Page 30 of A Time of Witches

Robert Walsingham locked eyes with Sybil, his gaze going dark. “Mrs. Brantham, I require a moment to speak with you.”

“You may do so here, before my servants,” she replied in a manner she hoped appeared unaffected.

“I should think you would like to converse in private,” he pressed. “Such measures would be in your best interest.”

Fear prickled at the back of her neck as she recalled the last time she had been trapped alone in a room with this man.

When she had gone to his home to speak with him about her stable hand, who had found himself in a bit of trouble. When Walsingham had cornered her in his study.

Though she had not issued the command, her servants now fled the room, leaving her alone. With him.

Walsingham stepped closer. This time, they were not outside where the breeze mercilessly swept away his scent. The noxious blend of ambergris and musk he wore in excess flooded her senses, filling her mouth with water and her mind with unwanted memories.

She had once scrubbed that odor from her body until her skin was raw.

Her fingers wandered to her pocket where she’d kept a penknife ever since that day.

“Marry me.” His demand was guttural, insistent.

“No.”

He stepped closer, but she held her ground, refusing to be cowed into the corner again. Where there was no escape.

“You are to be tried as a witch,” he said, his tone velvety, almost cajoling.

In truth, she had expected this.

As Christine de Pizan so eloquently stated, “For even if some men will not tolerate women to be learned, they cannot prevent them from having intelligence.”

She had always been at risk.

“I’m to be tried as a witch under what grounds?” she demanded.

“This poppet.” He lifted a crude cloth doll, its limbs and head knobby with bits of rags stuffed inside sausage-like casings and bound with red string.

She scoffed. “Lies.”

“This poppet is enough to warrant a guilty verdict.”

She clenched her teeth, hating that he was right. The poppet was not even truly necessary. Even a word against her would be grounds for condemnation.

“The Witchfinder General is in Bury St. Edmunds, seeking witches.” Walsingham gave a subtle shrug. “I ought to show him this, as I am a magistrate…but I don’t have to.”

“Sybil.” His expression softened, reminding her of the boy he’d been. Back when they’d been friends, before teasing twisted him into someone cruel. “I could protect you.” He’d dropped the authority from his voice, sounding more like the Robert she’d known so long ago. “No one would ever hurt you again.”

Except he had hurt her.

A rush of anger flooded her cheeks with fire.

Except that protection from him would sentence her to a life of obedience, of silence.

“Never.”

Magistrate Walsingham’s face hardened. “The accusation includes more than just the poppet…”

Sybil lifted her chin with the indignity. “Who has accused me?”

“I cannot say.” Walsingham shifted, putting his weight on the foot nearest her. “Do you want to know the other charge against you?” His eyes gleamed, a cat enjoying batting around his mouse.