The Heretic’s Creed

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Blessedly, it did not occur to either Philippa or Angelica to walk round the door and look behind it, nor did they attempt to push it fully open. When we first found Christopher’s sign, Sybil had implied that the ladies of Stonemoor were, in some ways, naive. I had been inclined to exclude Philippa Gould and Angelica Ames from that, but now I saw that it applied to them too. One glance round the room by the light of a single candle had shown them nothing out of place, nothing disturbed, and that was enough for them.

  ‘You imagine things, Sister Angelica,’ said Philippa. ‘I thought so from the start. I didn’t hear any voices or see any lights.’

  ‘I was the one who opened the window and put my head out, Mother,’ said Angelica protestingly. ‘It seems I was wrong, but I could have sworn I saw and heard something. I don’t trust Mistress Stannard or her people. They are too sharp for my taste, too much creatures of the world.’

  ‘But they are not here now. However, you were right to insist that we made sure,’ said Mistress Gould soothingly. ‘I approve and I am not annoyed with you. Now, however, let us go to our beds.’

  They withdrew. We heard the door being locked again. Footsteps and voices receded. Angelica sounded as though she were grumbling; Philippa’s tones were soothing. They were gone. We stayed where we were for several long moments, but nothing more happened. Finally, we moved away from the door. ‘That was close,’ Brockley remarked grimly.

  ‘Too close,’ I muttered. So far, throughout all our adventures, I had had no need of the potion that Gladys had given me, to deal with any migraine attacks. Now, I felt the first hammer blow strike, as it always did, above my left eyebrow. ‘Let’s get back to bed,’ I whispered.

  ‘Wait just a little,’ Brockley said warningly.

  We did wait but the silence of the house endured and became oppressive, and the pain in my head grew and grew. ‘I’d better let us out now,’ I said at last. I managed it, but I was shaky now not only with nerves but with pain and it took several long minutes. We were all quivering like guitar strings by the time I had finished. At last, we tiptoed out. I locked the door after us and we made our stealthy way back to the guest wing, where I asked Sybil to find the phial containing the potion, and took a dose before lying down.

  The potion had little effect. The morning found me unable to lift my head. The pain nailed me to the bed and an increasing sense of nausea made me hesitate even to move.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said wanly to my companions. ‘Believe me, I’m sorry. I want to get away from here. We have to leave this place as fast as we can, with or without John of Evesham’s book. Oh, dear God. My head!’

  FIFTEEN

  Salt and Lemon

  It was Dale, dear Dale, so often resourceful in a crisis, who dealt with this one. After gazing concernedly down at my no doubt greenish countenance, and brushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes, she said: ‘That Mistress Yates is supposed to be clever with potions. Let’s see what she can suggest for this,’ and set off forthwith, seizing the bell from the guest hall table, marching out to the vestibule with it and ringing it as though the building were on fire. It went through my head like a skewer and made me retch, though nothing came up, but meanwhile Dale was getting results. Ten minutes later she came back with a jug.

  ‘Mistress Yates gave me this, ma’am. She said it might help.’

  ‘What is it?’ Brockley demanded suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Dale. ‘I watched her make it. She’s got lemons in store. Never seen one before, but I’ve heard of them. Seems the merchant who’s the father of her and Mistress Gould knows other merchants and gets luxury goods from them sometimes, and being half Italian, he had Italian books in the house, handed down, some from the women in his ancestry, with recipes and advice about medicines. He passed them on to her. This is fresh lemon juice with a drop of well water to dilute it and a little salt to take the edge off the taste and she says it could help. No harm in trying, anyway.’

  ‘It sounds quite useless to me,’ said Sybil.

  I said: ‘I feel so ill, I’ll try anything. Even if it tastes awful and makes me sick, that might do me good in itself.’

  The lemon juice potion didn’t taste particularly bad, and presently, to my surprise, the nausea in my stomach began to subside. The headache began to ease as well. Gingerly, I sat up and then, as neither my head nor my guts felt any the worse for the effort, I smiled at Sybil, who gasped with relief, said, ‘You’ll need something to eat after a while,’ and rushed away.

  She told me presently that she had found her way to the kitchens, discovered that a little white bread had been made that day, as well as the usual black rye bread, and insisted on bringing some to me, with butter and a little pot of honey. Half an hour later, I found that I was sufficiently restored to eat just a little.

  Dale and Sybil, however, discouraged me from getting up at once. I was sure that I was ready but they begged me to rest, so I stayed where I was and thought wistfully of Hawkswood, and wished with all my heart that I could be safely back at home. What was I doing here? My constant adventures were not suitable for a woman. Brockley thought that, and he was perfectly right. Why was it that though I longed for the life of a dignified lady, I never seemed able to achieve it?

  At home, I had a life that was busy, varied, and infinitely satisfying. I wanted to be back there, living it. I wanted to play with Harry and attend to his upbringing; make plans about the stud of trotting horses I was developing so that one day it could be part of his inheritance. I wanted to look after the people of my household, maintain my linen store and my still room, amuse myself with embroidery, at which I was quite skilled, tend my garden, argue with John Hawthorn about what he should prepare for dinner, exercise my mind now and then with a little reading in Latin and Greek.

  Instead, I was having migraine in a house where a discredited religion was being practised, where books did not contain what they ought to contain, where visitors left signs to prove that they had been there, and then vanished.

  It was not to be borne. We must, must, must, get out of this place. I could not linger in bed. I threw back the covers and went to the door to call Dale to help me get dressed.

  The morning was wearing away by then. ‘Do we leave today, or wait till tomorrow?’ Brockley asked, considering me with anxiety as I joined my friends round the fire in the guest hall.

  ‘Today,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right now.’ I knew that I would be. The extraordinary thing with migraine is that once it has passed, it has passed. With me, it sometimes left weakness and exhaustion behind it, but only when it had been prolonged. This attack had been short. I was already myself again.

  ‘We shall have to seek an audience with our hostess,’ said Brockley. ‘It ought to be interesting. Just what is that charming lady going to say when we ask her to hand over the precious book we’re here to buy and she can’t produce it? In a way,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘it’s a pity she didn’t catch us last night. She couldn’t have done anything to us. Not all of us. And it might have brought matters to a head.’

  ‘I’m thankful she didn’t catch us,’ said Dale candidly. ‘I’m afraid of her. You never know what people like her might do.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said, in heartfelt tones. ‘Why do you think I’ve just had migraine?’

  ‘She may well have much to lose, if Master Hardwicke and Master Spelton really did come to harm here,’ Sybil agreed. ‘Panic can make people go to extremes sometimes. No, I feel we were lucky to get safely away last night.’

  ‘Yesterday,’ I said, ‘both you and Dale thought she might offer us the book that she showed us, the one we saw last night. What if she does? It’s possible. She may not realize how much is known about the real book, contents or appearance.’

  ‘So, what do we do if she offers us the false book?’ asked Sybil.

  ‘We hand over the money, take the substitute volume, and leave,’ said Brockley. ‘What else? We leave. We get away from here
and put all that we know in the hands of authority. It’s common sense.’

  I nodded in agreement. Brockley said: ‘I can see to getting the horses saddled at once and by God’s good grace, it’s a bright morning. How long will it take to get everything packed?’

  ‘It’s nearly all done,’ said Dale.

  It was settled. We would leave at once. It would be a long ride and Sybil wondered aloud if we would be offered any food to take with us. ‘We’ll ask,’ said Brockley, ‘and if the answer is no, we might be able to get something in the village. There’s probably a bakery.’

  ‘Let’s get our outdoor things on, and bring the saddlebags down,’ I said. ‘I’ll fetch the purse of money for the book. Brockley, will you see to the horses straightaway? Then we’ll find out if Mistress Gould will see us.’

  There was no difficulty about that. When, after the horses had been saddled and all the baggage was downstairs, we set off to seek an audience with her, we at once met Margaret Beale, on her way to look for us. Her nice wrinkled face looked surprised to see us already cloaked and hatted for our journey.

  ‘Mistress Stannard! You are recovered? Mistress Gould has been so very worried.’

  ‘A headache, nothing more,’ I said. ‘I have them sometimes. I am quite well again now. Mistress Yates knew what to advise.’

  ‘Oh yes, she is clever in that way. She medicines us all when we fall ill!’ said Mistress Beale happily. ‘Please come with me; Mistress Gould wants to see you.’

  We found our hostess in her office, seated behind her desk. She rose at once when we came in, and once more I explained that I had only had a headache, and was quite recovered now, with the help of Mistress Yates. She smiled at that and repeated what Margaret Beale had said about Bella Yates’ services to the ladies when they ailed.

  ‘The villagers have been talking foolishly of late. Someone died that Bella was trying to help, but she cannot do miracles, any more than any physician can. In fact, she is skilled and compassionate. I am so glad that you are better, Mistress Stannard. However …’

  A walnut box, presumably the one with the questionable book in it, was ready on her desk. She looked at it but did not touch it. ‘I see you are all prepared to set off and you no doubt wish to take John of Evesham’s book with you.’

  ‘Yes.’ And now, I must bring matters to a head. I held out the purse I was carrying. ‘Yes, of course. Here is the price of it. There are three hundred pounds in this purse, which I think was the agreed amount. You may wish to count it.’

  Mistress Gould shook her head, making no move to take the purse from me. ‘Will you all be seated, please.’ With a wave of a slender white hand, she indicated that there were sufficient stools for us all. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  We sat down as requested. I caught Brockley’s eye and we exchanged a wordless message. This is the moment. What will she say?

  ‘I have to inform you,’ said Mistress Gould steadily, ‘that the book I showed you is not the one you have come to buy. I did not realize that when I brought it out for you to look at. I expected to find the real book here in this box—’ she touched the box with a forefinger – ‘and it was a shock to me when I saw that another had been put in its place. Oh, there is no mystery about what has happened! I am sorry to say that among my ladies, there are some who disapprove strongly of John of Evesham’s book. They consider that it contains pagan lore, unsuitable for Christians to read, and that anything it says about the movements of stars and planets, and any conclusions it draws, must be false, the teaching of the Devil. In particular, they regard the theory that the earth circles the sun as heretical, being contrary to the teaching of the Church. There is also a drawing that is disrespectful towards the Holy Father. I myself consider it amusing but some of my ladies, I fear, lack humour. Also, some are illiterate and others, though literate, are opposed to modern thinking. I myself am not, for my father taught me to respect the world of scientific discovery, but I have never been able to influence the diehards in my household. The most vociferous of those who disapprove, I regret to say, is my sister Bella. She is their leader, as it were. She is a good woman, a kind woman, who helps the sick, but in matters of religion she is as stubborn as any mule ever was. She says that the book must not be sold; that to do so would be to spread the Devil’s teaching beyond these walls, and that money made from such a sale would be tainted with evil and bring catastrophe upon us! Such nonsense!’

  None of us spoke, mainly, I think, because none of us was sure what to say.

  ‘You have heard me disagreeing with my sister. The first time we met, when you heard the two of us arguing, we were not in fact discussing salt and candles. I pretended that we were, so as to keep you from knowing that John of Evesham’s book was a cause of contention. Later, you walked in on the more serious dispute, when the ladies were divided into factions, one supporting me and the other upholding my sister’s regrettable views.’

  ‘But what has happened to the real book?’ I asked.

  ‘Bella has hidden it. When I saw what was really in this box, I suspected her and challenged her. She admitted it freely.’

  ‘Hidden it?’ asked Brockley. ‘Or destroyed it?’

  ‘Oh, she wouldn’t destroy it,’ said Mistress Gould. ‘There is a curse on anyone who does that. The curse is said to have been laid on it many years ago – centuries, perhaps – but recently, I reinforced it by laying a curse of my own. Mummery!’ she snorted. ‘A performance, such as the dramas that strolling players create, but though I say it myself, it was an effective performance. Bella may be embalmed in superstition but that can work two ways. If she is afraid of John of Evesham’s theories, she is also afraid of my curse and has encouraged her followers to fear it too. But she will not tell me where she has hidden the book and …’

  She stopped for a moment and I realized that beneath her dignified air, she was actually furious. Her face, framed by its dark-blue wimple, was suddenly white with temper and her eyes were bright with anger. When she resumed, it sounded as though the words were being forced out between her teeth.

  ‘I wanted to make her tell me! I wanted to get the book back quickly, so that I could pass it to you! Of course I did! And I could make her tell me, if I had the chance,’ she said. ‘It would grieve me, for yes, she is my sister, and yes, she is a good woman and many of us have had cause to be grateful to her, but this … this is the other side of her and it isn’t to be borne! If I could, I would do what is needful. A few days locked up on bread and water, a little use of a birch, and she would talk, oh yes. But her followers won’t let me! You saw them for yourselves! There are enough of them to be formidable. Bella’s supporters say that if I … if I do anything to Bella, they will do the same to me. My own supporters would try to stop them, of course … but I don’t want my ladies to … Dear God, they might – they would – take to fighting! Like wildcats. Like heathen maenads! Like savages! That really is what would happen! And the threat against me might well be carried out! I dare not proceed against Bella. I have ordered a search. Those who agree with me are doing that now, although they are being hindered by Bella’s faction.

  ‘We are having an epidemic of mislaid keys!’ said Mistress Gould in a ferocious parody of humour. ‘But there are a million hiding places in this house and the book may not even be in this house. My ladies do go out on occasion. In twos and threes, we attend the church on the Sabbath; sometimes one or two will go to the village or walk or ride on the moors. We have our two horses and some of my ladies come from homes where they were accustomed to ride. My sister Bella is one of them – she grew up riding the workhorses on the smallholding where she lived as a child. I don’t enforce too strict a Rule. We may live very much as Benedictine nuns would, but not entirely.’

  Sybil and I both nodded, having seen one of the ladies riding in the snow. As if she had picked up the pictures in our minds, Mistress Gould said: ‘Bella rode out, despite the weather, the day after I found that the book had vanished. She coul
d well have hidden it somewhere in the house at first, but then taken it out with her and concealed it somewhere outside. I’m sorry. You will have to take your money back with you. If I do find the book, I will send word, but for the moment – I haven’t got it to sell to you.’

  ‘We understand,’ I said.

  That seemed to be that. Philippa Gould was at least honest. None of us felt inclined to pursue the matter. We all longed to be away. We expressed our regrets. I took back the purse. Mistress Gould picked up a bell from her desk and rang it, and one of the ladies, who must have been hovering nearby, came in carrying two leather bags which she handed to me.

  ‘There’s some food there,’ said Mistress Gould. ‘In one bag, fresh bread, some ham, sliced ready to eat, and some dried fruit; in the other, three flasks of water. You have a long way to go and at the moment, I would not recommend stopping in Thorby to buy anything. According to Will Grimes, who is friendly towards us, some of the villagers are now very suspicious indeed of this house, because of Master Butterworth’s death. There have been renewed whispers of witchcraft, it seems. It is worrying, as we expect further guests soon; a party of five gentlemen, in fact. It would be upsetting if they found a bad atmosphere here.’

  ‘We knew that further guests were coming soon,’ I said. ‘When we arrived, the porteress – Mistress Beale I think it was – mentioned it. You will be glad to say goodbye to us!’

  ‘In a way, though you have been exemplary guests and we all like you.’ Mistress Gould, blissfully unaware of our midnight activities, smiled at us again.

  ‘If you expect other guests, you will want us out of the way,’ remarked Brockley in cheerful tones. ‘We will depart at once.’

  ‘Quite,’ I said. ‘We thank you for the hospitality of your house.’

  It was over. We withdrew, to collect our saddlebags and go out to mount our horses. Joseph had brought them out into the stable yard and when we were mounted, he scurried round us, checking our girths, before mounting Splash. The damage done by Sybil’s stirrup leathers had healed and both she and Dale now had the makeshift leggings that Dale had made. We were all prepared for the ride.