Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  Francis, who considered the Royalists enemies of God and true religion, thought of witches as the King’s unofficial allies. They were all on the same side, and had to be defeated. Before he buckled on his armour and rode off to war, possibly never to return, he was determined to win the battle against evil at home.

  To that end he had allowed Marshall to rove about Staffordshire, posing as the Devil’s messenger, tempting the ungodly to sign a (false) covenant with his unholy master. It was the only certain way, so Marshall claimed, to root out those with evil in their hearts.

  “You have done well,” he said at last, “what of the other seven? Common women, I presume?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Marshall answered, “all of them young. None above twenty, I should say.”

  Silly, impressionable country girls, thought Francis, looking with favour on anything that might enliven their dull lives.

  He was a godly man, but not a bloodthirsty one, and had no wish to see all the people who had signed the covenant hanged. As a local Justice of the Peace, it was likely Francis would preside over their trials. With the clear proof of their guilt in his hands, he would be obliged to condemn them all.

  There was a way of fulfilling his duty to God and showing mercy at the same time. Most of the would-be witches on the list were harmless, foolish girls who had decided to dip their toes in murky waters. They would be given a chance to repent.

  First, they must be given a shock. An example would be made of the only man on the list. He was clearly educated, and should have known better. There was no defence, no excuse of ignorance, for Henry Malvern.

  “This one,” he said, tapping Malvern’s name on the parchment, “if I sent you out again to find him, and bring him to Heydon Court, could you do it?”

  Marshall’s little eyes glinted. “I know not where the man is at present,” he replied, “but God shall yield him up to me.”

  Francis knew he risked re-igniting the dormant feud between his family and the Malverns by having this man hunted down. He cared little. The Malverns were a degraded, scattered rabble of clerks and minor churchmen and the like, with no power or money left to challenge him.

  “Do it, then,” he ordered, “and take three of my men to aid in God’s work. Bring him here - alive, you understand - and you the ministry of All Saints shall be yours.”

  Marshall gave another little bow and strode towards the door, his staff thump-thumping on the thick carpet.

  7.

  Prince Rupert returned to Worcester, where Sir John Byron was still waiting with the precious convoy of jewellery and plate.

  The night was far advanced by the time the Royalist cavalry rode wearily through the gates, so Rupert billeted his men at the castle. Those who could get no shelter were ordered to find their own quarters for the night, and the streets were soon full of armed men, tired and hungry, hammering on the doors of inns and private houses and demanding shelter. Even churches were made to open up and provide lodgings for men and horses.

  Henry was one of the latter. So tired he could barely keep his eyes open, he wandered the town like a man already dreaming, leading Faith by her bridle. Three inns refused to take him in or provide stabling for his horse, and the landlord of the third dumped a bucket of slops over his head.

  “No more soldiers!” the man barked while Henry stood below dripping with filth, “my taproom and cellar is already packed with rogues, playing at dice and devouring my beer and vittles. I’ll take no more, even if the prince himself threatens to hang me for treason.”

  Henry lacked the energy to argue. He gave up and plodded down the street until he found an alley, strewn with rubbish. There he removed Faith’s harness, threw his cloak over her to stop her catching cold during the night, and settled down himself on the hard ground with her saddle for a pillow.

  Many years had passed since he last slept rough. Only the terror of hellfire kept the cold and misery and discomfort at bay. Sheer exhaustion robbed him of the capacity to think, to reason with his fear, leaving him unprotected against the certain knowledge of damnation.

  He shuddered violently, and not just with the cold. Lord save me, he thought, teeth chattering as he hugged himself, what have I done? What has vanity and the base desire for revenge and riches brought me to?

  All the Christian teachings of his youth, previously smothered, rose again in his tired and frightened mind: memories of Anglican preachers, standing in the pulpit of the little medieval church his parents used to drag him to, bellowing warnings of the eternal pain that awaited the ungodly: not only Catholics and devil-worshippers, but Puritans, Presbyterians and every kind of nonconformist sect.

  When the night-watchman appeared at the end of the alley and rang his bell - yelling “Two of the clock and all’s well!” - Henry could stand it no longer.

  When first light comes, he resolved, and the city gates are opened, I shall quit both Worcester and the army.

  There was a small risk of being caught and executed for desertion, but Henry reckoned it worth taking. Worcester was stuffed full of soldiers, and one dragoon more or less wouldn’t be missed. Besides, Sir William Woodhouse was dead, and the surviving men of his company had not yet been assigned another captain. Rank amateurs, they didn’t even have a sergeant to take the roll-call in the morning.

  Quitting the futile quest for sleep, Henry rose and sat with his back against the wall. He drowsed for hours, warmed slightly by the nearness of Faith. She, poor beast, was condemned to stand all night, and stood shivering in the pre-dawn chill, occasionally nuzzling her master’s hand.

  As soon as the sky started to lighten, Henry got up, groaning at the aches and stiffness in his body, saddled Faith and led her towards Saint Martin’s gate. They were still shut. A lone musketeer stood on the parapet above the gate, wrapped up in a shawl and cloak, oblivious to the eyes watching him from below.

  “Six of the clock!” the dreary cry of the night-watchman echoed through the grey streets, “and all’s well!”

  Moments later, the door to the guardroom swung open, and three more soldiers stepped out. Yawning and stamping their feet against the cold, they lifted the heavy bar on the gates. A loud scraping and rattling from inside indicated the portcullis was being raised.

  Henry was already in the saddle. As soon as he saw daylight through the arch of the gate, he clapped in his spurs and urged her forward.

  After a night in the open, with scant feed and rest, Faith was not at her best. She whinnied in protest and lurched into a stiff canter.

  “On!” rasped Henry, raking his spurs mercilessly down her flanks, “on, lass, for my soul’s sake!”

  She found a burst of speed, and was too fast for the musketeers. Wiping the sleep from their eyes, they blinked in dumb astonishment at the lone horseman charging towards them.

  “You, there!” shouted their sergeant, the only one who dared stand in Henry’s path, “halt, in the name of the King!”

  Henry lugged out his sword and struck at the sergeant’s head, meaning to knock him down with the flat. Realising his mistake at the last second, the sergeant yelped and dived out of the way.

  Pursued by indignant shouts, Henry sped through the gateway onto the road, the same road he had entered Worcester by from Shrewsbury. He ducked low, fearing the sentries on the wall might shoot at him.

  There were no shots. Word of his flight spread slowly, and morning mist had enveloped the city walls behind him before he heard the faint clang of an alarm bell.

  The Devil looks after his own, Henry thought grimly, trying to remember the layout of the road ahead. At some point, he recalled, there was a crossroads with a turning to the west.

  West, or rather south-west, was his destination. It was ten years since he had visited his kin in Hereford, one of his rare excursions outside Staffordshire. He would go back there now to find salvation.

  The Malverns of Hereford, like the rest of the family, had done their best to trim sails and survive in these difficult latter days. A f
ew had gone into the church, including Henry’s first cousin Lewis. The two men were of an age, and had been playmates as children.

  Lewis is my friend and kinsman, Henry told himself as he kept Faith at a swift canter, he will listen to my woes, and understand. He must!

  More than that, he must help me. Only a man of God can pluck me from the Devil’s clutches.

  He passed little traffic on the road at such an early hour, and reached the crossroads without incident. Giving thanks to the God he soon hoped to be reconciled with, Henry turned his horse’s head west.

  *

  “You are the worst of sinners,” whispered Lewis Malvern, regarding his cousin with a mixture of fear and disgust, “by rights, I ought to deny you entry to the house of God. You ought to have burst into flames when you crossed the threshold!”

  Henry suffered this denunciation in silence. He had reached the outskirts of Hereford in safety, and made for the Anglican church of Saint Michael, where Lewis was minister.

  His cousin had greeted him warmly at first, expressing dismay at Henry’s desperate, travel-stained appearance, and ushering him through to a private chamber beside the vestry. There was a fire here, and Henry accepted a glass of port before revealing why he had come.

  “I am in need of absolution,” he said, “God and the church must forgive me my crime. I dared not approach any other priest save you. Please, help me.”

  Lewis recoiled. He had already risen from his chair and spilled his port. A small man, even smaller than Henry, with sharp, bony features and bulging eyes full of much judgement and little mercy, he looked torn between assaulting Henry or lunging for the door.

  “Must?” he exclaimed, wringing his hands, “do not presume to make demands of the Almighty or his church. The fault lies with you. To give over your soul in return for cheap earthly rewards, to...to fraternise with servants of Hell - it is horrible, horrible!”

  He covered his face with his hands, and retreated as the other man advanced on him. “Please, cousin,” Henry begged, falling to his knees, “we were friends as children. We are kin. I know you would not see me burn, especially since I repent of my sin. Tell me what I must do to break the covenant.”

  Lewis recovered his courage. Breathing hard, he gripped the little silver crucifix about his neck and looked Henry up and down, as though at some terrifying new species.

  “There is only one course” he gulped, “you must kill this messenger of Beelzebub who goes about in the garb of a preacher, and burn the covenant. Whether it will be enough to claw back your soul, I cannot be certain. God may at least look kindly on you for ridding the world of such an evil creature.”

  Henry looked down at the sword hanging from his hip. “I am already a deserter,” he muttered, “and like to hang if the King’s officers catch me. Must I be a murderer as well?”

  “You asked my advice,” snapped his cousin, “so I gave it. To put an end to one who deliberately corrupts the souls of the innocent may be murder by the strict letter of the law, but surely no great sin. Rather, you would have done England a service.”

  “Now I must ask you to depart,” he added, sidling back towards his desk, “it gives me no joy to see you brought so low, cousin, but it is a mess of your own making.”

  His eyes flickered towards the top left-hand drawer, where Henry suspected he kept a pistol. “Will you not at least give me your blessing, then?” Henry asked, putting on his hat.

  Lewis hesitated. “No,” he replied, “come back to me when the preacher is dead, and I may reconsider. At present, you are outside the mercy of God.”

  “Have a care, Henry,” he called out as his cousin turned to leave, “your soul is in deadly peril. If you were to die now, with the covenant intact, the immortal part of you would most assuredly be pitched into Hell.”

  Fear slashed at Henry like a sword as he retrieved Faith from the stables of a nearby inn. She was a strong animal, and quite recovered from the strains he had subjected her to.

  “Another hard ride lies ahead, lass,” he said, stroking her muzzle, “all the way back to Stafford, and Doxey Marshes.”

  He thought his best chance of finding the preacher was to go home. If nothing else, he could fall back on his old talent for eavesdropping, and hope to pick up some news of the man’s whereabouts from local gossip.

  Henry tried not to dwell on the possibility that the preacher had moved on to spread his evil outside Staffordshire.

  I shall pursue him, he thought stoutly, wherever he goes. I must slay him, not just for my own salvation, but for all those who heed his lies and deceptions.

  He was careful to follow a circuitous route back to Stafford, wary of meeting soldiers riding back and forth along the highways. Essex must surely have advanced north from Warwick by now. The King would march out to meet him, or possibly attempt to dodge the army of Parliament and make a dash on London. Whatever happened, the roads would be choked with scouts and outriders from both armies.

  This part of the country was unfamiliar to him. He picked his way along muddy side-roads and stretches of open countryside, spending some of his money on extracting directions from the occasional farmer or shepherd he met on the way. One or two looked indignant at this stranger riding across their land, but his soldierly appearance ensured they confined their objections to dark looks.

  Finally, after a day and a half of riding and another comfortless night spent in the open, Henry reached the country he knew. Just after noon he glimpsed smoke rising from the chimneys of Stafford, and reached the crest of a rise overlooking the town.

  The royal colours flew from the walls, but there was no sign of any military activity. Stafford appeared much as it always was, a peaceful yet busy county town.

  Mindful of being taken for a soldier - and a possible deserter - by the Royalist garrison, Henry doffed his buff coat and hid it under a hedge, along with his pistol and bandolier. He kept his sword, since any gentleman might carry one, and urged Faith down the slope to the town gate.

  A few ironic cries of ‘Ho, The Spider!” greeted him as he led her on foot through the streets towards his old lodging. Henry ignored them. His fear was of meeting his former employer by chance, for Audley was the only man likely to know or care that Henry had joined the King’s army.

  Fortune was with him, and he reached the baker’s shop without incident. He glanced up at the window of his garret, and was surprised to see a lumpen female face staring back at him.

  Fool, he chided himself, of course the landlord has found another tenant. Where shall I bed down for the night?

  He thought of The Rose & Crown, which had stables. Turning away from the shop, he led her down the cobbled street towards the inn.

  Henry had just enough money left for a hot meal, a bed for the night, and a stall for Faith. Feeling that all eyes were on him, he ate quietly in a corner of the taproom, shunning all conversation and a half-hearted invitation from one of the local whores.

  Despite being obliged to share a stinking bed with three other men, Henry slept well. Driven by exhaustion into a dreamless pit, he did not emerge from it until after dawn. Gingerly removing the hairy forearm flung over him during the night by one of his bedmates, he swiftly dressed and made his way down to the stables.

  It seemed best to begin his search for the preacher where he had met him, on Doxey Marshes. The bright, dry chillness of the morning made his blood tingle as he rode Faith out of Stafford, into the heart of the wetlands he knew so well.

  This was the hour I met him, Henry thought, narrowing his weak eyes to search the horizon, I shall hunt all day, if necessary, and rely on God to lead me to my quarry.

  God saw fit to lead him back and forth across acres of waterlogged meadow and forest. The morning had almost passed before Henry found himself on the heath again, where he had signed away his soul.

  He feared returning to this place, which was why he left it until last. The lone tree was still in place, bent like an old man against the lash of storms and win
ds.

  By now Henry’s senses were dulled, his initial optimism faded. He trotted slowly towards the tree, thinking he may as well eat his meagre lunch under it before quitting the marsh.

  He dismounted and tethered Faith to the withered trunk. Sighing, he was digging inside a saddlebag for bread and cheese when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

  “Master Malvern.”

  Ripping his hand out of the bag, Henry spun around. His fingers closed on the hilt of his sword.

  He had no chance to draw. The barrel of a flintlock musket was pointed directly at his face, held by a burly, grinning ruffian in a stained russet coat.

  The hammer of the ruffian’s weapon was half-cocked, and his finger on the trigger. From a range of less than ten yards, he could hardly miss. Henry had seen the damage musket balls could do to the human body at Powick Bridge, especially at close range, and went very still.

  Another russet-coated man stood to his left. This one held a sword, and looked like he knew how to use it. The preacher, distinctive as ever with his gleaming bald pate and ruined face, stood behind them.

  “Greetings, Henry,” he smirked hideously, folding his thick arms, “we have looked for your coming, and now here you are. God rewards patience.”

  7.

  The King was making ready to advance on London. Word reached Heydon Court, carried by a Puritan townsman from Lichfield, on the fifteenth of October. Two days later the same man brought another message. The Earl of Essex had reached Worcester, and the city had opened its gates to him. He would bar any attempt by the Royalists to seize the capital.

  “The battle is coming,” Francis said gloomily, “God means to test England, this latter-day Israel, to see who truly loves Him or not. And we must be tested also.”

  He studied his old cavalry helmet, turning the heavy steel object over and over in his hands. It was of a type called the burgonet, with a high, narrow crest and no visor. Francis had not worn it for almost twenty-five years, since he came back from his brief service with the Dutch army in the Netherlands.