The Devil's Mistress

by David Barclay

  Thus was Sloop’s surprise when—standing upon the platform to give his customary prayer—the seats before him were only half full.

  “Well, we can’t very well delay forever,” Marianne whispered. She was standing beside him on the dais. She was dressed demurely for the occasion in a simple, earth-colored winter dress, her hair braided above her neck. Her lips were pursed tightly. “We’ll see where their loyalties lie once they’ve seen this year’s bounty. The ones absent will be sorry.”

  “Like Thomas?” Sloop quipped.

  Her lips arranged themselves in a hard smile. “There are reasons for that, Tiberius.”

  Thomas would remain home for the duration of the feast. Marianne explained it wouldn’t be proper for him to be about so soon after the demise of his fiancée, and she wanted to keep up appearances. While Sloop didn’t agree with her reasoning, he at least understood. The absence of the other townsfolk, he did not. The witch was gone, and there were still those who huddled in their homes like rats. If they had been alive in his grandfather’s time, they would have been dragged out and shoved into the stocks for cowardice.

  Almost absently, he crossed to the window at the edge of the platform and looked down upon his kingdom. Nothing stirred in the dark streets.

  “Want me to bring them up, sir?” said a large figure beside him.

  Sloop turned.

  The role of watchman suited Rufus Blythe far better than being a farmhand ever had. His large, square hands were practically begging to wrap themselves round a heretical neck. Sloop had to admit such a prospect was tempting.

  “Your place is here, Rufus, but we shall have words with those absent on the morrow. Perhaps more than words.”

  The man shrugged. “Fine by me. I’m bloody starving.”

  He did not have to wait long; a line of servants carrying enormous silver platters appeared at the mill’s entrance.

  Marianne stepped past Sloop as if he weren’t there. “Thank you all for coming,” she said to the crowd. “I know it has been a trying week for us here in Blackfriar. John is not with us this year, as you well know, and my Thomas is stricken with grief over the loss of his betrothed. He sends his warmest regards, and wishes deeply he could be amongst us.”

  “Like hell, he does,” Rufus muttered, low enough so that only Sloop could hear.

  “I know he is not the only one,” Marianne went on. “Many of our fellows are missing this night, and while that saddens me, I understand their pain. John was a great friend. He was a mentor, a man whose generosity could never be underestimated. His daughter was special in her own way. I think the old Isabella will be missed as much as her father. She could have forged her own legacy, if only she had turned her heart to goodness. As we celebrate, let us remember her tonight. Let us remember the fate of those who would turn from righteousness in the service of greed.”

  It wasn’t the girl’s greed that frightened the town, but the unnatural manner of her death. The strange events of the trial. The magistrate’s injury. But to speak of such things would only bring discord. Sloop knew this, and apparently, Marianne did too.

  “In spite of these events, it has been a good year,” Marianne said, still smiling. “Our yield is up fifteen percent, and our profits have grown nearly thirty percent. Our problem is no longer a matter of supply but a matter of transport, and I think that is a good problem to have. By this time next year, I suspect we shall be shipping half of our lumber north by ferry. So, tonight, I have chosen to pass some of that good fortune to you.”

  The servants moved forward and distributed the trays amongst the tables. They withdrew the coverings, revealing giant mounds of the Huxleys’ famous cakes.

  Some of the tension broke. There were even a few chuckles.

  “Sweets for supper?” someone yelled.

  “I thought we could use a little sweetness in our lives, Mister Gruebe. So aye, sweets for supper. And if you’re wondering why there are so many cakes, it’s because I’ve doubled the amount of coin hidden this year. It’s what John would have wanted.”

  “Sweets are fine with me,” the man named Gruebe said, and grabbed a cake.

  Then they were all laughing, and for the first time that night, no one seemed to be thinking about the trial.

  Sloop cleared his throat. “Hold a moment, if you please.” All eyes turned to him. “Let us not forget where we are. Prayer comes before meals and fortune alike. Isn’t that right, Madam Huxley?”

  Marianne’s smile faltered ever so slightly. She bowed and stepped away.

  Sloop clasped his hands in front of him. “Bless, O Father, Thy gifts to our use and us to Thy service. We pray for the soul of John Ashford, who could not be with us this year, and we pray for his daughter, who turned from Thy path and cared not for Thy gifts. We pray her soul be damned to hellfire and suffer torment at the hands of Lucifer, Thine enemy. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the crowd echoed. They paused, waiting to see if it was truly over.

  Sloop waved a hand. “Go on. Eat.”

  Then the food-grab resumed, and everyone was laughing and chattering about Marianne’s promise again.

  “That Madam Huxley, she sure can talk,” Rufus commented. He grabbed a cake and squished it within one meaty palm. He determined no fortune lay within and popped the entire thing into his mouth. As far as he was concerned, food was as good as gold.

  Sloop himself was not hungry. He reached down and withdrew the locket he kept within his cassock, the one with Gwendolyn’s likeness. He had been thinking of his wife more and more this past week. Two young women in his life, both close to him, both of whom had fallen within the grasp of the Adversary. Were women as weak as his contemporaries claimed? Or was it perhaps his own failings, his own lusts and desires that turned them from the righteous path?

  He glanced once more at the crowd. A pale face with large, hazel eyes and a small, button-like nose was suddenly there at the centermost table. The red cloak about her shoulders was the very same he remembered.

  He blinked as if not believing his eyes. “Gwendolyn?”

  The face ducked beneath the table and was gone.

  Sloop took a step forward. He had never been so confused.

  There was a scream from the other end of the hall. Heidi Sommers, the tailor’s wife, threw her cake down upon the table and swatted it.

  Her husband did much the same, dropping his to the floor with a cry. “What is this?”

  There was another shout, and another. All round the room, people were jumping to their feet and throwing their cakes. More than a few were holding their bellies. Henry Morton, the best dressed man in all of Blackfriar, lowered his head and vomited all over his Parisian shoes.

  Sloop was not a man used to moving quickly, but he strode down the platform and grabbed one of the half-eaten cakes. When he turned it, a nest of brown cockroaches sprung from the center and began crawling over his hand. He threw it down with a curse.

  Several townsfolk ran for the doors. The rest climbed on top of the tables and watched as an army of vermin crawled from the cakes and spread onto the floor below.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” Gruebe shouted.

  Sloop had no words. He looked to Marianne, who was gazing horror-struck at the slithering insects.

  Behind her, Rufus had begun lumbering about like a stone drunk on the streets of Sodom. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. A great jet of black liquid sprayed from his mouth, and he toppled to the floor. “It hurts,” he cried. “Oh Lord, help me! It hurts!”

  A great wind blew through the center of the mill, snuffing every candle in the room. Rufus stopped thrashing, and for a few dreadful seconds, the only sound was that of the skittering horde.

  Then Rufus spoke, and the voice issuing from his mouth was nothing like his own. “You have taken innocent life and felt nothing. You have shamed this town and been allowed to prosper. You would not heed my pleas in life, but you shall heed them now. The deaths of J
ohn Ashford and his stable hand will not go unpunished. The fires of Hell are coming to Blackfriar, and they will avenge sevenfold what you have taken. One by one, I shall come for you.”

  The voice fell silent. The watchman let forth a gut-wrenching scream. His body bucked one final time, and then an army of black insects burst from his mouth and nose. They crawled over his body, biting his flesh and devouring his eyes.

  The townsfolk roared in terror.

  Sloop reached beneath his cassock and found the silver cross at his neck, the one he had taken from the Ashford girl. He tore it from its string and brandished it at the room. “Stay back, demon. Get ye gone from this place. I am the holy—” A boiling hot pain shot through his hand. He howled and looked down. The cross had melted within his palm. Liquid metal ran down his fingers. “Damn you! Who are you? Who are you, demon?”

  Another wind blew through the room. Upon it, the faint melody of laughter.

  The doors to the mill burst open. A tall, bedraggled figure in long boots and a tattered shirt stood in the opening. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds upon his flesh. The remains of his right arm hung down his side, a mangled mass of bone and sinew. He took two steps into the room, a man on the brink of collapse.

  “Wolves,” Sands cried. “Cursed…wolves.” Then, with a final, blood-foamed burst, “Run…”

  The townsfolk ran for the doors.

  Sloop gazed confusedly over the stampeding crowd toward Marianne. She stared back, her eyes asking the same questions which now cut through his own mind.

  The deaths of John Ashford and his stable hand will not go unpunished.

  Was not the witch herself responsible for the death of her own father? And as for the other, well, that simply made no sense at all.

  Chapter 23

  In the back room of an old and musty cottage, amidst a pile of dusty shelves and ancient books, a young man came awake in the darkness. At his right knee was the ghost of a leg, a round stump worn raw. Upon his back was a series of whip marks, where his former master of house had been a little too eager to mete out discipline. Round his neck was a much fresher wound, a purple halo that would soon fester and scar.

  He sat up with a jerk, finding himself upon a straw mattress in an unfamiliar room. A horse blanket had been draped over his body. His clothes had been stripped, and his wooden leg was missing.

  In spite of all this—the pain and disquiet welling inside him—he was aware of one fact, a truth as simple as it was undeniable: he was alive. In need of food, perhaps. In need of a bath, certainly. But all things considered, he could have been much worse for the wear.

  Another straw bed lay opposite, almost close enough to touch. Upon it lay the pale form of the magistrate, Mister Beauchamp. He was still unconscious. Someone had placed a damp cloth over his head.

  Who that someone was, Jacob didn’t know. He thought about shouting for assistance, then thought better of it. Half the town wanted him dead, and the first thing he needed to do was gain his bearings and find out where he was. The last thing he remembered was hanging from a tree, a watchman hacking at the rope with a dull blade, and then…

  Nothing.

  The blackness had consumed him as soon as the rope snapped. He had no memory of arriving in this place. No memory of what happened to Elly after she fell into the river. He feared the worst but for the life of him couldn’t remember.

  The one thing he did know was that he was a fool. Consumed by his own ideals. Strangled by his own self-righteousness. Because of that, he was now a prisoner in some strange place, and the only woman he had ever cared for may very well be gone forever. And if she wasn’t, what could he ever tell her to right the wrongs he had done?

  He opened his mouth to speak and discovered nothing would come. He was a mute fool, a man who had been afraid to admit the workings of his own heart. He could not bring himself to speak plainly even now.

  It was in the midst of this non-speech that the door to the room opened, and in strode the absentee town physician, Daniel Moberrey. Taking in the state of the man and the state of the room, Jacob came to a sudden realization: he was in Moberrey’s house.

  The physician himself was a stout, bespectacled gentleman of middle years, unremarkable save for his dress, which, given the time and circumstance, was exceedingly odd. He wore an extravagant purple suit with lace trim and a double-knotted cravat. Jacob’s best guess was that it must have been intended for a costume ball of some sort or another—though the ends of the cloth were frayed, and the lavender waist coat was missing several buttons. The boy thought the doctor must be mad until he caught wind of the man’s breath, which reeked of a fermented beverage that had been rotting for so long, it had fermented again.

  “How feels yourself?” Moberrey began. “Er, pardon. How do you feel?”

  Jacob looked at the sleeping magistrate, then back to the physician. “Awake.”

  “So you are. Best lay back. Bed comfortable? Of course it is. Only have the two. Small place, you see. Not that anyone pays a good wage,” he mumbled. “Know you I am but the one doctor within a hundred miles of this place? Think they’d pay better than peas.” He stopped, frowned, then tried again. “Pea-toons. Pay…more than a pittance,” he finished.

  “Sir, thank you for your attentions, but I need to leave this place at once.” Jacob made to stand, but the doctor pushed him back.

  “Can’t have you moving. Head’s all a-fluffle.”

  “Please.” Jacob tried again and found he had almost no leverage on one leg.

  “Council wants you here, young man. Until your trial.”

  “Trial?” A lump rose in his throat. “What has happened? Where is Isabella?”

  “Isa… What?” Moberrey looked confused. Then his head seemed to clear. “The girl! Gone. Taken by the river. Drowned, most like.”

  Jacob’s head sank. “Where is her body?”

  “Body? Er…no body. Nobody has…the body,” he finished. “It’s gone. Now lay back as I told you.”

  In spite of the absurd circumstance, Jacob felt himself growing angry. He had to find her. He had to get to the river. “You cannot keep me here, sir.”

  “I cannot, but there’s a watchman. Outside the door.” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling.

  Jacob looked past him. The front of the house was a singular, open room, with only one way out.

  There came a knock at the front door.

  “Probably the man now,” Moberrey said. “Enter!”

  The door creaked open, but the figure on the other side was both the wrong sex and the wrong color to be one of Sloop’s men.

  Moberrey frowned.

  “Delia?” Jacob said.

  The old woman pushed inside, though not with the same frail movement he would have expected. She held the stable hand’s flintlock in front of her, and while the great iron beast trembled slightly in her bony hands, there was no doubt she had a mind to use it.

  The physician gaped. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Delia took a moment to steady herself. “I have no quarrel with you, Doctor Moberrey, but you best let this young man through. If you don’t, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  Jacob, who had experienced nothing but misery since the day of Isabella’s arrest, felt a sudden and unexpected surge of hope. “What are you doing, Delia?”

  The old woman started to speak, but her voice faltered. Jacob realized she was scared to death. Free woman or no, she had resigned herself to execution the moment she’d walked through the door.

  “I’m doing the only thing I can,” she said finally. “My only friend is at the bottom of the river, and now they’re going to do the same thing to you, Mister Jacob.”

  “This is insane,” Moberrey complained. “Where is Wembly?” When Delia didn’t respond, he clarified. “The man outside.”

  “Wasn’t nobody outside, Doctor Moberrey. Whole town is going to the Devil.”

  A gust of wind blew into
the room, and with it, a chorus of voices. The sounds of laughter and terror mixed together in a queer and unnatural melody. For several long seconds, the trio stood frozen. Then, just as suddenly, the wind died.

  “We need to leave this place.” Jacob was about to stand when he realized he was still naked beneath the blanket. He turned to Moberrey. “Fetch my clothes.”

  The man stood rooted. His watery blue eyes darted back and forth over the room.

  “My clothes,” Jacob repeated. “And my leg. Quickly.”

  “Clothes? I burned those.”

  “Yours clothes, then.”

  Moberrey stumbled to a chest in the front room, withdrew an old, moth-eaten shirt and trousers—mercifully plain, the both of them—then tossed them to Jacob. The physician spun in place, seemed to figure out where he was going, then headed back into the bedroom, where he withdrew an old cloth from beneath the magistrate’s bed. In it was the wooden leg.

  Jacob strapped the leg over his stump, then slipped on Moberrey’s shirt and trousers. They were too loose about the skin and too short about the limbs, but they would do.

  He looked at Delia. “What’s happening out there?”

  Delia crossed herself. “The wind is howling. Folks shouting down near the water. Noises in the forest are even stranger. Weird buzzing like I never heard before.”

  Jacob stared at her, wanting to disbelieve and yet hearing the truth in her words. He turned to the doctor. “I want you to take her and leave town.”

  “Her?” Moberrey asked incredulously.

  Jacob took a step closer. “Yes. If any harm comes to her, I will track you down and put you in your place. In the ground, if I have to. Do you understand?”

  Moberrey looked at Delia sideways. He gulped audibly.

  “Do you know a safe place?” Jacob asked.

  “My brother has a house with pigs…uh, farm, to the west.” Any thoughts of detaining the pair of them seemed to have blown away on the wind.

  “Go there. Take Mister Beauchamp if you can, but no matter what happens, don’t come back until morning.” Jacob considered, then said, “Until two mornings from now.”