‘I know you, sir.’ He strode nearer and bent over the table to face the two men, but overbalanced. The drink was blurring his vision and weakening his legs.
The second man answered. ‘Thou art disturbing our game, methinks sir.’
Griffin glared at him before he leaned closer to the man he recognised. ‘Thou art known to me, sir. I never forget a face…ah, the name doth come to me…thou art the heretic.’
The men looked at one another, aware of the dangers if some people had overheard this comment. Father Peters stayed calm and stood up to face Griffin squarely. He took a cursory glance to check if anyone was watching or listening to them.
‘If you wish to seek counsel, good fellow, why don’t you join us in our game? That is of course if you have the means?’ Father Peters knew that, if Griffin refused, he would lose face.
‘Of course I have the means,’ he slurred. Father Peters and his compatriot, Father Morley, watched as he seated himself unsteadily on a stool and grappled with the coins in his purse.
Father Morley—who, like Father Peters, had learned to be discreet about his religious beliefs—was dressed as a wealthy yeoman or a merchant might. Like Father Peters he was involved with other Catholic conspirators, including those who arranged the construction of priest holes.
They were both only too aware of the dangers. Discreet Catholics knew of the tales: many priests suffering from gaol fever, imprisoned in cells, sharing their space with rats, caked in grime and virulent fleas, suffocating by heat and stench or by bitterly cold winters. Others tied to leg or arm irons were subjected to stretching on the rack. Death was a welcome relief.
The game commenced. Griffin was excited by the prospect of winning money.
He shouted for more ale, his exhaled breath already overpowering. He squinted as he tried to get the landlord’s attention. Father Peters won another round of the game and took the winnings from the table. He looked at Griffin, perspiring and fidgeting nervously.
‘Another game?’ Father Peters said. ‘You are the caster this time.’ Griffin’s means had come to an end but he still ordered more ale. Father Peters and Father Morley thought they had better call an end to the gambling.
As they tried to close the game, Griffin abruptly stood up and banged the table in fury. He swung his body round to face the rest of the inn and shouted.
‘This man has cheated me and stolen my money. Hark! Thou should’st be aware that he is a Papist and a man of deceit. Such men should be imprisoned for treason. Who is going to help me to banish him from our midst?’
As he finished shouting, he tipped the table furiously towards the lap of Father Peters, his eyes narrowed with hate. Father Peters swiftly got out of the way.
His frenzied accusation was only heard by a few of the revellers, however, and a toppled table was nothing to be surprised at in this inn. Father Morley signalled to Father Peters by a quick nod of his head, to leave swiftly but quietly by the back door.
Father Peters straightened the table and poured ale for Griffin, coaxing him to sit back down. He spoke with deliberation.
‘Thou art a man of high reputation, sir, being Lord Oliver’s tutor. Thou would’st benefit by keeping your demeanour calm. People and walls have ears. Tidings of a drunken schoolmaster for the Earl of Becton’s son will not bade well.’
Griffin looked at Father Peters through eyes that he knew were deceiving him. His vision was blurred, his hearing was marred and the room was swaying. He was aware of the priest leaving but he suddenly felt faint and nauseous.
‘He has poisoned me,’ he mumbled into the table, before falling off the stool completely, his ale soaking into the straw.
Father Peters asked the landlord to let him sleep it off in the corner. ‘It is, after all, Christmas.’
The landlord was unperturbed. ‘He will have to stay there. I am heavy with this lot to attend to.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Father Peters. ‘Should he seek counsel, refrain from speaking of his actions. He is not privy to my good companion or myself. Do you understand?’
The landlord agreed. He just desired an easy Christmas.
Chapter Eleven
September 1957
The sensation of suddenly losing your footing under water which is actually pulling you so you become completely submerged is probably the most terrifying thing ever; coupled with the fact that the water is filthy, rat infested, dark, utterly cold, and putrid.
Our arms thrashing and grabbing the other made it harder as we struggled for air, trying to catch our breath. The very act of trying to open your eyes to make sense of surroundings while you are believe you are drowning is nothing short of horrific. What was worse was that, one minute we were paddling and noticing the rat, then we were suddenly pulled into this very deep water.
I swallowed, hoping it was merely saliva. ‘Can you swim, George? We have to swim!’ I glanced round quickly to gauge the space. The tunnel had widened a bit, say about six feet or so across and was oddly circular. It remained very low, almost claustrophobic. The roof here was made of brick and was arched. George was panicking. His clenched fists were fighting the space in front of him as if he was being attacked.
‘I can’t see, Tom. Everything’s blurred—my glasses have gone…and my torch! I’ve dropped it somewhere. I can’t feel the bottom!’
His neck was arched and extended above the water level. Just for a couple of seconds, his eyes protruded like those belonging to a demented frog, before he sank again. I grabbed him. He popped up again and he spat out something green and stringy from his mouth.
‘God, this water…’
I thought he was going to drown as he became submerged a second, then a third time. I needed a better grip of him.
‘Tread water George. Tread water, for God’s sake!’ I yelled; it was bloody hard pulling him to the side, but then I discovered a brick ledge. At some time this must have been a constructed wall. Thrashing people, even little people, can suddenly become very heavy. Thank God it wasn’t the width of a swimming pool. ‘Hold onto this ledge, George.’
He was hyperventilating.
‘Take slow deep breaths, George.’ At least I could remember something from the first aid course I did when I was a boy scout. My torch was still working even after the dunking it had received. While his breathing recovered, I looked around. It appeared as if this particular bit may have been constructed as a standing space. It was perfectly circular and there were signs of the wall being chipped away.
Assessing the way ahead however, boulders popped up above the water level, making me think it was shallow.
‘Get your breath back. I’m just going to that bit there; it looks far less deep.’
After a few more yards I felt my feet dragging on rubble, possibly once steps that had collapsed over the years. Once again being hunched was the only way to negotiate the tunnel, which now seemed to bend to the left, perhaps around the back of the house.
I stopped and watched George take a deep breath, let go of the side and doggy paddle the few yards until he reached me. Because he was tiny, the crouching along the low tunnel was easier. When we were side by side I noticed him panting again.
‘You’re okay, George. You’re okay.’
‘Yeah. C’mon, we’ll carry on. I’m just breathless. I’m not a very good swimmer.’
‘Hmm…you don’t say,’ I kind of muttered. ‘Hopefully, mate, there won’t be any more surprises. Crikey, the stench is worse down this end. What do you reckon, we’re near the cess pit?’
For once George didn’t answer and I realised he was shivering and looking like death. I didn’t want him fainting on me, so I thought we’d better turn back. I told him to take deep breaths and, while he concentrated on his breathing, I looked ahead, wondering how long the tunnel was and where it went to. It was at that moment I detected movement, but resisted focusing my torch upon what appeared to be a hooded figure. I was about to alert George when I thought better of it, except I couldn’t go back witho
ut shining the torch. This time I saw only a thick pillar, probably supporting the roof, and I dismissed the movement as shadowy light on that construction.
George shivered more.
‘C’mon, let’s get out of here.’
We turned back, panting, paddling, swimming, wading and then climbing up the iron struts, this time crawling to the left on the horizontal passage, until finally falling into the cupboard of the front bedroom. Rolling out onto the bedroom floor, we didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; there was definitely immense relief, as well as foul water everywhere flowing and seeping into every crevice. It was then that George threw up.
I slammed the cupboard door shut. The sound of Mickey’s claws clattered into the room and, when he saw us, his tail wagged vigorously until the constant swaying from side to side caused him to slip on the water now mixed with vomit. Mickey started to sniff the floor.
‘Hey, he’s after your leftover apple pie, George.’ I wanted to humour him to check he was still alert. He’d gone pretty quiet, but managed a grin.
We couldn’t steady Mickey—he was too excited—but it seemed a relief to be finally laughing.
‘Hey, I’ve no idea of the time. Your dad might be here soon and you’re bloody soaking.’
There was the sound of footsteps.
We listened. Someone was coming closer. Shit, we hadn’t got into dry clothes and the room was a nightmare.
‘God, I stink!’ I whispered.
George responded, ‘We both do. Are you going to tell your parents about all this?’
‘You what?’
The door opened. I was well and truly snookered. Small fingers curled around the door…Annabel.
‘Jesus Christ! What have you two been up to? I can’t believe this mess… All through slug hunting?’
Whenever George got nervous, excited or embarrassed, he babbled…a lot. This incident evoked all three emotions and off he went into a tirade of reasons for the floor, the smell, the state of us. Some were nonsensical but others true as he gave an account of the secret underground cave and the effects of erosion, for God’s sake!
I interrupted the onslaught of babbled words, ‘Actually George, I also saw what looked like a priest, well a hooded figure, but I didn’t want to scare you anymore.’
‘A ghost? Even more exciting, but I could have taken it Tom, really, you don’t need to nursemaid me.’
I shook my head. He wanted to be the big hero in front of my sister.
Annabel was squinting with her hands on her hips.
‘If you don’t believe us,’ he said, ‘come down with us next time.’
My mouth shot open: not a chance.
‘Okay then,’ she announced, ‘I will do, ’cos I don’t believe a word.’
Shaking my head, I left the room to get clean clothes and towels. I threw George a dry shirt and some trousers. I couldn’t hear Mum and Dad so assumed they were still on their walk. God was on our side.
‘Annabel, you won’t like where we’ve been and you’re not coming with us; we might never go again anyway, so you’ll never find out the truth.’
‘Oh yes I will. I’ll tell Mum and Dad.’
I chucked the towel with mopped up vomit against her, ‘Get out and take Mickey with you.’
‘Ugh…what’s on that towel?’
I slammed the door shut, to hear her yell, ‘I’ll snitch.’
Chapter Twelve
Winter 1598
Since the New Year, Edward Griffin had barely used the birch on Jack, or at least that’s what Kathleen had been led to believe. Jack might have lied to her; she remained suspicious of Edward Griffin and suspected that nothing about the man would ever make her think any differently.
Jack had admitted to her once that he watched Griffin’s twitching fingers lots of times but Kathleen knew that the tutor had been warned against resorting to harsh actions and her son was missing out on an education, knowledge that she desperately wanted her children to receive. The man had a good position at the house and would not want to risk it.
*
Shortly after Anne became the governess for the Lady Mary and Ruth, she began to suffer with pains in her head and limbs. Kathleen treated her with a specially formulated aromatic balm and it seemed to soothe her. She used it frequently and Kathleen often checked on her welfare as well as the progress of young Ruth. The pair could be seen frequently in conversation and a trusting relationship grew.
Anne’s developing friendship with Griffin however was looked upon with increasing ill repute. One day, Anne commented on Griffin’s higher status, the nature of which she wasn’t allowed to disclose, but nevertheless he was performing a duty for the earl and excelling.
Kathleen pondered this ‘secret job’. If his wealth was increasing, this had to somehow be at the expense of the earl, a kind man but perhaps too easily duped.
She also suspected Anne hoped to marry Griffin. There was no doubting her excitement when she spoke of him and her desire to be rich.
Her passion used to be solely for high standards of education, but now it was driven by a desire for material wealth. Influenced by Edward Griffin.
As Kathleen prepared her herbs, she reflected on the waning friendship between her and Anne. Kathleen could never like or trust Griffin and that was one reason why she was unable to tell Anne about Father Peters staying at the cottage with her. Most people did not know, and Kathleen didn’t want to invite gossip. She already had to deal with suspicions about her medicines. If her cures did not work, some people were resentful and bore a grudge. These were the very beings who might consider her a witch. Lately there had been talk of people receiving cruel penalties. She recalled Griffin’s verbal abuse in the kitchen that day with Margaret, the accusation of being a witch.
She lived with the constant fear of the possibility of being shorn or pressed as other women labelled as practising witchcraft. Some had drowned in the river on the ducking stool, others were hanged.
It was rumoured that those in Scotland were often burnt. She had to be careful.
Sighing, she assessed the quantities of saffron, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, lily root, arsenic, rose water, rosemary, lavender, feverfew and mint sprigs. She had lots of vinegar, aniseed, honey and clary sage. Over the fireplace coarse cloth bags holding the ground plants mixed with honey and spices slowly filtered into pots below. Sweet, sour and bitter intoxicating aromas filtered through the tiny cottage.
Kathleen listened whenever a physician visited anyone in the village, hoping to learn from them. They respected her interest and help when they were busy. A few years previously, one of these physicians had taught her to read English as well as Latin. She was a good student and had been very sad when, a year later, he had died.
With Father Peters’ help, she kept notes about her successes and failures of her treatments inscribed in Latin on vellum. She kept these at the bottom of the jewelled herb box Father Peters had crafted for her. The jewels were obtained from the dissolution of the monasteries, left to him by Father Murphy. Father Peters had taken a long time in setting the jewels into the Elizabethan cross.
Some, she discovered, were obtained from underhand dealings on ships, just docked when returning from the New World. Father Peters had disclosed this in trust, having admired her hard work and ambition, especially for the children. Kathleen suspected he was concerned regarding her income, but he assured her that, should anything happen to him in these dangerous times, she would be his beneficiary. At least of the jewelled medicine box.
She admired her herb box, often polishing the stones until they dazzled when sunlight struck them. Emeralds, opals, rubies and diamonds, were all set into the elongated cross of Queen Elizabeth and welded into the silver box.
Only she and Father Peters could open the box. Although it had a keyhole, it was opened by a tiny hidden lever at the back. Some of the herbs and mixtures were potent and only Kathleen and the priest knew of the effects and the dangers of the contents.
In c
ertain cases, negative effects might well be required. Kathleen always placed the toxic ones at the bottom of a two-tier arrangement and under that her notes. She intuitively felt that, one day, the poisonous mixtures would be needed.
She peered through the window at softly falling snow. Her thoughts were jolted by a sudden and loud knock on the door. She was not expecting anyone and was glad Father Peters was elsewhere. Who might this be?
Before opening the door, she asked who was there.
‘Oh, for the sake of Jesus Christ, let me in here, Kathleen, it’s so cold.’ Kathleen opened the door to see Anne shivering on the threshold.
‘Thou art disturbed, Anne. Wherefore has’t thy come to my house?’
Without answering, Anne took off her cloak to warm by the embers, too cold to speak.
She vigorously rubbed her hands together then faced her palms to the glow in the fireplace and tutted. ‘Oh, Kathleen, has’t thou only got these embers?’ Kathleen did not answer but poured her some warm mead from a jug resting on the hearth.
Anne reached for the welcome drink.
‘Ah…that will indeed help.’ As she sipped the mead, she slowly lifted her face towards Kathleen and began to whisper as if saying something slanderous. ‘The Earl and Lady Charlotte are staying awhile longer in London. There are tidings that say the Queen is ill. She has been behaving strangely from the beginning of this year and some fear her death will soon be upon us.’
‘What do you mean, behaving strangely?’
‘She is heavy with melancholy. Some say from woe, others say different. She has ceased to eat or drink and takes herself to her chamber, wishing to see no-one. She won’t lie down lest the demons take her, but she is weak, Kathleen, weak with apathy.’
‘Her death won’t affect us, Anne. We will carry on even when Elizabeth has gone. Thou should’st worry less.’
The Curse of Becton Manor Page 9
