“I’m Eleanor, Lord Treveryan,” she told him, and he nodded at her, drinking deeply of the ale, which made him feel much better.
Eleanor had prodded and fed the fire. Now it burned brightly, and there were two lanterns on the table. She was studying him nervously by the light.
“You knew her before, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“She never said so,” Eleanor said. Her eyes came to his again, dark and troubled. “She did tell me that she had been condemned—and saved.”
He grimaced and shifted his body on the pew. He felt suddenly tired, and too old for his years.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. Wait, I suppose. They haven’t had any trials yet. Perhaps all the wretches caught up in this will be released.”
Eleanor shook her head, fighting back tears. “I do not think so. They took my betrothed today too. He had been a constable. He resigned his post, saying that he could not serve such warrants any longer. As soon as he resigned, he was accused.”
“Easy, girl,” Sloan said, not sure he could console her.
“If they’ve taken Robert, they will take anyone.”
Sloan drank his ale and handed her the tankard. “I’ll have some more. Is there nothing to eat here?”
She filled his tankard and handed it back. “Yes, I’ll find something.”
She found bread, cheese, and dried fish, and as she placed them on the table, she spoke more calmly.
“You’re a friend of the king. You must be able to do something. This has gone too far. John Proctor said at the very beginning that the girls would make devils of the lot of us! One of them even admitted that they had first called out his wife’s name for sport. John was so right! As soon as he stood by his wife, he, too, was accused. He can be a harsh man—he is a great brute of a fellow—but if witches do exist, they can’t be the likes of him! His servant, Mary Warren, is one of the girls afflicted, yet she tried to deny what she had said, and when she did, they brought her forward for examination! Again and again—until she ‘confessed’ that John had come to her, demanding she sign the devil’s book. Yet”—Eleanor paused miserably—“you mustn’t judge us Puritans too harshly, for we truly wish only to do God’s work.”
Sloan smiled dryly. “I do not judge you harshly. This is not a consequence of your creed, it is part of our time.” And, he wondered silently, was there a way to escape it?
Eleanor paused as she set the food on the table. “Sarah Osbourne died in prison; she, too, was ill when they took her.”
Sloan came to the table. “I cannot clear the prisons,” he told her quietly.
She lowered her eyes and sat opposite him. “But you will try to free Robert and—”
“Your young man. Aye, I will. I’ve a friend with better connections than mine who can help.”
Eleanor chewed nervously on her lower lip. “Those who are cleared will be in such horrible debt. Few have much money, and none will be freed who cannot pay their prison costs.”
Sloan reached out a hand. “Eleanor, times like these bring out the worst in men—and the best. There will be help from other sources.”
She nodded slowly. “We can only pray.”
Sloan rose, rubbing his temple. “I’ll go to the jail and find out what I can do for Robert—and I’ll see to your young man too. What is his name?”
“Philip Smith,” Eleanor replied quickly. “He met you in Boston, when you first came.”
Sloan nodded and rose. “Now, get me some blankets and clothing for Robert and your Philip.”
Eleanor hurried to do his bidding. Sloan took the things and came out to the yard. His own horse had apparently run back to Lynn and a feedbag, but Brianna’s wretched mare was in front, nosing the ground for grass. He caught her easily, and packed the clothing and food on back of the saddle. He saluted Eleanor and left.
Sloan had no problem reaching Robert Powell. The jailors were stout fellows and solemn men, but seemed grieved by the overflowing of their cells. The elder of the two brought Sloan along the drafty facility never intended for this type of scourge, commenting reasonably on the course of events.
“We had Mary Warren here, for a spell, we did. And when she was left alone, she was calm, swearing that her Master Proctor was no wizard. Yet the magistrates came again, and before long she fell down in fits the like of which could have twisted the hardest heart! It’s a sad thing, it is, the devil here in Massachusetts!”
Sloan heard continued clinks of metal. “They are shackled?” he asked the man with a frown. The light was dim, but it was still apparent that most of the weary wretches resting on the cots were old men and women—except that it was shocking to see children here also, many no older than ten.
