by James Darke
‘We heard of a witch-hanging hereabouts.’
The eyes brightened and the mouth split into a great smile. Revealing the lad had but one tooth in his whole jaw, and that set plumb-centre in the top.
‘There was first one man. Called Loxley, or some such. A butcher as rode here without being bid, from a village many miles off.’
‘Steeple Shuckburgh?’ called York.
‘That be the place, Master. And he was tested and hanged within three days. His body dangles first in line on the gallows that lies . . .‘
‘We saw it,’ interrupted John. ‘And eight others beside it.’
‘A mighty coven, so he said it was.’
‘He?’
The grin grew yet more broad, until it threatened to split the fellow’s face clean in half. ‘The one they calls “Witchfinder”. I brought him ale one evening.’
‘His name?’
‘Monk. Robert Monk.’
Ferris turned to Brutus. ‘The word was right, friend. Monk has been here.’
‘And right well did he do. Uncovering such a nest of evil as you’d not dream of.’
‘The bodies were all of old women,’ said John.
‘A witch is often old, so ‘tis said.’
‘Old, poor and helpless, ‘tis often said, also,’ mocked Ferris. ‘Some lackbrain creature who has made an enemy and knows it not.’
‘Best not talk that way, Master, whosoever ye be. Not here in Watford. Less some tongue sets your name wingin’ after Master Monk.’
Ferris looked quickly around, seeing that the road was deserted. Drawing his dagger, gripping it by the horn hilt. His left hand grabbing at the other’s collar and holding him against the wall, the point of the blade squeezing against and through the skin of the throat. Altering the position of the knife so that the tip pressed within the man’s nostril.
‘Mary and Joseph, dog!’ he hissed, feeling the red
mists of anger drifting across his mind. ‘I vow ‘twas curs like you set this bastard Monk upon my own parents and caused their doom.’
‘I did . . . did not mean . . .‘ stammered the young man, reaching up on the tips of his toes to try and keep the knife from cutting him. But a thread of blood dribbled bright across his trembling lips.
‘He was with three gipsies, and a slut.’
‘Aye.’
‘And another person.’
‘A young girl, called Mary.’
The knife slipped in another half inch making him whimper with pain and terror.
‘Sully not her name with your tongue, you offal! She was with him when they left?’
‘Aye.’
He turned once more to face the negro. ‘He has some hold upon her. Perhaps he has threatened her parents with trial if she does not stay with him.’
Brutus York nodded his agreement. ‘Some device like that, John, I’ll be bound. But come. We must be on the road. Leave this wretch.’
‘He went where?’
‘I heard. . . heard . . .- Lord ‘a mercy, but you will split me.’
‘Where did Monk go?’
‘South. I heard him say he was minded to move beyond London.’
‘Then it’s south for us, Brutus.’
The negro sighed. ‘Aye, south it is, friend.’ Ferris turned to look at him, still gripping the man tightly. ‘What ails you, Brutus?’
‘We have been about this business long weeks, John, and I weary of it.’
‘Then go and be damned to you!’ he shouted. Jamming the point of the dagger in as far as it would go, then using the razored edge to draw it outwards. Cutting a great gash the entire length of the fellow’s nose, opening it like an axe through butter.
Blood gushed out in a mighty flood, soaking the man’s mouth, running in gouts across his jerkin, splashing on Ferris’s coat and breeches. There was the beginnings of a scream that died still-born as John kneed him hard in the groin, feeling his knee grate against the edge of the pubic bone.
‘That for your damned Monk,’ he hissed, kicking the writhing man in the ribs, then turning and snatching the reins from Brutus.
It was two hours before either of them spoke, and they were nine miles away from Watford by then. The blackamoor suddenly reined in his horse and held his great hand out towards John.
‘This is farewell.’
‘How so?’
Brutus shook his head. ‘It grieves me to sever a friendship of which I had great hopes. A friendship that was like no other between myself and a white man.’
‘Then why?’ But the question lacked conviction, and Ferris knew it.
‘I think I need not say.’
‘No, Brutus. It is because you no longer wish to follow my quest.’
‘The road of vengeance is indeed long.’
‘But I have heard that revenge is a dish that is best when tasted cold,’ replied John.
‘Aye. If ever that dish comes to your table. We have followed Monk for long weeks; always he takes some twisting turn that allows him to ‘scape us.
‘I do not wish him to know he is pursued. Only now did I ask in such a way. If word reached him then he will be on his guard.’
‘I know that, friend. But we live from hand to. mouth, our bellies scraping at our backbones. I needs must do more. I am sorry.’
Only then did the tall negro reach out again with his own hand and clasp that of John Ferris. Pressing it in a firm grip, smiling ruefully at him.
‘I shall miss you sorely, Brutus York,’ said the Englishman.
‘And I you.’
‘The road will be longer, the days more wearisome. I wish you well.’
‘And bear no grudge?’
‘I could as well bear a grudge against my dear Mary, friend.’
‘May all the gods look down and speed your quest to slay the wicked Monk and release your lady from her vile durance with him,’ said the negro, solemnly.
‘I thank you. But where will you go?’
‘There is a travelling fair that comes to these parts, through Blackfriars, during the summer. I know I can find work there.’
‘To Blackfriars?’
‘Aye. It moves about London and the villages about until September. So, if you need my aid, John, then send me word. I shall come.’
Ferris felt a lump in his throat at the total honesty and friendship of the negro. Reaching out to clasp his hand a second and final time.
‘If I find Monk I shall do what I can against him. But if the cards fall ill on the table, then I shall speed my cry to you. I shall miss you, Brutus York.’
The blackamoor released his hand and turned the horse’s head towards a fork in the road that led back southerly and east, towards the far distant
haze of smoke that was London.
Ferris watched him go, feeling more alone at that moment than at any time in his life.
Monk had ridden further west than he had first intended, lured by word of a coven of witches in the direction of Oxford. But after two days he changed his mind and started to cut southwards, as he had originally wished to do. There had been constant whispers of evil on the coast, not far from Romney, on the edge of the marshes. There was even a letter in his saddle-bag from a Romney magistrate asking his aid.
It chanced that the paths of the two men were gradually converging. John Ferris, with revenge hunched on his shoulders, moving towards London from the north. Robert Monk travelling easily in from the north-west. It was only a matter of time before their paths were to cross.
CHAPTER TWELVE
First, there was a chance meeting of some old companions. John had spurred on after losing the company of the blackamoor, finding no pleasure in the warmth of the early summer sun, no delight in a mug of good ale beneath a spreading oak on some village green.
The desire for vengeance pressed him on, hag ridden, so that his waking hours were filled only with the cold iron taste of it. And his sleeping hours were haunted by leering demons. Though he had barely seen the face of Robert Monk, he had
built up a picture in his mind of a grey-suited, anonymous man, neat and clerkly, low-spoken. Three hulking gipsies ranged about him, with black hair, curling over their ringed ears. And a middle-aged woman, whose face he recalled better than the others. They came in the small hours of the night when the breath eases and the blood flows at its slowest. Always the same dream. He was running, yet his boots seemed filled with lead, and the five of them were walking away from him. Along a dusty corridor in some huge, nameless mansion, the walls lined with stained suits of archaic armour. And as they walked easily from him, there was always Mary Villers, her face tormented by some hideous torture, tears streaking her pretty cheeks. Monk and the devils laughed, their voices echoing along the corridor, and then. . . then John would wake, soaked through with sweat.
His road led him into a small hamlet. Only a dozen or so tiny cottages, leaning against each other as though they needed support. A brace of ale-houses and a decrepit Saxon church, its tower in sad need of renovation. There was a pond, coated with green slime, lacking the presence of even a single duck or goose.
There were three men seated around a table, outside the first of the alehouses, their backs towards him. All three seemed sturdy, and for a moment Ferris’ heart leaped beneath his coat at the thought that they might be the Mendoza brothers. He reined in Morgana, reaching to make sure that pistol and sword were both ready to hand.
Then he -cantered on a few more yards, the mare’s hooves clattering on the stone of the road around the green. All three men swung around at the noise.
‘Captain Ferris!’ called the nearest. ‘See, lads, but ‘tis the good Captain himself, come to call us back to the fighting!’
‘You’re . . . Ford. Cornet Ford. And you are Trooper Hathaway and you are . . .?‘ the name escaped him.
‘Hawks, Captain. Trooper Hawks. As was, if you take my meanin’, Captain.’
He swung down from Morgana, tethering her to broken bench, calling inside for ale. Though the truth was that he had barely eightpence to his name. The road of revenge was not just long. It was also exceedingly penurious, and he could not blame Brutus York for taking the road that he had chosen.
The others shuffled up to make room for him, all grinning and nudging each other nervously. Finding the sudden appearance of the man who had commanded them only months earlier difficult to take.
The ale arrived, served by a surly man, balding, with an apron that seemed held together only with dried blood and grease. John supped deep at it, washing all the road dirt from his throat. Giving the trio time to adjust to his presence. Eying them over the top of his mug of thin and bitter beer.
Ford. Tall, lean, with prematurely white hair. Hawks, missing an eye. It had been put out by a pikeman from Norwich in a brawl about the fires one night. And Hathaway, oldest of the three. A man whose love of ale would have always prevented him from rising any higher in the ranks than common soldier. But all good fellows, and it lifted his heart to meet up with them.
The tension eased and they were soon talking together as all soldiers will. Of bitter clashes of arms, and sturdy foes. Of ambushes and charges. Of misfires and lucky blows. Scars earned and given in a score of engagements, major and minor, during the early part of the great Civil War.
They told him how they had been lucky enough to take some rich booty. Part of some Royalist family’s treasure. They had used their share to buy themselves out of the New Model Army, deciding that it was better to be a hungry civilian than a dead soldier.
‘But we have precious little left of that booty, Captain,’ grinned Hawks.
‘Captain no longer. Plain John Ferris and that is all. Where has your silver gone?’
Ford called for more ale, turning back to face him. ‘Too much of this drinking, Cap. . . Master Ferris. And there was some rogues with dice that performed for them and not for us.’
Hathaway interrupted. ‘We were to teach them a lesson. Give them a spanking, Master.’
Hawk finished the story. ‘And found that their leader was cousin to the mayor of the city. It took more money to free ourselves from that.’
‘And there have been women, Master Ferris,’ said Ford, winking. ‘Trulls with bodies of fire and hearts of beaten brass, and that’s the truth of it.’
‘So now?’
‘Now we are to London and earn ourselves a fortune. They say the streets are paved with golden blocks, Master Ferris?’
He considered the question carefully. ‘I think that the roads there are lined with cut-purses and stranglers who would take your last farthing and spit in your eye.’ .
‘But we still must try it,’ smiled Hawks, his enthusiasm not one whit diminished. ‘For you are on the road, and mayhap we could travel together?’
‘Aye, Master, ride with us,’ chorussed the other two.
He shook his head. ‘I am about a special business and I fear . . .‘
‘For Parliament?’ asked Hathaway. ‘Then let us be your guards, Captain?’
Suddenly John realised what a tempting offer that was. Now, without York, he was an outsider. A man alone. But with three battle-toughened veterans at his back, he could take on all the witchfinders in the realm, and their gipsy bullies as well.
‘I have no money, friends,’ he shrugged.
‘Oh, Mary’s arse and teats! Would that stand ‘twixt us and your leadership, Captain?’ called Ford, banging his pot on the scarred table with such vigour that it shattered into a dozen pieces. ‘We shall ride. But first we will eat here and you shall be our guest, Captain. And there you shall tell us all of your mission.’
He told them everything.
Near everything.
Good men though he knew them to be, Ferris had seen enough of peasants confronted with the chances of wealth. The idea that he was pursuing a thousand guineas would mean more to them than his desperate, overwhelming desire to free his Mary and wed her.
He told them of the cruel ending of his parents, touching briefly on his friendship with the black. The landlord of the alehouse brightened when he realised that the three soldiers had a little money in their purses. But the food that he brought them was still of the poorest quality.
‘At least he has not ruined fine meat with bad cookin’,’ jested Hathaway.
Hawks squinted through his one good eye at a crock of buttered parsnips, prodding at one with his knife. ‘I swear that a cuirass of this greasy dung would turn the sharpest lance.’
But it was hot and ample. Not for the first time Ferris wondered whether he had been pursuing his mission with too great a caution. Fearing to set Monk on his guard and thereby risk Mary’s life, he had moved slowly, never drawing attention to himself. Gradually closing in his net On the Witch
finder. Nearer and nearer.
Now, with three more swords at his command, it could be the time for the charge, rather than the careful stalking.
As they sat over the remnants of some stale cheese and a dish of wrinkled apples he finished his story. . Sitting back and stretching. Wondering whether they would nibble at his bait and join him. He had hinted about Monk having some silver that would be theirs if they were to help him seek out and destroy his quarry.
‘And ye’ll kill this Monk?’ asked Ford, his voice louder than John would have wished for discretion. But they had drunk the better part of four gallons of ale.
‘I will do what I can,’ he replied.
‘And if there be silver, it shall be shared among us?’ tried Hathaway.
‘If he has aught of mine, then I shall share it with you all. Anything he has that is not mine shall be shared totally among you. I will have none of it. What say you friends?’
There was a moment of silence. Ferris thought that he caught a glimpse of a blurred face peering through the crack of the door to the kitchen, but it disappeared and he decided that it must have been a trick of the light in the shadowy room.
His concern vanished as all three men exchanged a brief glance. A nod. And then a bellow of their support for him.<
br />
‘And damnation to the fuckin’ witchfinder, Robert Monk!! May he rot in Hell with all the witches he’s burned and hanged!!’ Hawks’ face was flushed with his enthusiasm, his patch pushed back on his forehead, showing the weeping, puckered socket beneath.
Ferris relaxed. Soon, now.
Soon.
While the four men slept, together in the single room that the village alehouse boasted, the landlord crept from the back door. Silently saddling his old cob, and riding away into the night.
Carrying a message that he guessed might be worth a golden guinea or two, if delivered into the right hands.
Robert Monk carefully unlaced a purse and counted five pounds into the man’s hand. Feeling it money well spent. The news wasn’t particularly surprising.
All that surprised him was that John Ferris had taken so long in the chase.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Liza Hall scratched irritably at her groin, fingers burrowing busily between her thighs. Finally exclaiming with pleasure as she found what she wanted. Using her nail to lift the tiny louse from her unwashed skin, popping it triumphantly between linger and thumb. Licking the blood off herself.
She was in an ill-temper, having been told by Abe Mendoza, oldest of the three brothers, that the current catch of suspected witches contained not a single man. Liza found some pleasure in hurting helpless women, but it was nothing compared with the sensual delight of having a bound and naked male on whom she could practice her foul and per verse crafts.
Not even buying drink for the trio of gipsies so that they all shared her bed that previous night had done more than take the top edge off her anger.
The Mendozas were all sleeping in the loft of the barn, adjacent to the inn. None of them cared over much for bedding down beneath a proper roof, preferring somewhere more open. Life with Robert Monk was proving much to all their liking, with ample coppers for ale and food, and the opportunity for a rare respectability as the helpers of an eminent Witchfinder A man who was already being spoken of in the same breath as Matthew Hopkins himself.