Page 43 of A Time of Witches

Chapter Twenty

Sybil

Sybil was led to a room in better repair than the rest of the prison, long and narrow with wood paneling that likely masked crumbling walls beneath. A great desk sat at the rear, where a sconce provided ample light. Behind that desk sat the man she could only assume to be Matthew Hopkins.

The Witchfinder General himself.

He looked up when she entered, studying her as she formed her own assessment of him. His broad linen collar and wide-brimmed hat with a polished silver buckle spoke of a man who believed himself significant.

A mean little mustache traced the hard line of his mouth and glistened with oil. His hair was likewise well-groomed, having been brushed to a shine that fell in gentle waves about his shoulders.

This was a man who cared greatly for how others perceived him.

Such men were dangerous.

Men who knew how to get what they wanted, to ensure they received the praise and approbation they craved. At any cost.

He set aside his quill. “Mrs. Henry Brantham,” he said by way of greeting.

She notched her chin at a haughty angle. “Mr. Hopkins, I presume?”

He flushed with prideful pleasure. “I have not had so esteemed a person on the other side of my desk as yet.”

Ah, then she was a grand prize.

But Sybil would not be taken in so easily. Christine de Pizan’s words came to her at once. “There is no man so valiant that he cannot be wounded by a woman’s heart and courage.”

The line bolstered Sybil, arming her with that very heart and courage. “I fail to understand why I am here at all.”

His smile was mirrored by his oiled mustache. “I should like to ask you some questions.” He indicated the chair.

She did not sit.

His nod was directed behind her, and the guards who’d escorted her into the room gripped her by the shoulders, shoving her down until her knees buckled. In the end, she was forced to sit on the hard-backed wooden chair whether she wanted to or not.

“Please, Mrs. Brantham.” He said her name like a disappointment. “You are a gentlewoman. Surely, we can speak as equals, me being elevated from my birth as a vicar’s son and you being elevated from your life as a cunning woman’s daughter.”

Sybil schooled her features to keep from reflecting her shock.

He knew more of her than she would have liked.

Mother never called herself a cunning woman, or a wise woman, or anything of that nature. She was a daughter of the earth, a nurse who tended to the ill and the wounded. To others, she was simply a friend.

Matthew Hopkins leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped and resting on the desk’s surface before him. “You are surprised that I know as much about you. Sybil Brantham. I assure you, I know much more.”

Sybil kept her expression impassive and he plunged on, “I know your mother had knowledge of herbs and many sought her skills. I know they seek you now for such purpose, though you offer aid without charge. You need no additional coin. Henry Brantham was flush with the wealth of his wool merchant’s legacy when he took an interest in your mother’s learning. And then she became ill.”

He offered a small pout, more condescending than earnest. “She died, leaving you and your sister to fend for yourselves. And you did for some time, before Henry took pity on you and married you, sweeping you from that pathetic little cottage into a great manor. How high you rose.” His lips quirked at his crude statement.

Sybil did not deign to reply.

“You both had what you wanted,” Hopkins continued. “He had a young new wife that was far comelier and more fertile than the nag who failed at her role to deliver him a child. And you and your sister—well, you had anything you could ever want.” He spread his hands out. “Is that the whole of it?”

He was certainly missing some chapters in her life’s story.

Which was for the best.

And most men only saw what they wished to see.