At last, everything was ready for Circe to move to Boston. Arrangements had been made for Wren and Mercy to take charge of the Glendower weaving room. Cedric had leased a storefront for Circe on Market Street where they moved her loom and several spinning wheels. One of her apprentices would join her as well, and they would reside in the back of the shop.

Dante would live and work with Cedric’s friend, Dr. Frederick Lumpkin, whom lived in a country home outside of town. Lumpkin, an obese but good-natured physician, lived quietly ministering to the sick of rural Boston while worshipping the Goddess in private. The arrangement was perfect since De la Rosa needed to be in a remote location. He was too unfamiliar with Puritan ways to blend in well, even though his English was flawless. Dante set up an apothecary’s workroom in an abandoned structure on Lumpkin’s land.

The Derwydds wanted Circe to leave at once, but she insisted on staying for Calan Mai. This year the Beltane festival was special because Ruith and Bullfrog were to have a handfasting ceremony - more commonly called a wedding.

The morning of the handfasting dawned clear and warm, a perfect day for a wedding. Preparations were taking place in town for many events including three other handfastings, games, competitions, music and the Maypole dance.

Everyone was busy at the Swinburne home as well. After Ruith bathed, Circe and Saffir anointed her with sacred, scented oils and dressed her in a light green gown Circe had woven for the occasion. It was a long, filmy garment falling gracefully to the floor in luxurious, shimmering folds. Fitted closely in the bodice, it had a round neck and large bell sleeves. Around Ruith’s hips, Saffir tied a belt she had embroidered with an ivy design woven into a Celtic wedding knot.

When she finished tying it on, Saffir hugged Ruith and asked, “Are you nervous?”

Ruith shook her head. “I am surprised that I am not. My sight is awash with soft colors and I feel oddly calm.”

Looking over her shoulder, Saffir called, “Circe, it’s time.”

“Coming,” she replied, dashing up with a wreath of wildflowers to place on Ruith’s head. “Truly, sister, you have never looked more beautiful. Where are your shoes?”

“The bride and groom always go barefoot, Circe,” Ruith replied. “To feel the pulse of the earth.”

“Let us go,” Saffir said, opening the door.

Rhun was waiting outside on the step with the children. Giving Ruith his arm, they started through town followed by the rest of the family.

“Ruith says she is not nervous,” Rhun said over his shoulder as they wound their way through the crowd. “But I have seen Bullfrog. He is shaken enough for both of them.”

The site chosen for the handfasting was a small clearing on a brook not far from town. Family and friends had gathered there waiting for the bride and her family. Bullfrog stepped forward the moment they arrived. He was dressed in a crisp, saffron tunic, belted at the waist, leggings, and boots. Circe had woven a tartan mantle for him which he wore over one shoulder.

His face split into a smile when Rhun stepped up and gave him Ruith’s hand. The crowd gathered around, forming the traditional handfasting circle as Cedric stepped up, ribbons in hand to officiate.

Everyone grew silent, and only the bubbling of the brook could be heard. The couple stood hand-in-hand, the morning sun sifting through the emerald screen of the trees.

Circe looked at Bullfrog. His clothing was perfect. His hair was combed, and his tartan was folded neatly; but, there was something wrong. Something was missing.

Suddenly, it came to her. There were no birds; they must have been frightened by the crowd. She looked up in the trees. They were there witnessing the handfasting too, just like every other family member.

The ceremony was short and, after speaking a few words, Cedric, in the name of the Goddess, wound colorful ribbons around Bullfrog and Ruith’s right hands. He finalized their union by tying the knot; everyone applauded. The bagpipers started to play, “The Welsh Lovespoon Song” as Bullfrog kissed Ruith.

Circe watched guests step up to the brook to pick up their libations cooling in the water. Afterward, they tossed pebbles into the stream to wish the newlyweds happiness. She sighed. Would her Norse god ever come? Was she destined to be merely a weaver and spinster her entire life? She shrugged. Love was the least of her worries right now. Tomorrow she would start a new life in a new town. The thought twisted her stomach.

“You look like you need some of this,” Wren said, handing her a bladder of honey wine. He was dressed in his best tartan, a bold pattern that emphasized his portly figure. “You look pale,” he observed.

After taking several swallows, Circe wiped her mouth and said, “I do not want to go to Boston.”

“I know,” he replied. “But you can come back for visits.”

“But here I can dash into the woods anytime I want to clear my mind and speak with the Goddess. I’ll have to keep closely guarded in Boston, just like when I was a child.”

Wren handed her the wine again as they started back to town. Circe took a long pull. “And now with the Great Purge, those townspeople will be more suspicious than ever.”

“At least you’ll have the new apprentice with you. And that Spaniard too.”

“God’s nightgown; that’s great comfort,” she said sarcastically.

The musicians were playing when they reached the village green. Wren grabbed her hand and exclaimed, “Come, the dance is beginning. We will forget everything!”

And with the help of music and more wine, Circe did forget and danced the afternoon away.

Bullfrog had his share of libations that day as well. He needed strong drink to mingle with the villagers. Before the handfasting, he had practiced social graces over and over with Ruith and Circe, appearing in town greeting people, supping with family and meeting the Derwydds. But it never came easy for him. At the end of the day, he would jump into his boat and row frantically back to the Great Marsh to find refuge among his forest friends.

“Promise me you will come to the marsh and see us, Circe,” Bullfrog said as he pulled her away from the dance that afternoon.

“I will. Will you come back to Glendower?”

“I will bring her at once if she has an important vision, but other than that, perhaps once a month.”

“Is your house complete?”

“Yes, your father and several of the men helped me.”

“I am so glad you decided to build something new. You two could never have existed in your tiny dwellings. And be sure to let her make it a home. We like pretty things, you know.”

He nodded.

Circe sighed. “Do you ever wish we were children again, running through the marsh, fishing, hunting, exploring? Those were carefree times.”

“Aye, but even then you had to return to the Puritans.”

Circe laughed and hit his arm. “Let me have my memories.”

Mari ran up to Bullfrog just then. “I want to stand on your feet again when you dance.”

“Can I stand on your feet too, Circe?” Ewan added, tugging on her skirt.

Agreeing, they returned to the dance.

Circe was feeling merry again when it was time for Ruith and Bullfrog to be sent off. She sang and threw flowers with the others in the grand procession to the river to say farewell to the newlyweds. Bullfrog lifted Ruith into his skiff all decorated with ribbons. They started for their new home in the Great Marsh.

Circe heard a voice in her ear as they rowed downriver and out of sight. She looked over her shoulder, but no one was there. It was the whisper of a child. “Beware, Circe Swinburne,” it said. “Beware, beware.”

*                  *                   *

When Dante walked into the house, Dr. Lumpkin was snoring in front of the fire. Supper dishes were on the table, and the room smelled of dinner.

“Dios mio!” Dante muttered, looking at Lumpkin and throwing his cloak onto a chair.

Picking up a chicken leg, he tore off a bite and washed it down with some mead. He sighed, slumping into a chair while continuing to eat and staring at the fire.

Dr. Lumpkin, a man later in years with heavy jowls and a large belly, continued to snore loudly. A semi-retired physician and widower who never remarried, Credence Lumpkin cooked and kept house for himself, preferring the privacy and quiet of a solitary existence. 

Suddenly, he snorted and awoke with a start. Blinking, he looked around the room. “Mr. Rose,” he said, blinking at Dante. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Go back to sleep,” Dante replied, throwing his chicken bone onto a plate. “I am going to town.”

Dr. Lumpkin sat up. “You must not! It is far too dangerous.”

“I have been here a month and every night it is the same. We eat, you sleep and I listen to you snore.”

“Where will you go?”

“Where else? The taverns.”

Credence watched Dante swing his cloak around his shoulders. “This is ill-advised.”

“Dr. Lumpkin, you forget what it is like to be a young man. Besides, I survived the Indies. Boston Towne is child’s play.”

“Speak with no one.”

“Noted,” Dante said and left the house.

He jumped onto a horse and headed straight for the dockside taverns. The Puritans of the Massachusetts Bay Colony depended heavily on trade, so they tolerated two taverns for seamen and dockworkers.

Dante headed inside The Weymouth. It was a rundown inn on the quay, sandwiched between two warehouses. It was filled with smoke, noise and rough-looking men. With low-timbered ceilings and a plethora of unwashed bodies, the air was rank.

No one looked up when Dante walked to the bar and ordered a tankard of the new drink called rum. He fit right in with his surly attitude and scarred face. Turning around and leaning back, he ran his eyes over the crowd. Men with weathered skin sat at tables or stood in groups. Several were rolling dice in the corner. Others were smoking and telling tales.

Dante chuckled. It was good to be out with drinking men again. He had little tolerance for the pious and devout. He had always enjoyed the company of a more unsavory crowd.

His first drink went down quickly. He ordered another, turning back to watch the patrons. He noticed there were no working women anywhere. The Puritans tolerated taverns; marketing of flesh was too much to ask.

Dante sorely missed the company of women. It had been months since he had tumbled a female, and even that had become unsatisfying lately. In fact, the past few years nothing had suited him. He longed to settle down somewhere and quit wandering but no place suited him. All his life he had been satisfied with superficial liaisons, but now, he yearned for a home and an intimacy of the heart. In Santo Domingo, Elaina Barros had provided such intimacy, but soon he grew bored with her.

He thought of the women he had visited recently in the countryside. Puritans held little appeal for him either. The unmarried females were just out of childhood, and married women were a dangerous proposition.

Now that weaver from Glendower. There is some untapped passion; those blue eyes and fiery red hair.

It had been amusing playing with her temper, too, and he wondered if she had arrived in Boston yet. He could use some sparring.

Dante went back to watching the crowd and was enjoying himself until a leathery-skinned sailor with sunken cheeks and close-set eyes started staring at him.

Dante tossed back his drink and left.

It was quiet as he walked along the docks, making his way to the next tavern. Only bells clanging from the ships could be heard and an occasional dog barking in the distance. Suddenly, Dante ducked into an alley and pressed himself against a slimy wall. The man who had been staring in the tavern was following him. When the sailor reached the alley, Dante grabbed him and dragged him back into the shadows holding a dagger to his throat. “Why do you follow me?” he hissed in the man’s ear.

The sailor smelled of sweat, rum, and rotting teeth. “I-I know you,” he stammered.

“What?”

“I know you from Spain. You were part of ‘La Sociedad Libertina,’” he said breathlessly. “I, too, was part of The Libertine Society. But you would not remember me. I held no high position.”

“Who was your contact?”

“Emmanuel Diego.”

Recognizing the password, Dante gave him a push. The man tumbled forward, catching himself on the wall. Dante jerked his head, and they walked into “The Boars Head Tavern.”

Taking rum to a table in the corner, Dante sat down and asked, “What do you want?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the man said defensively, his bloodshot eyes wide with wonder. “I swear by the blood of Christ. I was struck dumb seeing you. That’s all.”

“What is your name?”

“Garcia, but now I go by the Italian name Bulgari, just to be safe. As you know, the English hate the Spanish.”

“Do they not hear your accent?”

Bulgari shrugged. “They do not know the difference between Spanish and Italian.”

Dante nodded. “I go by Rose instead of De la Rosa for the same reason. What news of the Libertines?”

“I’ve been in England but I heard they have smuggled many out of the prisons and some all the way out of Spain. But it is a losing battle. The number accused of heresy grows every day.”

Dante leaned closer to him. “You say you have been to England. What news do you have of this Joseph Duncan?”

“The witch hunter?”

Dante nodded.

“His power grows. He has hanged over three hundred, mostly women. There is talk that he is coming to the New World. He believes that here, more than anywhere, the devil does his work.”

Dante slumped back in his chair. “This is indeed grievous news.”

Dante returned home after finishing his rum. He cursed himself for going to town. Lumpkin had been right. He should not have spoken with anyone. He left Spain to sever his ties with the Libertine Society, but here he was, once again, about to be in the center of the fight. He wanted to jump on to the next ship, return to the Indies, and drown himself in rum; but, he knew himself too well. He would stay and do battle with this witch hunter. He could never resist a fight.

*                  *                 *

It took weeks for Circe to sleep in her new bed. She was homesick and heavy-hearted which was completely out of character for her. She no longer hummed when she wove, and the golden sunshine of spring did not caress her. She did not have to feign the somber attitude of the Calvinist; her ennui was genuine.

It was like traveling back in time being in Boston. It was Plum River all over again but on a grand scale. There were Puritans everywhere and Indians coming to trade; but instead of one main thoroughfare, there were many, many streets. The wharf was huge and always crowded with vessels, and endless settlements surrounded the town. There were no secluded glens or bowers nearby. The Puritans were clearing everything.

Rows and rows of square, dark, clapboard-sided dwellings lined the streets, all austere and devoid of ornamentation. Dark paneling lined many of the interiors, while others were more rustic. The finer homes had leaded glass windows with diamond patterns, and many of them had second story overhangs. The structures loomed up on either side of the narrow streets like shadowy giants standing watch over the pedestrians.

Circe’s shop was on the main thoroughfare. It was a small, one-story building with the weaving room in front and living quarters in back. She brought one apprentice, a young man named Levi Morgan who had been raised in Norwich among Puritans. Years of practice blending seamlessly in the Separatist communities made him the perfect choice. A hardworking and quiet fifteen-year-old, Levi spoke seldom but noticed everything. Circe knew he would discreet and cautious when they started escorting new arrivals to the Celtic settlements. He had a face heavily pockmarked, gaunt physique and shy demeanor. He had a good sense of humor and was always good-natured when he did talk.

They each had a lodging in the back of the shop consisting of a small sitting room with a hearth and bedchamber. Circe did her best to make it feel like home with dried flowers, a yellow tablecloth, and a colorful braided rug.

Cedric hired a housekeeper for them - an elderly woman who was a part of their community. He knew the woman would be efficient and above all discreet. She would come every morning to clean and prepare their midday meal.

The adjustment was slow for Circe. When she was feeling homesick, she would flip the rug back, pull up a loose floorboard and take out a box she had hidden. It was filled with memories of home, including the torque she received from her father, poems from Saffir, and mementos from Bullfrog and Ruith. It also contained the mask that matched Dante’s linen map.

She wondered when she would hear from De la Rosa. A ship from Portsmouth was expected any day, and they had word several families were onboard that would need guidance.

With a shortage of weavers in town, Circe had business almost at once. To avoid any slip-ups, Cedric sent instructions to the immigrants to approach Circe’s weaving room only when she hung a green wholecloth quilt over the railing outside the door. Only then it would be safe to talk freely.

One rainy morning, Circe heard the bell jingle on the shop door. Dr. Lumpkin walked in the shop. “Good day to you, Mistress Swinburne,” he said, looking around the room.

Circe stood up from the spinning wheel. “You may speak freely, Dr. Lumpkin.”

“It appears as if you have settled in well.”

“That we have. How may I help you?” Circe asked.

“Is your apprentice here?”

“Yes, he is outside dying wool.”

“Is he capable of handling the shop today?”

“Most certainly.”

“I must familiarize you with the route to my home. We are expecting the ship any day.”

“Very well. Will give me a few moments to make ready?” Circe replied. “Please have a cup of tea while you wait.”

“Mistress Swinburne,” he said, glancing out the window. “I have a concern. I am aware of your signal with the quilt. What will you do if it is raining? Certainly, it would raise suspicion if you were to hang it out in foul weather such as this.”

Circe’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed, it would. I must think of another signal as well.”

After tending to a few things and giving Levi instructions, Circe and Dr. Lumpkin climbed into his two-seated carriage with the bellows top open to keep them dry. She was dressed in the simple clothing of the Puritan and, once more, her voluminous red hair was braided tightly and tucked under a coif. They bumped along the muddy roads for several miles occasionally passing wagons and pedestrians. “Tis a well-traveled road,” Lumpkin said. “No one will question why you are on it. You have a wagon?”

“Yes, the Arch Derwydd obtained one for me.”

“Good,” he replied, turning down a narrow lane. “This leads to my home.” It was a heavily overgrown trail, and branches slapped against the carriage.

“Do I bring the new arrivals here?”

“No, there is a path behind the house that leads to an abandoned cottage. I would take them into my residence, but I fear it would arouse suspicion.” He pulled back on the reins. “Here we are.”

Dr. Lumpkin’s home was like other homes in the area, a dark clapboard dwelling with two stories and leaded glass windows. Circe climbed down and went inside while Dr. Lumpkin took the horse to the stable.

While he was outside, Circe brought the fire up.

“Ah, how inviting,” he said when he came into the room. He waddled over to the fire after hanging his wet cloak on a peg. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Hard to believe it is spring, eh?”

When they sat down for tea, Circe asked, “Do you have any idea how many arrivals there will be this time?”

“More than originally thought,” Dr. Lumpkin replied, taking a bite of a biscuit. “But I fear, they are jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”

“Why is that?”

He shook his bald head. “Joseph Duncan is coming to the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

“Who?”

“He is a witch hunter who has been given the title of Witchfinder General by Parliament. His power grows every day. The damn fools give him a fee every time he finds a witch so, of course, he has discovered a multitude. They say he brought in ninety in one day, and they were all tried before nightfall. Thank the Goddess our villages are far beyond the fray and will elude discovery,”

Circe sat up straight. This news was indeed disturbing.

Lumpkin continued. “The manuals he holds most dear are Demonology by our former king and Malleus Maleficarum, both treatise on how to exterminate witches.”

“Is the latter Latin?”

“Yes, it translates as the Hammer of Witches. I find it surprising Duncan uses it,” Lumpkin said. “It was written by a Catholic. Nevertheless, he employs the techniques of identification and eradication found there. They are most brutal.”

“Is this monster coming to Boston?”

“He is, sometime this summer. This is why discretion is of the utmost importance, my dear. The frenzy is now moving into the New World. There seems to be no escape.”

“And we will be at the heart of it,” Circe mumbled. 

The front door opened and Dante burst into the room. He was panting from running through the rain. After peeling off his coat, he kissed Circe’s hand and said, “Enchanting to see you again, Widow Swinburne. Please indulge me while I practice your new title of widow.”

“Good day, Mr. Rose,” she replied stiffly, withdrawing her hand.

“Mr. Rose has his apothecary shop in the cottage of which I spoke,” Lumpkin explained. “My wife and I built it when we first came to the colony.”

“I make and deliver the medicine Dr. Lumpkin prescribes. It is no secret I am here, but my contact with the villagers is limited.”

“And your shop is where I am to bring the new arrivals?”

“That is correct,” Dante said, warming himself in front of the fire. “It is rustic, but the women and children will be out of the elements there; that is, until they can build a shelter on their new site downriver.”

“The men will sleep outside?”

“Yes. There is an old barn for them too if they choose.”

Dr. Lumpkin took a sip of tea and looked from Circe to Dante. “I understand that both of you are necessary for channeling our thin places.”

“Yes, there is a magnetic force between us,” Dante said, looking at Circe with a smirk.

“We have found two of the sites,” she said, ignoring him. “The third we are yet to visit.”

“We need not make haste with that,” Lumpkin said. “We have to populate the first two.” Turning to Dante, he said, “Mr. Rose, sit down, have some tea.”

“No, thank you. I was hoping to show the Widow Swinburne my shop.”

“Good idea. She needs to know where to take our guests.”

Holding his coat over Circe’s head, they ran through the rain down a slippery path to the cottage. The dwelling was in a secluded spot on a river. It was small and quaint with a roof of thatch and rough cut siding. There was only one window in the cottage, the rest consisted of oiled paper, so Dante had to light candles the moment they walked inside.

Circe’s eyes grew wide. Mistress Charles never had a workplace this extensive.

Seeing the look on her face, Dante asked, “Have you ever been to an apothecary shop?”

“No,” she replied, walking around the room.

There were barrels, jugs and large crocks on the floor. Herbs and dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A huge cast iron pot hung from a trammel in the hearth, and two cupboards were crowded with bottles and jars labeled in Latin.

Circe walked over to a long, heavy oak table. It was covered with vials, a mortar and pestle, a scale and a wooden bowl. It held what looked like dead bugs. It smelled foul. She picked up an unusual Cherrywood hourglass and examined the carving on it. It looked like a serpent.

Dante started brushing off the table and asked, “Are you hungry? Care for some tea?”

She chuckled. “You actually cook here?”

“Oh, is it too dirty for the princess?” he said.

“What will you do when children come?”

“I will have to lock everything up,” he said, gesturing to the cupboards. “The little bast--” and he stopped. “Undoubtedly the filthy little devils would break things.”

“My concern was for their safety,” Circe said.

“But of course you would say that.”

Several candles had run over onto the tables as if Dante had worked late and fallen asleep. “Is this where you sleep?”

“No, I have a bedchamber in Dr. Lumpkin’s home.”

She walked to another table where he had a wooden lap desk with ink, quills and musty old books. Several volumes were open. She looked at the pages. They too were in Latin. “Where did you get all this?”

“Some of it was Dr. Lumpkin’s and some of it he purchased for my practice.”

“Where will the women and children sleep?”

“There is a small bedchamber and a loft above, but I assume they will take any open spot on the floor they can find.”

“When will you work?”

“During the day when they are building the village. They will be gone from sunrise to sunset. Just taking their supplies down the river will take most of the day.”

Circe turned to him suddenly and said, “Dante, news of this Joseph Duncan frightens me.”

His eyebrows shot up at her sudden honesty, and then his face softened. He touched her arm and said, “My instructions are to keep you safe, and on that, you can depend.”