“You think so?” said the churchman curtly, resenting the implication. “I have done my best to save my flock from the cunning foxes who infest the area, and if one of my sheep is tempted away, I can scarcely be blamed for it. On the contrary, it is people such as yourself who, with the might & power of the law at your disposal, should arrest the progress of the evil. But unfortunately, no hand, be it spiritual or temporal, has had any effect.”
Bemused at what was ostensively a battle of righteousness, Nicholas knew that the sleight would not go unchallenged. He was therefore not surprised when Twissleton quoted from his ‘own bible’.
“Hear what is said by the King on that point. 'No man ought to presume so far as to grant himself impunity, and yet we ought not to be afraid of anything the devil and his wicked instruments can do against us, for we daily fight against him in a hundred different ways’.”
“His Majesty is quite right,” said Pope, who knew that the passage had been slightly misquoted. Even so, he was not about to argue the point. “I have no fear of the wicked instruments. Ah, here comes the ale,” he added, relieving Bess of a foaming tankard. “This is the best cordial by which to fortify courage in these trying times.”
Roger glanced at him disapprovingly. Whilst he did not begrudge the churchman a drink, his enthusiasm for ale was not likely to enhance his reputation. Therefore, the opinion he thus expressed was not only genuine, but a gentle reminder to the vicar of his true vocation.
“Everything should be done to help the people. Until this morning, I was not aware of the extent of the evil, but supposed that the hags confined their malignancy to the blighting of crops or the souring of milk, and even then, I supposed these actions greatly exaggerated. I now find that my opinion falls far short of the reality.”
“I agree,” said Pope. “The situation seems hopeless. I do not know what remedy to apply.”
“There is only one remedy, sir,” said Twissleton robustly, “and that’s to cauterise the source. The hags and their noxious broods should be brought to the stake. That, and nothing else, will eradicate the vermin forever.”
Much to the solicitor’s chagrin, Pope roared with laughter. “By my faith, sir, I applaud your zeal, but Mistress Dymock is not so easily disposed of. Are you aware of her history?”
Sensing that he was about to hear something to advantage, Twissleton tempered his annoyance. “In part.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you. I have always been an exponent of history, and have spent many pleasant hours perusing the parish records. I can therefore speak with some authority on the subject, and can tell you that her wretched life was arguably shaped by destiny.
“Margaret Dymock is the daughter of a man who’s reputation was to say the least, questionable, while her mother was a reputed witch, though there is no hard evidence to confirm this. Both parents perished about the time of Abbot Hewitt's lamentable execution at the abbey. But, before he died, he invoked a severe malediction, a curse if you will, on the child.
“Devoid of parents, she was raised by a kind but childless ostler and his wife. In time however, Margaret became so unmanageable, that she was sent to Barkham Manor as a skivvy in the hope of curtailing her unruly behaviour. You see, the ostler was favoured by Miles Nash, owner of the manor at the time.”
“Aha,” exclaimed Twissleton, hastily retrieving his notebook. “So, Mistress Dymock was connected to the Nash family from an early age. I must make a note of that.”
“She remained at the Manor until her youth,” the vicar continued, “and although nothing was said against her at the time, it was rumoured afterwards that certain mishaps were of her doing. It was also said that she kept a rat as a pet.”
“Strange but not uncommon,” commented Nicholas, noticing for the first time that Richard was not present.
“The first serious allegation surfaced when Margaret was accused of helping Miles Nash dispose of his first wife.” The Vicar looked momentarily embarrassed. “It would be difficult to say who was the more influential seducer, for Nash was exceedingly profligate, a trait unfortunately inherited by his son, Edward. For whatever reason, she was soon installed in an old tower in the forest, where she has resided ever since.”
“Wolfdene?” asked Nicholas.
“Yes,” replied the churchman. “Do you know the legend of it?”
“Only that it was built about two centuries ago and that it has an unsavoury reputation.”
“Not quite correct. The original fortress was built during Anglo-Saxon times, and had an enormous circular tower by the portcullis. Access to the tower was via two doors, one at ground level, and the other by a flight of stone steps to a door some twenty-feet above the ground. Shortly after Margaret took possession, the steps were destroyed and the lower door removed.”
“So how does she get in?”
“I believe by means of a rope ladder. Otherwise, it is inaccessible, or so one is led to believe. Given her advanced age, I cannot imagine her shimmying up and down a rope. Therefore, it is fair to assume that there must be another entrance, though Lord knows where it is.
“Hitherto, the tower has proved impregnable. During the Norman invasion, Wolfdene was held by a man called Luther, who for some time repelled the conquerors. His enemies claimed that he was in league with a demon, whose aid he had secured during a drunken orgy. The latter might have been forgiven had Luther's prowess not been stained by unspeakable cruelty. The section of the tower below the original high door was a torture chamber. He would drink and carouse for days on end while beneath his feet, his victims screamed for mercy. One report has it that a man was forced to eat his own prick. He choked to death.
“Luther became rich from acts of treachery and the many murders he perpetrated, and for a long period enjoyed complete immunity. But, like all villains, his destruction was of his own making, and somebody, perhaps as an act of vengeance, set fire to the fortress. Most of it was destroyed but not the tower. Indeed, some accounts stated that there was barely a mark on it.
“During the mayhem that followed, what followers were present were slaughtered where they stood, but not Luther. Yes he was caught, but his fate lay in another direction. In what might be viewed as a parody of the future, he was hanged from the top of his own tower, but unlike Father Hewitt, Luther was hung in a way whereby his neck did not instantly snap. He took a week to die.”
“Serves him right,” said Roger primly. “Did anyone survive?”
Erasmus thought for a moment and then said, “The records are vague on that point, but on the balance of probability I should say ‘yes’. The chances of them all being killed in one fell swoop are dubious. However, we are on much surer ground during the reign of Henry VII, though perhaps with the benefit of hindsight, this too was prophetic.
“In 1502, Wolfdene was the stronghold of a blaggard named Walter Blackburn, who was the leader of a band of marauders, though how it came into his possession is not known. Blackburn seemed to enjoy the same protection as Luther, for he indulged in the same sort of practices, torturing and imprisoning his captives unless they were heavily ransomed. He even threatened the abbey and its good works unless some form of tribute, and I use the word loosely, was paid.
“Now, there used to be a little convent about two miles away, and Blackburn fell in love with one of the nuns, Imogen Warren. The shameless wench became with child, which naturally brought great scandal to the convent. There is no record of what happened to the child. What is known however, is that Imogen fled the convent, and on her way to join her lover in the tower, was attacked by a wolf.”
“A wolf?” said Nicholas. “To the best of my knowledge, there haven’t been any wolves in England for centuries.”
“I agree, but two reliable witnesses stated unreservedly that it was a wolf. They also stated that she was mauled most savagely, and yet when she was seen afterwards, she was as lovely as before.”
“A compact?” posed Roger.
The churchman smiled. “We can only
speculate. However, another witness stated that about five years later, at the end of a particularly lively feast, she raised her cup, drank long life to all, and then dropped dead. Incandescent with grief and rage, Blackburn threw everybody out, and when his men returned the following morning, he also was dead. Imogen however, had assumed the figure of a horribly disfigured woman, which she certainly had not been the night before. The bodies were cast into the torture chamber, and after dividing the spoils of their ill-gotten treasure, his followers fled to parts unknown.
“After that, Wolfdene garnered a reputation as being haunted. Though completely deserted, lights, revelry, shrieks and groans, were frequently reported, as was the ghostly figure of Imogen. Nobody dare go near it let alone live in it, until it somehow came into the possession of Miles Nash.
“Now, scarcely had Mistress Dymock taken up residence when it began to be rumoured that she was a witch. And then two children, a boy and a girl, mysteriously appeared. She claimed they were of her body, but once again we can only speculate as to their true parentage. And there you have it, the story of Wolfdene.”
Twissleton snapped his notebook shut. His hand was sore from writing. “I have seen the daughter in Holton, but I have not yet encountered the son.”
“And nor will you,” said Pope. “Christopher Dymock has not been seen for many years.”
The solicitor shrugged. “The course of the Dymock family is set in stone,” he said confidently, “and if this absent son is of similar disposition, he will go to the stake like the others.”
Just then, Bess entered wearing her best bonnet and a sombre dress, and Nicholas thought she actually looked quite pretty. “Gentlemen,” she said, “you will have to fetch for yourselves for the next hour or so. I have a funeral to attend, and so, Reverend Pope…” she took away his tankard and poked him in the back, “…do you.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Boundary
“Where the hell have you been?” said Nicholas sharply, though his tone was borne from concern rather than anger. At the personal invitation of Amius Baldwin, the patrons from the tavern were following the funeral, and Nicholas had just spied a sweating and disgusted looking Richard.
“Chasing a witch,” he responded, catching his breath. He had given up the pursuit lest the others, ignorant of what had occurred, should become alarmed at his disappearance. But he was not defeated. On the contrary, he was resolved to make further enquiries of Mistress Craddock as soon as possible.
“You were what?” said Nicholas, raising his voice a little to be heard above the singing of a hymn.
“I’ll explain later.”
The procession was headed by Amius, ably supported by Bess. Four men conveyed the coffin on their shoulders, while behind them, at least a dozen specially- invited people carried either sprigs of rosemary or posies of wildflowers. To his credit, and in spite of the amount of ale he’d consumed, Erasmus Pope delivered a fine sermon and touching eulogy. The coffin, bedecked with the floral tributes and a single garland of roses, was then lowered into the ground.
The ceremony thus concluded, Bess invited the official mourners to the tavern to ‘drink a cup’ to the departed girl. The spectators also dispersed, but Amius lingered by the grave a little longer, unable to tear himself away.
“Reverend Pope,” said Nicholas as they exited the churchyard, “you hinted earlier that 1502 was portentous. What did you mean?”
“You of all people should have recognised the significance of the date. By 1499, Henry VII had three sons - Arthur, Henry, and Edmund. Alas, the latter lived barely a year, while Arthur died in April 1502, leaving Henry Tudor the sole male heir. It was through his greed and butchery that Holton Abbey came into your family.”
“You’re forgetting about Henry Stoddard,” and deep in conversation, neither man saw Thomas Twisslemead slip into the churchyard.
***
Amius stared at the still- exposed coffin, silent tears running down his face. Once more a cloud of misery dampened his spirit, and once more the desire for vengeance possessed him. A movement caught his attention, and looking up, beheld Twisslemead on the other side of the grave.
“An unpleasant end in every respect.” He threw a handful of soil onto the coffin. “Have you considered my proposal? One word and your vengeance will be enacted.”
Beside himself with grief, Amius would have agreed had he not been suddenly gripped by the arm. Concerned as to his whereabouts and fearing that he might have acted rashly, Bess had left charge of the tavern to Roger Knowles and returned to the churchyard.
“Who are ye and what do ye want?” she demanded.
“Tis a private matter,” replied Twisslemead curtly.
“Not today it isn’t,” and to show she meant business, Bess raised a fist. Such was her regard for her former lover, that she would have tackled the King himself had he dared to interfere.
“Hold thy tongue ye damned harlot!”
“Leave him alone, Bess,” said Amius shakily. He had seen something in Thomas’s eyes that he didn’t like. “Ye don’t know who he is.”
“Aye, and neither do I care. Come with me, Amius. This is no place to hold a discussion.”
“Fool!” cried Thomas as they walked away. “Ye will not escape me,” he added in an undertone, and glancing at the back of the tavern, saw that the horses were being drawn from the stables. The survey party was preparing to depart.
***
Ten minutes later, it was a sombre group who rode along a lane that led to Barkham Manor. Erasmus Pope had requested that he be permitted to accompany them part of the way, and whilst nobody had objected, it was clear from Thomas’s expression that he was not best pleased.
“You did not attend the funeral,” said Richard, noticing the overseer’s pursed mouth and cold staring eyes.
“No. They do not agree with my constitution. I was loitering in the tavern yard, as any of the grooms can attest.”
The comment came out before Richard could stop it. “Perchance you were assisting Mistress Craddock to escape.”
Thomas laughed. “Mistress Craddock? I hope I shall never be caught in such bad company. If I were to ride off with a woman, she would be of vastly superior taste.”
Richard prepared to ask another question, but Thomas turned his head away and addressed Twissleton. “Sir, a legal point for your consideration. There is some concern that titles granted under letters-patent are not secure, that they can be seized by the Crown when desired. Is this correct?”
“If a title was uncertain, I should advise the landholder to negotiate the matter with the Crown, even to the value of half the estate rather than losing the whole.”
“No doubt they would pay a lawyer handsomely to manage the matter. Surely this would be more lucrative for you than hunting witches.”
“One pursuit does not interfere with the other, and I would be neglectful in my duty if I did not pursue both. Whilst the former is stable to the point of mundane, there is a great deal of satisfaction to be derived from catching a witch.”
“For you perhaps, but not the witch,” quipped Twisslemead, and changed the subject. “Tell me, in regards to this dispute, what is the legal definition of the boundary?”
“I can only quote the current statute. 'For although a forest doth lie open, and not inclosed with hedge, ditch, or stone wall, which some other inclosures have, in the consideration of the law, they have the same enclosure by marks, meres, and boundaries, as if surrounded by a brick wall’. Marks are defined as irremovable objects such as rivers, highways, and hills. Therefore, as there are such marks between the estates, the dispute should be easily resolved.”
While the conversation had been taking place, the scenery had begun to assume a wild, almost savage character. In the near distance, the wheel of a mill stood silent and unmoving. It was the abode of the unfortunate Amius Baldwyn. An air of gloom seemed to hang over the place, and all windows and doors were tight shut. The party cast melancholy glances as they slo
wly rode past.
Crossing a stone bridge that spanned a fast-flowing stream, which further back, worked the wheel of the mill, the party came to a cluster of cottages that were part of Alice’s estate. Courtesy dictated that they should call at the manor and announce their presence, even though they knew that the mistress was not home. Richard of course, knew that this situation would soon change, and as the party drew closer to the stately edifice, he wondered if Alice and Lavinia had already arrived.
Twissleton eyed the manor with much curiosity. Built of dark grey stone, it had tall square chimneys and thick- mullioned windows, and the entire structure and forecourt were surrounded by a high stone wall, with the southern side set with a series of barred openings and a heavy iron gate.
The party were greeted by an old porter and two other servants, who invited them to stay and partake of refreshment. Roger declined and rode on regardless, much to the chagrin of Nicholas and Richard, who would have happily accepted the offer.
Unbidden, the party were joined by several men, and passing close to the back of the manor, began to travel northwards and track the course of the stream. To ensure incontrovertible fairness, Roger wanted to establish that the waterway had not gained a tributary, thereby provoking the dispute in the first place.
The newcomers, most dressed in rough rustic clothing, stoutly affirmed that Alice would be found right in the inquiry. One man however, Henry Dowrimple, an aged tenant farmer, seemed to disagree, for he shook his head sadly when appealed to by the others.
***
Still tracking the stream, the party traversed a little thicket and came to the edge of two overgrown fields, where Roger called a halt. The maps, which had been carefully rolled in a quiver under the protection of Smithers, were now produced. Roger took Metcalf’s survey, while Nicholas took the other.
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 15