“Poppycock. The statute is wicked and bloody and many innocent lives will be lost because of it.”
Twissleton stared at her, aghast. “Are you refuting the wisdom of the King?”
“Of course not, but all the same, the book is dangerous. It will put power into the hands of people who will abuse it.” She almost added, ‘like yourself’.
Twissleton narrowed his eyes. “You seem uncommonly forthright on the subject. Are you an advocate for witchcraft?”
Nicholas had a sudden sense of danger. If his Aunt was not careful, she could walk into a trap of her own making. He therefore steered the conversation away from her.
“Master Twissleton, I will aid you in your search tomorrow, but I warn you now it won’t be easy. Many hereabouts, especially the peasantry, are afraid of Craddock and Dymock.”
The solicitor’s response was as pompous as it was naive. “I fear nothing in the discharge of my duty. My office will protect me, and I have no doubt Master Knowles will dispense a warrant if required.”
Nicholas’s dislike of the man was reaching new heights. Nevertheless, he thought it prudent to give voice to a warning, not so much for the solicitor’s sake, but to protect the rustics and farmers they were likely to meet. “Your zeal does you credit, but you must not put absolute faith in the tales you hear. Many people are superstitious and fancy they discern witchcraft in every mishap, no matter how slight. If ale turns sour after a thunderstorm, or if butter refuses to form, if sheep contract foot rot or swine the fever, or if a cow aborts a calf, rest assured that a witch or black magic, and not indolent care, will be blamed for it.
“There is something special about living in the country, something that city dwellers do not understand. Yes, most of the peasantry are superstitious, and yes many can be peculiar in their ways, but the vast majority are hard-working and honest.”
“I am not entirely without experience in the matter, nor of this area. One of my illustrious ancestors was clerk to Sir Henry Stoddard.”
Nicholas looked at him sharply. He knew the history of the abbey very well. “Henry Stoddard? The man who hanged the monks?”
Twissleton coughed. “The man who justly enacted the King’s law, as I intend to do. It is better to be over credulous than over sceptical. Even in my own lodgings I have a horseshoe nailed over the door. One cannot be too careful when fighting the devil and his servants. The accused should be scratched with pins to make her bleed, or weighed against the bible, though this is not always proof. She should be forced to weep, for a witch can only shed three tears from the left eye, or set on a stool for twenty-four hours with her legs tied and deprived of food, water, and sleep. Of course, the surest way is to bind her and make her swim. If she doesn’t sink, then she’s a witch. In addition, there is the devil’s mark, and from what you have said, Mistresses’ Dymock and Craddock are sure to possess one. But, even if they don’t, there are other ways to detect their infamy.”
Nicholas thought for a moment and then said, “Since you are so learned in the matter, why do women indulge in the practice more than men?”
The solicitor let out a humourless titter. “Simple, because women are frailer and more forward than men. Consequently, they do not possess the same power of resistance and are easily snared by the devil. And then there is the temptation to licentiousness.”
“But surely ‘frailer and forward’ are a contradiction in terms. What say you, Aunt Alice?”
“As I am neither frail or licentious, I can take comfort from the fact that I will never be branded a witch.”
Twissleton eyed her narrowly. “Be not too sure of that. To quote the King’s most illustrious wisdom, 'A great number that have been convicted or confessors of witchcraft, are some of them rich and worldly, some of them fat or gaunt, and most part of them given over to the pleasures of the flesh, continual haunting of company, and all kinds of merriness, lawful and unlawful’.”
Nicholas burst out laughing. “If this be true, then the description also applies to me, perhaps too well.”
“Unfortunately,” said Alice grudgingly, “Master Twissleton is correct. I also have a copy of Dæmonologie.”
Twissleton inclined his head, though whether this was in acknowledgement that she had a copy of the book, or had actually read it, was unclear. “I have made Dæmonologie my particular study. Indeed, I pride myself that I can now recognise a witch quite easily.”
There was a brief pause, and although the latter statement had been spoken in a perfectly calm voice, his words seemed to convey the hint of a threat. Alice was quick on the uptake, and now took pleasure in disabusing him.
“Oh, Master Twissleton,” she said, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re about as subtle as a crocodile with toothache? But I thank you for putting me on my guard. Allow me to return the favour. I must warn you that if you ever come to Barkham Manor, my cook’s pastries are devilishly delicious,” and so saying she walked away.
Nicholas would also have laughed had he not observed the solicitor’s reaction. His broad flat face and wide slack mouth had tightened to such a degree that they might have been carved from stone. While he, Nicholas, also abhorred the existence of witches, the solicitor’s knowledge of witchcraft and his assertion that he knew the area were cause for suspicion. Was he secretly reporting to the government, and if so, was Roger Knowles aware of it? Indeed, had the magistrate used the land dispute as an excuse to bring in a spy? Perhaps more pertinently, Alice’s remark about Dæmonologie promoting obsequiousness had been an uncomfortable truth, and it was grasping men like Twissleton who would pervert the law to their own advantage.
Nicholas’s train of thought was interrupted when Twissleton asked, “The May Queen, Lavinia Ashmore, she is Mistress Dymock's granddaughter, is she not?”
“Yes. What of it?” Knowing that he probably would not get an honest answer, Nicholas did not bother to ask the little man how he knew of the family connection.
“She may be an important witness. Who else but a witch would know or recognise the doings of another witch?”
“By my word, sir, you astound me. Are you implying that Lavinia Ashmore is in league with her grandmother?”
“I imply nothing,” he replied in an unconvincing off-handed tone. “I simply suggest that as a relative of a suspected witch, she may possess useful knowledge.”
Nicholas shook his head in wonderment. Could the little man be any more pathetic? At this rate he thought, no woman in Holton was safe. “If you think to brand Lavinia Ashmore a witch, then do not expect any assistance from me. Quite the contrary in fact.”
The solicitor held up a hand. “Your loyalty is admirable, but witches are very cunning and many a true friend has been deceived. Now, if you would excuse me, I need to speak to Master Knowles about tomorrow, and if possible, secure the services of a constable. As I said earlier, you can’t be too careful with the devil and his whores… excuse me, his servants.”
He bowed to Nicholas and then walked away, his mind whirling with thoughts and plans. Strange how Mistress Nash denounced witchcraft, and yet she lived close to the hags in Thornley Forest. If he could unearth a pack of witches, perhaps even an entire covenant, his reputation would gain considerable credit, and of course, please his ultimate superior, the King.
Such was his excitement at the prospect that his member began to swell. He lamented the fact that he had not made the acquaintance of an accommodating wench, preferably one aged about sixteen with small perky breasts. His disposition and hose now ‘uncomfortably’ tight, as he hurried to his room at the White Swan tavern to relieve himself - in every respect, he walked straight past a man and woman in deep conversation.
“Go and find thy mother,” said Alice in a low voice. “Tell her to meet me behind the old chapel at once. Afterwards, be prepared to make a journey.”
Davy Ashmore crossed his arms. “I admire thy effrontery, madam. You hardly pass a word in years and now you give me orders.”
“Sometimes events conspire so that a bridge needs to be forged, albeit temporarily. Now, hurry, lad, there’s no time to lose.”
Davy did not move. “The journey you spoke of, would it be to our mutual relative?”
Alice quickly looked around and then lowered her voice. “Be quiet you fool. Nobody except thyself and thy mother knows of the connection.”
Davy chuckled. “Old Einyon certainly was fruitful. I reckon half the women in Holton are his descendants. But, you’re forgetting about my Uncle Christopher.”
A cloud of unease seemed to pass over Alice’s face. “You know nothing about Einyon, and as for your mother’s brother, nobody has seen hide nor hair of him these past fifteen years. Now, please find your mother, it’s important.”
Davy nodded and walked away, Catherine at his heels. “What’s going on?” she asked as they pushed through the revellers.
“Mind your own business, and for once in your life, keep ya gob shut or I’ll cut out your tongue,” and to show it was no idle threat, he pulled back his tunic and exposed a knife.
Chapter Four
Midday
The abbey’s old quadrangle and its sub-divisions had been re-designed over the years, so that it was now a riot of flowering beds and luscious lawns. There was still a vegetable garden, but this had been moved to the rear of the property, where three large unmarked stone crosses overlooked the growing of onions and parsnips. The old stone wall surrounding the ruined chapel had been strengthened and raised over the years, so that it was now over fifteen feet high. Nobody, or so it seemed, had had the heart or inclination to demolish the structure. The same applied to the great entrance gate, which was now only shut at night.
Nicholas carried a bowl of fruit and a jug of ale into the garden. “How fairs our Queen?” he asked Richard, who having been dismissed by Lady Eleanor from further attendance on Lavinia, was lounging on the grass, collar and tunic open to catch the scant breeze.
“Recovering,” he said, taking an apple from the bowl and peeling it with a knife.
“I’ve just had a very interesting…no, not interesting, alarming, discussion about her with Twissleton.”
Nicholas poured himself a goblet of ale and then repeated the conversation. Richard listened with mounting dread, and at the conclusion, exploded with indignation. “But that’s monstrous! Lavinia is no more a witch than I’m a wizard. Twissleton should be flogged out of town.”
“Unfortunately, we’re stuck with the obnoxious ape until this matter with Aunt Alice is settled.”
“Do you think Roger knows of Twissleton’s interest in witches? Indeed, perhaps that’s why he chose him.”
“The same thoughts had occurred to me. If Roger does know, then he’s certainly kept it close to his chest.”
“The whole thing’s ridiculous,” said Richard. Such was his annoyance that when he stabbed a piece of apple with the knife, he almost speared his finger instead. “I concede there are some very strange women in these parts, but Lavinia a witch? I cannot believe it of one so beautiful and graceful.”
Nicholas laughed. “She’s bewitched you already. I’ve never heard you speak of a woman with such heart-felt sincerity.”
Richard grinned like a naughty boy. “And why not? Every man has to fall in love at sometime. But this Twissleton cur needs a sound lesson in common sense.”
“And I think,” said Nicholas mischievously, “that I know how to deliver it.” He pointed to the three stone crosses beyond the vegetable garden. “You know the legend?”
Richard grunted. “Our family is so embedded with legends that I can never keep track of them.”
“The stones mark the graves of the last Abbot of Holton and two others, and according to legend, the abbot appears when someone in the family, or close to the family, is about to die. The first Howarth Faulkner and Henry Stoddard, the original purchaser of the abbey, were the first to experience the fatal destiny. Each is supposed to have seen the abbot shortly before their death.” He pointed in the direction of the ruined chapel. “In Stoddard’s case, there’s a connection to that, but the reason has been lost to time.” Nicholas suddenly looked thoughtful. “Now, isn’t that strange?”
“What?” prompted Richard eagerly.
“Twissleton told me that one of his ancestors was clerk to Henry Stoddard.”
“You think this clerk had something to do with the abbot’s death?”
“I don’t know, but if he was anything like his offspring it wouldn’t surprise me. The thing is, ever since I can remember, people have reported seeing the abbot walking near the chapel on yonder side of the wall. I have never seen him and pray I never will, but others have and were scared witless.”
“An idle tale,” said Richard dismissively.
“Is it? I’m not so sure. Many owners of former religious houses have found them to be haunted, but in the case of the abbey, there is one circumstance that cannot be easily explained. I don’t know all the facts, but apparently the abbot cursed a child just before he was hanged. It is not known whether male or female, but one point is beyond question, the descendents of that child live nearby. The family name is Dymock.”
“Mistress Dymock? She who lives near Aunt Alice?”
Nicholas looked at him pityingly. His cousin still hadn’t made the connection. “Richard, Dymock’s daughter is Elizabeth Ashmore, Lavinia’s mother.”
Richard stared at him for a moment or two and then shook his head. “You said it yourself, the facts are not known. By its very nature, the mere utterance of a curse, let alone whether there is any actual supernatural basis to it, is self-perpetuating. The passage of time dictates that no harm was done to the abbot by Mistress Dymock, and yet by association, she is still held responsible for the misdeeds of an ancestor. It’s the same as if, at some point in the future, you or I might be blamed for perceived sins of our fathers’. We can never know how history will judge.”
“A good argument, Dick, but allow me to point out that people always keep secrets, whether their own or somebody else’s. You and I are the best of friends, and yet I’ll warrant there’s things you don’t want me or anybody else to know. Take Lavinia herself for example…”
Richard immediately went on the defensive. “I would answer for her innocence with my life.”
Nicholas grinned. “Impetuous fool! Allow me to finish. We have both seen her many times before, and yet it was only earlier when I saw her next to her brother and sister that I noticed no family resemblance. Now, I’m not suggesting there’s anything wrong within the family tree. Perhaps she’s a throwback to someone earlier. The point is, it’s the kind of discrepancy that, when coupled with her grandmother’s dubious reputation, might set tongues wagging. It’s exactly that kind of nonsense that our London friend is feeding off. He’s already convinced, though he had the temerity to deny it, that Lavinia knows something about her grandmother. Perhaps we can discover more tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But I thought we were settling the land dispute.”
“We are, but Twissleton is determined to do a little witch-hunting while we’re in the vicinity. With any luck, the question of Mistress Dymock’s alleged witchcraft will be settled, even though our wily friend is determined to have her arrested and examined.”
Richard shook his head sadly. “And unless there’s incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, she’ll be found guilty. Indeed, prejudice alone is enough to convict her. And if she denies the charge, well, have you ever read the ordeals set out in Dæmonologie?”
“No, but Twissleton gave me several examples this morning.”
Though the sun was still warm, Richard shivered. “It’s state- sponsored torture. Anyone will admit to anything under torture.”
“True, but you cannot deny that by her acts of mischief, she leaves herself open to accusation. And then there’s Mistress Craddock, who’s just as bad.”
“If all the ill attributed to them were really caused by witchcraft, then they would have burned
at the stake long ago. I look upon witches as old creatures who have been persuaded that they really do possess supernatural powers, and are assisted in the delusion by the credulity and superstition of others.”
“Aunt Alice made a similar remark earlier. She doesn’t believe in witches either.”
Richard stood up and straightened his clothes. “It seems to me that there is more riding on the outcome of tomorrow than first thought. It’s amazing the amount of trouble that toady has stirred-up, and he hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours!” His hand lingered for a moment where the flower had been. “Lavinia will not fall into his clutches. But, enough of this, let’s return to the pageant.”
***
Even though the green was less crowded than earlier, contests such as vaulting, archery, and foot races, were continuing. People were slowly drifting to their homes to rest before the night’s activities, which included jugglers and acrobats and a huge bonfire. For the gentry and those directly involved with the pageant, there was the fancy-dress Ball at the abbey.
Walking in the general direction of the maypole, Nicholas indicated two women who, as they strolled across the green, were drawing a raft of dubious glances.
“Who are they?” asked Richard.
“The younger is Nancy Redfern.” As she had done with Lavinia’s hair that morning, Nancy had threaded ribbons into her tresses. Her hair was also red, but unlike Catherine Ashmore’s deep, auburn hue, Nancy’s was much lighter and tended towards orange.
“And the older?”
“Is her grandmother, Mistress Fanny Craddock.”
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 5