by Kirsty Ferry
‘That’s better,’ said Charles. His voice brought her back to the present. She turned around, her hand behind her back, leaning on the table.
‘You realise that everyone can look into the room now? You know that you will be seen, don’t you?’ she said. Charles nodded.
‘I do. That does not concern me. I don’t have to live in the village,’ he said. Meggie shuddered. He was right, of course. Whatever he had in mind did not bother him in the slightest. ‘Now, Meggie, come here,’ he continued. ‘I would like to speak to you.’
‘What do you want with me, Mr Hay?’ she asked.
‘Now, now. Come closer. Don’t stand over there, my sweet Meg. You know of course that I’ve been in Newcastle these last few days, don’t you? It seems as if I have missed quite a lot in the village. It all stems back to Alice. It was Alice, wasn’t it?’ For a moment his expression was blank, as if he was trying to remember the girl who had died. ‘Yes, that’s right. Alice.’ He sighed. ‘Poor girl. Never mind. What is done cannot be undone and we must leave her to rest in peace. So. That leaves you. It appears to me that you seem to be shouldering the blame for this. On such dear, fragile, little shoulders.’ He reached out and touched Meggie on the shoulder, the cloth of her gown rough against his fingers. He took a corner of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it together. ‘Silks and velvet, my dear Meggie. Silks and velvet. I could do that for you. But there would have to be certain compromises. Do you understand me?’
Meggie stood before him in silence. Was this the same offer he had made to other girls in the village? Made them promises he had no intention of keeping, just to satisfy him for a moment in his spoiled, rich life? Meggie had never hated anyone before. She had disliked Charles’ actions in the past, but she had tolerated him. It is what the gentry do, her Grandmother had told her. Do their bidding and take their payments. This is our gift. Use it well and use it to your advantage. And always use it wisely.
Charles ran his fingers over the seams of her gown and down her arms.
‘Please, Mr Hay. Don’t do this,’ said Meggie.
‘Don’t do what?’ he asked innocently. ‘This? Do you not like it?’ he said. He took hold of her arms and stood up, staring down at Meggie. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms and he drew her closer to him. He took hold of her around her waist and lowered his head. He brushed his lips against her forehead. Then he travelled down to her neck.
‘Mr Hay...’ said Meggie, trying to pull away from him. ‘No. No. I don’t want to do this, it’s wrong.’
‘Alice didn’t think it was wrong,’ said Charles. ‘Alice liked it. She liked it very much. She- argh!’ He screamed as the sharp blade of the knife stabbed into the flesh between his shoulder blades. ‘What the hell did you do?’ he screamed, trying to feel around behind his shoulders. The blade was too small to do much damage, but it had drawn blood and this was now running down Charles’ back in a warm, sticky rivulet. He brought his hands around to the front and stared at them as the red stuff dripped onto his clothing. ‘You are mad!’ he said, horrified. ‘Completely mad.’
‘You shouldn’t speak of Alice like that,’ hissed Meggie. ‘Never speak of her like that.’ She held the knife in front of her; she had snatched it from the table beside the window as she leaned against it. ‘You raped Alice. She told me. Don’t you dare speak of her as if she enjoyed it!’
Charles lunged towards Meggie and she ducked out of his way. She brandished the knife again.
‘Take one step closer,’ she growled. ‘One more step. And I shall do it again. Only this it will be in your neck. Or your eye. Or your heart.’
Charles hesitated for a minute, then turned and lurched out of the cottage. He spilled out on the street, blinking in the bright sunlight which had now settled over the village. The back of his shirt was stained red and his back was throbbing painfully. Each pump of his heart seemed to spurt a little more of his blood out. He needed to get home. He needed the doctor. But how could he explain this to his father? The ubiquitous gaggle of women had already gathered in the street, gratified that Meggie had pulled the curtain down and they could see inside her cottage once more. Unfortunately, nobody had seen exactly what had happened with Charles. They had only seen him bursting out of the cottage with blood running down his back and a terrified expression on his face.
‘Mr Hay, Sir!’ cried Mary, a woman in her late forties who refused to believe that she simply was not as attractive as the younger females in the village. ‘What happened? What did she do to you?’
Charles glared at the woman; he recognised her vaguely from his sojourns in the village and tired easily of her sniffing around him. He would never bed her; never. And now she was poking her pock-marked nose in where it did not belong. Normally, he would not even speak to a woman such as her. But today, he would make an exception.
‘She is mad!’ he stated. ‘Completely and utterly mad. I went to sympathise over the loss of her friend, and she turned on me. Just turned on me. She stabbed me. She enticed me in and then stabbed me!’
The gaggle of women cried out in shock. The girl had finally turned. She was a danger to everyone now. She was attacking people at random.
‘Mr Hay, you shouldn’t have gone in! She’s a witch! She knows what to do to entice people in to her. Then she kills them, like she did with poor Alice! You’ve had a lucky escape, Mr Hay. A lucky escape indeed. Do you need to rest, Sir? I can let you have a seat in my house?’ said Mary, hardly daring to believe her chance may have finally come. ‘I have a warm bed, Sir. You could lay down in it and regain your strength?’
But Charles did not respond. He turned his back on the women and limped through the alleyway to where Jess was waiting for him, chewing her way through the grass at the side of the track out of the village.
‘She is an enchantrix,’ muttered Charles, repeating a comment he’d heard in Newcastle. He mounted his horse and galloped off to the manor house, kicking her flanks and making her speed across the moors before the pain in his back became too unbearable.
The women looked at each other.
‘What’s an enchantrix?’ asked Mary. The others shrugged. They had no idea. Lizzie thought she knew. She also thought that she knew what had happened in Meggie’s cottage that morning. But she said nothing. Instead, she hoisted her mewling baby onto her shoulders and peeled away from the group, taking one last look back at the cottage. Meggie had wasted no time. The sackcloth was back in place, blocking her home from the outside world. She was already lighting a smudge stick made of sage leaves to cleanse and purify her house after Hay had defiled it.
AD 391
It was cold outside, the temperature dropping and the slushy snow from a few days beforehand freezing over. The moon was a huge silver disc hanging low in the sky, lighting the path through the fort towards the bath house.
When Marcus turned the corner behind the building, a dark shadow broke away from the wall and a solid figure blocked his path.
‘You came, then,’ said Janus. ‘I thought you would.’
‘I had to,’ said Marcus. ‘I could not let the Commandant punish my men for a crime none of them committed. I have already decided what to do.’ He shivered, but whether it was from fear or cold, even Marcus himself did not know.
‘Are you going to tell him the truth?’ asked Janus.
Marcus took a deep breath.
‘I am. And before I speak to the Commandant, I needed to speak to you, my friend. You need to understand what these people are capable of.’
‘I am listening,’ said Janus. ‘Please. I would like to know what happened. Am I correct in assuming that this involves the followers of Mithras?’
Again, Marcus nodded, his shoulders sagging.
‘It does. I shall be brief. I went to the temple to be initiated to the next rank within the cult. I missed the first date they provided me with, so they decreed another.’
‘Why did you miss the first date?’ asked Janus. ‘It is so impo
rtant to check these things, to see the information they offer you, surely?’
‘I missed it because of Aemelia,’ said Marcus. ‘I had taken her down there, and I did not go in as I should have done.’
‘Hmmm. It was an auspicious day, was it not?’ asked Janus.
‘Yes. I should have gone in, or at least returned later. But I did not.’
‘Women are not allowed in the temple,’ stated Janus. ‘I thought you would have adhered to that rule. You should not have taken her there.’
‘I know,’ said Marcus. He sat down on a stone bench outside the bath house and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes in defeat. ‘Then I went with you. And that was the day I had to return; I was to be initiated that night.’
‘How fortuitous, then, that I made you go,’ said Janus, sitting next to him. ‘You would have missed that date as well.’
‘So I returned for the initiation,’ continued Marcus. ‘And I lay on the floor until the Pater came in. Then he asked me to renounce all things Christian. I would not. I could not renounce her. So they told me I had to perform the sacrificial ritual. And I did. But it was her, Janus. I killed Aemelia. I stabbed her and I sliced her skull open with the gladius.’ His voice broke and he shuddered, remembering it all too clearly.
‘Ah, Marcus,’ sighed Janus. He put his arm around his shoulders and squeezed. ‘What a situation.’
‘I know,’ replied Marcus. He dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. ‘I wanted to let you know before you joined the cult. To save you from being involved. Janus, how can I tell her father that I killed her? It is too dreadful to contemplate.’
‘You do not have to,’ said Janus. ‘I shall take care of that issue for you.’ He pulled Marcus closer to him and, leaning towards his ear, dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you remember what the Pater told you, my friend? “Secrecy is paramount. Nothing which occurs here tonight may be discussed outside the temple. Our rituals are private”. How soon you forget. You forget also that, should you not be willing to embrace our values and beliefs, you shall be suitably discharged from the service of Mithras. There are no third chances, Corax. Or should I say nymphus. You did achieve the sacrifice, after all. You have used up your last chance. Now you must face the consequences. The Pater must deal with this disgrace and silence you.’
‘What?’ cried Marcus. ‘Janus…’ But the man’s hand came around his mouth swiftly and blocked any noise he could have made. Marcus began to feel dizzy as the pieces tumbled into place. He tried to struggle free, his eyes wide and horrified. This was the ultimate betrayal. Janus had known about his initiation before he did – he knew he was going to be made a nymphus. He had blurted it out that time he lost his temper: and Marcus, equally heated, had not realised. Janus knew about the wax tablet system. Marcus was willing to bet it was not by accident he had asked him to go to the temple with him that fateful day. A dozen other little incidents slipped into place – the encouragement to discuss the rituals, the pressing questions. It was all a test. A test that he had finally failed.
Marcus felt the sharp blade of a knife pressing up against his throat as Janus twisted his head around. He began to panic, ragged breath escaping as he strove in vain to free himself. But Janus held him fast. He was a Prefect in the Roman Army. A trained killer.
‘As the sun spirals its longest dance, cleanse your servant,’ whispered Janus. ‘As nature shows bounty and fertility, bless your servant. Let your servant live with the true intent of Mithras, serving him until death...’
The last conscious thought that Marcus had before the lethal blade severed his artery, was of Aemelia.
1650
‘Hear ye, hear ye! All people that would bring in any complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person appointed!’
The crier rode ahead of the entourage. A man dressed in black sat on a pure white horse, flanked by guards who had sworn to protect him and bring him safe passage through the borders. This small village was on the English side of the border, to the west of Newcastle. Cuthbert Nicholson was anxious to visit the place, having met some members of the Hay family whilst he was working in Newcastle. He felt assured of a night’s rest and a good meal with the family. And if he could prove his worth in the village, it would be a coup for him as well.
‘Hear ye! Hear ye! All people that would bring in any complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person appointed!’ repeated the crier. ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’
The villagers who straggled around the streets stared at the procession as it passed them. This must be the famous witch hunter they had heard about. Women looked at one another, assessing their neighbours, wondering whether they were harbouring a black secret.
‘We are here to help you!’ declared the crier, bringing his horse to a stop. ‘This gentleman has been tasked with cleansing your village, ridding it from evil. If you have any complaints of this nature, tell us. The woman will have a fair trial and your minds will be settled!’ He looked around the village, at the scrawny, unkempt women huddled beneath their shawls. He noted an elderly lady; the toothless, hunched woman, who went by the name of Agnes. He pointed at her. ‘You. Do you practice the dark arts? Do you know of anyone in the village who practices them? You are obliged to tell us...’
‘No!’ cried Mary. She was Agnes’ daughter and ran up to her mother, who was trembling with fear. ‘My mother is a good, gentle, kindly woman. It is not the likes of her you need to be searching for.’ Mary looked around at the crowd who were gathering around them. ‘I think we all know who these gentlemen need to speak to.’ Her face hardened and she clutched onto her mother’s arm. ‘We all know of someone who we could take to task for this.’
‘Pray tell us, young lady,’ said the crier. Mary was anything but a ‘young lady’, but his flattery worked. She preened herself, scooping her filthy, mousy-brown hair behind her shoulders and smiling at the man on horseback. She flicked a glance at Nicholson.
‘Is this gentleman here to be trusted?’ she asked, suddenly brave. ‘How can we be sure he knows what he is looking for?’
The crier smiled at her; a smile which did not reach his eyes but melted her guard a little more.
‘My dear lady, you speak as if there is someone here who you do not trust. Tell me. Is this person a young woman herself?’ He scanned the crowd. There were only a couple of elderly ladies in amongst them. Experience told him they were stalwarts of the village, central repositories of gossip. These women, unlike some in other areas, were not at risk of accusation. The hag’s daughter, on the other hand, looked and acted like a whore; primping and preening herself, thrusting her breasts out unconsciously in his party’s direction. He sensed competition for something here. A younger woman, perhaps, who was a threat to this female.
‘Don’t tell him anything!’ A voice burst through the crowd. The crier looked around to see who had spoke. It was another woman, in her mid-twenties, perhaps? Two small children hung about her person and a baby squalled on her shoulder. ‘Leave it be,’ she said, addressing the whore. ‘Don’t do it.’
The crier ignored her. He spoke to the whore again.
‘Tell me, my lady. Is this person a charmer? An enchantrix, perhaps? Has this person proved this to you, over and over again?’
‘Just the once that I know of,’ said Mary. ‘But she drew blood from the young master.’
‘Of whom do you speak, when you talk of the ‘young master’?’ The man dressed in black spoke out clearly and his voice was mesmerising to the villagers.
‘Why, Mr Hay, of course,’ replied Mary.
‘Mary...’ said the dark haired girl. ‘Stop it. You don’t know where this is leading to.’
‘You saw it Lizzie. You saw it as well as I did,’ said Mary. She was not going to let Meggie get away with that. ‘The poor young man, he only went to see her to tell her he was sorry about her friend passing like she did. And she stabbed him. She did,
she stabbed him!’ said Mary, passionate now.
‘You’ve only got his story,’ said Lizzie. ‘You don’t know...’
‘Silence!’ It was the dark man on the white horse who spoke to them. ‘I am a personal friend of young Mr Hay. Who is this girl? As my good friend here asked you; is she a suspected charmer? An enchantrix? A witch, perhaps? Did she lure him into her cottage with tales of woe and bewitch the poor man?’
‘We don’t know that!’ said Lizzie, looking frantically about her. There was that word again – enchantrix. Her sister had told her it had something to do with witches. They lured men in and they charmed them. This is what they were accusing Meggie of. If they arrested Meggie, she would tell them about Lizzie and everyone would know. They would talk about her. The woman who had carried Hay’s bastard child. Look at her, they would say. Her husband dead less than a twelve month. Lizzie was ashamed of herself. Hay had come to her door, allegedly bringing his condolences; she guessed he had tried the same trick on Meggie. Only Lizzie had been weak. Then she had been forced to call on Meggie and beg for her help.
Nicholson stared at Lizzie, saw the terror in her face and considered for a moment. He would be interested in seeing this ‘enchantrix’ they talked about. If Hay had pursued her, she must be a good looking woman. Hay would not approach someone he felt was less than deserving of his attentions. He guessed the dark-haired woman had tales of her own to tell. But he would leave her alone for now. He would concentrate on this other girl. If that brought no joy, then he could move on to this Lizzie creature. He tried to imagine Lizzie naked as he probed her with the needle on the end of his staff in order to find a soft, clean spot to prick her. She would do as some gentle amusement, he thought, but he would let her go afterwards. Maybe do an extra test on her, so could watch her blood flow down her white shift, then he would declare her innocent. But he was intrigued by this other girl.
