The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

the water for any sign of spellcraft. ’Twas not long, however, before the crowd grew restless, and he was forced to relent. “Enough. Raise her up.”

The men bore their weight down against the pole, and the chair rose above the water. But where there was once a girl sat a wild demon, thrashing and choking and spitting water over the shore.

“It does look as if she’s quite possessed,” Marianne observed.

“I agree.” Sloop motioned to the men. “Again.”

“Sir,” the magistrate pleaded.

“Again!”

The men released the pole, and Isabella once more sank from view. A minute passed.

“She’s drowning,” the magistrate huffed. “Raise her. I demand you raise her at once.”

Sloop waved him off. He couldn’t understand why the device wasn’t working. Like Marianne, he had read the trials and tribulations of many a devil’s concubine. The Malleus Maleficarum, the Daemonologie of King James VI, the account of the hangings in Massachusetts. All of them pointed to a clear and concise means of discerning guilt, and no matter what else had transpired on this day, he was certain Isabella was guilty. Even more guilty than his Gwendolyn.

“Raise her,” he said at last.

The men pushed down, and the girl rose from the waters. She still struggled, but not so much as before.

“Release her,” the magistrate demanded. “I should never have allowed such a primitive experiment. It is not Christian.”

Sloop continued to stare, turning over the events in his head. He was not the only one. Members of the crowd circled the contraption like vultures, confused at having been so denied their meal. Some even appeared to have lost their appetite.

“If I might offer a suggestion?” Of all those present, Marianne was the only one still smiling. “Perhaps the Dark One has not intervened because she is not in any true danger. If we were to rectify this, he would make Himself known.”

“Madam Huxley,” the magistrate began, “I should hardly think—”

“What do you suggest, madam?” Sloop asked.

“We tie a rock to the chair and let her sink. That way, no man can raise her. When the Devil realizes she is in true danger, he will expel her from the water.”

“Perhaps,” Sloop said, ruminating. “If she does not perceive the danger, she must not be using her powers.”

The magistrate stepped between them. “Tiberius, you shall do no such thing, or I shall remand you to the state. I am in charge of this prosecution, not you, and I shall not be ignored.” He turned to one of the men at the counterweight. “You there. Get you down to the other end and release that girl.”

The man looked on dumbly, not at all sure he wished to obey the will of the magistrate over the will of God.

Sloop considered his options. The last thing he wanted was for Beauchamp to return with a contingent of the queen’s soldiers. “Oh, very well.” The magistrate started forward when Sloop said, “But if we are not to put the girl in true danger, I think we can agree upon one more dunk?”

The magistrate looked about, then seemed to consider his own position, standing amidst a restless and hostile crowd. “Mm,” he said at last. “One more dunk, I think. Then we shall be done with this horrible business.”

Sloop nodded, and with the wave of his hand, the chair collapsed into the water for the third and final time.

Chapter 18

The pole made a terrible groaning sound. Isabella felt herself drifting to the right. She struck the water with a cry, mistiming her breath and letting loose the air in her lungs too soon. Water rushed into her nose and mouth. She lurched upward, coughing and heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. To her surprise, she expelled the water into open air. The chair had come to rest upon a rock, leaving her nose just above the surface.

“There! There,” Sloop yelled. “See how the Devil saves her!”

The crowd erupted in shouts and jeers. Mothers pulled their children away. Grown men sank to their knees in terror.

“Draw her up,” Sloop called. “To the rope with her!”

The men near the deck rushed to the counterweight and pushed down upon the pole. There was a long, splintering crack. The beam burst at the fulcrum as if struck by lightning, and the pole split into two lolling halves. The chair tilted sideways, and Isabella’s face slipped below the water. She cried out, inhaling another mouthful of water. The beam shifted, and the chair drifted back to its previous angle, allowing her a moment of respite.

“The Devil’s work,” someone shouted.

“Save us,” yelled another.

Sloop motioned to one of the men at the counterweight. “You there,” he called. “Fish her from the water. Go on!”

There was another problem, however.

“There he is, the whore’s servant! Hang him!”

Two men had managed to procure the leash from the young watchman and were now dragging Jacob across the grounds. The leader of the little band—a balding mill worker with a missing front tooth and arms like hardwood logs—tossed the loose end of the rope over a tree branch and jerked it down. Jacob was hoisted into the air by the neck.

The magistrate’s eyes darted back and forth as if unable to comprehend the sudden pandemonium that had descended upon his trial. With a mouse-like squeal, he turned to run. He tripped over a piece of driftwood and crashed head-first into a rock.

Sloop, whose eyes had been elsewhere, turned to find the man lying motionless upon the ground. There was a ghastly lump on his forehead. “Mister Beauchamp? Geoffrey! Wake up!” Though he would not.

There was another yell by the tree. The leader of the small band had gathered more to his side. Jacob was now ten feet in the air, strangling and kicking.

“Stop,” Sloop shouted. “You’re killing him!”

At the shore, the carpenter’s contraption gave another groan. The end of the wooden pole snapped clean off and splashed into the water. The current sucked the chair into the tide, where it cracked and bounced upon the rocks. One of the