by Jay Raven
Hunger banished from his consciousness, Thomas thrilled and marvelled, lost in a bliss he’d never known before and, in one moment of spontaneous, all-encompassing inspiration, his life altered forever.
For while the audience booed and hissed as Macbeth encountered the three hags on the wind-blasted heath, Thomas stared at the crones with a mesmerised wonder.
In his head, a voice – a seductive, coaxing voice – whispered that on the stage was the answer to his misfortunes and struggles; a way to satisfy all his needs. Wasn’t ‘witcher’ the underworld slang for silver, the voice purred.
And as the line “Double, double, toil and trouble” echoed outwards, Thomas Gaunt, failed actor but soon to be self-appointed witch-finder, knew that, luck permitting, his toil and troubles were over forever.
Birds of a feather flock together
And so will pigs and swine…
“Master Gaunt. Master Gaunt – are you with us?” Cruttendon’s fist smashed down on the table.
Blinking, Thomas snapped back to the present. “Yes, My Lord,” he replied, breathing quickly.
“I’m sorry if our little chat is boring you,” the Earl growled, “but I advise you to at least pretend to pay attention. Your lives depend on what you tell me in the next few moments.”
He wiped a fragment of scented cloth across his mouth, carelessly discarding it amongst the chicken bones and other debris of the meal. “You are obviously frauds, charlatans who delight in swindling the Crown and condemning poor innocents to an undeserved and agonising death. That much is clear. But I am still a little puzzled.”
“My Lord?”
“I am intrigued how you managed to pull off the act of chicanery I witnessed back there.”
For a second, only a trice, Thomas considered confessing everything. He felt tired to his core. There was a seductive allure to the notion of putting down the burden his conscience carried day and night. Yet, he knew that once he admitted to their trickery, there was no way back.
Crouched on the floor, Matthew urged: “Tell him, Thomas, tell him what he wants to know. Please, it’s over – can’t you see that? Don’t make it any worse.”
Ignoring his companion, Thomas feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure I follow, Sir Henry,” he offered, keeping his voice even and refusing to break character.
Looking down in disbelief, Matthew muttered: “Fool!”
Cruttendon opened his arms, palms outwards. “Ah, I see you intend to play this drama for its full measure. So be it.”
He signalled, and one of the guards leant over, placing a jewel-encrusted dagger in the nobleman’s grasp.
“Let me make it easy for you, Master Inquisitor. I want to know how you could be assured that the so-called witch would survive the ordeal.”
With great menace, he balanced the blade tip on the table top, the point biting into the wood.
“You had to know she would return to the surface,” he reasoned, swivelling the knife in a slow, determined motion. “If Mistress Simmons drowned, she would have been deemed innocent and you would not have been paid. There is no profit in that. You had to remove any risk of failure. So how? How did you fix it?”
Thomas was petrified, but even in the midst of his dread he felt grudging admiration for Sir Henry’s mastery of theatricality. The noble hadn’t threatened either man with the knife, yet the message was implicit. Lie to me, take me for a fool, and I will slit you open and watch while your innards ooze out on to the floor.
“Her skirts,” Thomas said finally, with a sigh of defeat. “It was her petticoats. We ensured she wore several layers of undergarments. When she went into the water they trapped large amounts of air.”
Cruttendon snorted. “Ah, of course. I should have guessed. Clever, very clever.” His eyes narrowed, almost immediately. “But that wouldn’t be sufficient?”
“Plus, there was the cork,” Matthew muttered forlornly.
“Cork?”
“Sewn into the lining of the material,” Thomas revealed. “Just to be sure.”
“Well, well,” he marvelled, “what ingenious scoundrels you are. Any other subterfuge I should know about? Any other ruses employed in this vile deception?”
Thomas caught his accomplice’s hollow gaze. Tell him, Matthew’s eyes seemed to say. Tell him everything. There’s no point holding back.
“There was also the depth of the water, My Lord. We surveyed the pond the night before to find where it was shallowest. We tested the depth with long sticks.”
“To find the exact spot where she should be thrown in?”
Thomas nodded.
“And under the cover of darkness we tossed in a load of rocks,” Matthew added. “So her scrambling feet would have something to purchase on.”
“And I’ll wager the ropes to her feet weren’t tied too tightly. Just enough to give her feet movement,” the Earl surmised.
He seemed impressed, as much as appalled. “Well, I think I can safely say I have never seen such callous and underhand roguery in all my days,” he declared, sucking air noisily through his teeth. “I have apprehended not just bare-faced imposters, but expert practitioners of duplicity and misdirection.”
He lapsed into silence, half lost in thought, obviously considering what to make of the situation. Both men watched him intently, terror growing with each passing second. It was eerily quiet, except for the sound of the logs sparking and popping and Matthew banging against the table leg as he rocked backwards and forwards.
“Well, now you know the whole sorry truth, what do you intend to do with us?” Thomas demanded at last, unable to bear the savage tension further.
Sir Henry let the knife topple and clatter to the floor. “Now there’s a question. By rights I should hand you over for prosecution. It would be a fitting irony if you shared a gallows with the unfortunate woman you damned this morning…”
Both stiffened.
“…or I could simply denounce you to the mob you’ve just fooled, expose your manipulations, and let them rip you limb from limb. I doubt they’ll see the humour in your murderous connivances.”
Matthew scrambled across the straw, fat tears running down his face. “Oh please, My Lord, I’m begging you. I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ll do anythi—”
Cruttendon snapped his fingers aggressively, cutting him short.
“Yet both these options would be too simple, too easy. I have something much more entertaining planned,” the most ruthless man in England announced.
Thomas felt the room start to spin. Oh God, what more fiendish torture could this sadist possibly inflict on them?
With a wolfish smirk, Sir Henry revealed: “I have a little drama of my own in mind, a dark and sinister intrigue I wish to stage – and the pair of you and your wiles will be crucial in its execution.”
He leant forward and beckoned them closer. “Master rascals, be of good heart. It is your lucky day. Your miserable, dishonest souls are safe for the present. You are not to be hanged… you are to be hired!”
Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse…
Mile after mile, Elizabeth Fiennes hummed to herself as she cantered across the sunny Oxfordshire countryside. The tiny bells on her shoes tinkled, playing a beguiling tune as her snowy mare bounced and swayed on the well-worn pathway.
The impromptu music lifted her heart, adding to her already good humour. It was market day in Banbury and she was looking forward to sampling its crazy helter-skelter revels; as she had done since she’d first been brought there as a wide-eyed six-year-old some fifteen years ago. She’d been immediately enchanted by the clamour and cacophony, the chaos and colour, and had missed only a handful of markets over the decade-and-a-half that followed.
More recently, as she had grown into the full bloom of womanhood, Elizabeth had begun to enjoy the market for other reasons. It was there that her ardent admirers gathered to watch her ride past the stone cross, eager to admire her youthful beauty and gaze upon
her tumbling golden hair. Each time there were more hopeful men, and much as she scolded herself for her vanity, she luxuriated in their flattery and attention.
Well, why shouldn’t a maiden enjoy being adored and wooed? What harm did it do, she challenged those who disapproved.
This time, however, her potential suitors would be disappointed, hopes of winning her forever crushed. For on her finger was a ring – an engagement ring – from Jack, her darling, lovely, handsome Jack.
Thinking of Jack Tyler made her blush, and knowing he’d be there to sweep her into his crushing embrace, made her smile even wider. He was so rugged and striking, she could hardly believe that, beautiful as she undoubtedly was, she was betrothed to such a catch. And a dashing soldier boy, to boot.
Up ahead she saw the market was in full swing, the noon scene an unruly hubbub of itinerant peddlers, farmers, shepherds and Banbury townspeople excitedly going about their business, buying food, meeting friends, gossiping and laughing; their hours a melee of eating, drinking and carousing.
She slowed her horse to a trot, looking first one way then the other, taking in the sights and sounds. The noise was incredibly loud; the cackling of hens and loose-tongued housewives melding with the cries and patter of crafty traders trying to entice passers-by to sample their wares.
The aroma of freshly-baked bread and hot pies wafted towards her on the breeze, competing with the enticing roast pork smell of the hog slowly turning on the open spit near the ale seller’s bustling tent.
“Lizzy, fair Lizzy, tarry a while. Come sit by me, make me the happiest man in the world,” a voice shouted to her.
Making an apologetic face to the young admirer, she blew him a kiss.
He pretended to catch it and held it to his lips.
“Strawberry,” he yelled back. “It tastes of strawberries.”
Laughing, she headed onwards in the direction of the stone monument that marked the dead centre of town, where Jack had promised to be waiting, at midday.
Even though it was crowded, the throng of bodies at its most dense and swirling, she saw him straight away, standing tall in his fine officer’s tunic, perched on top of a crate, scanning the horizon for her.
He grinned and waved with his feathered uniform hat, and she felt her heart skip. It was foolish to feel this happy, she thought. How could this man, above all others, make her feel so vulnerable, so giddily awkward, and so alive?
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he pretended to scold, helping her down from the horse, and flinging his arms around her. “I was waiting for hours.”
“Minutes, more like,” she countered, holding his face between her hands and kissing him deeply.
“Perhaps, but it felt like hours,” he answered, when he was able to breathe again. “Any time I spend away from you is torture.”
“And I’ve missed you too,” she confessed, staring into his sky-blue eyes and feeling herself melt. “With all my being.”
Lord, he was so rugged and his touch was like a delicious shock through her system. It must be love, she told herself, there was no other explanation for the giddiness she felt. It really was as the balladeers described it in their silly, naïve songs.
Marvelling, she studied him as he spoke, observing the way his thick, black locks fell carelessly over his forehead, how the fine lines on his cheeks crinkled when he talked and how his hands flapped as he became excited at what he was describing.
This was it, Jack Tyler – her Jack Tyler, Captain of the King’s Own 1st Regiment of Foot, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.
He suddenly scowled. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“No,” she admitted, feeling herself redden. “I was in a world of my own for a moment. I’m sorry, my love. I’m listening now, tell me again.”
His frown deepened, and for an instant Elizabeth feared he had taken offence, but realised that his expression wasn’t about her but the news he was trying to communicate.
“I said I have bad tidings. My regiment has been recalled. We sail for Europe within the month. The Westphalia campaign is going badly and our forces in the Low Countries need reinforcements.”
“But our wedding?”
“Will have to be postponed,” he said, with a sad shrug. “It pains me as much as it does you, but duty calls and I must obey.”
She felt the sharp edge of disappointment stab her innards. It wasn’t fair!
“I have no choice. I would let nothing else drag me from your side. But I promise you that we shall be married the moment I return.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. “That is a solemn oath. The very moment I return.”
If you come back, Elizabeth caught herself thinking, suddenly picturing the battlefield and the horrors and dangers. If you aren’t killed, mown down by cannon or brought down by musket shot or sword.
Pursing her lips, she asked: “How long? How long before you have to go?”
“A couple of weeks, three at most,” Jack replied.
She considered. “Then we still have time.”
“Time for what?”
“To make the arrangements and put out the word.” She looked intently into his eyes, and smiled encouragingly. “To tell everyone that the wedding isn’t postponed. It is being brought forward.”
“Brought forward?”
“Yes, before you leave to seek glory and fortune on some foreign shore, Jack Tyler, I am determined that we shall be man and wife.”
“You spoke the truth. She is indeed a stunning beauty,” Thomas Gaunt noted, with an appreciative whistle.
“Ravishing,” Matthew agreed. “I can’t remember seeing so attractive a maiden in many a long year.”
Sitting high on his steed between the two, Sir Henry Cruttendon grunted, barely listening to his new companions.
“So now you understand why I must have her for myself,” he told them, voice edged with exasperation. “And why I cannot allow her to marry that strutting popinjay.”
From their vantage point on the hill overlooking the market cross, they watched Elizabeth and Jack kiss, Sir Henry unable to stop his hands balling into fists.
It was beyond galling, he seethed, the memory still raw and painful, beyond any normal humiliation. Her rejection ate at his soul, tearing at him like a mad dog, twisting his guts in fury.
Even now, her words made him shake uncontrollably with anger. “You? Wed you? Don’t be so ridiculous. That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Why would I want to be an old man’s wife?”
“Because I am the richest man for a hundred miles. Because I am your Lord and master and can command it,” he’d replied.
“Not my master. Not my Lord. You have money and title, but I care nothing for those. I could never let a wrinkled, decrepit creature like you paw me. My skin crawls at the very thought.”
No-one else would have dared talk to him like that. He’d have had them killed on the spot, or dragged off to the county prison and lost forever in the darkest, deepest recesses of its dungeons. However, Elizabeth Fiennes showed no fear, only contempt – the easy derision of the young and beautiful.
They both knew he wouldn’t make a hostile move against her. Her family were affluent farmers, well liked in the county, with friends and influence. He couldn’t risk angering them. Nor could he be seen to abuse his position. For didn’t an Earldom come with many responsibilities to the citizens under its care; didn’t an Earl act with nobility and honour to all?
“I will give myself only to a young man, a man I love,” she’d said, with a dismissive wave, signalling the exchange was over. “A man who will love me, and be worth ten of you.”
He was stunned, amazed at her audacity, the spurning doubling, trebling, his determination. He’d vowed that no other man would have her - no matter what it took, no matter what underhand or corrupt methods he had to employ.
Jack Tyler was a complication, admittedly. Having a war hero enter the picture had been a f
urther obstacle, and increased Sir Henry’s frustration beyond measure. It would be extreme folly to harm a decorated officer of the King’s army. Enraging the King was too horrible a risk to contemplate.
So what to do? The nobleman had lain awake night after night, plotting, running different schemes through his troubled brain. Then, as he was about to give up, the answer had come to him one stormy midnight, a flash of brilliance during a flash of lightning. It was perfect. A master stroke of connivance and evil.
And today it was about to be put into operation, the trap set and baited. Turning to the two fraudsters, he told them: “I said I had work for you, my devious rascals, and the moment has come to earn your payment.”
Staring down at the couple, lost in each other’s loving arms, he curled his lip. “The stage is set, the players are in place. It is time to make your entrance…”
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack jump over the candlestick…
Elizabeth knew she was well on the way to being drunk. The music and laughter of the party whirled round in her head, adding to the dizziness she felt from the dancing.
“Come on, you lazy wench, on your feet. Another whirl, another pirouette,” Jack urged, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the centre of the dance floor, to the delight of their rowdy guests.
Her new husband was inebriated too, face flushed and eyes twinkling brightly in the light of the blazing torches. Somehow, it made him even more good looking, she observed with surprise, and a surge of lust. Only an hour or more and they’d be able to send their friends homeward, she thought with anticipation, and then, she and Jack could rush giggling to their wedding bed.
The fiddlers, bribed with best mutton and a large jug of mead, struck up another tune.
“This is my favourite,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands and allowing Jack to spin her in a wide circle, her tinkling shoes adding to the melody.