“Very well, but the charm will take several hours to brew. Rest assured, Margaret will not do anything to Lavinia before midnight.”
“Yes, I know,” said Alice sombrely, as Nancy re-entered the room from the second door.
“Drink this,” she said, holding out a cup of thick purple wine. “It will help.”
Alice nodded in appreciation and went into the bedroom. A solitary candle illuminated the wretchedness. If Fanny possessed anything of value, she was hiding it well.
Alice drank the wine and then lay on the bed, and despite her anxiety, fell asleep. It seemed as though she’d barely closed her eyes when Fanny shook her awake. “Come into the other room, all is ready.”
The furniture had been pushed aside, and a neat circle of animal skulls and dried toads had been laid out on the floor. The cauldron, now spewing a thin green mist, was in the centre. In addition, there was an acrid stench of burnt herbs and other ingredients.
“Where’s Nancy?” asked Alice, unable to suppress a cough.
“I sent her to collect toadstools and plants. Now, look into the cauldron and tell me what you see.”
Alice steeled herself. She had performed the same task hundreds of times, and yet it now filled her with revulsion. As though to echo the sentiment, the bright green mist illuminated her face, so that her features were grotesque as she stared into the water.
“I can see a chamber. It has four columns, an altar, and graven statues.”
“Aye, ‘tis Wolfdene. The water in the cauldron came from the Leith. While you were asleep, my familiar risked much to fetch it,” and she began talking to someone Alice could not see. “Ah, my precious Percy, thou art the best servant. You shall suckle heartily as a reward. Now, get thee to Wolfdene. We can see but not hear, and we need to know everything. Away!”
Alice assumed the order had been obeyed when Fanny turned and asked, “Do you see anyone in the chamber?”
“Yes, Lavinia. She is with Catherine Ashmore, and from her spiteful look, she is taunting my child. Resist her, Lavinia. Oh, what malice is there in the hateful girl? She is a true Dymock. She is shaking a fist. But wait, she is climbing some steps, she is leaving. Lavinia is alone. She is looking about for a means of escape. She is crying. Oh, it is horrible. Take me to her, good Craddock, I implore you!”
“Not yet. Much is still unknown. Look again.”
Once again Alice stared into the hateful brew, the surface of which was as smooth as glass. “What is this?” she said a moment later, rage making her look even more hideous in the fluorescent green light. “No, Lavinia, it’s a trick!”
“What is it?” asked Fanny eagerly.
Alice could hardly breathe. “A woman has entered the chamber – it is me!”
“You?” Fanny frowned and then nodded in understanding. “Ah, a most cunning device. I had not thought of that.”
“I can scarcely look at the impostor,” said Alice, her chest tightening. “The temptress is holding my child in her arms. Her lips are moving, no doubt pouring lies into her ear. No! She is urging Lavinia to sign a parchment. Oh, Craddock, it is a compact… but wait! Lavinia has pushed the bitch away. Dymock is laughing but Lavinia is holding her ground. Defy her my love! Honour and virtue will protect thee!” Alice pulled back from the cauldron, her face bathed in sweat. “Margaret has left the chamber.”
“I will recall Percy.” Fanny threw some ingredients into the cauldron. There was a flash of orange light and then she said, “Ah, Percy, what sayest thou?”
Though the familiar was still invisible to Alice, she heard him perfectly clearly when he spoke. “Lavinia is in a state of insensibility.” His voice was soft, almost feminine. “Mistress Dymock intends to keep her in that condition till she is conveyed to the devil’s bowl, where she will be fully sacrificed.”
“We must get her out,” said Alice shrilly.
“Wolfdene is too well protected at the moment. Your only chance to snatch your daughter will be during the sacrifice, not that the master will be pleased. In telling you this, I will be punished.”
“Not by me, my little fondling,” said Fanny, and seemingly touched an area near his groin. “I want to get rid of her, to catch the whore in her own trap and then watch her burn. And you, my little sweetheart, must help me.”
“I will do what I can, but you know Margaret Dymock is cunning and powerful and in favour with the master. You must have mortal aid as well as mine. Officers of justice must be there to seize her, otherwise she is likely to defeat all those present.”
Fanny went across to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The sky was so gloomy that it barely registered as daylight. “It is late. There might not be time to summon help.”
“Wait!” cried Alice, an idea having just occurred to her. “Can Percy change forms?”
“Yes.”
“Then let him adopt a pleasing persona and go to the manor. He must tell Nicholas and Richard what has happened, and that the authority of Master Knowles is required. Richard went to Wolfdene earlier but he’s probably returned by now.”
“Richard Faulkner is not at the manor,” said the voice. “He lies on the ground next to the tower.”
Alice clutched her chest. “Dead?” she asked in a stricken voice.
“No, but he is senseless.”
“Under the circumstances, this is most fortunate,” said Fanny. “Take his form, my pet, though it is not half as handsome as thy own.”
“Wait! Let me see him before he departs.”
A moment later, the figure of Richard stood before them. Fanny beamed with pride. “What think you, Alice? Will he do?”
“Extraordinary. Send him at once. There is no time to lose.”
“I like not the appearance,” grumbled the impostor.
Fanny stroked his face. “There is no help for it, my sweet. This is my best chance to usurp Margaret.” She spat on the floor. “Even her name is sour. Now, away with thee, and when you have executed thy mission, return at once.”
The familiar promised obedience and was about to disappear when he stopped. “Quiet, someone approaches.”
“Probably Nancy,” whispered Fanny.
“No, ‘tis horse & rider.”
***
The atmosphere in the hut was palpable as Erasmus Pope rode past on his way to Holton. His secular commitments had taken longer than expected, and he was now travelling as fast as his ancient but spirited horse would allow.
He was just approaching the boggy ditch that had ignobled Twissleton, when he heard a shout behind him, and turning in the saddle, saw two men whom he did not recognise, galloping towards him.
Erasmus was suddenly filled with apprehension. He encouraged the horse to go faster, but the faithful animal was not up to the task and the pursuers were soon on his heels.
“Stop if you value your life!”
The voice was menacing but muffled, for both men had now donned masks. Debating whether to resist or surrender, Erasmus saw another rider a short distance behind the men. It was Bess Whittaker, and she too was approaching fast.
Erasmus was seized by the men. The first grabbed his cassock, tearing out a sleeve, while the second endeavoured to stop his horse. Many oaths and blows were exchanged, and the priest would certainly have been robbed and injured had Bess, swearing lustily and wielding a horsewhip, not charged into the affray.
“Who were they?” she asked as the defeated assailants sped away.
Though breathless and bloody, Erasmus was intact. “I don’t know, but thank God you came along when you did. I can never thank you enough.”
Bess responded with becoming modesty. “Bah, ‘twas nothing, I’ll not be boasting of it. What were they chasing you for? I mean, who would be desperate enough to rob a priest?”
“There are some very wicked people about,” he replied, wiping his face.
Bess tapped a basket strapped to her saddle. “Well, they’d have got a surprise if they’d stolen this. It’s full of food. I was on my way t
o see Amius. I doubt he’s eaten a decent meal since Mary died.”
“Courageous and Christian. You’re a good woman, Bess. Now, if you would excuse me, I must continue my journey. I am bound for Holton to seek an audience with Sir Howarth.”
“About the siege? I can’t believe Master Nicholas and Master Richard would take the magistrate prisoner. They must have had a good reason for it, though gawd knows I’m no friend of Alice Nash.”
“It doesn’t matter the reason. The fact remains that they are holding two men against their will, and it is my duty to summon help.”
“Well ye can spare yourself and the horse the journey,” said Bess. “Thomas Metcalf and at least twenty armed men are at my tavern.” Her tone became serious. “Father, he’s furious. He’s threatening to kill Mistress Nash on sight. Lord, such blasphemy as I ain’t ever ‘eard, and me, a tavern owner.”
Erasmus procrastinated. If he continued his journey to Holton, he might be turning his back on a murder he could have prevented. He looked to the heavens for divine guidance, and as though in answer, large raindrops began to fall. He said ‘goodbye’ to Bess, turned his horse around, and headed for the tavern.
***
Upon arrival, his way was impeded by a crowd of on-lookers, attracted by the shouts and laughter of the men inside. The priest’s tattered appearance caused consternation, but after assurances that he was ‘quite well’, Erasmus entered the main room.
His spirit sank like a stone. The benches were crowded with roistering men, flagons of ale before them, and various weapons were scattered about the tables or propped against the walls. Rather than a determined fighting force, they looked like a bunch of marauders.
Metcalf was drinking with two ill-looking men who were clearly not of his class. Eyeing the priest suspiciously, they glanced at Metcalf as if to inquire whether they should throw him out, but upon receiving a slight shake of the head, contented themselves with scowling fiercely and twirling their moustaches.
Metcalf was surprised at the priest’s dishevelled appearance. “What happened to you?” Erasmus took the offered tankard and gave a full account. “Well,” said Metcalf, “it wasn’t any of my men. Admittedly they’re a rough- looking bunch, and some have been hired for the occasion, but I doubt they’d stoop so low as to attack a priest.”
“I think one of them had a cast in his eye, but everything happened so fast that I cannot be sure.” Erasmus took a steadying breath. “Master Metcalf, what do you intend to do?”
“Do?” he barked. “You think we’ve gathered for a picnic? We will storm the manor, release the captives, and then burn the witch and her lair to the ground.”
Erasmus spoke with unaccustomed force. “No. You cannot take the law into your own hands. I agree, albeit reluctantly, that if the prisoners are not released then forcible entry is the only recourse, but you must leave Mistress Nash to justice.”
“Justice?” Metcalf spat out the word. “Is Amius Baldwyn likely to receive justice for the death of his daughter? Are the people hereabouts whom the hags have plagued and bewitched, likely to receive reparation? No, my friend. I don’t care that my claim was dismissed. That poncy solicitor can sprout all the witchcraft law he likes, but it will be real men who will administer punishment.”
The speech was greeted enthusiastically, and when Henry Dowrimple entered the room, Erasmus knew that his battle was lost. Metcalf spoke quietly to the tenant farmer for a few minutes, and then issued orders that all should prepare to depart.
“According to our good friend here,” he announced, “the witch is not in residence. However, we shall move to the mill in order to be closer when she returns.”
The men cheered and rose as one, and in the rowdiness that followed, Erasmus thought he saw two unlikely figures - Davy Ashmore and Thomas Twisslemead, dart out of the room. The uncertainty was due to the fact that neither was wearing their accustomed clothing.
***
Unfortunately, Bess and Amius were ‘in flagrante delicto’ when the wet and mud-splattered raiding party arrived at the mill. Erasmus had condescended to accompany them, but only on the understanding that he was there in his professional capacity. Half way to the mill however, he had a change of heart, and falling back unobtrusively, turned his horse towards home. It was an action he would come to regret for the rest of his life.
“Do you know how to knock?” screeched Bess, hastily fastening her buttons.
The men guffawed and one answered back, “No, but Amius obviously does.”
Metcalf ignored the banter. The storm was not to his liking. He paced the room and frequently went to the window, only to return to the fire disappointed. His men were also disconsolate, with many complaining that they should have stayed at the tavern. In addition, the notion was gaining ground that the storm was the work of witchcraft, which not surprisingly, spawned a high degree of unease.
***
Half an hour later, the rain had ceased sufficiently for Metcalf to make a decision. Using the gloomy light as cover, they would creep-up on the house and gain entrance before anyone inside was aware of their presence. But not all went according to plan. Upon reaching the gate, Metcalf ordered several men to scale the wall, and the first head that appeared over the top of the stonework, was almost blown off by an arquebus.
A bell rang somewhere in the manor, causing armed men and barking dogs to spill into the courtyard. Nicholas, a burning torch in his hand, casually walked to the gate.
“What mean you, Master Metcalf?” he said, trying to sound outraged. “Do you make a habit of breaking into houses? Explain yourself, sir, or I will treat you as a common robber, which, as I’m sure Master Twissleton will attest, entitles me to either shoot or hang you.”
“Given your long list of crimes,” said Metcalf, infuriated by the insult, “you may well suffer either fate.”
“Crimes?” said Nicholas with infuriating politeness. “What crimes are those?”
“You know damn well! The imprisonment of the magistrate and the solicitor. If you do not release them at once, I will force my way in. Any injury done to those who oppose me will rest on your shoulders. I also want that whoring witch, Alice Nash.”
“To begin with, Roger and Twissleton are perfectly safe. Secondly, Mistress Nash is not home. However, in regard to the foul aspersion cast on her character, I throw it back in your teeth. How many bastards have you fathered? The last I heard, it was six.” His voice changed to a menacing growl. “I give you fair warning, Thomas Metcalf. If you do not quit these premises at once, it is you who will shoulder the consequences.” And as he spoke, a row of pikes bristled around him, keeping the now infuriated Metcalf at bay.
“Sir! Master Metcalf!” Henry Dowrimple, his voice urgent and excited, was dragging a very thin man with a straggly grey beard by the sleeve. Such were his sunken eyes and sallow complexion that he looked half-dead. “Sir,” panted Dowrimple, “this gentleman has some valuable information.”
“What is it?” asked Metcalf as rain began to fall again.
“It's Mistress Nash. She's done something to his throat, probably to prevent him from talking, but she didn't stop him from using his hands. Well, sir, it's like this…” Dowrimple, pleased that he was the centre of attention, paused. He would have milked the moment for all it was worth if Metcalf hadn't grabbed him by the throat.
“Get on with it! I'm in no mood for your prattling.”
Realising that his moment of aggrandisement had passed, Dowrimple blurted out, “Sir, there's a covenant tonight.”
“Where?” shouted Nicholas and Metcalf together. The note Alice had left for Nicholas, had only stated that she was 'going out for a while', and it was Roger who'd told him about Mistress Craddock.
“The devil's bowl, midnight.”
Chapter Twenty
The Phantom Monk
Richard groaned and rolled over. He was still lying where he had fallen at the foot of Wolfdene, only now he was wet and cold and his head thumped like a drum. S
lowly, for his every limb felt stiff and bruised, he sat up and looked around. Sporadic clouds drifted across the moon, one moment bathing the trees in a silvery glow, and the next, plunging everything into darkness, and it was on the latter occasion that he saw the ghost. White and almost translucent, it was the figure of a monk in a long, slightly rumpled habit.
Terrified out of his wits, Richard feverishly hoped that Aunt Alice, alarmed by his prolonged absence, might come to Lavinia's aid and thus discover his situation. But, as the apparition glided inexorably towards the tower, Richard knew he was out of time.
“Who are you?” he asked in a shaky voice, feeling for his sword in his belt, which was empty. “What do you want?”
“Be not alarmed, Master Faulkner. My name is John Hewitt, and I was the last Abbot of Holton Abbey.”
“Impossible,” said Richard, a little bravado returning. “He died some hundred years ago.”
“Eighty-four to be exact,” said Hewitt with a smile, “but in my realm, time has no meaning.” Before Richard could draw another breath, the abbot held out a sparkling crystal goblet. “Drink this, it will restore you.”
Richard eyed the goblet suspiciously. “What is it? How do I know you're not an illusion created by Mistress Dymock? I know someone was following me earlier.”
The abbot let out an embarrassed cough. “Actually, that was me, though I do not take full credit. I do not wish to frighten you, but you had two demons, or familiars, on your tail. The first is attached to Mistress Craddock, and if you can ignore his purpose and evil intent, he’s actually quite a nice fellow.”
“And the second?”
“I don't know,” he said thoughtfully, and Richard could tell from the monk's expression that he was worried.
“Why were you following me?”
“I was hoping you could assist me to get into this hell-hole and free the two young women, but sadly, it was not to be.”
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 20
