So, this idea has been bouncing around in my head since, like, January. Every time I try to focus on my other stories, my head just keeps bringing me back to this. Thank goodness it's now October and I can finally start posting it! Yay!! I'm hoping that getting it written and posted will help my brain to get back on track with TDoP and Upside. Fingers crossed...

Anywho, hope you like my Hiccstrid Halloween Special :)

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"Culpavaris or Non-culpavaris?"

After barely a moment's tense silence, several voices replied in unison. "Culpavaris."

Following this pronouncement, the crowded courtroom erupted. Cries of 'burn the witches' and 'Devil's whores' spewing forth as the excitable townsfolk bayed out their conviction. Their bellows melding with the wails of the condemned until one could scarcely hear themselves think. The Justice's pitiful calls to order falling on deaf ears - just as much as the pleas for mercy from those poor lost souls whom had just been sentenced to death.

It was the Year-of-his-Lord 1645 in Essex and 15 women had just been found guilty of witchcraft. The most of any trial to date in the British Isles. It was a landmark moment for one man in particular. He was Matthew Hopkins, a devout young Puritan on a mission, and his name would soon be known throughout the land. He was also the machine of cunning behind this record achievement.

Armed with ruthless determination, unwavering faith, and King James IV's Daemonologie for guidance, he and his associate John Sterne had worked tirelessly to gain a confession from the first witch. Elizabeth Clarke had been an old beggar woman singled out by a local tailor as the source of his wife's mysterious ailments. It was not overly difficult to convince the rest of the village of this either. Aged, cantankerous, and lame, the widowed Clarke with her one missing leg and tendency to curse was certainly not well liked. John Sterne was given permission to investigate the claim, and young Hopkins quickly offered to assist in the matter.

It took two whole days of sleep deprivation, and several body searches by the 'Searchers' to finally get the old woman to confess, but confess she did. Once her Devil's Mark was found, the old woman knew she'd been caught out anyways. She told them all about how the Devil had come to her many years ago and offered her the power to heal. Stating that he had been well mannered, handsome, and dressed as a right proper gentleman. "More of a gentleman than you shall ever be," she had sneered rudely at Hopkins.

After admitting her own guilt, she had eventually given up the names of the others within her coven. Those in turn offered up even more names upon questioning. A grand total of 36 in fact. One of whom, a young woman by the name of Rebecca West, was even willing to give evidence against the rest in return for her freedom. Truthfully, the alternative was death by hanging, so it really had not been much of a choice for the young maiden.

High on his victory, Hopkins sat quietly beside Sterne. Refusing to tarnish his carefully cultured image by joining in the heckling, he allowed only a smug smirk to grace his lips as he gazed back at the group of blasphemers he had just helped bring to justice. He could not stop here though. There were still so many more witches to coerce confessions out of and Hopkins was convinced that he was the man to do it. And really, in a time of Civil War, who else was up to the task?

Amidst the chaos, another young man stood silently near the back of the courtroom instead. His clever green eyes scanning the goings-on with apparent disinterest, though the slight turning down of his mouth gave hint that he was actually rather displeased by what he saw. His unusually tall stature still allowing him a decent view of the bench despite the flailing bodies in the rows before him. As his gaze landed on the proud Mr. Hopkins however, his frown grew more pronounced. Eyes narrowing as the lower lids drew upwards.

Oh how he wished that he could crush the insolent fool right here. What sort of man lines his pockets by preying on the weak? Using superstition and fear to stir the townsfolk into a frenzy, all while calling himself a servant of God. As if God would ever approve of such behaviour! It was appalling to even think about. The arrogant ass at the front must have sensed the glare being directed at him, as his shoulders suddenly drew up in an involuntary shiver. Hopkin's glancing around once in confusion before shrugging and returning his attention to the witches.

The slender man near the back door allowed a lopsided smirk to ghost over his face in response. One of his hands resting casually on the silver hilt of the sword tied at his waist, though he was not expecting an attack. It was simply a habit he had acquired, as his busy mind meant his hands had a tendency to fidget when left idle. He wore a simple black travelling cloak over his handsomely embroidered deep burgundy doublet, black breeches, and exquisite leather riding boots. His silver buttons and buckles were all polished to a gleam, and his lace cuffs and collar looked as crisply white as the frost of a winter's morning.

He was clearly a gentleman of means, but no one paid him any mind. Not a one of them even bothering to rise and offer him their seat, as was typically due to a man of his status. Not that this bothered him. He was used to being unseen - preferring to linger in the shadows and observe from a distance. He got in less trouble that way. Heaven forbid he try to intervene here and bring shame on his Father's name. Again.

Still, as the condemned were led from the room, his heart went out to them. Wishing that he could spare these poor creatures from the tortures that awaited them. Wishing that he could spare all of them. The rough rope and short drop these women would soon face might honestly be something of a reprieve as compared to the months spent suffering in the cold and crowded dungeons. Some of the originally accused had already died beneath Colchester Castle - never having lived long enough to see these self-righteous idiots callously hand down the supposed Will of God.

These men had to know that they were condemning the innocent. What glory was there in accusing someone that was unable to defend themselves? What justice was there in degrading and murdering helpless men and women for the sake of jealousy, greed, superstition, and hearsay? If any of these insufferable fools ever met a true witch, they would not be so quick to imprison and torture her. Not that they would even be able to. How could the people not see that the very capture of these poor souls undoubtedly proved their innocence? Would not a real witch be powerful enough to break free and lay a curse upon her accusers?

The people jeered louder yet as the old beggar woman was led to the door. A guard half-dragging her as she fell behind the others due to her missing leg. Matthew Hopkins getting to his feet and moving into the aisle now so as to more easily watch her departure. She had been a tough one to break, and that had irritated him. He took great pleasure in watching the mad old bat get what she deserved now.

Despite her pathetic state, Elizabeth Clarke kept her head up as she glowered around at the gathered spectators. The lamed woman's eyes eventually landing on the distinguished young man at the back of the room and she very nearly stumbled to the ground. The faintest spark of curious recognition beginning to take hold in her tired orbs. The young man nodded to her in discreet acknowledgement, and a half-crazed smile began to twist her wizened face.

"You fool! Can you not see what you do," she croaked loudly. Forcefully turning halfway around so as to sneer back in the direction of the arrogant Mr. Hopkins. "A storm is coming! Can you feel it? A curse be on your soul for the blood you have spilt in the Lord's name, and may the Devil sparest thou no mercy!"

An eerie hush followed these unsettling words, as Elizabeth began to cackle gleefully. The sound lingering within the walls as she was shoved bodily through the doors. The people began to look between themselves uneasily now. The man, taking this as his moment to leave, slunk out the heavy wooden door as well before it had the chance to close all the way. Slipping from the room just as unnoticed as he had entered it.

He watched the retreating figures of the prisoners for a moment longer while his stomach roiled with a mixture of anger and regret. Then, with a sigh, he took off in the other direction. After settling his hat back over his tousled mop of dark auburn hair, he blew a stray piece of bang out of his eyes as he buttoned his coat. Pulling the collar up to block out some of the wind and adjusting his scabbard on his hip before letting out a shrill whistle.

A moment later, a large black wolfhound came bounding around the side of the building. The beast trotting to his friend's side with his head and tail held regally high, despite his lolling tongue and toothy smile. With a chuckle, the man reached down to scratch behind the wolfhound's ear. "What do you say bud? Think it's time to head out? We've got a long ride ahead of us."

He received a confirming huff in return and chuckled again. Then he glanced up at the iron grey of the overcast sky for a moment with a slight scowl. "Mrs. Clarke makes a good point you know," he offered to his companion as the two set off towards his waiting horse. "It certainly feels like a storm is coming."

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Hmm...

Updates should be 1 or 2 a week depending on how stressful life gets. I'm also working on building props atm for my family's super awesome Haunted House (covid friendly this year, of course), but I really want to get this completed before Halloween.

Also, I know... I, too, am a little shocked that I'm writing something rated T. Probably still going to be dark though. It is a Halloween Special after all, and I am admittedly kind of twisted :P lol