Page 12 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘Good,’ Martingale said. ‘I am glad we are in accord. Now, then, if we return orderly to our homes—’
Someone threw a rock at him. It was but a small pebble, but as it glanced across his shoulder, he reared back as if shot. The crowd fell deathly silent.
‘Who threw that?!’ Martingale cawed, his voice rising dramatically in pitch.
Laughter erupted in response. Red with fury, he raised his hand again, gesturing to his men; more swords were drawn. ‘Disperse at once!’ he cried. ‘I have the council’s authority!’
The crowd seemed little inclined to disperse. Cybil cast them a wary glance, and then looked back at Martingale. If something was not done, the scene would soon turn into a riot. She did not wish to draw attention to herself, but it was likely the witchfinder already knew who she was, by name if not by face. And it was her obligation, as lady of the manor, to respond. If she did not show fear, then perchance it would demonstrate to Martingale her innocence—or, at least, her strength.
She stepped forward and started walking towards the men. The villagers parted for her, murmuring uncertainly among themselves, creating a path so that she could approach the lead horse. Martingale looked at her, and as she neared him, some of his confidence began to fade; he could now see the richness of her clothing, the pearls at her neck, the sternness of her expression.
‘Good evening, mistress,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.
‘My lady,’ she corrected him. ‘I am Cybil Harding, lady of Harding Hall. You said you are a witchfinder?’
‘I—I am.’
‘And what authority does that title grant you?’ she asked. ‘Are you sheriff? May you make arrests without evidence?’
‘The council in Ipswich—’
‘Does the council ride with you?’ she demanded, gesturing to the men behind him. ‘Have you anyproof, sir? Do you carry their seal?’
He spluttered. ‘N-not on this occasion, no.’
There were mutterings from the crowd at this. Invigorated, Cybil continued. ‘My father was once alchemist to the queen herself. Shall I write to Court, perchance, and tell them that at the first festival I haveattended since my mourning was ended, after I spent weeks praying for my father’s soul, awitchfinderfrom Ipswich ordered me togo home?’
It was an absurd and empty threat, but Cybil spoke with such certainty that Martingale blanched, and even his guards looked a little nervous. ‘My lady, I meant no offence,’ he replied.
‘And yet, I am offended.’
He bowed his head. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘But it remains that this gathering—as benign as it may seem—could be repurposed with mal-intent. This is a pagan ritual, disguised as a godly one, and I am obliged to—’
Another rock was thrown. This time, the perpetrator was clear: it was the old man whose drum had accompanied the dancers. He held his tambourine in one hand, and the other was raised in the aftermath of the stone’s throw. He implicated himself further by yelling a garbled stream of local dialect at the witchfinder, including a number of colourful curses, all accompanied by a gesture so obscene Cybil could not help but giggle. She tried to hide her laughter behind her palm; she failed, and Martingale gave her a disgusted look. He turned back to his guards, gesturing toward the old man. The guards slipped off their horses and reached for their swords.
Martingale might have thought this would cow the villagers into submission, but most of them were drunk, and those who were not had been buoyed by the old man’s defiance. The crowd quickly became a rabble, shouting curses at the witchfinder. Someone threw another stone, and soon pebbles and rocks were flying in a tempest through the air. Cybil made to the side of the crowd, covering her head with her arms.
She thought,They are going to get themselves killed.
She looked back at Martingale, still sitting on his horse. He had dropped the reins, his arms flung up to cover his face and shield it from the pebbles. The solution to the problem seemed clear enough. Cybil wove around the edge of the crowd and gave his horse a sharp tap on the rump. It was already skittish from the stones, and it squealed loudly before taking off.
Martingale made a desperate grab for the reins, and he narrowly avoided being flung from his mount as it swerved away from the mound. Still, he was so shocked that he shrieked like a child. This alerted his guards, who dove for their own horses, fearful that they might bolt, also. Those who were fast enough leapt onto their mounts and chased after Martingale. Cybil felt triumph burning in her throat and fingers; she had not realised that she could feel this way, feel powerful, feeluseful—
But the rabble were throwing dirt and stones after the horses and their riders. Cybil—who was now standing in the place where Martingale had just been—was hit in the face by a large clod of mud, intended for the now-absent witchfinder.
All was suddenly and terribly silent. Cybil could feel mud dripping from her cheek and running in rivulets down her neck. It pooled in the folds of her ruff and clung to her pinned-up hair. She went to wipe some away. There was a small pebble embedded in the dirt, and it scraped against her skin, scratching it. She winced in pain.
They were all watching her, none speaking.
There was no acknowledgement of what she had done, driving the guards and Martingale away. Cybil was standing there in her silks and her pearls, dirty and humiliated. What a fool she must have looked. She rubbed again at her face, her palm going brown with mud as she did so.
The silent shock of the crowd was somehow worse than if they had laughed. Many seemed more contemptuous than pitying. One woman, sneering, made a sign to ward away evil; Cybil did not know if it was in response to Martingale or to her.
‘Lady Cybil…’ a woman said, stepping out from the crowd. She was dark-haired, her face gentle if slightly afraid—Jane Lennard, the housemaid. Of course she would be here: they all would, all the servants—Cybil had released them for the festival. And this realisation, somehow, was the most awful of all.
Cybil felt her eyes prickle. She understood, with shame and astonishment, that she was near to tears.
Shoving her way through the crowd, she walked away from the mound. They all turned to watch her leave. She dragged her fingersthrough her hair, scooping away mud and detritus, flinging it to the ground. A single, traitorous tear managed to escape before she was able to control herself. It carved a canyon through the dirt and lead paint on her face, a burning trail in contrast to the coolness of the air.
