To be sure Goode had brought this fate down around her own ears, and Tituba was no innocent either. As for Osborne, he knew not except that the woman had, for years, brought suspicion on herself.

Then there was the part of Jeremy that must concern himself with his own sanity and safety, that part of him simply wanting out of this man’s sphere of influence, out of this village of broken and sad people—and out now!

To get back to the arms of his love, to bask in Serena’s love and warmth and kindness. It was what he wanted above all things now that his duty to Mather had been fulfilled. Now that the truth sat square on the proverbial table for all to partake of. He must also race to the Nurse compound for another reason, to warn Serena and her mother and father of the depth of danger her mother and her aunts faced thanks to Parris’ accusations along with those he had, Jeremy believed, nursed out of Little Anne Putnam and her mother—that the midwives attending the Putnam birthings through the years had actually been on hand to slyly kill the very infants they pretended to usher into the world. A diabolical tale if ever there was one.

To a chorus of shrieks that might be cats stuck between the walls of this home, all coming out of Betty Parris and Mary Wolcott’s sickroom, Jeremy rushed from the dark house. He wanted out before Samuel Parris should return. He wanted no more confrontation with the man. To this end, he rushed for the barn and his horse, perhaps the only creature at the moment in this place that he might speak openly and honestly to without fear of retribution. In fact, in the current climate, perhaps the only safe place to unleash pent up emotions and opinions, was the ear of a horse, cow, or family pet.

Jeremy wasted no time saddling Dancer. As quickly as he could effect his escape from the parsonage, Jeremy was in the saddle and racing out the barn door when suddenly, his mare reared back on her haunches at the sight of Samuel Parris, who’d very nearly been run down and killed but had leapt and fallen to safety at the last moment. Jeremy left the minister lying in a hard-frozen pigsty of mud, not slowing, racing toward the Nurse family compound, unaware that he horse’s hooves sent up great gobs of dirt and mud in the wild dash from the Salem Village.


BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Late evening, April 13,, 1692

“A challenge to every Puritan,” said Reverend Parris where he stood drinking ale at Ingersoll’s Inn. He’d come uncharacteristically late to the Inn. Ingersoll was in fact closing, but when he found the minister at his doorstep, he remained in business, his light on. He had poured a pint of ale for Parris, whose bill with Ingersoll had been settled recently with a bushel of beans and potatoes, goods others had paid the minister in. Parris had need of someone’s ear and Ingersoll had been elected. He informed Ingersoll of the truth of Jeremiah Wakely’s identity and his true purpose in the village, and that he’d been sent in to spy on the minister, and all those letters he asked you to post, Nathaniel—I was right to intercept them. He was a fraud from the beginning, and he thought I didn’t know.

Ingersoll solemnly nodded. “He is an arrogant scoundrel, that young pup.”

“It’s the same with the Falllen One.”

“Aye, he’s the ultimate arrogant angel.”

“What angel?” asked the carpenter, Zachariah Fiske, who’d seen the light on and had stopped in for a dram.

“Satan, of course!”

“Aye, indeed.” Fiske put down a coin on the counter, and Ingersoll poured him a pint.

“So how do the judges intend to proceed?” asked Ingersoll, pressing Samuel Parris for information.

“As precisely and as carefully as they should!” continued the uncharacteristically prudent minister.

“And how is that, precisely?” nudged Ingersoll with a wink for Fiske.

“Why, as men of honor,” replied Parris, “courage, and integrity.” He lifted his pewter cup and toasted.

Ingersoll nodded and met the minister’s eye, and all three men drank to this. “I’ve always heard it said, Samuel, that Bridgett Bishop’s a witch if ever there were one, so why was she not kept in jail?”

“A scarcity of evidence there, but they’ve got their eye on her, that one.”

“They’ve found it with the others but not Bishop?”

“The innkeeper on North Ipswich road here?” asked Fiske, his face pinched in confusion.

“The very one,” replied Parris, taking another drink. “If that witch is shut down, Nathaniel, imagine the business you’d have here.”

Ingersoll added, “Aye, but that’s no good reason to cast aspersions.”

“The one whose husband, Malachi Bishop—may he rest in peace— died in the throes of something horrible, Mr. Fiske,” continued Parris, nursing his drink.

“Horrible and mysterious, so far as anyone’s able to determine,” Ingersoll felt compelled to admit with Fiske searching his features.

“I recall it, I do,” replied Fiske, nursing his own ale now. “Happened just before your arrival here, Mr. Parris.”

“Three years,” muttered Parris. “Yet no one thought to bring the woman up on charges back then?”

“Oh, but there was charges made,” Fiske disagreed, “but there weren’t no evidence, so they let her go free, and ever since she’s run Bishop’s Inn.”

“Some say she spins her witchery down below the floor of that inn,” muttered Parris. “Maybe hides the evidence down there.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Parris?” asked Fiske, swallowing hard. “I run afoul of that woman once; she run me outta her place with that club of hers.” Fiske looked about, shaken at the idea a witch might have it in for him.

“I have it on good authority, Mr. Fiske, Nathaniel. Can you keep a secret among us?”

“By my word,” replied Ingersoll.

“You can trust me, Mr. Parris,” added Fiske.

“We’re going to need a good deal of carpentry work done here in Salem.”

“You mean a gallows?” asked Fiske.

“I mean the sheriff and his men will be taking Bishop’s Inn and the woman’s quarters apart for the evidence they need—and soon, very soon.”

“Four for the gallows?” asked Nathaniel.

“If not more.” Parris finished his ale and bid the others goodnight. “I must be at my child’s bedside. She suffers the agony of the bewitched as we speak.”

This same conversation—or one very nearly the same—was taking place in every corner of Salem Village, and the same sort of talk had crept into neighboring villages and towns from Wenham and Topsfield to Beverly and Salem Town Harbor. Every municipality had jailed at least one witch and some two by now. The fever pitch reflected the fear that raged like a fire when news of what had gone on behind closed doors at Mr. Corwin’s home over the past two days had got out.

The Nurse home the same night

Jeremiah Wakely had ridden for the Nurse home to warn Serena and her family of the coming accusation against Mother Nurse and Serena’s aunts, Rebecca’s sisters—the Towne women. Jeremy wished to warn them so that, at very least, the family might have some preparation against the finger pointing. He’d ridden Dancer hard, and when he’d arrived, his steed and he had caused a great stir, disturbing what seemed a perfect peace.

Serena had heard the pounding hooves before the man she loved had halted in the yard, sending up dirt clods as he did so. She met Jeremy at the wide porch as he leapt from his horse. Francis Nurse stood at the open threshold, staring out, calling, “What is this? Who comes racing in at this hour?” He held the shotgun that Serena had not so long before held on Jeremiah. The hour was late evening, the day before the Ides of April.

“I’ve come to warn you all!” shouted Jeremiah, holding onto Serena’s trembling hands and guiding her back inside, nodding at Mr. Nurse, reassuring him. “I’ve important news that affects you all.”

“I knew it,” said Francis Nurse. “I knew it in my heart.”

“Knew, sir?” asked Jeremiah.

“We’ve friends, Jeremy, who’ve warned us against the men in black.”

“The men in black?”

“The magistrates, the ministers, including you!”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, sir, but I’ve only tonight learned that your wife, and your mother, Serena—and her sisters have come under suspicion of witchcraft—and not of my doing!”

“Then Parris! And you’ve stood with him for all this time!”

“No, Mr. Nurse. This cruel accusation comes thanks of Samuel Parris. However, I believe the accusation will evaporate before it goes any further.”

“Come inside,” said Francis, easing his grip on the short, wide-muzzled blunderbuss used to fire shot with a scattering effect, good for pheasant hunting and close range only.

Jeremy felt Serena trembling under his touch. Once settled inside with Serena, Jeremy and Francis Nurse seated around the hearth fire, Jeremy began explaining. “Your mother’s principle accuser is Parris himself. Outside, an ominous wind whistled about the house. While the New England weather had warmed considerably by day, there remained a significant chill in the night air, a coldness that reached with icy fingers into the bones of men.

“When does your beau, Serena, tell us something we don’t already know?” asked Francis, a hand on Serena’s arm.

“Father, patience.” She nodded at Jeremy. “Please, go on. Tell us precisely what’s happened to send you racing to us, Jeremy.”

“While I’ve left Parris’ home and apprenticeship of my own volition, you could say I was kicked out.” He went on to explain his discovery of the coming Sabbath Day sermon and Parris’ prediction that he would excommunicate Rebecca Nurse for trafficking in the black arts.