The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Page B

cover of the forest floor. She heard him turn again and make off through the forest. She stayed where she was but peered through the foliage in time to see the searchers find the girl. She recognized them as the family of gypsies who had passed through the village some days before. The mother flung herself at her daughter and clung to her, weeping loudly. The father stormed about, cursing in a tongue unknown to Bess and shaking his fist at the sky, before untying his daughter and carrying her away in his arms. Bess abandoned her basket and slunk back the way she had come, not daring to stand and run until she was sure she was out of sight, clear of the terrible scene, one which would stay imprinted on her mind forever. She was in reach of the sunshine at the edge of the woodland when Gideon sprang out in front of her, blocking her escape. Instinctively she recoiled from him, but then anger gave her courage. She would not let him see her fear.
    ‘Why, it is young Bess Hawksmith. I was certain it was you I saw.’
    ‘Let me pass.’
    ‘How long had you been hiding, I wonder? How long were you watching, hmmm?’
    ‘I was out gathering moss and lichen.’
    ‘Really? I do not see any.’
    Bess cursed herself for abandoning her basket like a frightened child. Gideon stepped closer. The warmth of his body was clearly discernible and gave off an earthy odor. Bess turned her head away from him. When he spoke again, she could feel his breath against her ear.
    ‘The girl was not so unwilling as you think,’ he said.
    Bess swung back to face him.
    ‘She did not bind herself to that tree, I think.’
    ‘Mibben she asked me to do it.’
    ‘Mibben you forced her.’
    ‘What manner of force would that be? Did you see a single mark on her ripe young body? A single bruise or sign of brutal treatment?’
    ‘I know what I saw. I know what you did.’
    Gideon smiled.
    ‘Have a care, Bess. That tongue of yours will talk you into trouble one day. Do you plan to run home and speak of what you have seen? Do you think you will be believed?’
    ‘I will speak for the gypsy lass if she asks me.’
    ‘Ah, then the matter is closed. For she will remember nothing of her … experience. I have seen to that.’
    He placed his finger beneath Bess’s chin just as he had done to the girl. Bess wanted to look away but found her gaze locked to his. She set her jaw, resisting the curious swirling that had begun to stir her thoughts. Gideon’s voice reached her as if through a November fog.
    ‘Most yield without a struggle. Some minds are easily influenced, easily bent to a stronger will. Others, like your own, not so.’ He dropped his hand.
    Bess pushed past him, head down.
    ‘Oh, Bess,’ he called after her softly, ‘do not leave without what is yours.’
    Despite herself, she turned, then started. Gideon held out her basket, filled to overflowing with the greenest of mosses and the most delicate of lichens.
    ‘My basket! But how…?’ She could not bring herself to form the question, for she knew that there was no sensible answer. Instead, she snatched the wicker handle and strode for home, fleeing Gideon’s gentle singing of “Greensleeves,” the melody too lovely to bear from such a dark and disturbing soul.
    *   *   *
    The village of Batchcombe was, in truth, sufficiently large to be called a town, but the memories of the families who inhabited the place were long and slow to change, and so it was still referred to as the village. As such, it was well supplied with stores and facilities. There were more than enough ale houses to slake even a harvest thirst. There were two butchers, a well-patronized baker, a blacksmith’s forge, and a tailor’s shop. These emporia were arranged along both sides of the broad main street, which itself hosted the weekly market, where all and sundry came to sell their produce. In the center of the street stood the courthouse, an imposing stone building. The ground floor served as magistrates’