Abigale had just finished hanging the herb pot on the fireplace hook so the mixture could simmer when she heard the warning caw of the ravens. A frenzied rapping came at the hut's single window shutter, startling her as she snatched up her besom from the corner. Beseeching the triple goddess under her breath, Abbie strode to the shutter and swung it open.
Harold, alpha of the black birds that looked to protect her, stood perched on the sill, head cocked and side-eyeing her in panic.
"Men on the road, two escort guards and an elder in purple garb," the raven croaked.
"Bridget, save me!" the woman whispered. "Tis too soon; I knew this day was coming but I needed more time!"
"Should we attack, drive them off?" the raven asked.
"No, Harold dear love, that would make matters worse," Abigale said soothingly, stifling the worry in her voice. "I'll have to deal with these men myself. See to the chickens and goats, keep them calm. I must get ready."
Harold leapt in the air, crying to his flock mates as he flew off. Abigale hastily turned back into the hut's main room and bustled about. She waved the straw broom about the air, clearing the musk of cooking smells and dispersing the heavy energy of her spell work. Outside she heard the approaching clatter of heavy horse hooves as the visiting party came into her farm yard.
Setting the besom back against a wall and throwing off her apron, she straightened her mop cap and smoothed her blouse and skirt. She'd barely settled into her wooden armchair by the fire when a heavy pounding rocked her door.
"Enter, welcomed guests!" Abigale called. Her left hand snatched back her right, raised in habit to cast the spell that would have opened the door on its own. Best not to show powers, not now.
The latch was raised, and the heavy door swung inward. A tall, dark figure stood silhouetted in the sunlight that streamed through her portal. Behind the figure she could see his guardsmen, waiting. Abigale could not make out the man, save that he wore a heavy cloak and bore a tall wide brimmed hat on his head. Authority emanated from the figure and Abigale clutched her hands in her lap, full of caution.
The man finally strode into the room, light from the window revealing him as his heavy boots echoed on the floor planks. Officious as he was, he still had the good manners to doff his tall hat and give a respectful nod to the elder woman. He gave a perfunctory glance over his shoulder to address the guards outside.
"Give the horses their feed bags and rest them under the apple trees. Refresh yourselves and wait for me." As the men turned away from the door he sternly added: "Refresh yourselves with water only!"
Abigale saw the men share a disappointed glance together, then her attention snapped back to the official as he barked at her.
"Am I right in assuming you to be one Goody Goodwell, owner of this farmstead?" the man asked, with a voice that presumed whatever its owner said was to be accepted as truth, right or not.
"Have been all my long, blessed life," she answered, trying to keep calm and light. "May I have your name, good sir, and the purpose of your visit?"
"I am Roland Westmanger, Witchfinder Counsellor for this county. And I shouldn't have to explain why it is I have come to your door. There are too many reports of your deeds to ignore your situation any longer."
"No, though I am shocked if anyone in this community would have cause to take issue with me. Surely not enough to warrant a busy man of your authority to come so far from the county seat to harass me."
"Quite. I have in truth heard more tales of your 'miraculous healings' and the good of your 'spell work' than in any other case I have investigated. But that still doesn't excuse you from having to be put to the Test. Or give you leave to escape the penalties you have incurred over these past few years."
"Please, I am an old woman; it is not easy for me to travel to the county seat these days. And with all the good works I'm doing I should think I could be forgiven if I miss a bureaucratic deadline or two!"
"Goody Goodwell, please, don't be so worried!" the man stated, his voice softening. He strode forward and stood before Abigale in her chair. He leaned forward to take one of her hands in his, reassuringly. "I'm sorry that someone of your legendary skills has to be bothered by all these licensing requirements and red tape. But you know how the Witches' Tribunal insists that the Test be administered every seven years, just to be sure you aren't losing your magical touch.
"Come, it's not like you'll be put on trial or have to face a bunch of accusing Karens who weren't happy with an unsuccessful love potion or other such nonsense. Won't even have to demonstrate any of your conjuring abilities or whip up any potions; the Test is all written now."
"Oh!" Abigale blurted. "Oh, I see. So, you and your men were dispatched to escort me back to the county seat to be sure I took the Test and pay the late penalties?"
"Escort you back? Nothing so rude." Westmanger stood and turned to her kitchen table. Placing his tall hat there, he retrieved a satchel from the folds of his cloak. "In deference to your good service, I've brought the forms with me to administer the Test in the comfort of your home. I can personally vouch for what a pain it is at our age to travel the countryside. I bear it because I'm paid to; no point in a Crone of your importance to have to do so. And you've certainly contributed enough to warrant waiving the late fees."
Abigale sighed in relief and stood to help the Counsellor clear a place on the table for the sheave of parchment he was pulling from the satchel.
"I thank you for your effort and consideration, Counsellor Westmanger- "
"Roland, please, Goody Goodwell."
"Abigale. But what makes you think I couldn't just hop my besom and fly down to the seat on my own?"
"My dear, please," Roland said in mock chastisement. "This is not the Dark Ages. I don't believe those superstitious stories of witches flying through the air; and I am quite familiar with what potions you witches used to use when you 'rode' naked on your broom sticks so you 'thought' you were 'flying'?"
And in spite of his autocratic air, Roland spoke this with a wicked (did she daresay leering) twinkle in his eye. He finished laying out the parchments and writing tools for Abigale and sat on a stool facing her. Abigale waved a hand to levitate her spectacles over from the mantel shelf then pulled up her chair to the table. Donning the specs she perused the first question. As she picked up the pen to get down to business, she spoke one last quip:
"And again, what make you think I still can't 'ride' a broom stick when I want to; and wouldn't mind sharing that 'trip' in gratitude for this visit..."
She glanced up to fix the man with an eye twinkle of her own. Roland ducked his head and turned away to hide his blush and startled grin. Abigale smiled to herself and got down to the Test.
End