The tavern was far more comfortable than its unpretentious exterior declared. Travellers could be sure of roast fowl, spiced trout, or season permitting, woodcock and pheasant, all washed down with her excellent cider. She also brewed a good drop of wine, but if she did not like the look of a guest, the choice was ale or water, or in some cases, nothing.
The principal room, though the floor was of hard clay and the windows rather narrow, was scrupulously clean, with the tables scrubbed almost white. An archway led to a cooking area where a good supply of ham, bacon, and tongue, hung from age-blackened rafters.
Bess was frying gammon when the survey party arrived. Shocked to see the pedlar return in such a deplorable condition, she set about making him comfortable in the room he had occupied the night before. Fortunately, medical attention in the form of local physician, Miles Sugden, was at hand. He immediately bled the pedlar, who declared afterwards that he felt a little better, even if his face was paler than before.
“Well?” asked Nicholas, as the Doctor entered the main room. Apart from two local men who were playing dice in a corner, Nicholas was the only member of the survey party present, the others being in a rear yard and presumably performing ablutions.
“He will survive, though he may need to find a new profession.”
“The pedlar declared that the attack was the result of witchcraft. What say you?”
Doctor Sugden scratched his nose. “His symptoms are certainly consistent with a mild stroke, but there are so many vexing maladies about at the moment that I would not disregard anything. Now, if it’s strange cases you’re interested in, I had one recently that quite defied explanation.”
Nicholas gestured to a table. “I would be very interested to hear it. Would you join us in a meal?”
“Thank you, yes, but I need to return to my patient for a few minutes and administer a tonic. I only came down for fresh water.”
“There’s a well in the yard that will suffice. I’ll accompany you. I want to wash my hands anyway. Bess!” he yelled as he walked past the open kitchen, “a large dish of your best bacon & eggs if you please.”
As Nicholas and the Doctor went to the rear yard, Twissleton entered the tavern via the front door. He removed his hat, wiped his brow with his grimy handkerchief – courtesy of Flint, and planted himself in a chair. Bess eyed him warily, not liking the look of him nor the unkempt condition of his clothes.
“Make yourself at home why don’t ye,” she said sarcastically.
“Thank you, I will. I’ll have some bacon and a pottle of wine.”
“You cheeky monkey. Go to the barn with the other grooms an I’ll send ye some ale.”
“I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you.” Twissleton picked up an open bottle and smelt the contents. “This smells good, what is it?”
Bess snatched it out of his hand. “I’ll serve varmints but I’ll not have them drinking in here. Now, either go out the back or you can leave.”
Twissleton was too indignant to realise she was serious. “I don’t take orders from women, I give them. Now, fetch me a fresh bottle and a clean cup.”
“And I don’t take orders from mucky rakes,” and so saying, she reached for a horsewhip and lashed his shoulders.
Twissleton shrieked and covered his head with his arms. “Desist or I’ll charge you with assault and battery! Help! Help! A witch! A witch!”
“A witch?” screamed Bess. “Why you… take that… and that!”
Nicholas, returning from the yard, reluctantly came to the solicitor's aid. “Come, come, Bess,” he said cajolingly, grabbing her arm. “What has he done to deserve your wrath?”
“He tried to order me about, so I used the whip to teach him some manners.”
“You, teach me?” said Twissleton furiously. “You ignorant hussy. It is I who will teach you. You have assaulted a gentleman, and I will swear a complaint to Master Roger Knowles, who is here at this very moment.”
Bess laughed scornfully. “You? A gentleman? Perhaps you’re jester to the King - you certainly have the face for it.”
Twissleton’s portly frame was bristling with anger. “Master Nicholas, I call upon you to be a witness to this unprovoked attack.”
“Oh, be quiet. It was an honest mistake. Bess, this gentleman is a solicitor from London, here on business with Master Knowles. Unfortunately, he was pitched into a quagmire, hence the state of his clothes and…” Nicholas wrinkled his nose, “…and the smell.”
Bess burst out laughing. “Well, at least he won’t forget me when he returns to London.”
“And she'll remember me if she lands in prison,” rejoined Twissleton.
Bess raised the horsewhip in a threatening manner, and once again Nicholas felt obliged to intervene. “By my faith, Bess, you need a man to cool your hot temper. Why don’t you get wed and have done with it? Master Twissleton is unmarried. Will he suit you?”
“Him! I’d rather cut my own throat.”
“Enough, I beg you,” cried Nicholas, laughing at the solicitor’s look of abject horror. “Besides, I think the bacon is burning.”
As Bess shrieked and ran to the kitchen, Twissleton regained his composure. “I think I have uncovered another case of witchcraft.”
“You mean the pedlar?”
“No, Mary Baldwyn, a miller's daughter who lived near Barkham Manor. According to my source, she was bewitched to death.”
Nicholas stared at him, marvelling at the coincidence and wondering where & when he’d obtained the information. However, it was Bess, entering at that moment with dishes and bottles, who shed a little light on the subject.
“Poor Mary, she’s to be buried today.” Bess gestured over her shoulder in the direction of the forest. “There’s bad things going on in there.”
“Like what?” asked Twissleton eagerly, his prior animosity seemingly forgotten.
“I'd rather hold my tongue about it.”
Twissleton recalled the farmer’s statement and made an educated guess. “And which of the hags did you refuse to supply?”
Bess slammed a bottle down on the table. “I told ye, I ain’t saying nothing.”
Fearing another disagreement, Nicholas posed, “I wonder where Master Thomas is. I did not see him or his horse in the stables.”
Just then, Roger, Richard, and Doctor Sugden, all of whom had spent a few moments with the pedlar, entered the room and sat at the table. A fresh dish of bacon & eggs was produced, and more in deference to Nicholas than the esteemed company, Bess uncorked several pottles of her best cider.
“The pedlar is now best left alone,” said Sugden. “I will be in the village for some time yet, so I will look in on him again.”
“Naturally you ascribe the attack to witchcraft,” said Twissleton pompously.
Having been forewarned by Roger and Richard as to the solicitor’s growing obsession, the Doctor spoke cautiously. “As I advised Master Nicholas earlier, I cannot venture an opinion either way.”
Twissleton however, would not be diverted. “And what if you were called to give evidence? What would you say then?” He looked at the Doctor shrewdly. “Perhaps you can be more positive in the case of Mary Baldwyn.”
“Well, yes,” said the Doctor, clearly uncomfortable. He glanced at Nicholas. “This is the case I referred to earlier. Amius Baldwyn can be exceedingly stubborn when he chooses, and about four months ago, he suddenly refused to supply Mistress Dymock with flour and meal, even though freely offering it to Mistress Craddock. The injunction meant that Mistress Dymock had to travel several miles out of her way in order to obtain supplies.
“Shortly thereafter, one of Amius’s millstones cracked, and when she came a second time, he sent her away with a pitch fork pointed at her backside. His flour then became infested with weevils. Now, though the creatures are not uncommon in granaries, the infestation was so bad that the flour was useless. She made a third appeal but he still refused, and it was then that Mary became ill and began to decline.
“For all his crotchiness, Mary was the apple of her father’s eye, and Amius, realising that perhaps other factors were at work, tried to make up the quarrel with Dymock, but she would not listen. Now in great despair, Amius applied to Mistress Craddock for help and remedies. She gave him tonics and potions but all to no avail.
“I also did what I could, but it was clear to me that the girl was dying. Amius collapsed when I told him, and I feared I would have a second corpse on my hands. But to his credit, he rallied enough to make one last appeal to Mistress Dymock, who only laughed in his face. Mary died in her father’s arms two days ago.”
There was a melancholy silence, broken when Bess let out a loud sob. “Poor Amius. Robbed of his only child and no wife to comfort him. I pity him from the bottom of my heart.”
“He is almost mad with grief,” said Sugden, and as though to prove the point, there was the sound of a galloping horse, and a minute later, a man ran into the tavern and threw himself into Bess’s arms.
“Sit down, Amius.” Bess took his hand and led him to a bench. “Can I get thee anything?” she asked softly.
Amius Baldwyn looked like a man who fate had beaten within an inch of his life. There were unashamed tears in his eyes as he said, “I can’t stand it, Bess. My poor Mary, my poor, poor, Mary. She will soon lie in the ground and I will never see her again. I have lost all I value in this world and care not how soon I quit it myself.”
Bess pressed him to her ample bosom. “Nay, don’t talk so. There will be brighter days, I promise.”
Amius took out a tattered piece of cloth and wiped his eyes. “And I promise you that before I die, I will be revenged. I will not rest until that accursed witch and all her devil’s spawn are burnt at the stake.”
“An excellent resolution,” said Twissleton, producing his notebook.
Nicholas leaned across the table and snatched it away. “If you utter one word out of place to that man, I’ll take you out the back and horsewhip you myself.”
“Sir! Are you interfering in my appointed duty?”
“Your appointed duty does not give you the right to badger a grieving man. Look at him for Christ’s sake. He is barely alive. Roger was right, you have no tact.” He threw the book back with such force that it bounced off Twissleton’s chest.
Seemingly unaware of the acrimonious exchange, Amius went on, “They’re bringing Mary from the mill now. I… I couldn’t…” He looked at Bess pleadingly. “Will you come to the funeral?”
Bess brushed his hair away from his face. Amidst the wrinkles and gaunt features, she could still see the attractive man he had once been. “Of course I will. Now, come with me to the back room. You need food and a good wash. You wouldn’t want to disgrace Mary by attending her funeral smelling like a pig, would you?”
***
As they exited the room holding hands, Richard stood up and went outside. He had been greatly moved by the miller’s story, and while he pitied Mary Baldwyn, the prospect that Lavinia might suffer a similar fate because of gossiping tongues, was nauseating.
Absently walking towards the churchyard, he silently gave thanks for Alice’s wisdom and ruminated on the stories he’d heard that morning. Could Mistresses’ Dymock and Craddock really be witches? Were they actually capable of baneful influence? He tried to persuade himself that the alleged cases of witchcraft were born from the timid and credulous, and yet the anecdotal evidence was too strong and consistent to be dismissed.
The sound of furtive whispering caught his attention. The first was Willy, who was now standing in the grave, while the second was an old woman with a walking stick. It was Fanny Craddock. Curious, and if he was honest, slightly afraid, Richard hid behind a tree to listen.
“Ye have them?”
Willy fished inside his jerkin and produced a small leather pouch. “Eight teeth and a lock of a dead man’s hair.”
“Good.” Her bony fingers quickly closed around the pouch, which disappeared in the region of her chest. A moment later, there was a small clay figure in her hand. “I want you to bury this under Mary Baldwyn’s coffin and say, ‘may she whom it represents also come to the grave’.”
Willy regarded the figure. “I don’t recognise the face.”
Fanny frowned, concerned that she had not fashioned a suitable likeness. “You saw her last evening.”
“Ah, now it comes, ‘tis Lavinia Ashmore.”
“And she will go the same way as Mary Baldwyn, for which Mistress Dymock will be blamed.”
“No!” Richard ran from behind the tree, seized the clay figure, and crushed it under foot until it was little more than dust. “I will not allow such abomination to be practised.”
Fanny let out a high-pitched cackle. “You think to stop me, Richard Faulkner? Thy are mistaken. My curse is already upon thee and nothing can stop it,” and still cackling she started to walk away.
“Stop!” Richard grabbed her arm. “You are coming with me. The magistrate is in yonder tavern.”
“Let her go,” cried Willy in alarm. “You know not what she can do.”
“Be quiet or I’ll take you into custody as well. You’re as bad as she is. A Scold’s Bridal will silence her viperous tongue.” He tightened his grip on her arm. “You escaped yesterday at the abbey, though I know not how, but not today.”
“Ha!” and with the dexterity and quickness of a rat, she wielded the stick and struck Richard hard on the head. She then ran towards the back of the churchyard and disappeared behind a high stone wall. Dazed but undaunted, Richard scrambled to his feet and set off in pursuit, ignoring Willy’s impassioned pleas to desist.
Chapter Thirteen
The Legend of Wolfdene
Bess placed a trencher on the table and quietly exited the room. Amius looked at the food and pushed it away. Only one thing was sustaining him now – revenge. He buried his face in his hands. Despair was driving him to the brink of madness, and a knife through the heart would end his suffering. But no. He would not let the witch claim another victim.
“A laudable plan,” said a voice, “but how do you intend to execute it?”
Amius looked up sharply. He had not heard the man enter. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly, thinking him the fat little man he’d seen next door.
“The same thing you do.”
Amius was in no mood for games. “Return to thy friends and leave me be.”
“Friends? Ah, yes, you have confused me with the gentleman next door. Fortunately, I do not possess his crassness.”
“I don’t care who ye are, get out!”
Thomas Twisslemead sighed. “At least have the decency to hear me out. I shall be brief. You are thirsting for revenge and I can quench it.”
“Unless you can curse the bitch like she did my Mary, then I’m not interested.”
“I can do that and a great deal more.”
Amius regarded him narrowly. Though the man had spoken respectfully, there was something about his mouth that bespoke of distrust. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Master Thomas, and I am a friend, one who wishes to alleviate your grief and give you what you want.” He jerked his head towards the next room. “You should know that my counterpart is a solicitor, but the law will not aid you in pursuit of Mistress Dymock.”
Amius slowly rose to his feet, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. A degree of reason had penetrated his grief-stricken mind. “You’re a warlock,” he said accusingly.
“Hardly,” said Thomas dismissively. “However, if you choose to think of me as such, then so be it. Now, shall we discuss terms?”
Half-fearful, half-curious, Amius asked, “And the price? I have little but that in which you find me. The bitch saw to that.”
Thomas held up a hand. “I do not want your possessions. All I want is your agreement that, if and when called upon, you perform a small service for me…” his tone became severe as he finished, “…without demure or question.”
“I ain’t joining no covenant,
” said Amius boldly.
“My good fellow, you’re hardly the type.”
Amius vacillated. On one hand, he knew who the man was, or rather, whom he represented, and that he could deliver what he promised. But on the other, he, Amius, had already crossed one evil ‘servant’ and it had cost him dearly. Only his soul was of any value now.
“I… I don’t know,” he said, averting his eyes. He did not see the man suddenly turn his head towards the front of the tavern, nor the look of concern that crossed his face.
“I need an answer,” said Thomas quickly.
“I can’t give it now.”
“Within the hour then.” Thomas opened the door. “But just remember when they’re lowering your daughter into the cold damp earth, who was responsible for her death. I will speak to you after the funeral,” and as he hurriedly made an exit by the rear yard, a round, rosy-faced man wearing a black cassock, entered the tavern via the front.
Like most rural churchmen, the Reverend Erasmus Pope had little personal wealth, and although honest and dedicated and a keen fisherman, he was not without weaknesses. His first was that he was a little too fond of the bottle, especially when the latter was of no hardship to his purse. The second was a buxom dairy maid to whom he gave ‘personal’ spiritual guidance.
He was not a ‘fire & brimstone’ parson, which was probably why his faults were overlooked. His parish included the outskirts of Holton, which was why he was well- known to Roger and Nicholas, who greeted him warmly and ordered more ale.
“Nice to see you again,” said Nicholas, “though perhaps the circumstances could have been better.”
Erasmus sighed. “I do not know when I have been more shocked. Poor Mary Baldwyn. A fair flower nipped in the bud.”
“Nipped, indeed,” said Twissleton, who seized the opportunity to preach his own brand of sermon. “The forest is in a sad state. It seems that the abominable agents of mankind are exercising unhindered dominion over it. The condition of the people would never have prevailed if the evil influence had been resisted, especially by those who had the power to do so.”
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 14
