Chapter Eleven
The Devil's Gorge
The party were several miles East of where they wanted to be, and rather than backtracking, the quickest way to reach Barkham Manor was through an area known as ‘the devil’s gorge’.
Desolate and sombre, it was extremely narrow in parts, and the shaggy trees on the rim blotted out most of the sun. Little wonder that only coarse scrub and thorny bushes grew amongst the rocks. Rarely was it traversed at night, for it had the reputation of being haunted. Moreover, with several crevices and large irregular boulders, ambushes were not uncommon.
Well aware of its ill repute, when Simon Smithers and several men urged Nicholas to turn back, he understood their misgivings. And so apparently did Rayzer, for he stopped at the entrance and refused to move.
“He is afraid,” observed Simon, whose shaky voice betrayed his own fear.
Nicholas frowned. Rayzer had never disobeyed him before. “He’s certainly spooked,” he said, and then regretted his choice of words. Dismounting, he gave the reins to Richard and then walked ahead.
‘Caw - caw - caw’. The raven was much larger than usual and about ten paces ahead.
Nicholas had walked some fifty-feet into the gorge. “So, it is you who frightened my horse.” He picked up a stone and took aim. Then, high to his right, a substantial rock came tumbling down. It was the height of the starting point that saved him, for it bought him an extra second or two in order to jump clear.
‘Caw – caw – caw’. The bird was now perched on the rim of the gorge. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Nicholas thought he heard faint laughter.
“What was it?” asked Richard when Nicholas returned. Due to the jutting rocks and a slight curvature in the path, the party had not seen the event.
“Nothing, just a bird,” he said, mounting Rayzer again, who showed no further reluctance to proceed. They traversed the gorge at a trot, yet even above the sound of the horse’s hooves’ echoing off the rocks, Nicholas was sure he could hear the ‘cawing’ of the raven.
It was not until the gorge expanded and the sun shone brightly again, that Nicholas began to breathe easier. Not wanting to enter into further explanation, he rode a little apart from the others until they reached the hamlet of Appleby, where it soon became apparent that something was wrong.
***
A blight had spread through the little village in the form of unexplained events. A child was afflicted with a sickness whereby, when in bed, it tossed and thrashed to such an extent that it could barely be restrained. Two senior members of one family were slowly wasting away, while a third household had seemingly fallen prey to a poltergeist. At night, it would pinch or fondle the occupants, break crockery, spill milk, and generally cause mayhem. Other ‘events’ included fires that refused to burn, or if they did, evinced no heat. Bread would not rise, milk would not churn, and in one dairy, the cheese became so hard that not even rats could gnaw it. Seemingly healthy babies had suddenly died, and there were numerous instances of lewd and degrading behaviour, several involving animals.
Roger expressed his profound sympathy and promised to do what he could. Nicholas listened carefully to the litany of grievances, and perhaps because of his recent experience, began to detect a pattern. All the effected families had refused to supply products to either Margaret Dymock or Fanny Craddock. Another interested listener was Horace Twissleton.
“A few months ago,” said a farmer, “I inadvertently offended Mistress Craddock, and since then, all has gone wrong. Last week, one of me best cows died, and the month before that, a foal. She’s a witch I tell ye, a witch. My good wife is beside herself.”
“And what remedies have you tried?” asked Twissleton, sounding business like as he made copious notes.
“I followed the old witch home one night and found a few stray hairs. I sprinkled them with salt and buried them. No use. I got a horseshoe, heated it until it was glowing, quenched it in brine, and then nailed it to the door with three blessed nails. No more use than t'other. I put three pins in a vessel with salt water and let it stew for a month. I then threw the iron water at her door at the full of the moon. But the next time I seen her, she laughed.” He began to cry. “What can I do? What can I do?”
“Have you offended anyone other than Mistress Craddock?” asked Roger.
The man slowly nodded his head. “Mistress Dymock. I won’t give her eggs.”
“Do you also suspect her of being a witch?” interposed Twissleton.
“Yes.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“What more would you like?” said Richard tersely. “Leave the poor man alone. His statement is sufficient for the purpose.”
Twissleton’s expression fell just short of a sneer. “On the contrary, Master Richard, it is not precise enough. However, it will do for the present.” He addressed the farmer. “Rest assured, dear sir, that you will not be troubled by these pestilent witches much longer. The neighbourhood will be cleansed.”
“Master Twissleton!” said Roger angrily. “You give the poor man false hope. Do not make a promise you might not be able to keep.”
Twissleton tried to smile. This was his domain, not the magistrate’s. “I hate to contradict you, but I have every intention of keeping it. No person, not even the King, is above the law.”
Roger shook his head wonderingly. Clearly the warning he had issued in the library the day before, was being ignored. Indeed, he was half-inclined to tell the little man to mount his horse and return to Holton at once.
“Master Twissleton,” he began, exercising considerable patience, “you seem to be labouring under the impression that one word from you and these women will willingly capitulate. That is a very dangerous assumption. If they are as powerful as represented, then they will not be easy to defeat.”
“There you are in error, your worship. The devil himself will deliver them into our hands. It is his custom to snare servants and then leave them to their fate.”
Nicholas was astounded at the little man’s pomposity, and so it seemed, was Richard. “The assertion might also apply to your own profession,” he said dryly. “In fact, it could well be argued that the devil behaves with greater fairness to his clients.”
“Are you defending him?” asked Twissleton, ignoring the inference.
“Of course not, I only pay him his due.”
Nicholas laughed. “Master Twissleton, you had better quit the argument while your reputation is still intact.” He turned to the farmer. “We will not forget you or the others we’ve met.”
“Amen to that,” said Roger. “The entire matter will be examined. You have my word as the magistrate,” but it seemed Twissleton had already passed judgement.
“And the witches burnt at the stake.”
Nicholas, shaking his head at the solicitor’s audacity, brought the ‘discussion’ to a close. “Gentlemen, we have much to do and time is pressing.”
“Good luck to ye,” said the farmer as they rode away, and he meant it.
***
The party were crossing a wide dreary wasteland when they were hailed by a shout. “Who’s that?” said Nicholas, as a man on a powerful black horse galloped towards them.
“Never seen him before,” said Roger, “but I like the look of his horse.” Then, as the man drew nearer, the party gaped in amazement.
Podgy and dressed in black, he had the same round flabby face and pasty complexion as the solicitor. So great was the resemblance that Nicholas looked to see where the little man was. Not surprisingly, Twissleton was staring wide-eyed at the newcomer. The shock diminished when the man spoke. Rather than wheedling, his voice was strong and assured.
“Forgive my method of stopping you, but I’ve been waiting for you for some time.”
“Who are you?” asked Roger.
“I am one of the overseers of the forest, and as such, it is my duty to accompany you in the matter of the boundary, and afterwards, report the outcome to my Lord of Leeds.”
“The dispute between Mistress Nash and Master Metcalf is hardly a secret. As to the arrangements, she informed me before departing the manor for Holton Abbey. Unfortunately, she could not be specific about the time, hence I stationed myself on yonder high ground to wait for you.”
“I see,” said Roger. “And would I be right in assuming you’re new to the area?” He cast a glance at Twissleton as he added, “I should certainly remember seeing your face before.”
“I have recently come from the estate of the Duke of Hull, where I was under warder.”
“Ah, that accounts for it. You are well mounted,” complimented Roger. He had seemingly relaxed, accepting the man at face value. But Nicholas was not entirely convinced. Was it his imagination, or had the stranger been discomforted by the observation?
“A purse from my previous master, plus my own modest savings, allowed me to purchase him at a stock sale. His name is Diablo.”
“What?” said Twissleton sharply.
“Oh, do calm down,” said Nicholas with a heavy sigh. “It is merely a name.” He looked at the man again. There was something about him that did not ring true. “But, speaking of names, may we know yours?”
“Thomas Twisslemead.”
The solicitor almost fell off his horse. “But… but this is preposterous! If you are jesting, sir, it is in poor taste.”
Twisslemead sat upright in the saddle. “Sir, I see no cause for insult.”
Nicholas stifled a chuckle by clearing his throat. “Master Twisslemead, allow me to explain that this gentleman’s name is Horace Twissleton.” He pointedly looked from one man to the other. “If it were not for the discrepancy in your names and voices, you might be brothers.”
“So I perceive,” said Twisslemead dryly.
Twissleton now re-established his own character. “My brothers bear little resemblance to me, though I concede Master Twisslemead’s features bear some similarities to my own.”
Such was Nicholas’s mirth that he thought he would burst. He was therefore relieved when the newcomer said, “Perhaps, to avoid confusion, you would care to address me as Master Thomas.”
“Thank you,” said Roger. “Shall we proceed?”
Now recovered of his faculties, Twissleton’s self-righteousness reasserted itself, and he realised that his near namesake, being a warder of the forest, might be a valuable source of information. He therefore attempted to court an acquaintanceship.
“Master Thomas, are you familiar with two dreadful women hereabouts, Margaret Dymock and Fanny Craddock?”
“I am indeed, but I would prefer not to speak of them in their own territory. They have an extraordinary knack of garnering information. They seemingly have ears everywhere.”
“Really?” said Twissleton, feigning surprise. “Perhaps as a solicitor and a representative of the law, I should have them examined as witches.”
“It would be of little use to you.”
“How so?”
“Because if you do not exercise great caution in what you say, nay, perhaps even desist from your intent altogether, you may never leave the area alive. I told you, they have ears everywhere.”
“I will not be distracted from the duty of my office,” said Twissleton. “I defy the devil and all his works.”
“Then, on your own head be it. You cannot say you weren’t warned. Now, please excuse me, I wish to speak to the magistrate.”
For the first time since arriving in the Holton area, Twissleton had misgivings about his role. But then he shook them off. He was determined to prosecute his plan, and no hag would deprive or defraud him of his lawful office. He comforted himself by recalling the sovereign authority on the matter. ‘If the magistrate be slothful towards witches, God is able to make them instruments to waken and punish his sloth. But if he be diligent in examining and punishing them, God will not permit them to trouble or hinder such good work’.
He was still ruminating when the party traversed the side of a hill. The view from the top was magnificent, a patchwork of wheat and corn fields, villages and single farming cottages, and sheep and cows munching on lush green grass. The vastness of the forest was clearly discernible, while several rivulets converged to form a considerable stream, which like a silver snake, wound around and through the estate of Barkham Manor in the distance.
Descending the hill, they were passing through a thicket and were within a short distance of Newton Mallow, the village where the lauded Bess Whittaker resided, when a cowherd appeared and ran towards them, his arms waving wildly.
“Sirs! Sirs!”
“What is it, my good man?” asked Roger.
The yokel doffed his cap. “An accident, sir. John Lanyon, the pedlar, is lying on the path yonder. He can’t move.”
“I think I know him,” said Nicholas. “Is he a burly fellow and carries a rucksack? Has brown curly hair and always wears a smile?”
“Yes sir, only he ain’t smiling now.”
Nicholas turned to Roger and explained, “I do indeed know him. He comes to Craxton Hall about every two months. Dorothy is always buying ribbons or some other trinket off him. I hope he’s not seriously hurt, he’s a good man.”
But Nicholas’s optimism was soon dispelled. Loud groans shattered the serenity as they approached the unfortunate pedlar. He was lying on his back with his rucksack under his head, his left side seemingly paralysed.
Nicholas dismounted and knelt by his side. “This is a bad business, John. I think you’ve had some sort of stroke.”
“Stroke be hanged,” he said with a slight slur. “It was witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft!” Twissleton immediately produced his notebook. “Now, John, who bewitched you?”
“Mistress Dymock.”
“Very good. And what was the cause?”
“I can scarcely think, my head be so confused.”
“Make an effort, John,” persisted Twissleton, completely impervious to the man’s condition. “Such a dreadful offender should not escape justice, and it’s always best to record events as soon as possible.”
“I’ll try. I was crossing the hill near Barkham Manor yesterday, when I met Mistress Dymock. She asked for scissors and pins but I refused. I laughed at her and trudged on, but when I looked back and saw her shaking a fist at me, I almost changed my mind. I walked on and slept at Bess Whittaker's tavern last night, and woke this morning hale & hearty. Scarcely had I reached this spot when I was seized with a sudden shock, as if struck by a thunderbolt. I might have died if it hadn’t bin for Abel here.”
“Most deplorable,” said Twissleton, scribbling furiously. “And what…”
“Master Twissleton,” said Roger sternly. “For a solicitor you are sadly lacking in tact. The poor man is suffering and the last thing he needs is to be cross-examined.”
“Of course, of course,” said the solicitor sycophantically. “I simply wanted…” but once again Roger cut him off.
“The best thing to do is to transport him to Bess's tavern.” He looked at the cowherd. “How far?”
“About a mile, sir.”
Using two horse blankets as a stretcher, the grooms conveyed the pedlar to Newton Mallow. There was great consternation when they entered the village, for John Lanyon was well- favoured. Old and young flocked to see him, and taking advantage of the rural audience, Twissleton announced the involvement of witchcraft. But, if he was hoping to provoke a public backlash, he was to be disappointed. Rather than speaking out, the villagers scurried back to their homes, which the solicitor interpreted as fear of the hags.
The party passed a churchyard, where a man in his late 50’s with a thick silver-grey beard, was digging a grave. He stopped for a moment to watch the procession, his eyes narrowed and his expression shrewd. Then, as he shrugged his shoulders and resumed digging, a smile of satisfaction flashed across his face.
“Is there a funeral today?” asked Twissleton, who had see
n the man’s curious reaction.
“Aye, a young lass.”
“Local?”
“Roundabouts.”
Twissleton was irked by the man’s lack of deference. Nevertheless, he kept his voice friendly as he asked, “And may I enquire whom?”
“Mary Baldwin, the miller's daughter, near Barkham Manor.”
Twissleton licked his lips in anticipation of another discovery. “Was it a sudden death?”
“Not exactly. Her father, Amius Baldwyn, received fair warning.”
“How so?”
“Because of…” The man broke off and turned his face away, as if too embarrassed to continue.
“Witchcraft?” prompted Twissleton, and when the man nodded, he took out his notebook. “By Mistress Dymock?” The man shrugged. Twissleton scribbled hastily and then asked, “How old was Mary?”
“Thirteen. Now, if you would excuse me, her grave is only half dug.”
“If you will tell me your own name, I will leave you in peace.”
“Willy Worms.”
“Worms?” Twissleton exploded with laughter. “What an appropriate name for a grave-digger. I suppose you have a cousin named ‘Bones’.”
Willy was not amused. He held the spade like a club and snarled, “Be off ye filthy hound and mind thy own business!”
Twissleton beat a hasty retreat, and consigning Flint to an unsuspecting stable boy at the tavern, walked into the main room.
Chapter Twelve
Bess Whittaker
Bess Whittaker was stout and gregarious and ruled her tavern with an iron fist. In her youth, her comeliness and friendly disposition had attracted many men, including Amius Baldwyn, who had made overtures of marriage to her. This had been favourably received until a quarrel had parted the lovers. Baldwyn had then married a more docile and light-handed maiden, but she had died shortly after giving birth to their only child, Mary. As for Bess, no other serious proposal had been made, and as she was now in her early 40’s, she did not expect to receive one.
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 13
