The Prisoner

by James Darke

  Please,’ said Edric Lockley. He tried to say: Please’, but it was difficult to form words.

  A kick from the heavy boots of one of the Mendoza brothers had broken his jaw. A second kick in the mouth, this time from the woman’s foot, had snapped off several of his remaining teeth at the level of his gums, so that they pained him almost beyond endurance.

  ‘Please, indeed, Master Lockley. The good folks of Steeple Shuckburgh sent word of your practices. And you came here, to Watford, of your own free will, to prove you were innocent of the charges. Your own free will, Master Lockley, think on’t.’

  He had thought of it. For every minute of the forty-eight endless hours. Sleepless hours, as the gipsies had taken turn and turn about to make sure

  that he was not able to sleep. And the thoughts had kept returning that he could have laughed off the trumpery charges. That he should be thought a

  witch was absurd, yet here he lay, bound and naked, helpless, facing a fearful death.

  All for a jest.

  It had begun as a jest.

  Some year or more back Lockley had employed a yellow, slant-eyed man as an assistant in his slaughterhouse. From far Cathay, he said, and his name had been Ho. No other name but Ho. And he had taught Lockley’s wife a sport with a bowl of water, and some words writ down on parchment. And a small lodestone that floated on wood in the water. You laid out the words around the bowl, each offering some sort of foolish fortune. ‘A trip is to come.’ ‘A fair lover will see you on a Sunday.’ ‘Crops will be fine this year.’ Silly, idle things. He had played it as well, and so had many of the women of Steeple Shuckburgh.

  It had been a merry time, sitting around and watching the dull grey stone as it turned and bobbed, until it settled towards a fortune for the chosen one.

  ‘Meg Inchton,’ he whispered, so softly that Robert Monk did not catch the words.

  It had begun with Meg Inchton. A pretty, open lass, with hair the colour of summer wheat. Edric himself had been one of the locals who had tumbled her in the hay, but she had married and was with child. The fortune had pointed to one of the less happy ones that Edric’s wife had put in to liven the sport. It said: ‘The fruit will wither on the bough.’ It had meant no harm.

  ‘Meant no harm,’ mumbled Lockley, tasting his own salt blood fresh on his tongue.

  ‘If you mumble so, Master Edric, then we can hardly prove you guiltless,’ smiled Monk, standing close to the wretched prisoner.

  ‘If you care for it, Master,’ suggešted Liza Hall, ‘I can loosen that stubborn tongue within the hour. Go and sup, and then send Daniel Mendoza to me. I swear that this bonny fellow will be singin’ like a fine lark, ‘ere you come back.’

  ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ begged Edric. The beating and brutality of the gipsies had been bad enough, but the sly torturing of the slatternly woman was worse. They struck at the core of his being. At his manhood, his pride.

  ‘The fruit will wither on the bough.’

  Two days later Meg Inchton had clutched at her belly screaming with pain. By the next day she had miscarried, the bloody rags of flesh that she produced bearing little resemblance to a human child, armless and with only paddles of skin where its legs should have been.

  If they had stopped then. . .

  But the game had continued, and more of the foolish predictions seemed to come true.

  ‘Beware the water crossing.’

  And Josiah Turnling’s only daughter found drowned in the mill-pond a week later.

  Edric’s wife had tried to lighten things, taking out any prediction that seemed threatening.

  ‘A gold harvest to overflow.’ That had been her own one.

  ‘Poor Portia,’ he said, his voice drowned by the sound of the door closing on the cell as Monk slammed it firmly shut.

  A golden harvest.

  Portia Lockley had been dozing beneath a cart loaded to overflowing with golden corn, harvested that day. An axle had unaccountably snapped and the cart had dropped across her back, splintering her spine and killing her instantly.

  That had been last year.

  But things had gone on, the whispering and the pointing fingers. Until he could take no more of it. When he had heard that Robert Monk, the Witchfinder, was in the district, carrying out an inquisition at Watford, Edric had mounted his dappled mare, Bess, and ridden to see him. To show theworld he had no fear.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he cried, finding himself starting to weep again.

  ‘Cry to the Saviour, do you, deary?’ sneered the woman. Raising a hand the size of a hock of ham, and wiping it across her mouth. ‘Thought Satan

  was more to your liking.’

  ‘I’m no witch,’ he protested:

  ‘Not what folks say, deary. Still, truth will out. Time you and me talked privy like.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’ But the word scarcely reached his lips, dying. His mouth opening in a silent scream of agony as she took his genitals in her

  strong fingers and pinched them, twisting savagely so that a merciful blackness swallowed him.

  He blinked open, wondering what the loud noise was. Realising that it was his own face being slapped to and fro. To and fro. Liza Hall was squatting astride his chest, her weight bearing down on him, thighs spread so that he could see she wore nothing beneath her torn and dirty linen shift.

  ‘You come of your own will, didn’t you?’ she said, grinning through the gaps in her stained teeth, punctuating her words with slaps so hard they rattled his brain inside his skull.

  It was woefully true.

  Squire Webb, a jovial, bluff giant of a man, owned much of the land about Steeple Shuckburgh. He had called for the butcher, offering him a glass of cordial, setting him at his ease before delivering the petard. Telling him that the villagers suspected him of witchcraft. Lockley had not been too surprised, but it had been a grievous shock hearing the Squire put it in such a formal manner.

  Then he had heard that the witchfinders were in Watford and he had set out immediately, leaving word for Squire Webb that he was off to clear his

  good name.

  Could that only have been two short days back?

  Two days. . .

  ‘Don’t go fallin’ asleep when a lady’s talkin’ to you my sweet coz,’ she said, pinching the lobe of his ear to bring him back to consciousness. Pinching so hard that he could feel warm blood on his naked shoulder.

  ‘I need food and drink, or I shall surely die,’ he stammered.

  ‘And I need a good fuck, but not from a weasel cock like you,’ she laughed, reaching behind her to feel him. ‘Though with some brandy I might yet raise you to a goodly length,’ laughing again.

  ‘I am sore tired.’

  The gipsies had run him for the better part of a whole day and a night. Until the soles of his feet were bruised and bleeding and he wept at each step. Each time he fell and tried to rest they would kick him. One of them, Daniel, he thought the name, had unlaced his breeches and urinated in his face to rouse him, bellowing his laughter as the butcher spluttered and coughed.

  ‘Then tell us, my chicken. Tell us how you feed your imps. And tell us names of more of your coven and how you do your evil.’

  She shuffled forwards a little on his chest, her hand still holding him. Starting to rub at him, fondling him. To his own horror he found that he was beginning to feel arousal at her skill.

  ‘Leave me be, whore,’ he said, lisping through his broken teeth.

  ‘I’ll leave you, little man,’ grinned Liza Hall. ‘But that tongue of yourn be right evil. Happen it could find a better use than slandering an innocent woman like me.’

  He could hardly breathe with her weight on him. The ropes around his wrists and ankles were so tight that black blood was seeping from around his torn nails. The constant accusations from Monk and the brutality from the three men and the woman were all taking a toll on his brain. The words of Robert Monk kept insinuating themselves into his mind. All he had to do was make up a story for
them. Then he could rest. Have some food. Warm broth and ale. A bed to ease his aches and balm for his cuts and wounds. He could sleep. All he had to do was. . .

  ‘Tell us of your practices, butcher-man,’ hissed Liza, laying herself full length on top of him, her breath foul in his face. She kissed him, softly, on the cheek, her lips moving to his swollen mouth. Her tongue between his lips, flickering like a serpent’s tongue. Pressing down, near choking him.

  ‘Tell us, laddy. Tell Liza, and I’ll be so good to you. I’ll pleasure you. Better me ridin’ you than them gippoes rogerin’ you up the arse with their great cocks. They’ve done that. Split a man’s fundament at Saffron Walden while puttin’ him to the question. So much blood, and him screamin’ and screamin’. Better me than that, eh, Edric?’

  He blinked, trying to stop himself from crying. It hadn’t seemed such a foolish idea when he’d ridden in, free as the westerly wind, asking to see the witchfinder. Now he was tortured, his mind barely holding on to sanity.

  ‘If I tell, will I be spared?’ he asked.

  The woman sat back, again. Patting him lovingly on the cheek. Making him wince more than when she’d been slapping him. ‘Course, Edric. He’ll spare you the horrors of the fire, and that’s my oath on it. No drowning for you if you pour out the milk for us. No scorched skin and seared flesh. I’ll see you’re spared that.’

  ‘If I be spared, then. . .‘ he began.

  ‘And I’ll give you some fuckin’ like your barren shrew of a wife never done. Would you like to graze on my bubbies, Edric? Should I lace open my bodice for you to see ‘em and nuzzle ‘em? I’ll let you.’

  If he was to be spared, then it would be well to keep the right side of this voracious and brutal woman. He nodded.

  Liza opened her legs wider; her fingers drifting down, over her belly, under the skirt and shift. He watched, like a rabbit before a viper, as she

  touched herself, hand rubbing at the matted, wiry hair. Her fingers disappeared into the red-lipped slit, coming out slick with moisture. She offered them to him, pressing her hand against his mouth, so that he could smell and taste her arousal.

  ‘There, mannikin. Wet the deck and pass it round, eh? Mayhap that wicked witch’s tongue of yourn can be made use of. Here. . .‘

  With a struggle, nearly falling off the blood stained table as she did it, the woman managed to turn herself around, presenting the gleaming half- moons of her buttocks, close to his face. She dropped her head, licking at him, warming him with her mouth. Rousing him to full erection, despite his loathing for her.

  Finally the ultimate horror. She eased herself back, sitting down on him, so that his face and nose and mouth were crushed between her buttocks. He fought and wriggled, trying to breathe, nearly vomiting at the stench of her dirty flesh.

  ‘Get your tongue well in, there, boy. Use it well,’ she sighed, ‘and you’ll be spared the fire and the water. Spared it. Ah, that be it. . .‘

  Robert Monk stood in the centre of the narrow court-room, glancing across its dim length at the two magistrates who sat behind a high table. Seeing that he still had their fascinated attention, he carried on reading from the document in his hand.

  ‘That is the burden of the confession. That the said Edric Lockley, butcher of Steeple Shuckburgh, confesses his sins as manifold. He has sold his soul to Satan, his lord and master. As did his wife before him, though she was taken by a wicked sprite. Lockley further admits his carnal knowledge with various sprites, and committing sodomy with his familiar imp, called Belzeal. He described, as you may recall, the great cold and immense size of Belzeal’s member and the pain of its penetration.’

  The magistrates looked across at this monster of corruption. He was dressed in a ragged shirt and torn breeches, slumped in chains. Held upright by two of the Witchfinder’s Romany followers. One of them caught the eye of the magistrates and straightened himself, barely stifling a belch.

  Monk laid down one sheet of the indictment on the bench in front of him, picking up another and scanning it rapidly. Resuming in his dust-dry voice, measuring out the evidence carefully, picking out the parts that he knew were the most damning. Despite the most careful search, they had failed to find any bodily imperfection that they could reasonably claim to be a witch’s teat, for suckling a familiar. So the man’s own confession was vital.

  ‘Recall, my lords, that this man came forth to us of his own will. This was his master of darkness testing us. Testing me, yourselves, all of us.’ That was something else that Matthew Hopkins had taught Monk. If there was a potential weakness in your case, bring it out yourself. Mock it and use it, so that the accused can find little benefit from it.

  ‘He has named in this paper several familiars who supped food and milk from his mouth.’ There; that was a cunning way around it. Liza Hall had thought that up and Monk vowed privately to reward her with an extra guinea.

  ‘Their names are Lob-by-the-fire, Andreanna, Cheat’em-all, Spur-flank and Rip-pocket. Respectively a ferret, a white cat invisible in daylight, a fox that spoke in an ancient tongue to him and a leopard with a human face in each spot.’

  ‘That is four, Master Monk,’ interrupted the senior of the magistrates. A local land-owner of considerable wealth and influence, who held men like the witchfinder in contempt for their evil work. Yet who also realised only too well that the common people needed their trials and their persecutions to keep their minds off the sorry state the land was in during the War

  ‘My lord?’ queried Monk, politely, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Four described, and five named. What of the fifth? Rip-breeches or some such foolery.’ Laughing at his own jest.

  ‘There are those, my lord, who would not find witchcraft a matter for jesting. Those in power in this land who would wonder at those who mocked

  the work of seeking out evil.’

  It was a clear threat and the magistrate’s cheeks flushed purple, his small eyes almost vanishing behind rolls of fat. But he had sense enough to know that it would not be wise to make an enemy of a man like this Robert Monk. The fever to find out witches was sweeping the east of the country, with dozens being tried at a single assize. Not even Hopkins had dare poin a finger at a member of the nobility, but already a priest had been accused and executed.

  ‘I beg you pardon, Master Monk.’

  ‘And I do accept that, my lord. The fifth of the creatures you spoke of is a familiar demon with the body of a young girl and the head of a phoenix. It was used by Lockley in witching the miller whose house was burned down in the dead of night.’

  ‘I recall it.’

  Monk nodded. Smiling inwardly at how easy it was to browbeat these local gentry with their fine words and their private terrors.

  ‘I will not list again the sorry saga of this man’s enchantments. We have heard them well enough. And the list of his accomplices, who will be questioned in the days to come.’ He laid the parchment down on the bench with a dramatic gesture. ‘I think that there is no more to be said.’

  The two magistrates looked at each other, nodding their agreement. One stared at the wretched butcher in the dock.

  ‘Edric Lockley, you have heard your confession of the evil witchcraft that you and your miserable coven have worked at. Is there anything you wish to say before we pass sentence on you?’

  There was no answer. Daniel Mendoza nudged the prisoner so hard in the ribs that he staggered and nearly fell. The local landowner repeated the question to him, and Lockley raised dull eyes.

  ‘I am to be spared. I was told. Spared.’

  ‘Spared? Master Monk, what does he say? Has this confession been falsely got?’

  The witchfinder was already on his feet, the words coming butter-smooth to his lips. ‘He was offered the mercy of avoiding the death of fire or water, my lord. If he gave us his fellow conspirators in deviltry, and he did so.’

  ‘Ah, then we can indeed spare you that, Lockley. It is the sentence of the court that . . .‘

  The words d
roned on, but the butcher seemed to be no longer listening. There was a vacant smile pasted on his face and he was watching a large fly, buzzing sleepily in a shaft of spring sunlight. He had been promised that he would be spared. Liza had promised him. He had happily said anything they wanted, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Spared,’ he whispered, as they took him down the steps towards the cell again.

  Robert Monk went cheerfully to his inn that night, the pocket of his broadcloth coat weighed down with a chinking bag of silver. It would be added to that blessed windfall from Hertford. If this went on long he could become a truly rich man.

  And there was company waiting for him in the inn, to go with the wine and the meat. Company that showed Liza Hall for the wanton drab that she was. Even though she had done good work with the wretched Lockley, that had to be admitted. As well as drinking deep of her own perverse pleasures.

  But what was waiting was different. Gold, rather than pinchbeck. A diamond, not dull glass.

  Robert Monk laughed out loud.

  For him, life was becoming better than he had ever dreamed.

  He was still laughing to himself as he entered the room he had reserved. With its huge canopied double bed. And its reward for him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was better than a month later that two men came riding into Watford from the north.

  One sat easily on a raw-boned bay mare, with a cavalry sword at his left hip and a pistol holstered on the right. He was accompanied by a tall negro, whose colouring attracted a deal of sidelong glances and sent mothers scurrying to bring in their infants from playing around the pump. Both men were dusty and travel-stained, hardly bothering to look away from the road. Only pausing when they reached the first inn, ‘The Branch And Tabard’.

  John Ferris swung down, handing the reins to Brutus, stopping a young man who was striding busily by.

  ‘Pardon, friend.’

  ‘Aye?’ looking curiously at the black on the gelding. Eyes blinking nervously.