by James Darke
Lightlantern shook his head. ‘Ye know not? Ye saw no man to tell you at the house?’
‘No. Are they with friends?’
‘No.’
‘Then safe beyond the town?’
Three times the servant tried to speak, and each time his emotion was too much for him. Finally he swung away from John’s hands and pointed, mutely, up to the top of the hill.
Ferris followed the trembling finger, and then cried out, starting to run up the slope, away from the trees, towards the gibbet.
And the two dangling bodies.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Ravens.’
The word broke the stillness between the three men. Standing under the shadow of the gallows.
‘Ravens or crows.’
Ferris looked round at the old servant. ‘What do you say, Joshua?’
‘What’s took the eyes. Be either ravens or crows. Likely crows, from yon coppice o’er Vinegar Hill. They likes to find. . .‘
‘Close your mouth, dotard,’ said Brutus York, voice quiet, the menace chilling.
John turned to look at the other two. ‘Leave me here, friends. Go back, Brutus, to the house. Joshua, you will come to me after dark, at the house of my parents. There you will tell me all that passed.’
‘What will you do, John?’ asked the black.
‘I shall stay here for a whiles. There is much that clutters my mind. I would have it free ‘ere I do anything. Now, I beg you, leave me.’
Lightlantern led the way, old legs nimbly picking their way through the tussocks of long grass, entering the trees with the negro, then scurrying off towards the side of Hertford where he lived. York paused and peered back up the hill, seeing his friend had not moved at all from his station
beneath the gibbet, eyes fixed up at the corpses of his parents.
‘I find the need to tell you of it, Brutus,’ said John Ferris, when he came back to the devastated house, close to noon. His face was pale, spots of hectic colour on both cheekbones. And there was a tightness to his jaw that Brutus had not seen before. But he seemed calm, almost unnaturally so.
‘Sit you down, John. There. I have fashioned a chair from the bits of three others. And found enough wood for a table.’
Ferris eased himself down on the makeshift seat, leaning back against the chipped wall. Looking up at the negro, even managing something that could have passed for a smile.
‘Now I know the worst, I can live on. All I must do is seek out the rogues who stole the gold and butchered my mother and my father. Then I can return here and marry my sweet Mary. Aye, it will take time, but I have enough of that.’
‘Will you eat?’
‘There is food remaining?’
Brutus also smiled. ‘I have been about. The backs of these houses. Gardens. Chickens and other animals. I milked some woman’s cow. Stole
another’s chickens. The vegetables from yet another.’
‘You were not seen?’
‘If I were seen then folk chose to close their eyes. I came to no harm.’
Ferris sighed and shook his head. ‘We must be gone on the morrow. What evils lurks here in the hearts of men and women will turn against us. I
shall leave Hertford and never return.’
Brutus went out into the cleaned-up kitchen, returning with a wooden bowl of broth, handing it to John. Squatting cross-legged on the swept floor
opposite him. Watching his face as he ate.
‘It is good?’
‘Aye, truly. I have. . .‘ He laid down the spoon. ‘It was terrible, friend York. They were unclothed and must have been hanged in such a manner. My mother would . . . the shame of that miserable ending! The birds had done well from their faces, but you could still see the fearful beating. My father had burns all across. . . Rope marks about his neck and wrists and body.’ With a gesture of dreadful rage he suddenly threw the bowl of stew across the room so that it smashed to shards of splintered wood against the wall. ‘By Mary and Joseph, I swear they’ll pay! I shall burn the town about their damned ears, Brutus. Everyone will die at my hand, I swear it!’
‘Did you cut them down, John?’ asked the negro, quietly.
‘No.’
‘You, left them hanging?’
Ferris nodded, the red anger seeping from his eyes. ‘Nay, friend. Their spirits have long fled those poor mangled corpses. I am no great believer in a hereafter, but if there be one then they are there. There together. And if there is not, then nothing remains to be hurt by those cold chains on that gibbet.’
The blackamoor nodded. ‘Truly said, John. Will you have more of. . . Hist!’
‘What?’
‘Steps. There is someone approaching the house from the back.’
‘Joshua?’
Brutus listened intently, head on one side. John also strained his ears but he could hear nothing.
‘It is an old man, I think. Stepping light. And alone.’
It was the elderly servant. Cloaked and muffled like some conspirator in a plot against the King. Walking in, then going on through the room without a word, stopping in the narrow, windowless hallway.
‘Here, Master John. Where no eyes can see poor old Joshua.’
John and the negro joined him, standing close together, conversing in whispers. The atmosphere of mistrust and fear lay so heavy in the house that John found himself laying a hand on the rounded butt of his pistol, as though even the shadows threatened them.
‘Tell me, old friend,’ said John. ‘I would know all that came to pass.’
‘It is a sorry tale, lad. A sorry, sorry tale.’
‘Go on.’
‘I warned you, Master John. Ye knew there was hatred of Doctor and Mistress Ferris.’
‘I did.’
‘They sent word out of the town. Sent for strangers to come and put them to question. Folk came the day ye left home for Cambridge.’
‘Folk? What manner of folk were they, Joshua?’
‘They done called ‘emselves witchfinders. Their duty sent by God to seek out evil where ‘ere it lay.’
‘After my parents? There is madness in the land, Joshua.’
‘There were five of ‘em. Three bloody demons of gippoes.’ .
A tiny bell began to ring at the back of John’s mind.
‘Gippoes, you say?’
The servant nodded. ‘Aye. Big, strappin’ gippoes. And there was a woman, drove their cart.’
Brutus spoke first. ‘I think I have seen them. They passed me, while I lay hiding among the brush. Three men ahorse. The cart and a woman at the reins.’
‘A whore,’ spat Joshua. ‘Evil through and through, with great bubbies as she flaunted at any man cast an eye her way. And there was plenty hereabouts, I tell ye that. And last was. . .‘
‘A small, neat man. Trim beard. Grey-clad,’ exclaimed Ferris. ‘God’s blood! I too passed them, and even told them the road to Hertford.’ There was despair in his voice. ‘I could have set a ball to that man’s brain and sabred the trull.’
‘What was their business?’ asked the negro. Lightlantern looked askance at him, still clearly fearful of the blackness of the man. Hesitating as if he had lost the thread of his reply. Coughing, then trying once more.
‘They come as they was called. Folks said that Doctor and Mistress was deep in deviltry. So these here witchfinders come at the fast gallop.’
‘Did the neighbours aid these people?’ asked John Ferris.
‘Nay. Not open, Master John. But it had been their whisperin’ as begun the business. Once Mister Monk and his hellish minions was here, they played the game by their own rules.’
‘Was there torture, Master Lightlantern?’ asked the negro, leaning patiently in the doorway.
‘Much. More than my tongue can. . . my tongue can tell.’
‘I will not hear it,’ said John.
Brutus York sighed. ‘I think that you are wrong in that, friend.’
‘I have seen their bodies, damn you!’ hissed Ferris, his vi
olent temper flaring uncontrollably. ‘I saw the burns and the marks of whips.’
‘They swam ‘im,’ said Joshua. ‘Swam the Doctor. Tied ‘is thumbs to ‘is toes, widdershins, crossed like a fowl for the plucking. Threw him in the river. See if he drowned or swum.’
‘He did not drown.’
The old man shook his head vigorously. ‘Nay. Had he done that he would have been proven innocent. He fought bitter hard for life, your mother screaming and screaming so’s it’d shatter glass.’
‘They hanged them both, Joshua,’ said John, his rage disappearing as fast as it had risen. ‘There on that felon’s gibbet.’
‘They did. But they suffered sore. They racked them. Kept them sleepless. I fear that Mistress Ferris was sorely used by them gippoes, ‘ere she passed over.’
‘Enough, Joshua, I beg you. I have heard enough to pursue these witchfinders to the ends of the earth to find them.’
‘Does ye know their names, Master John?’
‘No.’
‘The leader was Monk. Robert Monk. They do say he be an apostle of that Matthew Hopkins, the general of all witchfinders. His slut was called
Lizbeth Hall, or Liza. I forget me. And the gippoes was all brothers. Mendoza by name. I know not their given names.’
‘I shall not forget, Joshua. If I had but some silver I would repay you, but the rogues found the strong-box and took all.’
‘The inheritance? All?’
‘Aye. You did not know of it?’
‘Nay. I knew nothing of it.’
‘Who broke open the house?’ asked the black.
‘People.’
‘From Hertford?’ asked John.
Lightlantern shook his head. ‘I cannot say, if ye will pardon me. I cannot. . .‘
Ferris nodded. ‘But Monk and his minions were there to lead them. And they found the money?’
‘Aye. I came after and all were gone and the place were all tatters. Oh, such a day, Master John. Such a day of sadness as I shall never forget.’
He began crying, but refused all comfort, finally pushing his way past the two men and stumbling through the debris and out into the darkness beyond.
The night crept on its heavy feet towards the hour of midnight. Brutus vanished once for nearly an hour, reappearing with a dark green bottle of
brandy. John smiled at the sight and never even bothered to ask him where he’d obtained it. After several draws at the fiery liquor he handed the bottle to the negro.
‘Now, we must talk, friend.’
Brutus York grinned, his teeth wolfish and bright in the semi-blackness of the parlour. He had tacked up some bedding over the shattered windows, and two candles flickered uncertainly on either side of the room.
‘You are to say that we needs must part.’
Ferris gaped in surprise. ‘I was, but. . .‘
‘And that you had offered me hospitality and now all was lost.’
‘Aye, yet . . .‘
York wagged a finger reprovingly. ‘I should offer a great buffet about the chops, John.’ His voice was pitched low, yet resonant and filled with great calmness and strength. ‘You were going to tell me that you must pursue a quest against the murderers of your parents and that you could not look for my aid.’
‘I was. Mary and Joseph! But if this bastard Monk were here he would call you warlock for such second-seeing. You have read into my mind, Brutus.’
‘If those were your thoughts, then they are as false as a woman’s heart.’
‘I cannot ask you. . .‘
‘No. Mayhap you cannot ask. But I shall be sore offended if you were to ride on the morrow without me at your stirrup. There is a fine gelding only two fields from here that I can ride. A saddle in a barn not a hundred paces off. Let us go together.’
John Ferris rose and the black also stood. With a great cry of friendship they clasped each other around the shoulders, squeezing until muscles cracked, then breaking away and grinning at each other.
‘A man could not ask for better company, Brutus York. Then, at dawn we shall ride.’
The horse was easily and quietly stolen, and the negro came looming from the pink dawn, leading it behind him, the hooves clopping softly on the dew damp grass. He found Ferris inside the cottage, Morgana tethered outside. The air was heavy with the rank scent of lamp-oil.
‘John!’ he called.
‘I am near done.’ He held a makeshift torch in his right hand, dripping with pitch. ‘A spark to the tinder. Then this place will burn down.’ He looked at the black, who felt the cold power in his eyes. ‘I would that this damned town had a single throat so that I could slit it at One stroke. I was minded to fire every house about, but I do not blame these poor, misled folk. They were a’feared. But this money seeking Monk, and his crew of black-hearts . . .
They will pay.’
‘Where shall we seek them first?’
‘We go to Lightlantern’s home. He will know which road they set on. And then on to my beloved Mary to break our fast. She must be worried clear from her head at my absence. I should have gone yesterday, but my heart was elsewhere.’
‘Is it far?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘And there is her family to see. The news of what has happened here will have reached their ears and they will be concerned for
me. Her father is a hard man, Brutus, but fair and honest. He would have had no part in such deeds.’
Somewhere further along the lane, in the morning’s stillness, they both heard the creaking of a door being carefully eased open.
‘We should be gone, I think,’ whispered the blackamoor. ‘I scent rats stirring.’
‘At their nests, friend. Hold the mare and I shall set the spark.’
He vanished again through the broken door and the negro heard the unmistakable sound of flint and steel. Almost immediately followed by the crackling of parchment and tinder burning. A thin worm of smoke came coiling lazily into the dawn.
‘To horse, Brutus!’ called John, coming running through the gathering smoke, holding his sword hilt in his left hand as he came, preventing it from tripping him. He vaulted easily into the saddle and spurred Morgana away from the garden, leaping the hedge in a single bound. Followed by the black on his gelding.
They cantered to the end of the lane and Brutus thought that his friend would leave without a single backward glance, but he did not. Reining in and looking over his shoulder. The thatch was already catching, the fire reaching the timbers through the broken plaster, setting light to the splintered wood within. Smoke was pouring out, rising in the windless sky, higher than the tops of the towering beeches that surrounded the house. Already people were coming from their homes and for a moment Ferris had wild surge of anger and half-drew his sabre.
But his friend saw the movement and checked him with a word. ‘No.’
‘Why not? Why in the name of Hell not?’ Through gritted teeth.
‘Life, dear John, is too short. They do not have one neck. They would likely knock you down with a hurled adze or mallet and you would be dead.
And the true villains would live on, scotch-free.’
John nodded. ‘Aye. You do well to put that in my mind, Brutus. Let the house go. I shall never return to this town, forsaken of God, again.’
With that he turned his head resolutely away from the crackling inferno and set off towards the home of Joshua Lightlantern, with Brutus York cantering along a few paces at his rear.
‘Master John.’
‘Joshua?’
‘Aye. I saw flames and came through the fields to see if ye needed aid.’
The old man’s head was sticking through a gap in the hedge, his hair tousled, still clutching his trusty bilihook.
‘I fired the house, Joshua.’
‘Set light to thine own dwelling? Lord, save us
‘The Lord turned his face away from my parents, Joshua, and so I turn my face away from him.’
The old man shook his head sadly. ‘I grieve to hear ye
speak so, John Ferris. Yet I see your bitter ness set upon your brow like the mark of Cain.’
‘Cain slew his brother, did he not?’ asked Brutus.
‘Aye.’
John caught the smell of smoke on the air and realised that it would be as well to move from Hertford. Bringing the conversation to a speedy ending.
‘I shall slay no man, but Monk and his servants. I wish I had silver to give you for your past kindness, Joshua.’
‘I did what I did, Master. I loved the Doctor and the Mistress. For old Joshua now there be naught but to creep ‘twixt heaven and earth until I am claimed. I wish ye well, John. And to your black companion.’
‘One question more. Which road did Monk take?’
‘West. Will ye follow him?’
‘I will. But first I go to see my dearest Mary.’
The elderly servant stood as though stricken dumb, his bilihook falling to the grass.
‘What is it, Joshua?’
‘Ye do not know.’
‘What?’
‘Monk and his followers. They took Mistress Mary Villers with ‘em. Took her and never seen again.’
CHAPTER TEN
A thread of bright blood trickled down the man’s naked body.
He was forty-three years of age, a butcher by trade, and he hailed from the village of Steeple Shuckburgh, some twenty miles south and west of Hertford town. His name was Edric Lockley.
The pain will stop right soon, Master Lockley, if you do but tell us the names of your familiar spirits and of your fellow witches.’
The voice was quiet, and polite. Through the two days that had passed since Edric came to Watford the voice had scarcely risen above the same passionless tones. The voice could have been asking him about the quality of his stewing mutton, or whether the pork was fresh and tender. It was the voice of an anonymous clerk, checking whether the butcher had paid his due and taxes correctly.
That was partly the madness.
That such a voice, and such a trim little man, should be at the heart of this appalling torture, surrounded by crazed and demonic servants.
‘There will be a fine warm bed for you, and good food. Some of your own best lamb, served so tender that the meat will melt in your mouth.’