Deliver us from Evil (14 page)

He rode fast to Salisbury, where his men were to meet him at the Council Hall. He would brief them, and then lead them back to Stonehenge in time for dawn. There could be no delay. Who knew when the killer might not strike? Captain Foxe thought of what his colonel had told him the day before, about how the King was formally to be invited back; and he wondered if he might not be preparing for his final patrol. If so, he prayed, then let it be crowned with success. He spurred his horse on. He could see the Cathedral spire now, dark against the lightening blue of the sky. He was almost there, yet still he rode faster. Today of all days, he could not afford to be late.

But by the approach to the city gate, he pulled suddenly aside. He had seen three soldiers and some instinct, some sudden chilling of his blood, warned him of danger. He rode forward slowly, not along the road but through the shadows afforded by neighbouring buildings, until the city gate was before him and he could see the soldiers clearly. All three wore the uniforms of militiamen; two were hooded, but the third wore nothing on his head and, even before he turned, Captain Foxe knew who he was. Sergeant Everard had changed, but although his flesh was rotting and his eyes seemed dead, there could be no mistaking him this time. Seeing him in uniform, on watch by the gate, Captain Foxe wondered how it was that he had not been captured, for he had been an open accomplice in the murder of Lady Vaughan; any soldier would have known to arrest him. Any soldier. Captain Foxe thought of his patrol, waiting for him at the Council Hall; and he knew he had to reach them without being seen.

He rode down as far as the river, then galloped along its banks and up into the streets of the still sleeping town. The hooves of his horse clattered loud across the cobblestones, ringing his approach to the Council Hall and scattering pigeons as he rode across the square. There seemed to be no one waiting for him; he called out loudly, then climbed down from his horse. Still no sign of his patrol, and so he hurried up the steps. He paused in the doorway; almost without thinking, he drew out his sword.

'Put up your weapon.'

The voice came from the shadows, as chill as it had been before in the library of Wolverton Hall.

'Faustus.' Captain Foxe stepped towards him. 'You dare to come here.'

Faustus smiled, his teeth a gash of bared white above the blackness of his beard. '
I
might say the same thing to you, Captain,' he whispered. He held up a scroll of paper. 'Have you not read this?'

'What is it?'

'The warrant for your arrest.'

'Do not play with me, Faustus. You must think me a fool. You expect me to believe that my own commander would sign such a thing?'

'You refer to Colonel Sexton,
I
presume?' Faustus pulled a mocking expression of regret. 'He is no longer in command here,
I
am afraid. There is a new Colonel; it is he who has issued the warrant. You are to be apprehended as a traitor - a traitor to the King.'

Captain Foxe took the paper; then he tore it and flung it in Faustus' face. As he turned and ran down the steps, he could hear Faustus following him; and then the sound of steel being drawn. He twisted round, just in time to parry a thrust a
nd answer it back with a thrust
of his own. Faustus screamed as blood was drawn; he cried out for help, but Captain Foxe was upon him again, beating down his weapon and then, with a second thrust, stabbing him in the side. As blood began to spill from the wound, Faustus collapsed on to the ground; but although he knew the thrust had not been fatal, Captain Foxe did not stab again. Thou shalt not kill: even now he honoured the commandment, and was content merely to have disabled his foe. He sheathed his sword, untethered his horse; scrabbling up into the saddle, he wheeled the horse round, then bent forward low and rode as fast as he could.

He had seen horsemen approaching him from the far side of the square. But he was well ahead of them; and for a while, he was able to lose them in the tangle of streets which stretched behind the Council Hall. He knew, though, that when he left the city and had to ride into the open, they would be upon him again; and so he paused in an inn yard off St Catherine's Street to consider how best he might make his escape. He had seen how the north gate was being guarded; and he knew that his pursuers would expect him to head that way, towards the Woodton road and his family. But to the south of the city there was no wall, and the roads there would soon be busy with early morning traffic - that, he decided, was the way he would take. Later, when he had shaken off his pursuers, he could wheel back to the north and reach Woodton before the coming of night; for he doubted that much evil could be inflicted in the full light of day.

Salisbury was waking by now. Carefully, Captain Foxe rode out from the inn yard and joined the throngs of people hurrying along the streets. He rode past the Cathedral without being seen; then over the river and into open fields. The track ahead of him was empty; it wound up a hill, and Captain Foxe knew that if only he could make the brow without being seen, then he would most likely be safe. He forced himself to ride slowly, and with his shoulders stooped, so that he might seem to be a merchant or traveller; then, when he had reached the summit of the hill, he turned to look back towards Salisbury. He waited several minutes; but no one seemed to be following him, and he dared to hope that he might have escaped. He rejoined the road; and with a final glance at the city behind him, rode from it as fast as his tired horse could bear.

He covered several miles; and realised suddenly that he was by the turning to Broadchalke. He paused, to consider whether he should not take the path; and as he did so, from behind him he heard the distant beating of hooves. He glanced round: dust was rising from the Salisbury road, and the cloud was drawing ever nearer. Hurriedly, Captain Foxe dismounted, and led his horse up a bank into a dense clump of trees; he hid himself carefully, and stared down at the turning through a veil of branches and leaves. He did not have long to wait. Three riders approached the turning, then reined in their horses and looked about. Two were cloaked; the third, bareheaded, was Sergeant Everard.

He sniffed the air. Captain Foxe crouched lower, and prayed that his horse would not suddenly whinny or stir. For a moment he imagined he had been seen, for the riders all seemed to be staring at him, but then Sergeant Everard shouted something and continued on his way along the Salisbury road. One of the two hooded riders accompanied him; the second took the trackway which led towards Broadchalke. Captain Foxe watched them depart, and waited until all was silent again. Then, slowly, he led his horse out from the trees. Climbing into his saddle once again, he did as the second rider had done and turned aside from the Salisbury road.

The track ahead was much narrower now, and wound through thick woods. Captain Foxe rode carefully, not wanting to be surprised; but for several miles he met no one else, and it was only as he was approaching Broadchalke that he slowed and stopped, to draw out his sword. For he had seen something ahead of him, lying in the road; he spurred his horse forward again and, as he drew closer to the object, he saw that it was covered by a cloak. Leaning over from his saddle to inspect it more closely, he recognised the cloak at once from its hood, for it was a militiaman's, of the kind that the man he was following had worn close about his head. Captain Foxe lifted it gingerly with the point of his sword. It seemed heavy; and he realised that it was sodden through with blood. He flung it aside with a cry of disgust, and then at once brought his hand up to his mouth, for he thought he would retch; he breathed in deeply and yet, even so, it was all he could do to climb, not fall, from his horse.

It was a child who had been killed, no more than thirteen years old -Robert's age, Captain Foxe thought, as he stroked the boy's still warm cheek. And he felt at once, mingled with his pity, a great anger, greater than any he had known before, rising within him like a wall of fire; for he knew why the boy had been killed, merely so that his adversary might surprise him by the corpse and spill his blood as the boy's had been spilt, as that of so many innocent
people had been spilt. Captain
Foxe felt ready to despair, imagining the world as dark beneath the flood of such a slaughter, and man no better than monsters of the deep, lost forever from the light and love of God. He turned
...
and saw, as he had known he would, his enemy behind him. The creature's breath stank of the grave; his eyes bulged dead from naked sockets; the flesh across his skull seemed nothing but a slime of earth and blood. But Captain Foxe knew him for all that; he never forgot his soldiers' faces -and he had last seen this one swinging from a rope, hung for the murder of Lady Vaughan. 'Dear God,' he whispered as he felt soft, clammy fingers press against his throat; but his anger blazed anew, and it gave him strength. Twisting, he picked up a stone from the track and brought it down upon the creature's skull. He heard the bone shatter, and then he was blinded by a fountain of mingled blood and pus, as though the thing's head had been nothing but a bubo ripe with putrefaction. Captain Foxe wiped the matter away from his eyes; the creature was still stirring, reaching up blindly, hungry for blood. The Captain raised his sword; he was sobbing now, he realised. Down he brought the blade, again and again. 'And he looked for judgement,' he panted through his tears, 'but behold oppression. For righteousness -but behold a cry.' And at once there was a shriek, a terrible, inhuman sound, and Captain Foxe realised that his blade had punctured the sac of the creature's heart. Blood in a fountain rose, and fell, and died. The thing twitched one final time; then at last was still. Captain Foxe knelt by his side. 'O Lord,' he whispered. 'O Lord - forgive us all.'

He felt a terrible weariness now, so that when he arrived at Mr Aubrey's door he could barely explain what had occurred. Mr Aubrey led him to a couch and Captain Foxe lay down there, intending only to recapture his breath; but his eyes no longer seemed his own and he fell asleep at once. When he woke again, sharply, he knew that it was late. He crossed to an open door. There was a coolness in the air, and the sun was starting to sink into the west.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to face Mr Aubrey. '
I
must go at once,' he said.

Mr Aubrey shook his head. 'They will find you.'

'They have been here, then? Still hunting for me?'

'Barely two hours before.'

'And no one betrayed me . . .'

Mr Aubrey looked surprised. 'Why should they have done?' He took a step forward, and lowered his voice. 'You were seen, Captain, your struggle, against . . . against the killer of the boy. No one here will betray you. The debt of gratitude is far too great for that.'

'Then is human charity not altogether dead, and
I
wronged the world when
I
conceived it to be so.' Captain Foxe nodded to himself; then he crossed suddenly to a writing desk.
'
I
would have you pen something for me, sir,' he asked, 'if you have the patience.'

Mr Aubrey nodded. 'Of course, Captain. Just tell me what it is you need written down.'

'
I
would like to leave for my son a true account of all that has occurred, so that he may be armed with the knowledge that
I
have gained, and be forewarned.'

'Can you not tell him yourself?'

'
I
have
..."
Captain Foxe paused, and bowed his head. '
I
have a strange foreboding within myself,' he continued, '
I
shall not see him again. Should it prove true
I
would have him know in what cause it was
I
died; and that it was not wholly in vain, for nothing befalls us in this world that God does not somehow bless. For
I
love him, Mr Aubrey; and
I
would teach him, as though it were on my parting breath, the best
I
can - that even in this darkling world, there yet endures within us the lesson of hope.'

Mr Aubrey nodded; he reached for his pen and his pot of ink, and began to write according to Captain Foxe's dictation. When he had finished, he handed the sheaf of papers across; but Captain Foxe refused them and handed them back. 'They will be better protected with you,' he said. 'Promise me, sir, that if
I
should die, you will hand the papers on to my son.' The promise was given and Captain Foxe received it with a simple word of thanks. Then he turned.
'
I
must leave now,' he said.

'But if you know yourself to be in danger,' asked Mr Aubrey, 'why risk yourself like this?'

'Tonight of all nights,' Captain Foxe replied, 'and in spite of my foreboding
I
would not leave my family alone.' He glanced up at the sun. 'And see,' he murmured, 'it is already growing late.'

'See with what heat these dogs of hell advance.'

John Milton,
Paradise Lost