The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

The young Comtesse was arrested that very hour, while the grandmother took into her private chambers her grandchildren that she might instruct them in the nature of this terrible evil, so that they might stand with her against the witch, and come to no harm.

"But it was well-known," said the innkeeper's son, who talked more than anyone else present, "that the jewels were the property of the young Comtesse and had been brought with her from Amsterdam where she had been the widow of a rich man, and our Comte before he went in search of a rich wife had little more than a handsome face, and threadbare clothes, and his father's castle and land."

Oh, how these words bruised me, Stefan, you cannot compass. Only wait and hear my tale.

Sad sighs came from the entire little company.

"And with her gold, she was so generous," said another, "for you had but to go to her and beg for help and it was yours."

"Oh, she's a powerful witch, no doubt of it," said another, "for how else could she bind so many to herself as she bound the Comte?" But even this was not said with hate and fear.

I was reeling, Stefan.

"So now the old Comtesse has taken this money into her charge," I remarked, seeing the bare bones of the plot. "And what, pray tell, was the fate of the doll?"

"Disappeared," they said all in a chorus, as if they were answering the litany in the cathedral. "Disappeared." But Chretien swore that he had seen this hideous thing and knew it to be from Satan, and bore witness that his mother had spoken to it, as if it were an idol.

And on they went, breaking up into Babel again, and warring diatribes, that no doubt the beautiful Deborah had more than likely murdered the Amsterdam husband before the Comte had ever met her, for that was the way of a witch, wasn't it, and could anyone deny that she was a witch, once the story of her mother was known?

"But is this story of the mother's death proven to be true?" I pressed.

"Letters were written from the Parliament of Paris, to which the lady appealed, to the Scottish Privy Council and they did send verification that indeed a Scottish witch had been burnt in Donnelaith over twenty years before, and a daughter Deborah had survived her, and been taken away from that place by a man of God."

How my heart sank to hear this, for I knew now there was no hope at all. For what worse testimony could there be against her, than that her mother had been burnt before her? And I did not even need to ask, had the Parliament of Paris turned down her appeal?

"Yes, and with the official letter from Paris, there came also an illustrated leaflet, much circulated in Scotland still, which told of the evil witch of Donnelaith who had been a midwife and a cunning woman of great renown until her fiendish practices were made known."

Stefan, if you do not recognize the Scottish witch's daughter now from this account you do not remember the story. But I no longer held out the slightest doubt. "My Deborah," I whispered in my heart. There was no chance that I could be wrong.

Claiming that I had witnessed many an execution in my time, and hoped to witness more, I asked the name of the Scottish witch, for perhaps I had perused the record of her trial in my own studies. "Mayfair," they said, "Suzanne of the Mayfair, who called herself Suzanne Mayfair for want of any other name."

Deborah. It could be no other than the child I had rescued from the Highlands so very long ago.

"Oh, but Father, there are such dreadful truths in that little book of the Scottish witch, that I hesitate to say."

"Such books are not Scripture," I replied in defiance. But they went on to enlighten me to the effect that the entire trial of Suzanne of the Mayfair had been sent on through the Parliament of Paris, and was in the hands of the inquisitor now.

"Was poison found in the Comtesse's chambers?" I asked, trying for what bit of truth I could obtain.

No, they said, but so heavy was the testimony against her that this did not matter, for her mother-in-law had heard her address beings that were invisible, and her son Chretien had seen this also, and her son Philippe, and even Charlotte, though Charlotte had fled rather than answer questions against her mother, and other persons too had seen the power of the Comtesse, who could move objects without touching them, and judge the future, and know countless impossible things.

"And she confesses nothing?"

"It was the devil who would put her in a trance when she was tortured," said the innkeeper's son. "For how else could any human being slip into a stupor when a hot iron is applied to the flesh?"

At this I felt myself sicken and grow weary, and almost overcome. Yet I continued to question them. "And named no accomplices?" I asked. "For the naming of accomplices they are always much urged to do."

"Ah, but she was the most powerful witch ever heard of in these parts, Father," said the vintner. "What need had she of others? The inquisitor, when he heard the names of those whom she had cured, likened her to the great sorceresses of mythology, and to the Witch of Endor herself."

"And would there were a Solomon about," I said, "so that he might concur."

But this they did not hear.

"If there was another witch, it was Charlotte," said the old vintner. "You never saw such a sight as her Negroes, coming into the very church with her to Sunday Mass, with fine wigs and satin clothes! And the three mulatto maids for her infant boy. And her husband, tall and pale and like unto a willow tree, and suffering as he does from a great weakness which has afflicted him from childhood and which not even Charlotte's mother could cure. And oh, to see Charlotte command the Negroes to carry their master about the village, down the steps and up the steps, and to pour his wine for him and hold the cup to his lip and the napkin to his chin. At this very table they sat, the man as gaunt as a saint on the church wall, and the black shining faces around him, and the tallest and blackest of them all, Reginald, they called him, reading to his master from a book in a booming voice. And to think Charlotte has lived among such persons since the age of eighteen, having married this Antoine Fontenay of Martinique at that tender age."

"Surely it was Charlotte who stole the doll from the cabinet," said the innkeeper's son, "before the priest could lay hands on it, for who else in the terrified household would have touched such a thing?"

"But you have said that the mother could not cure the husband's illness?" I asked gently. "And plainly Charlotte herself could not cure it. Maybe these women are not witches."

"Ah, but curing and cursing are two separate things," said the vintner. "Would they had applied their talent merely to curing! But what had the evil doll to do with curing?"

"And what of Charlotte's desertion?" asked another, who had only just joined the congregation and seemed powerfully excited. "What can it mean but that they were witches together? No sooner was the mother arrested than Charlotte fled with her husband and her child, and her Negroes, back to the West Indies whence they came. But not before Charlotte had gone to be with her mother in the prison, and been locked up with her alone for more than an hour, this request granted only for those in attendance were foolish enough to believe that Charlotte would persuade her mother to confess, which of course she did not do."

"Seemed the wise thing to have done," said I. "And where has Charlotte gone?"

"To Martinique once more, it is said, with the pale skin and bone crippled husband, who has made a fortune there in the plantations, but no one knows that this is true. The inquisitor has written to Martinique to demand of the authorities that they question Charlotte, but they have not answered him, though there has been time enough, and what hope has he of justice being done in such a place as that?"

For over half an hour I listened on to this chatter, as the trial was described to me, and how Deborah protested her innocence, even before the judges and before those of the village who were admitted to witness it, and how she herself had written to His Majesty King Louis, and how they had sent to Dole for the witch pricker, and had then stripped her naked in her cell, and cut off her long raven hair, shaving her head after that, and searched her fo

r the devil's mark.

"And did they find it?" I asked, trembling inside with disgust at these proceedings, and trying not to recall in my mind's eyes the girl I remembered from the past.

"Aye, two marks they found," said the innkeeper, who had now joined us with a third bottle of white wine paid for by me and poured it out for all to enjoy. "And these she claimed she had from birth and that they were the same as countless persons had upon their bodies, demanding that all the town be searched for such marks, if they were to prove anything, but no one believed her, and she was by then worn white and thin from starvation and torture, yet her beauty was not gone."

"How so, not gone?" asked I.

"Oh, like a lily she looks now," said the old vintner sadly, "very white and pure. Even her jailers love her, so great is her power to charm everyone. And the priest weeps when he takes her Communion, for though she is unconfessed, he will not deny it to her."

"Ah but you see, she could seduce Satan. And that is why they have called her his bride."

"But she cannot seduce the witch judge," says I. And they all nodded, not seeming to know that I spoke this in bitter jest.

"And the daughter," I asked, "what did she say on the matter of her mother's guilt before she made her escape?"