we exchanged. He offered me abject promises of protection and privilege and a future—together.

  There was to be a false trial, he told me. One where the witnesses would be allowed to come forward and speak their lies.

  Lies that would set me free.

  Hopkins could not protect me from the hatred of Colchester. But he could save me from the stake.

  My life was, indeed, all I was after. As soon as I had my freedom, he would see me no more.

  ***

  The trial lasted but a few days, days where those I had considered friends, bought goods from, or sold goods to, came forward to testify I was in the hands of the Devil and should be condemned. The stories brought forth as evidence claimed I, I alone, was responsible for each and every troubles which had plagued my village since my birth in 1630, and in Colchester since my arrival there a scant few years before.

  Crops wilted and died when I walked past a field.

  Prized animals dried up; their young died, weak and rotten.

  Rains fell on the days I was unhappy while the sun scorched on days when I was not.

  I listened to these tales with a silent amusement, though I dared not show it. Matthew—aye, he was Matthew to me now—was the head of the judicial party sent to determine my status as a witch.

  And Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, had professed his love to me and promised to protect me.

  On a day in winter when the snows stretched white blankets over the streets, the judges at last were ready to announce their verdict. I was brought forward to the wooden rail which separated me from the men who would decry my innocence to the world and set me free.

  Matthew's great voice boomed out to cry silence on the crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. All, I could see, were more than eager to leave the chilled room and watch the fire sure to follow my sentence.

  His voice echoed across the rail between us and drove into my ears.

  "Bridget Sinclair, spinster of Colchester. You have been charged with the crimes of witchcraft, evil sorcery and consorting with the Devil, and have been duly tried by good men and true. In the name of all that is Holy, and with the power invested in me by our gracious lord and king, I proclaim these evidences brought forth as true and valid. And your sentence shall be that which is given to all minions of Satan. You are to be taken from this court to a place already prepared and burned, so you will taste the foul, eternal flames awaiting you below. And may God have mercy on the soul which you regard so little."

  Shock hit me first. Anger second. My hands shook in the restraints as the jailers reached for my arms. Somewhere, I found my voice above the noises erupting around us.

  "Master Hopkins, I pray you. I crave but a word and will be silent."

  The eyes, which had gazed with love into mine through the nights we shared, now appeared amused as he raised a hand and requested silence upon the courts. When the tumult had ceased, or at least grown lower, he said: "Very well, Mistress Sinclair. And do you be advised these words will be your last."

  I nodded, finding the strength to step forward to the old railing until I could press my hands against it. The Goddess spoke for me, through my anger and hurt, to form the words I needed to say.

  "Master Hopkins, for the kindness which you have shown me, I have but one wish: to bless your firstborn son and all of his descendants. Each of these first sons will live long and prosperous lives."

  He smiled and those lips I had kissed so often and had sought mine, lifted into something akin to disdain.

  I could feel my face twist in pain and anguish as I continued.

  "But with this same breath, mark you all who hear my words, yet do I curse them. Every first male will love one of my own kind. A Chosen One. These loves will be true and deep, but even with all their power, fated to be lost. Those they love, the Chosen Ones meant for them, will be torn and separated from them, aye, even until the end of time. And what will be the outcome, ask you? Why, merely this: these men will moan in torment as their souls are ripped apart by their grief, trampled upon as you have done to mine. They will be unable to fill the vast emptiness within them; there will be no replacement for their lost loves. Until man can undo the sleep caused by death, my curse will hold true. So it is cast, so must it be."

  The gasp of the crowd filled my ears as I was jerked backward and out into the courtyard where the pyre had been set up. They slammed me against the thick beam and lashed me tight to it; below and around me, th
e pile of sticks and branches glistened with animal fat.

  Meant to make it burn faster.

  Meant to make me burn faster.

  I pressed against the stake, my eyes closed so the ravenous faces before me could not harm me, as the anger left me and I grew weak. Not until I heard his voice did I open my eyes to view the world once more. One last time.

  Matthew Hopkins scrambled to the top of the pyre and wrapped his hands around my waist. His grip tightened as he crushed his lips to mine.

  I am saved.

  When we parted, his breath grazed the hair next to my ear as he spoke, soft yet clear.

  "May you, and your curse, burn in hell where you both belong."

  My anger returned as I growled at him, fighting against the restraints to hurt him as much as he had hurt me. I stopped only when the Goddess whispered through my despair.

  Your curse is cast, Daughter. So now must it be.

  His descendents and theirs, even unto untold generations, would know my pain.

  All would suffer longer than I would ever have to.

  They would know what it meant to lose something far more precious than life.

  They would know what it meant to lose their souls.

  And with this, I could die in peace.

  Chapter One

  Present Day: Manning, North Carolina

  Anya

  My pen moved across the paper on the altar with an ease I wished I could feel. It's never good to start a spell with such anxiety. Smarter ones than me would have closed the circle and left it for another night. But I had to do something.

  Anything to figure out what I was doing, where I was going, with my magic.

  With myself.

  Anything.

  I tried to shrug my discomfort off as nothing more than nervousness as I began to whisper the words I wrote, words coming too easily from my scattered thoughts:

  Dear Great Mother,

  My life has been empty since I found myself outside of Your Grace. Decisions are harder to make, promises harder to keep, and worst of all, my actions have taken me throughout the day with no purpose. There is no reason to anything. I beg of You to become my Guide once more. I can't explain why I turned myself away. Perhaps it was fear of becoming something different.