Page 38 of The Snow Witch

The man ignored her. He was swathed in a black robe, which flapped around his body in the Northumbrian wind. Large flakes of snow dotted it, and stuck in his beard and hair. The staff he held in his hand was carved with all sorts of strange symbols, and the thing repulsed Meggie.

The staff had a feeling of evil about it. Meggie’s sixth sense told her it had tortured and killed; it was soaked in the blood of many people. She looked at it in horror. The man laughed softly and curled his fingers around it tighter.

‘She looks at my staff in distaste. My witch pricker. She knows what it can prove. Tell me, what is your name, girl?’

Meggie’s mouth worked but no words would come out.

‘Speak up, girl,’ barked the man. He cupped his hand around his ear and leant closer to her. He smelled rancid and Meggie fought down bile. ‘I am listening. If you cannot tell me your identity, you will hinder your chances of freedom. I would hate to think I had the wrong person here. I have been charged with finding a witch. Do you understand?’

‘I am not the person you seek.’ Her voice was cracked and breathless.

‘Oh, you have a voice. That is good. And why do you dispute the claims?’

‘Because I am not a witch, sir.’ Meggie almost choked on the words. How had it come to this?

‘Not a witch? Then why are you here? This is a Pagan place of worship. This place stinks of the dark arts. You, my girl, stink of the dark arts. I think you are lying to me. I saw the black lightning strike the blade as you plunged it into this innocent man. I saw the shadow of Satan himself stand by you and urge you to do his bidding.’

‘No! There was lightning, but it was not black and it was from the sky, from the storm. It did not strike my blade—’ She brought herself up short, biting her tongue to stop the words coming.

Oh goddess! What had she just admitted to? She had confirmed she had a blade!

‘You attacked me.’ That was Charles Milburn. He had moved out of her way, and pointed to her, his face red and sore-looking where she had scrubbed ice into it, blood soaking through his shirt.

Oh the goddess – she had done that! No matter that he deserved it, it was still wrong.

But what option did she have?

‘You attacked me.’ Meggie struggled again but the men held her tighter.

‘She takes lives!’ called someone from the back of the group. Meggie peered over the crowd, trying to see who it was. She realised it was a young man called John: a farm labourer who had always harboured a secret love for Alice. Meggie and Alice had giggled over it, talked about his small offerings of love – a posy of wildflowers left on Alice’s doorstep, a fresh apple, polished and plucked from a tree, drawn from his apron and given to Alice as he blustered and blushed an excuse…

‘John! You know that is not true,’ cried Meggie. ‘What happened to Alice was⁠—’

‘It was murder!’ cried another man. ‘Mr Nicholson, she is guilty of murder.’

‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘Please, no. It wasn’t. It was a mistake…’ She stopped short, feeling her cheeks flush scarlet. That was almost an admission – mistakes did not happen by themselves. A ‘mistake’ was something which had gone wrong – this man with the cloak… she saw his lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk, and she choked back a sob. ‘John. You know that is not true, I beg you.’

The man smiled down at Meggie. ‘So. We have a young lady here who denies murder. Can she also deny attacking this young man? Drawing blood from an innocent?’ He reached out and pulled Charles’ hand away from his chest, then held it up in the air, dripping with blood.

The crowd gasped and Meggie saw some of them making the sign of the cross as they shook their heads. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see that.

‘It was not like that,’ she whispered.

‘She used the blood in a spell!’ yelled another man. ‘She is not known as the Snow Witch because of her innocence.’ Meggie recognised his voice as belonging to Robert, Mary’s husband. The stupid, deluded idiot, she thought wildly. Mary was the village whore, and he pretended he knew nothing about it.

‘No! He attacked me,’ she repeated. ‘I have never used human blood in a spell.’

There was a gasp as the crowd began to mutter about animal blood and Meggie could have bitten her tongue off properly. People were determined to twist everything she said, and slowly, the fear began to be replaced with anger.

‘My wife told me otherwise,’ Robert called, interrupting her thoughts and seeming to enjoy the moment, He was a small, thin man whose arms and legs seemed to belong to a different person.

‘And your wife should walk around the village with a straw mattress strapped to her back,’ cried Meggie, all reason deserting her, her temper rising as it had been wont to do when she was a child. ‘It would save her time.’

‘Silence!’ boomed Nicholson. ‘You are an evil woman. You denigrate the women of the village. You cast spells using the blood of innocents. You cause harm to men, women and livestock…’

‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘You’re lying. I have never harmed livestock⁠—’

‘By that, you have admitted to harming men and women,’ roared Nicholson.