The Heretic’s Creed

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  In his fury, he was hopping from one foot to another, an ineffectual hobgoblin, at whom the crowd and the guard were laughing. Someone shouted that the pony had been a bit of luck; they’d thought they’d have to hitch up Butterworth’s mule. ‘Bloody obstinate beast that is, too, trouble on four legs!’

  Philippa Gould was running this way and that on the outskirts of the gathering, crying out to Bella that she was there, that she would try to save her, and calling loudly on God and his saints to come to their aid. The crowd and the guards were laughing at her, too.

  The drop-board at the back of the cart had been lowered and two of Bella’s captors were heaving her upwards. On the way down the hill, they had evidently tied her hands. She too was crying out prayers for God’s help. She too was being laughed at. The noise was both hideous and loud.

  ‘What can we do?’ said Brockley. His hand was on his sword hilt again but he had not drawn. ‘I can’t cut my way through all these people!’ he said. ‘I can’t cut down villagers in cold blood and as for those fellows with billhooks and what have you …’

  ‘She is guilty,’ said Walter Cogge, unmoved. ‘Not of witchcraft, perhaps, but certainly of killing.’

  Philippa had seen us and now ran to us. ‘I heard that! What is wrong with you, Master Cogge? I had my own plans for dealing with Bella! More merciful than this but I would have dealt with her, believe me. But not like this! She is my sister! Why can’t you realize? Oh, my God, is there no help anywhere? Why don’t you men go to her aid? These village men will give way; they won’t use those farm tools; it’s only a feint …’

  ‘I wouldn’t wager much on that,’ said Joseph stolidly.

  The noise of the crowd surged as the noose was put round Bella’s neck. Because of the din, none of us heard the approaching hoof beats as a squad of riders came thudding along the earthen track from the far end of the village. We didn’t know they were there until suddenly there were horses beside us, blowing and tossing their manes and jingling their bits and sending up spurts of mud from restless hooves, and men were springing out of their saddles, and a voice … a familiar voice! … was bellowing: ‘Stop this!’

  I spun round. The crowd was shouting to the men in charge of the gibbet to send the cart forward, Get her swinging, hurry up, quick, quick! But half a dozen of the new arrivals had their swords out, and Brockley and Joseph, heartened by these sudden reinforcements, had joined them, and all together, they were charging to the rescue, the newcomers on horseback, Brockley and Joseph on foot. And I was staring into the face of the man who had shouted stop.

  ‘Good morning, Ursula,’ said Christopher Spelton.

  He was there. He was real! I had grieved for his death but I hadn’t then known how huge and overwhelming my gladness would be when I found he was after all still alive. I threw myself at him, exclaiming for joy.

  He had already dismounted, looping the reins of his elegant chestnut horse over his arm. Now he held me gently off so that he could doff his cap with all the graciousness of a man who has just called upon a neighbour and found her peacefully weeding her garden. His balding head gleamed in the winter sunshine and his brown eyes smiled.

  ‘How came you here? What brought you?’ I gasped.

  ‘It’s a long tale. Briefly, I got to York to find that the High Sheriff had had word that some priests had arrived at a house owned by some people called Brownlow and were expected to come straight on here. You may not know …’

  ‘I do know. I know all about that. The priests are at Stonemoor. They’ve just arrived.’

  ‘The Brownlows were being watched,’ said Christopher. ‘Anyway, the news that our quarry had reached the Brownlows’ house caused Sir William Fairfax to send men straight to Thorby and I came with them. But I didn’t expect to find this!’

  ‘These are the High Sheriff’s men?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. We don’t know what’s happening here but it’s obviously unlawful. That’s Bella Yates on the cart, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, God help her!’

  ‘I thought so. I’ve every reason! But even in these out of the way places, this way of administering justice isn’t allowed …’

  Dale interrupted us. She had been staring at the scrimmage between us and the death cart, and now, with an outraged shriek of ‘Roger! Leave him! Let him alone!’ she suddenly hurled herself in the wake of the rescue squad, which had now forced its way almost to the gibbet, though not quite, for though most of the crowd had fallen back from the drawn swords and charging horses, the self-appointed guardsmen, shoulder to shoulder, were still brandishing their makeshift weapons and for the moment still blocked the way for the horsemen. Bella, her face so distorted with terror that it was hardly human, was now attached to the gibbet and would have been swinging already except that Will Grimes was locked in a kind of wrestling match with the man at the pony’s head and so far had stopped the cart from moving forward. Brockley, however had somehow got past the guards and was up on the cart, trying to get the rope off Bella’s neck, and simultaneously using his sword to fend off a hefty man who was trying to jab him with a knife.

  The rescuers’ first charge had left a clear path behind them, through which Dale now tore, skirts flying. I could never have believed that my conventional, middle-aged Dale could move so fast. She ran like an athlete from a legend of ancient Greece. The guards tried to bar her way but they wavered a little, perhaps not wanting to threaten a respectable-looking woman with their billhooks and scythes. Dale took the man immediately in front of her by surprise, striking his right arm upwards and ducking beneath it. She was past the guards, scrambling on to the cart. Her skirt caught on the side but she tore it free. She sprang behind the knife-wielding villager, seized his ears and twisted.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ said Christopher admiringly.

  The villager tore himself free, twisted round, and caught hold of Dale, with the intention, obviously, of dumping her over the side of the cart. But Brockley’s sword point was at the man’s throat at once. He let go of Dale, who promptly slapped his face. At that moment, the six sheriff’s officers finally burst through the enemy. They formed a protective line, horses plunging and flinging out dangerous hooves, swords flashing as they were brandished in the air. Joseph suddenly emerged from the confusion, dodged between the horses, leapt up on to the cart, and set about releasing Bella. He got her down to the ground. The villagers were enraged but they could do nothing now but give way. The rescue party, sheltered by the armed horsemen, began to make its way towards us.

  ‘I shall have a lively report to make to Sir William,’ remarked Walter Cogge, who had stood motionless throughout.

  ‘You will indeed,’ said Christopher. ‘By the way, we are not merely here to collect five Jesuit priests. We are also here to arrest the woman Bella Yates. You weren’t doing very much to preserve her for the law, were you?’

  ‘I meant to ride to York to report the arrival of the priests, and to take Bella Yates with me, except that the villagers intervened,’ said Cogge, unmoved. ‘No one expected you to reappear. We all thought you were dead.’

  ‘I very nearly was,’ said Christopher and would have gone on to say more, except that Philippa Gould, who had been embracing her sister only a few feet away, now broke away and came to us.

  ‘What is all this? Where have all these men sprung from? Master Spelton! Bella said … Bella told us, but you’re alive! Bella didn’t kill you! Oh, Bella, my sister … whatever she’s done … whatever she’s tried to do … Thank God she’s off that cart … I heard you say something about priests …’ Philippa was incoherent.

  ‘The guests who arrived just as we were … er … leaving,’ said Cogge, ‘are thought to be Jesuit priests, whose purpose in this country is to seek converts and raise money for Mary Stuart. Did you not know who your new guests were? We – the authorities – were waiting for them to arrive here. To fall into a trap set by Sir Francis Walsingham, in fact. We will now proceed to go up the hill and collect them.’
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  ‘The authorities … you?’ Philippa looked understandably dazed.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Cogge. He considered her gravely. ‘I really am sorry, Mistress Gould, but I have deceived you. I was reared in a Catholic household and I know enough to pass as a priest if I wish. But in truth, I am no priest at all. I am one of Walsingham’s men.’

  ‘One of …!’

  Philippa stood staring at Cogge with such contempt that I half expected him to wither forthwith, like a tree in a forest fire. Then she turned back to the trembling, tearful Bella, and drew her away.

  ‘If they go up to the house, they’ll warn the priests!’ said Brockley.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Christopher calmly. ‘Even if the priests run for it they won’t get far. Where can they go?’

  ‘And how much time will they have for getting away in?’ added Cogge, just as equably. ‘They only have little ponies. We have men on long-legged horses. Let them be warned! Master Spelton is right: It won’t matter. Ah, yes. I see that Will has got his pony back and Bella has been pushed on to it. He and Mistress Gould are leading it towards the path to the house. We’ll soon catch up.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Empowered to Bargain

  Noise and confusion still raged around us. The sheriff’s officers were trying to disperse the crowd, and the crowd itself was shouting and gesticulating. Women were screeching imprecations at the armed men and a couple of small boys were throwing stones at them; also, one group of villagers had started towards the path up to Stonemoor House. They were carrying their axes and scythes and presumably meant to pursue and recapture Bella but while we watched, four of the sheriff’s officers were after them on horseback, swords out, had caught them, forced them to surrender their weapons and herded them back to the street, swearing at the tops of their voices.

  In the crowd, disagreements had broken out and there were scuffles. But gradually the uproar did begin to subside. Walter Cogge, using his bulk and strength, grabbed the stone-throwing small boys, cuffed them, hauled them away, and said something threatening enough to send them running to their mothers. One of the horsemen who had fetched the villagers back rode over to us. Christopher greeted him with a grin and introduced him.

  ‘This is Sergeant John Hall. He and I are more or less sharing the leadership of this party.’ Sergeant Hall, who was young, tanned, and cheerful, raised a respectful hand to his helmet and said: ‘That’s so.’

  ‘I think, Sergeant,’ said Christopher, ‘that things are quietening down. Can I suggest that you now proceed up to the house to collect the five Jesuit priests I fancy you will find there. Get them on to their ponies and bring them down under arrest. But leave the women Gould and Yates for the moment. I wish to question them myself. As yet we can’t be certain that Mistress Gould actually knows who her five guests are. Indeed, we’re not completely sure ourselves. It shouldn’t take long to settle, though. A quick search of their belongings should tell you all you need to know. Look for maps, lists of names, phials of incense, vestments, Popish symbols of any kind. But leave me to deal with Mistress Gould and her sister myself.’

  The young sergeant said: ‘Sir!’ and wheeled his horse away.

  ‘I have a certain amount of authority,’ Christopher said. ‘I am carrying a document that says so. My original errand included delivering a confidential letter to Scotland and I was provided with the means of asking for help and cooperation from her majesty’s enforcers of the law. What happened about that letter, by the way? You know about it?’

  ‘I not only know about it, I delivered it,’ I said. ‘I went to Scotland first, before coming here to collect the book by John of Evesham.’

  ‘Oh yes, the book. Have you got it? Did Bella Yates bring it back to Stonemoor after she attacked me? You know that she attacked me?’

  ‘Yes, she has confessed. But you didn’t actually have the book with you,’ I told him. ‘She stole it from your luggage before you left Stonemoor and put in a substitute. Then, it seems, she realized that once you got it back to London, the substitution would be discovered and there might be another attempt to buy it. She decided to finish her task by finishing you.’

  ‘I see. So it’s still at Stonemoor.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know. Bella has hidden it, apparently.’

  ‘Well, well. I look forward to a conversation with that charming lady Bella Yates,’ said Spelton.

  I said: ‘Christopher – what happened to you? How did you escape? Bella said she had killed you.’

  ‘She thought she had! I’ll tell you all about it, but first … ah, there go the squad to collect the priests. I think we should follow them.’

  We made our way slowly up the long zigzag. The others were on foot, but Christopher asked me to ride double with him, saying that I looked tired. ‘I’ll tell all of you all about everything when we’re in shelter, beside a nice warm fire in the guest hall. This wind is cold. Brr! It’s going to be a long plod up this steep path.’

  I was glad of the ride. Christopher’s chestnut, which looked like a Barb, since it had slender legs, a short back, and a dish face, was nevertheless strong and seemed to make nothing of its extra load, even on the steep incline to the house. I noticed that its colouring was unusual, a very rich shade of chestnut, with a white mane and tail, and I should have realized at once that this description was familiar, except that I was too tired to do more than wonder why it reminded me of something, only I couldn’t remember what.

  Halfway up, we had to draw aside to let an ominous procession pass us on its way down. The young sergeant was leading the way, and behind him, the riders were in pairs, each consisting of an officer leading a pony on which, pinioned, sat one of the recent arrivals at Stonemoor. The Jesuits who had walked into Walsingham’s trap, I supposed. They were all very quiet and almost expressionless but their eyes were frightened. With good reason, I knew. Walsingham’s reputation extended beyond the shores of England.

  The gate of Stonemoor House stood wide but when we went through it, we found Philippa Gould, once more white and cold like a marble image, waiting for us in the middle of the courtyard.

  ‘I was upstairs, in Bella’s room,’ she said. ‘It overlooks the path to the village and I saw you approaching. My new guests have been taken away, as you saw. Are you happy with your day’s work, Master Spelton, Master Cogge?’

  ‘Very happy,’ said Christopher, as we both dismounted. ‘And I shall need to talk to you and to Mistress Yates. However, for the moment, we are all tired and chilled by this edged wind and we are splashed with grime from that muddy track. First, we would like to have warm water and a fire in the guest hall and something to eat and drink before we proceed to any further business.’

  ‘Please!’ said Sybil earnestly. ‘Warmth and food and safety! They sound like heaven.’

  It wasn’t long before we were all, including Cogge and Joseph, in the guest hall, where a fire had been lit. Christopher and Joseph had looked after the chestnut horse but they had wasted no time over it. We had all had a chance to clean our faces and hands, and food had been brought, though Mary Haxby, who brought it, did so sullenly and wouldn’t look us in the eye. We were now the enemy, it seemed.

  The food wasn’t generous this time. Rye bread again, some pieces of cold chicken and a bowl of bean stew, probably heated up. There were two flagons of wine. Brockley, the first to taste it, remarked that it was the sour vintage again. ‘Something they keep for putting in gravies, I fancy,’ he said disparagingly.

  ‘Never mind. It’s warming, anyway,’ I said, taking a sip. I looked across the table at Christopher. ‘Now!’ I said.

  ‘Bella very nearly did kill me,’ he said, through a mouthful of the black bread. ‘She certainly meant to! That dark-eyed sweetheart caught up with me, riding at a gallop, just as I got near the ford. I turned my head when I heard the hooves and said hallo or something, then I saw a knife flash in her hand and she veered her horse round to the other side of me and I felt something hit me be
tween the shoulder blades and everything … I hardly know how to describe it. Suddenly, everything was unreal. All the strength seemed to go out of me and I fell out of the saddle, and – this bit is hazy but she seemed to be on top of me and I was trying to get hold of her and then she hit me on the head with something. When I came round, I was in the river and so cold … dear God, so cold! I was downstream, by some way … I found that out later, of course. The current had pushed me up against an outcrop sticking out of the bank so I was half out of the water and I hadn’t drowned. I suppose Bella thought I was dead, but once I’d come round, I found I could move. I can’t have been in the river for long though, or the cold would have killed me. As it was, I just managed to crawl out on to the bank. I hurt all over.’

  When he began to talk, he did so quite cheerfully, but as he recalled what had happened, his eyes changed. I saw that he was shuddering away from the memory. ‘I just lay there,’ he said, ‘and I fancy I’d have died anyway before long, but a shepherd found me. Or rather, his dog did. I passed out again after I’d dragged myself on to the bank and the next thing I knew, I was waking up because my face was being washed by a warm, wet, canine tongue.’

  ‘A shepherd?’ said Cogge with interest. ‘There’s one lives on his own a couple of miles from here. His actual name is Shepherd – at least, that’s what he says. Looks a bit like a sheep himself – curly yellowish white hair and eyes that are almost yellow as well.’

  ‘I think we’ve met him,’ I said. ‘He directed us to the bridge when we set out for the Thwaites’ farm, yesterday. I remember those yellowish eyes very well. He was rude to us.’

  ‘I fancy he’s rude to most people,’ said Christopher. ‘Not that he meets other people very often. He was out with a dog and a pony, moving his flock, when he found me. He got me on to the pony and took me to his cottage, if you can call it that. It’s a tumbledown drystone place with grass growing out of the thatch. There’s a ramshackle sort of barn behind it, that he uses to shelter the sheep sometimes. He had them in there during the snow. He keeps a good fire going in his cottage, thank God. He looked after me. I was a mess. I had a hole in my back and a lump on my head and my clothes and the skin of my back were all torn and scraped and my ankles ached and ached. I think that woman must have dragged me by them, across rough ground, to get me into the river where it was deep enough to drown me. She must have the strength of an ox!’