“Aye, you’re probably right. Therefore, it will need to be something he cannot repulse,” and looking extremely thoughtful, Hal melted into the throng.
The procession, after traversing the main street and the village green, returned to the abbey. Although the rain had ceased, leaden clouds threatened a deluge. Stifling a yawn of boredom, Howarth Faulkner watched the proceedings from the inner courtyard. Had the squire not ordered him to attend as a witness, he would have stayed indoors and bedded a wench, or better yet, a willing young lad.
“Hurry up,” he drawled to no one in particular. “The rain is ruining my new boots.”
The monks were ordered out of the cart. It was then backed into the archway, to which three nooses had been affixed to the crossbeam. The cart was to act as a moving platform. Father Eastgate was the first to die. He mounted the cart again and stood with the noose around his neck. Then, as the horses were encouraged to quickly move forward, he was jerked backwards to swing like a puppet. Father Haydock was next, his bowels and bladder releasing their contents as his neck snapped like a twig.
Hewitt and Einyon then mounted the cart, the latter staring into the abbot’s eyes as he fitted the rope into position. “It’s not too late,” he whispered. “You can still save yourself.”
“Too late? For whom? In a few minutes I shall be in the bosom of my Lord. Can you be so certain as to your fate?”
“Retract the malediction and my dagger will save thee.”
“Einyon, you don’t seem to understand. I want to die, and if my last act as a priest is to lay a curse, then so be it. Your child will spawn generations of witches and wizards, at least one in every generation, and none will die naturally or at peace. Now, please get on with it, the chilly air is bad for my rheumatism.”
“May hell's torments plague thee!”
“Nay,” rejoined Hewitt meekly, “thou cannot do harm beyond the grave… but I can.”
“Meaning?” asked Einyon, a note of apprehension in his voice.
Father Hewitt’s last mortal words were, “Remember, Einyon, eternity is a very, very, long time,” and at the same moment he was jerked backwards off the cart, a statue of an angel fell from the parapet.
The author of the deed was not known until Hal Mcnab, on his deathbed many years later, made a full confession, and even then exhibited no remorse. Nevertheless, he was not refused absolution, unlike Einyon Dymock, who was buried without ceremony or prayer.
Not wishing to generate a public shrine to the monks, Stoddard had the men buried near the now defunct chapel at the rear of the abbey, their graves marked by plain stone crosses. And yet one of the occupants seemed unable to rest, for shortly thereafter, a ghostly monk was often seen gliding round the courtyard. The fate of the orphaned child was not known until…
Part I
May Day, 1620
Chapter One
Before Sunrise
It was 1620, and both the abbey and the village had undergone a series of radical changes. Holton had prospered and swollen to the extent that it was now a small town, and was a popular rest stop for those travelling north. One advantage of this, was that news or private messages destined for the area, especially those sent from the capitol, were often conveyed quicker than the post-coach.
Not long after the execution of the monks, Henry Stoddard purchased the abbey from the crown for a pittance, arguing that it would cost a small fortune to render it habitable for a man of his rank, conveniently omitting the fact that it had been his guards who had caused the damage in the first place. Then, on the first anniversary of the executions, and just when extensive renovations to the main buildings were almost complete, the disused chapel had been struck by lightning.
Publicly, Stoddard had dismissed the lightning strike as a whim of the weather. Privately however, he had regarded the calamity as a warning, though whether divine or supernatural he never stated. In either event, he had used the excuse of cost for its non-repair. But, instead of demolishing the ruined chapel, he had made the curious decision to build a ten-foot high wall around it, thus annexing it from the main living area.
Henry Stoddard died in 1551 at the relatively young age of 40, allegedly of fright, and much to the outrage of his two younger brothers, had bequeathed the abbey to his 35-year-old part-time lover, Howarth Faulkner.
Though predominantly homosexual, Faulkner had increased his wealth and position by entering into a dynastic marriage. He had also renovated the abbey to form a stately manor, the ruined chapel being left to fend for itself. His wife had borne him three children – two boys and a girl, and had died shortly after the birth of the latter, allegedly because she had been ‘constantly mounted like a mare’.
Faulkner had died in 1587 at the age of 70, gout being the recorded cause, but in reality, syphilis. Spiteful and heartless to the end, in regards to the abbey, he had stipulated two conditions in his Will. Firstly, that the name of the abbey should never be changed. Secondly, that irrespective of the baptism name, whoever inherited the property should legally be known as Howarth, thereby perpetuating – in his eyes at least, his glorious memory.
But, if at the end, he hoped to cement his place in English history and attract the epithet of ‘Gloriana’, he was already some thirty years too late.
Following the deaths of Henry VIII and his only, woe begotten son, Edward VI, Mary Tudor had succeeded to the throne in July 1553. Unfortunately, the dire warning Father Hewitt had uttered seventeen years earlier, ‘religious whims of the King will tear this country apart. He has become a master of self-delusion…’, could have been applied to her reign, for when she died on 17th November 1558, such was her zeal for the Catholic Church and the elimination of so-called ‘heretics’, that she had garnered the unflattering but apt nickname of ‘Bloody Mary’.
Having witnessed first-hand the destruction wrought by her half-sister, Elizabeth the 1st had been far more tolerant of religious observances, and to appease the factions, had introduced many new laws and measures. These included prohibiting the playing of tin whistles, games, bear or bull baiting, common feasts and the ringing of non-consecrated bells, on the Sabbath and designated ‘Holy’ days.
But her successor, who had the double title of James VI of Scotland and James I of England, had been even more liberal. Being possessed of healthy appetites, he repealed the laws, and indeed entire statutes, that impacted on his own love of jollification. Not surprisingly, the traditionalists were outraged, and took every opportunity to proclaim entertainment on a Sunday as blasphemous.
Heedless of this puritanical sanctimony, the old pastimes had been embraced with gusto. Consequently, on the 1st May 1620, many Holton residents had risen before sunrise to scour the surrounding countryside for wild roses, honeysuckle, violets, cowslips, primroses, bluebells, and other wildflowers, in order to decorate houses and stables, the maypole that had been erected on the village green, and the makeshift barge for the May Queen - eighteen- year- old Lavinia Ashmore.
***
“I suppose you make a fair May Queen, Lavinia,” said Catherine grudgingly. She toyed with her long red hair and waited for the outcry.
Born with one shoulder slightly higher than the other, Catherine Ashmore was fourteen and lively, with an alluring quality that needed only age to make it blossom. Unfortunately, her sweet & innocent persona disguised her sharp tongue and cunning mind, which she had no qualms about exercising when she knew she could get away with it.
Nancy Redfern, who was helping with Lavinia’s elaborate costume, shot her a withering look. She would not trust the ‘sly little fox’ as far as she could spit. “You need spectacles. There is not a lass in Yorkshire can hold a candle to Lavinia. You’re just jealous.”
“Me? Jealous? Why should I be jealous? When it’s my turn to be May Queen, I’ll be the prettiest this boring town has ever seen.”
“Of course you will,” said Lavinia affectionately. Sensitive to her sister’s deformity, she halted by a warning look, the jeering laug
hter that was poised on Nancy’s lips.
But the kindly- meant effort was wasted, for Catherine crossed her arms and said sulkily, “Now you’re making fun of me. People are always making fun of my stupid shoulder and small size. But just you wait. I’ll grow tall and straight in time, straighter than any of you, and prettier too.”
“Aye,” said Suzy Worsley, who was weaving ribbons into Lavinia’s luxuriant long black hair, “and maybe ya great gob will grow smaller at the same time.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Take care what you say to me or I'll ask grandmother Dymock to quieten you.” At the mention of this notorious name, Suzy's countenance became one of unease. Indeed, her hand was actually trembling as she continued to weave ribbons.
“Do not be alarmed, Suzy,” said Lavinia. “Our grandmother would never harm anyone. People love to gossip, and anything you’ve heard concerning her is just superstitious nonsense.” She turned her head slightly to look at her sister. “I do wish you’d be careful what you say. It’s those kind of silly remarks that cause the gossip.”
The rebuke seemed to hang in the air, and Suzy, whose heart was sometimes too soft for her own good, was attacked by guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, tears welling in her eyes, “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Nancy patted Suzy’s hand and then glared at Catherine. “Now look what you’ve done,” she chastised. “One of these days, Catherine Ashmore, you’ll go too far.”
“I don’t care! I’m glad she’s upset. It will teach her to mind her manners. She’s no better than she ought to be, none of you are.”
“Why you little…” But Nancy’s remonstrance was curtailed by the opening of the door.
Elizabeth Ashmore would never see forty again. She was hard-faced, quick to judge, and her hooked nose and dark deep-set eyes were far from prepossessing. Her once red hair, which had darkened to a dull brown colour over the years, was peppered with grey, and of her three children, only Catherine and Davy bore any resemblance to her.
“Are you ready?” she asked Lavinia. “Davy has just run up to tell me that your barge and escort are not far away.”
Lavinia stood up and spread her arms. The fantasy costume, which was based on a romantic interpretation of Maid Marion as Queen of the Fairies, displayed her beauty to perfection, not that she needed enhancement. A gilt crown was secured to her head by a concoction of combs and fresh flowers, while her yellow dress and red stomacher, were edged with gold fringing and tiny silver bells.
“Well? What do you think?”
“Nice,” said Elizabeth mechanically. Not only was her tone devoid of pride, but her next remark clearly demonstrated - if indeed proof was needed, from whence her youngest daughter obtained her sharp tongue. “But don’t ye be getting ahead of yourself. With all the fuss that’ll be made of ye today, I warrant you’ll fancy yourself a real queen.”
Lavinia was rather disappointed with the response, but there again, her mother had never been overly affectionate. Determined that nothing should dampen the day, she tried to please her mother by expanding the fantasy.
“If I were a real Queen, I'd make you rich and build you a fine house.”
“Thank you,” replied Elizabeth, her harsh features momentarily exhibiting a wintry smile.
“And what would you do for me, Lavinia?” asked Catherine.
“I would indulge your every whim. You would only need to ask and it would be yours.”
“Huh, she’d never be satisfied,” said Elizabeth testily. “She deserves nothing but what she doesn’t get often enough, a good whipping. If her poor father was still alive, he’d know exactly what to do with her.”
Mother and daughter glared at each other, and Nancy, to avoid further argument, quickly intervened. “Lavinia, what would you do for yourself?”
“I know what she'd do,” said Catherine with a sly smile, “she'd marry Richard Faulkner.”
“Catherine!” Lavinia’s face turned as red as her stomacher. Though polite words were the sum total of their acquaintanceship, she thought the young nobleman dashing and handsome, a fact she had naively confided in her sister.
“Enough of this nonsense,” said Elizabeth, never a patient woman. “And you…” she pointed at Catherine, “…hold your tongue or you’ll stay home.”
Just then, the sound of jingling bells and tinny whistles floated through the open window. A troop of fictional characters had stopped outside the house. Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, and Friar Tuck, were all represented, while the fool and the minstrel were a riot of colour in mannequin costumes. The role of Little John had been well cast. Not only was his true name, John, but he was a gentle giant at over six feet tall. He was also the betrothed of Suzy Worsley, who barely reached the level of his chest.
A hay cart had been converted into a flower-bedecked barge, complete with throne and canopy. Everyone cheered when Lavinia came out of the house, and Robin Hood, after giving her a courtly bow, escorted her to the barge. The procession thus being royally endowed, it set off for the village green, the accompanying crowd singing and dancing and making merry.
Chapter Two
Early Morning
Catherine turned away from the window and sulked. Minutes earlier, another argument with her mother had seen her confined to the house. There was a discarded posy on a nearby table. Catherine picked it up and with deliberate slowness, as though it would cause intense pain, divested each flower of its petals.
“I hope it rains and spoils their fun,” she said sullenly, as a black cat jumped up and settled in her lap. “I wish granny Dymock could make me pretty, and then, do you know what I’d do, Nex?” The cat blinked as though listening.
Catherine was about to resume when a man poked his head through the open window. The cat stood up, arched its back, and darted away, scratching Catherine’s arm in the process.
“Davy!” Catherine would have thrown something at her brother had her stinging arm not prevented it. The skin was now marked with three parallel lines, one of which was oozing
drops of blood. “You shouldn’t have frightened poor Nex like that.”
Davy Ashmore had fair hair and alluring green eyes. Lean but powerful, his hands were unusually large, an advantage that made him a formidable opponent in a fight, in which he frequently engaged. At 24, he was the eldest of the Ashmore children, and lived in a hut on the edge of Thornley Forest.
“Never mind the cat, it’s a brute anyway. I’ve come to take you to the fair.”
“Mother said I can’t go.”
“Yes I know, and I’ve just persuaded her otherwise.” He grinned. “So put on your prettiest bonnet and let’s go.”
***
They caught up with the procession just as Robin Hood, who seemed in charge of the frolicsome cavalcade, called a halt. Sir Howarth Faulkner and his guests had just emerged from the abbey.
Despite its dubious and arguably tainted beginnings, the Faulkner family had increased in stature and respect over the years, and the fifth Sir Howarth – two predecessors having died in infancy, was highly regarded in the area. In accordance with the old Will, his twenty-two year old son had also been christened Howarth, but was more commonly known by his middle name of Nicholas.
Sir Howarth, though sometimes a little austere, was shrewd, hospitable, benevolent to the poor, and a good landlord. He had married twice, his first wife dying in childbirth, while his second wife was the beautiful Lady Eleanor Parkinson, a well-endowed heiress, whom he had married three years earlier.
Nicholas Faulkner, son of the first marriage, was handsome, athletic, friendly and flirtatious, and a passionate sportsman. His wife, Dorothy, a flaxen- haired lass with pale blue eyes, was the stepsister of his cousin, Richard Faulkner, whose father had died the night he’d married Dorothy’s mother - just not in the arms of his new wife.
Nicholas and Dorothy lived at Craxton Hall, a charming old house set in its own parkland some four miles west of the abbey. The interior of the Hall was delightfully a
ppointed, while the stables were well- stocked with thoroughbreds and hunters.
Richard Faulkner, a bachelor and descendant of the original Howarth Faulkner’s second son, lived at Foxbury Chase, which was situated some five miles North-West of Holton. He took a great deal of interest in his tenants and estate, which meant that he was an irregular visitor to the abbey. He was very much like his cousin in physique and ability, though his manner tended towards seriousness. With his brown curly hair and soulful eyes, he was often the target of an ambitious mother with a daughter to spare.
Amongst other guests at the abbey were Roger Knowles, the local magistrate, who had been invited for a specific purpose, and Alice Nash, a widow and distant relative of the Faulkners’. Known affectionately as Aunt Alice, she lived at Barkham Manor, which was situated on the Eastern edge of Thornley Forest. She was also the owner of the hut rented by Davy Ashmore.
Alice Nash was in her mid 40’s, with a fine figure and glossy jet-black hair. Moreover, there was no outward sign of the double tragedy she had suffered some twenty years earlier. Her only child, a daughter, had died when only a few day’s old, quickly followed by her husband, Edward, a week later.
But very few had mourned his passing. Edward Nash had been bad-tempered and lecherous, and his tenant farmers, whom he treated simply as a source of income, viewed the manner of his demise as his ‘just reward’. Without symptoms or warning, he had been seized by a painful illness that had rendered him a drooling invalid.
Throughout his ordeal, which had lasted three agonising days, he had insisted that an old woman was standing in the corner of his room and mumbling evil charms. The assertion was regarded by the Doctor and the more rational as delirium, but not everyone was convinced, for Thornley Forest was the home of two notorious witches’ – Fanny Craddock, and Margaret Dymock.
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 3