The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  George bumped into Gran coming in the kitchen. For once, lost for words, he continued to rush past her and up the stairs.

  She looked at me.

  ‘Go and drop another what, Tom?

  ‘I’ll explain later, Gran. Honest.’

  Within a short time, another ‘clunk’ alerted me to the location of the sweet dropping. It struck something hard.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her arms akimbo.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a bit, Gran. It’s a kind of experiment.’

  George came rushing back, just as I had picked a hammer from the workmen’s tool box. He went over to the fireplace, climbing over bits of rubble.

  ‘It’s about here, somewhere.’

  Dust has a way of hitting the back of your throat and coating it. I squirmed. The only way to get rid of it is to swallow it. We spotted a wobbly stone and managed to ease it away to get a better look at what was behind it. Yes…a metal container.

  ‘Oh, God, what’s that? Mind your toes!’ Gran warned.

  We pulled out a large metal chest, about two feet long by eighteen inches and a foot deep. We blew off a thick covering of dust just as the workmen returned.

  ‘What ye got there? ’Ere, you took my hammer. I told you, no tools.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, but I wasn’t sorry at all.

  Pete, seeing us struggling to open the chest and curious himself, placed a large scraper under the rim in several places. Exerting pressure, he used it as a lever to prise open the lid.

  George and I removed several layers of dark cloth, the eyes of the workmen eagerly focused on the contents.

  What was underneath the cloth stunned us all. Silver candlesticks, robes embroidered with gold and silver thread, chalices, plates and gold and silver coins.

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed the man.

  ‘The priest’s vestments and coins, lots of them,’ I was whispering, for some silly reason.

  ‘That’s some find, lad. Bloody hell.’

  ‘Err, kindly refrain from that language in front of young boys, eh?’

  ‘Sorry, missus.’

  Then, to our horror, Gran, said, ‘It’s not the only thing. They’ve found stuff down a tunnel, near the summer house.’

  ‘Gran!’ I yelled and she winced, realising her mistake. I kind of tutted until a sudden crack at the kitchen window distracted us.

  The raven had flown onto the kitchen window ledge outside and amazingly splintered the glass with his beak. His blackcurrant eyes surveyed the scene in the kitchen menacingly, until they came to rest on the chest of artefacts. The men jumped back in astonishment.

  ‘What is it with that raven?’ Gran shouted, ‘Now we have to pay for a new window. Be off with you… Shoo!’ It stayed put, walking one way then the other but constantly peering in.

  The men were spooked, but amused. ‘God, we haven’t had a job like this one for before, have we Pete?’ grinned Sydney.

  ‘Not at all. But looking at that fella outside, I’m glad that window’s not open. C’mon, we need to get on with this oven.’

  When they had finally gone, saying the plaster work around the oven needed to dry naturally, Gran asked us to help her get the chest into my bedroom.

  ‘This sort of thing can’t stop down here, especially with a cracked window. I wish we’d not found it when those workmen were here; and yes, I’m sorry I mentioned the tunnel.’ She slapped her hand in jest.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Gran. Who would want to steal from us anyway? Besides if it went tonight, we have those workmen to blame straight away.’

  George then disclosed some scandal about Sydney Fielding. ‘He was in the nick for armed robbery once. Mum doesn’t like Dad meeting up him. Says he’s always scheming, like finding ways to get rich quick.’

  Hmm, typical that he should visit here and see those artefacts and hear of treasure in the tunnel, but it was done now.

  George couldn’t resist rummaging through the new treasure box, fascinated by the relics.

  ‘Think about it, Tom. That priest would have had his hands on this very candlestick and these robes will have been worn by him…’

  *

  I was too restless to sleep. I stared at the chest. The find excited me. The priest had collected some beautiful things, but why did the raven become so frenzied every time we found treasure? He could well be the spirit of the old priest, it was looking more likely.

  In the still darkness of the early hours, I awoke, sweating like a cooking chicken, but paralysed as one is in a deep sleep. Although I felt hot, the room was icy cold.

  The hooded man hovered above me. I heard the slow and deliberate words of an old man:

  ‘Misery will haunt thee, brother, in this life and the next. I curse thee with claws, corvus, so thou can never grasp the treasures thou covets.’

  Then, a soft childlike voice, ‘Father, Father.’

  I opened my eyes to look round the room. I had been dreaming, probably caused by overactive thoughts since the new find of the priest’s belongings. I turned over towards the fireplace to try and get back to sleep.

  That was when I saw a boy standing close by, staring at me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  June 23rd 1598

  The late evening sky was tinted with pink and shades of dark blue and purple. The air was still, not with calm, but more a sense of doom. After Father Peters and the children had departed from Father Morley’s cottage, the latter stood at his fence, watching horses approach. About twelve or thirteen men slowed their horses from a gallop to a canter, and now the horses were whinnying as they came to an abrupt halt outside Father Morley’s cottage.

  The priest was dressed simply. A plain, dark robe was hitched up by a broad rope around his plump waist so most of the coarse cloth hung in folds over his belly. His keys and other small items for kitchen or garden use jangled from the rope as walked.

  He greeted the men but did not like the look of them.

  ‘What brings you in such a hurry to my humble abode?’ he asked the first man, who had dismounted from his horse. He seemed to be the leader.

  ‘We are looking for a priest, with two children. Have you seen them pass by?’

  ‘Nay, I haven’t. Why are you looking for these people?’

  ‘No business of yours, but it is by order of the Queen that they are found. They are to be charged.’

  ‘For what crime?’ Father Morley sounded calm, but he was tense with nerves. He must stall them.

  ‘As I said, good man: no business of yours.’

  ‘I am a farmer, still trying to keep my crops. I had my land reduced due to the wretched enclosures. Perhaps you can tell me if this is to stop, sir, now that you are here?’

  ‘We are not here to discuss crops, sir. If you see them and do not report this, you too will be judged, heed my words! There remain some Jesuit priests among us, trying to convert good people to the old faith. As you know, this is an act of treason. You look a wise man, sir. You wouldn’t be hiding anything from us, would you?’

  Francis Morley was given another opportunity to stall them. He swallowed hard. The man gave him a steely glare which made him feel uncomfortable. Francis paused for a short time until he noted signs of irritation in the men, then he continued before his nerves got the better of him.

  ‘Ah…my thoughts have returned to me. I remember a disturbance, early this morning.’ He waited again for a response, praying that Father Peters and the children could gain a lengthy distance from these priest or witch hunters.

  With further irritation, the man stepped closer to Francis. ‘Well, speak up, man. What disturbance are you referring to?’

  Francis hesitated.

  ‘I cannot be hurried, sir. I am old now and slow of mind. Age is wearying, as one day you too will discover.’ He rubbed his chin as if to indicate deep thought, ignoring the man’s deep sighing and threatening gestures.

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember…there were voices, early on. Somewhere over there behind the trees.’
He pointed in the opposite direction to the track that Father Peters had taken. ‘They must have gone on their way through the woods.’

  Looking suspicious, the man mounted his horse.

  ‘They are on foot. If we do not find them, we will come back, old man!’ The last words were vindictively expressed.

  Father Morley crossed himself, looked up to the sky and muttered to the Lord, asking for forgiveness. All his life, lying had never come easy. But the men would return.

  *

  Father Peters was making headway along the rough track to the back of Becton Manor. Father Morley was right. The track was treacherous in parts; large fallen tree trunks and heavy branches had blocked their progress. The horse had reared up in protest a few times and Jack and Ruth were thrown violently across the floor of the wagon, clutching each other to buffer the impact. Father Peters had to stop each time to check on them and cover them again with the sacking, straw and vegetables.

  It was dark. He was about to light his lantern using the flint to ignite sparks in the tinder box, when he heard horses in the distance somewhere behind him. He tried to steer the horse and wagon speedily behind some trees and cover it with branches still laden with evergreen leaves. The horsemen had gathered pace however and had seen him.

  They approached the wagon. Father Peters could smell ale on their breath.

  ‘Where are you off to in the dark, old man?’

  Father Peters was glad that he was dressed as a simple farmer.

  ‘I am setting off early to market. Tomorrow is a good day for me. Midsummer Day’s festival should yield a healthy profit. I want the best spot.’

  ‘Why hide your wares, old man?’

  ‘There are robbers on this road. When I heard you I thought I was going to have my fruit and vegetables stolen.’

  One of them looked in the back of the wagon. Father Peters tried not to show the tension that he felt in his body. He prayed that Jack and Ruth would remain still and quiet.

  ‘Plentiful strawberries, my man.’ He picked a few, giving some to his friend. ‘Ah, these are full of flavour. You are a good farmer, but why do you take this rugged and rocky track, especially with your fear of robbers? The lower road is better for you.’ They didn’t seem interested in an answer, more in the strawberries.

  Father Peters knew he must remain composed, but he badly needed to get rid of these men. While they were sampling the fruit at the back of the wagon, he furtively placed some of his toxic powders into two flagons of ale and replaced the corks. As he put them down carefully, he was aware of them walking back to him.

  ‘We are trailing behind the rest of our men, old farmer. Getting bored of looking for a priest and two children, so we sought nourishment from another farmer. We think he knew the whereabouts of the priest we are looking for, but he lied to us. Unfortunately, now…’ the man stared threateningly at Father Peters, ‘he will have no further need of his crops. You wouldn’t lie to us, would you?’

  ‘Why should I see children here, in the dark?’ answered Father Peters, his stomach sinking hard as if he had been punched. What had happened to his good friend? He could not enquire.

  The men strode to the back of the wagon again. Jack and Ruth gripped one another’s hands tightly.

  Father Peters held his breath. Then, he seized his chance. He turned round quickly and offered the men ale. ‘This includes the spices of the New World. I hope to sell lots at the market.’ Already drunk, the men were in the mood to try a different ale. One of them almost threw it down his throat.

  His eyebrows shot upwards and he looked surprised. ‘Strange ale you brew, farmer.’ He still downed another large slug. The second man did the same.

  ‘I must be on my way, good sirs. As I said, I need a good spot. Keep the flagons.’

  The men started to laugh and joke as they continued to tip their heads back and let the ale wash down their necks. They were now unconcerned at Father Peters’ departure.

  ‘Adieu,’ they echoed.

  Father Peters clicked his tongue and sharply struck his horse to make headway, but also intended to make the men’s horses jittery. It worked. The nervous horses scampered away.

  The men jeered and stopped drinking but, as Father Peters glanced over his shoulder, he saw them staggering. Very soon, their vision would deceive them and the contents of their bowels and stomach would be ejected. He could not wait for this to happen. He had to make haste.

  Ahead, Becton Manor was emerging as a dark silhouette. There were a few bonfires around; of course this was Midsummer’s when bonfires were lit to protect from evil spirits.

  But, as Father Peters looked across to the field just beyond the Hall, he spotted a crowd of people milling about and shouting. It was a disturbing, frenzied scene. He whipped the horse to accelerate his speed then, near to Becton, he spotted the edge of a precipice.

  It gave him a good vantage point. Quickly dismounting and running to the edge, he saw a myriad of red sparks before his eyes.

  Then…the huge bonfire. He heard the shout of an old woman that stilled his heart.

  ‘She is innocent! This woman should not burn!’

  Father Peters knew the woman on the stake was Kathleen. She had had no trial. This was an unlawful procedure. He wanted to run down the hill as fast as his legs could take him, but he looked back at the wagon. He made the sign of the cross.

  How could the good Lord challenge him with such diverse loyalties? He would have to leave the children to save Kathleen and, by doing so, he would be admitting to his ‘union’ with a witch. The children would be found, and they would suffer, from the poverty heaped upon them by being orphaned, or worse, by death, as conspirators with their mother. What choice did he have?

  He looked again at the roaring fire casting a halo of bright orange light in the dark sky. He heard the milling mob. There were supporting calls for her release but the flames grew higher and the timber broke and crackled, drowning out the protests. He knew she would not scream, but in the light of the fire, he saw wisps of her hair and he felt her pain.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  June 23rd 1598

  There remained a strong smell of wood smoke in the field near Becton Manor later that night, on the eve of Midsummer’s Day. It had been a long evening, a celebration evening to encourage a strong sun and to purge the land of evil spirits. Kathleen Melton had been deemed an evil spirit when she was convicted of being a witch.

  Now, almost at the turn of the day into Midsummer’s Day, bone ends protruded from glowing embers and white ash, soft dust particles mixed with orange sparks floated in the air. An odd sense of serenity hung over the field. A few other fires had brightened the night sky, while villagers sang, chanted and danced. Kathleen’s flesh had long gone but her spirit had risen. A couple of hours later, the once noisy crowd had all but departed.

  From his viewpoint at the top of the small bank, about a two hundred yards from Becton Manor, Father Peters was angry with them all. No one had tried to halt the burning. No one had protected her, including himself.

  His misery was intolerable. With tears spontaneously running down his cheeks, he bent over to clutch his wretched body, contorted in pain. He could not wail but as he looked up to the heavens, crossing himself several times, he lost his resolve and his face crumpled into a hundred weary wrinkles. With a brief shake of his head, he gently sobbed.

  ‘Why, Lord, why?’

  He looked back at the wagon. There was no movement. The children must be asleep. He must compose himself. He needed to complete his journey and wake them.

  *

  Anne Sawyer and Edward Griffin were still standing near the edge of the field below, watching the embers and the departing crowd.

  An unbearable sense of wretched disgrace and shame gripped the former governess. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blazing fire gripping Kathleen’s bound body, roaring like a wild animal, ready to devour her.

  Dear Kathleen, what have we done to you? She had never move
d; just her singeing wispy hair escaping as tiny sparkling fragments floated towards Heaven in the darkness of the smoke. She had looked like an effigy, but, no…she was an angel, just an angel, fading from their grasp. Prepare for her, Holy Father. She will be a good angel for you.

  Anne felt hot, faint and dizzy. Griffin heard Anne’s sudden raspy breathing and watched her bend over, violently ejecting her stomach contents onto the muddy earth below. There was no sympathy shown by him.

  ‘Get up, woman. It was not my doing. I tried to save her. She should have paid me the money that I was owed by the priest and at least given me her box. She may have even taken my money box; it was stolen from the house. I would have defended her when the horsemen came. I did not know they were coming. You will do well to remember that she almost ruined my life: she and that priest of hers. We can be wealthy, Anne, in our own right, but you have to do as I say. Tonight we have to leave.’

  He did not speak of searching for Kathleen’s herb box or hitting her hard across the face when she would not tell him of its whereabouts. She had fallen and banged her head on the stone floor. Then men on horseback had arrived at the cottage. They had orders to take her away for a trial for murder by the means of witchcraft. In a few days she may have confessed when her body was pricked for signs of the devil, then tied to a chair before being ducked into the river. He knew she would not escape.

  News travels fast of an angry mob wanting the demise of an accused witch who had poisoned an earl, his daughter and a local girl. Griffin had made sure it did.

  Griffin told the men that the witch was unconscious due to ale and the herbs she used. He’d persuaded them they should burn her that night, as part of the Midsummer’s Eve purging of witches and pagans. It would be humane. She would not feel the pain of the flames. There was a feverish animated mob outside, baying for her blood to be spilled. They were like a pack of animals, ready for the kill.

  Suspicious of the horsemen, the villagers bustled around them. Vigilantes disliked the interference of outsiders who, with the increasing tension, were afraid to dismount, their horses whinnying, nervous and fidgety.