The Pudding Lane Witch, page 3
They headed over to the barn which was laced with hay and animals: mainly pigs and chickens that seemingly roamed freely about the place. Gweneviere sat upon one of the hay bales and prepared for another lecture from her father.
“Stay put. I’m going to go get some things for our journey, okay?”
Gweneviere, once again, simply nodded, having taken an unofficial vow of silence. Harold saw the hurt in his daughter’s expression and walked away feeling guilty. Gweneviere sat there pondering her father’s actions in the last twenty-four hours. He had never been an overly affectionate father, but he did always do his best by her and her mother. Maybe she needed to cut him some slack. After all, his wife had just been publicly murdered, and he feared the same fate for Gweneviere, too.
Harold returned with some bread and cheese, and his arm bandaged up. Gweneviere saw her injured father and knew she had to try to start again on a clean slate.
“Hey… Dad?”
“Yes, Gwen?” he replied warily, fearing another argument.
“Listen, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, and last night got very out of hand, but I understand how you feel. I miss her too, and grief makes people do crazy things. So… please can we just forget about everything that’s happened and start fresh?”
Her father stood in front of her with a slightly angry smoulder, though that was just his resting face – it was partly what made all the women swoon around him. “Gwen, that’s probably the most sensible thing you’ve ever said. And for what it’s worth… I’m sorry about last night. You’re right, I was scared and angry, and maybe I could’ve dealt with the situation better, but please understand that everything I did, and everything that I continue to do, is to try and keep you safe,” he confessed, genuinely.
“I know, Dad, it’s okay. Besides, you’re right, too, about me needing to be better at socialising. I always relied on Mum for that but now that she’s gone, I know I have to start making connections for myself.”
“That’s great, Gwen. Now, here, have some cheese and bread. I’m sorry, it’s all she had. So much for a hot meal, huh?” he joked, for the first time in who knows how long.
“Here,” Gweneviere said, holding out her hand for the bread. She warmed it in her palms. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the barn, garnering the unwanted attention of the pigs.
One growl from Harold was all it took to scare them off.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling.
They sat, eating their fresh bread and cheese before packing some more away in their bags for the next leg in their journey. They didn’t bother taking up the offer of staying a night as Harold didn’t want to risk the townies catching up to them.
“Where are we actually going?” Gweneviere asked.
“London.”
“Ugh, London?” Gweneviere groaned.
In those times, the city certainly wasn’t what it is now.
To reach their destination, they would once again have to trek through nightfall, though, luckily, there weren’t any more enchanted woods along the way. By the next sunrise they would be close enough to hopefully hitch a ride on someone’s horse and cart.
The next morning they strolled the roads leading to London, trying to flag down any passers-by for a ride, until finally one kind man was willing to take them free of charge. He must have been on his way to pick up cargo, as his cart was seemingly empty, which was fortunate in Gweneviere and Harold’s case as it made for a less cramped journey. It was nice for Gweneviere to see that humanity wasn’t completely lost, though, that naive dream was soon shattered as the driver’s mouth began spouting misogynistic views on witches. Clearly witches were no better received in the capital than they were in the backwards rural towns. Gweneviere managed to bite her tongue long enough to reach the inner streets of London – the smog, disease ridden streets of London – where houses were piled atop each other, with rats and piss flowing down the streets like rivers. They stopped outside one of the rickety town houses, which was seemingly surrounded by brothels and cheap taverns.
Harold thanked the man as he and Gweneviere hopped off. Gweneviere was just glad to be away from that man and his views. She hadn’t had to deal with people as regularly as her father did so didn’t have as much practice gritting her teeth and bearing the ideocracy around witches. Her father heard it all day everyday working on the market – men and women believed anything their god-loving pastors preached. As Gweneviere got away from one grotesque man, she looked around to notice that she was seemingly amidst a street full of them.
“Please tell me this isn’t the place,” Gweneviere said, latching onto her father’s unscathed muscular arm.
Dirty men with rotten teeth walked by, eyeing her up like a slab of meat. It may have been the middle of the day, but that certainly didn’t stop the men surrounding them from being inebriated already.
“I’m afraid so,” he confirmed, double checking the address that was scrawled onto a crumpled-up piece of parchment in his pocket.
He knocked on the door and out came a young, pretty woman, who was seemingly used to being mistaken for the whore house next door.
“What do you want? If it’s a good time you’re looking for, it’s next door,” she said sharply, about to slam the door in his face before he even had a chance to answer.
Harold stopped the door with his foot and the woman peered her head through the remaining gap, as he announced, “I’m here to see the Crone.”
CHAPTER 2
The Crone
“Right this way, sir.” The young woman invited them in, opening the door just wide enough for them to squeeze through. “Now, wait here, and I will fetch the Crone,” she added, having led them into a small entrance hall.
“Dad, what is this place?” Gweneviere asked, as her eyes darted about the hall.
“I’m not sure, but let’s hear them out,” he answered.
An old woman descended the staircase before them. She wore thick heavy robes that caused her to hunch over. Once at the bottom of the stairs and just a metre in front of them, she stuck out her frail bony fingers and pointed to Harold.
“What’s your business here? Are you looking to wed one of my girls?”
“No, no, certainly not. I was told by an old friend that you could help my daughter. She’s a witch,” he explained.
“Hmm, I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, looking Gweneviere up and down, examining her. She sniffed the air with her protruding slender nose, and her nostrils turned from two grains of rice to almonds as they flared. “Pyrokinetic?”
“What?” Harold asked, his face looking even more bent out of shape than usual.
“Is she a pyrokinetic witch?” the Crone asked, growing tired of Harold’s insolence.
“Yes, I am,” Gweneviere interjected, speaking for herself.
“Very well,” the Crone answered, waving them to follow on behind her.
As they walked in the slowly moving witch’s shadow, they had plenty of time to take in their surroundings, noticing that the hallway was full of portraits depicting young, vibrant looking women, or rather, witches. Each of them looked as elegant and stately as the last; certainly not the kind of ladies you’d expect to see in the district.
“So, what is it that you do here?” Harold asked the Crone, to which she remained silent.
She lured them to her study and they sat down on opposite sides of the desk before she would once again speak.
“Now then, tell me why you are in need of my help? Then I might consider answering your questions.”
“We’re from a small town, north of the city, where Gwen’s mother was trialled as a witch and burned at the stake, when—”
“Dim, was she?” the Crone cut him off.
“Excuse me?” Harold said, taken back by the interruption.
“Was she rather dense? After all, she was trialled for being a witch – how was she incompetent enough to be found out?” the Crone rudely asked.
Harold’s teeth ground together like the stones he used to sharpen swords. Gweneviere could practically feel the vibrations from it. She could see he was searing with anger at the Crone’s disrespectful words. He stood up, slamming his hands on the desk and raising his voice, just inches away from the Crone’s face.
“Listen here, Crone, my wife was an incredible woman, much wiser than you. And if you must know, she was betrayed by one of the women she helped with her magics.”
“SIT DOWN, NOW!” she bellowed, loud enough that it rippled through every room of the building, causing girls all about the house to be on their best behaviour.
It was seemingly unnatural how her voice had become so deep and voluminous compared to her scratchy, throaty tone a few seconds earlier. Though it would’ve fazed even most grown men, Harold wasn’t easily spooked. Luckily, Gweneviere placed her hand on his to calm him and asked him to sit down.
“Clearly your daughter knows what’s good for you. Now then, this is a school for young witches, where we train them to become perfect wives. We teach them about how their powers can be used in a God, and man, honouring way. Then, once our girls have matured into fine young women at the age of eighteen graduation occurs. I spend months each year seeking out the wealthy men of London who are sympathisers to our kind and are willing to wed a witch. At graduation, the men take their pick, and my girls live out happy lives as respected wives, never having to suffer a public, humiliating death, unlike some.” She looked meaningfully in Harold’s direction. “Now, allow me to show you some of our girls at work.”
Standing, she led them to one of the classes in session.
As they once again followed in the Crone’s footsteps, Gweneviere looked up at her father for reassurance that he wouldn’t leave her in a place like this. “Dad, please tell me you’re not considering this,” she whispered.
“Let’s just hear the old hag out,” he replied quietly.
They reached a classroom where they watched young girls learn how to place an enchantment on a charcoal iron so that it would operate itself. Of course, telekinetic witches didn’t need such spells – they merely waved their hands about from the comfort of a chair in order to complete the task.
“As you can see, a witch makes for a much more efficient wife,” the Crone boasted.
“Ah yes, just what every girl wants to be, an ‘efficient wife’,” Gweneviere said under her breath.
It was just loud enough for her father to catch her sarcastic comment, and he cracked a smile behind the Crone’s back.
“After all, every great man has a great woman standing behind them,” the Crone continued.
“Yes, well, I thought that witches were supposed to be strong, outspoken women. To me, you all look like slaves to men-kind,” Gweneviere scoffed.
The Crone turned around with a surprising amount of ferocity as she pulled her thick robes away from her neck revealing a red patch of scaly skin that was carved deeply around her throat. “This is what happens when we act as you describe. So, yes, we may adapt to survive, but that’s all some of us can afford to do!”
“I’m sorry for what happened to you, I truly am. But I can’t let myself believe that I was put on this earth with these abilities just to conform to a man’s twisted ideology of what I should be. Come on, Dad, we’re going,” Gweneviere demanded, as she turned and stormed to the exit.
Her father followed and, though he certainly wasn’t fond of the Crone, he didn’t appreciate Gweneviere’s lack of respect either.
“Gwen, that was really rude,” he said, catching up to her on the filthy street.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t seriously expect me to do that.”
“Of course I don’t. Listen, we’ll find a place and I’ll get a job blacksmithing here, it shouldn’t be too hard. Besides, no one knows who we are here, this can still be our fresh start.”
“I’d like that too, and I’ll find a job, Dad. I promise.”
Harold had quickly managed to bag himself a job, once again, as a blacksmith and thankfully his arm had healed quicker than either of them had expected, meaning it didn’t hinder him in his work. One perk that came from living in the city was that he got a slightly higher rate of pay, though, without being able to produce any food for themselves anymore, he still had to work long shifts, like a dog, to make up the extra cash. He had also secured the two of them a small one-bedroom flat above a shop. It wasn’t much, but it was all they could afford on such a low income. Gweneviere had been trying her luck to get a job, but the only establishments that would entertain hiring a woman were sketchy taverns and whore houses. Neither her, nor her father were in support of those jobs and so they made do. But with their greedy landlord increasing the rent almost as often as he collected it, they soon realised that Harold’s wage alone wasn’t cutting it. They needed extra cash if they wanted to have a decent meal each night.
Gweneviere reluctantly took the job as a bar wench in one of the taverns in the same neighbourhood as the Crone’s school. She often saw some of the older witches running errands and wondered if maybe she’d have been better off there. After all, her occupation didn’t exactly scream female empowerment, as drunken men gawped at her daily, and the ‘uniform’ only encouraged the men’s catcalling. They wore tightly corseted dresses that pushed up and smashed together Gweneviere’s already rather large breasts. She loathed wearing it and was always achy afterwards. Her father also didn’t approve very much of the job but, with her wage, they were finally managing to eat a healthy amount and maybe things would finally be on the up and up.
“Morning, Gwen,” her father said gently, as he opened the bedroom door to wake her.
“Uh, yeah, morning Dad,” she muttered, slowly coming around.
“Long night again, huh?”
“Yep,” Gweneviere replied.
She was almost always on the late shifts, often arriving home so late that her father had already passed out for the night in the living room. Due to the size of their home, Harold had been making a bed for himself by the fire in the living area. It wasn’t a great night’s sleep, but he knew he’d be able to stomach it better than Gweneviere.
“Gwen, if you can’t handle the late nights, it’s fine, we can live off my wage for a while,” Harold offered kindly, though, he knew he was just kidding himself.
“Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll be alright. I’m actually finishing just a little after you today. If you want, you can come walk me home?” she suggested, still stretching in bed.
“Okay, sure. I’ll see you later.”
With that, Harold set off for work, having already necked half a bowl of porridge while Gweneviere was asleep.
Gweneviere slowly dragged herself out of bed. She made herself some porridge with a teaspoon of honey – the only thing that made it edible to her. She scraped the last spoonful into her mouth, making sure not to waste any. They weren’t in a position to waste any inch of food that might give them a bit of extra energy for the day. They were never sure when, or how plentiful, their next meal would be. Occasionally, the pub’s landlady would offer Gweneviere something to eat on her long shifts. Though she wasn’t exactly rolling in money herself and had to watch her profits, what with rats often getting into the supply room and nibbling away at her profit margins. Gweneviere quite admired her landlady’s business-savvy mind, but then instantly lost respect for her every time that she allowed a man to treat one of the girls like a piece of meat.
Gweneviere headed out on her walk to work, they didn’t live too far away from the sketchy street, as they couldn’t exactly afford the Ritz themselves. They did, however, live far enough away that the drunken fights and screams couldn’t be heard from their home, which was a relief to Gweneviere. She often had to watch women be dragged away by three or four men at a time during her shifts and didn’t need the sound of that scenario in her mind whilst she tried to sleep. Even the whorehouse women who ‘chose’ that life didn’t deserve be treated that way.
She reached the grubby tavern and started her shift. It appeared to be a rather quiet one at first, which was a welcome change as Gweneviere hated dealing with the rowdy crowds of men. When the bar staff outnumbered the customers, it made it much easier to push off any dirty chancers. Typically, though, business picked up, making the landlady smile as she saw every man as a walking opportunity to make more money. In her mind, if she had to flirt a little and take the odd groping in exchange for their money, it was worth it. Gweneviere definitely did not have this attitude to the unwarranted touching. It made her feel dirty when a man would slap her arse as she walked past their table. It was if every man in the joint thought they had some claim to her, simply because she was serving their drinks.
Gweneviere’s shift was coming to an end and, for the most part, it hadn’t been too bad a day, though she had noticed a regular come in who’d been eyeing her up for some time. He was a short, stumpy man with a long beard and balding head. When he smiled it looked more like a dilapidated graveyard, with each tooth a different shape, shade, and direction. He waved her over and, of course, being the good little bar wench that she was, she arrived to tend to his needs.
“Yes, Robert?” she asked with a blank expression, hoping to survive the last ten minutes of her shift without any altercations.
“Hmm, what’s with this Robert malarky. I told you to call me Robbie, didn’t I?” he slurred, grabbing Gweneviere’s waist and sitting her on his crotch.
