Sacrifice (34 page)

“Your prodigal has returned,” she said sharply, nodding at the door to Francis’ private study, traditionally called the Scriptorium.

Her voice was thick was disapproval, yet Francis allowed hope to light inside him. “Is it Robert, come back to us at last?” he asked eagerly, “has he quit the King’s army?”

“Of course not. Robert may be a fool like his father, but is at least constant in his folly. We shall never see him again.”

Francis bowed his head. Anne blamed him for their son’s estrangement, almost as much as he blamed himself.

“Who, then?” he asked. His wife shrugged and moved to warm herself by the fire.

“See for yourself,” she replied indifferently, “he is your guest. For myself, I have had a bellyful of his sermons.”

Now Francis knew who she referred to. Mixed feelings of joy and trepidation warred inside him as he pushed open the door to the Scriptorium.

Inside was a snug, oak-panelled chamber, smelling comfortably of tobacco and wood smoke and old leather. A fire smouldered in the grate, and the close-packed shelves on the walls groaned under the weight of books. This was Francis’ refuge, where he fled the cares and troubles of the world.

His refuge had been invaded. A stocky, dark-robed man stood by Francis’ writing desk, the light from the fire reflecting off his bald pate.

The left side of the man’s face was hideously inflamed. A grotesque birth mark marred his ugly features from jaw to brow. In his right hand he held a thick yew staff.

“My lord,” said this unsettling vision, bowing slightly.

“Marshall,” Francis said quietly, pushing the door shut behind him, “you should send word of your coming. My wife has no liking for you.”

The radical preacher, Matthew Marshall, gave an offhand shrug. “God’s work must be done, my lord,” he replied, “regardless of Lady Anne’s opinion of His servants.”

Francis cleared his throat. The man always made him uncomfortable. Marshall politely stepped aside as he crossed the floor to his writing desk and sat down.

“Did you succeed in your mission?” Francis asked. Marshall nodded and withdrew a square of parchment from the leather bag at his belt.

“Eight, my lord,” he said, unfolding the parchment, “five of the women who signed could not read or write, and so made their marks. I have their names, though.”

“All women, I presume?”

“Almost. The Devil has the greatest appeal for the weaker sex, but one man also succumbed. A clerk of Stafford. See, there is his signature.”

Marshall laid the parchment flat on the desk. Francis glanced down at the series of X’s and clumsy signatures scrawled across it, until he reached the last.

“Henry Malvern,” he said, “written in a neat hand.”

“Malvern,” he repeated, pulling at his lower lip, “a Malvern of Stafford. Well, well. A descendent of our age-old enemies, no doubt.”

“An old family feud,” he explained, responding to Marshall’s quizzical look, “long in the past now. We were for Lancaster, they for York.”

“There is only one Enemy, my lord,” Marshall said, “and Henry Malvern chose to sign away his soul to Him. Or thought he did. The intent is all.”

Francis drummed his fingers on the desk. The list of names and marks before him was the result of a scheme concocted by him and Marshall, though Marshall had been the driving force.

In common with many godly men, Francis lived in fear of the Devil’s servants, walking abroad in England.

Witches.
He had heard dark rumours of dark powers rising in the East of England, principally Essex and Sussex: of women (almost always women) meeting the Devil in various guises at night, freely signing away their souls. In return they were given familiars to serve them, imps in the form of pets, and malignant powers. Witches could kill with a thought, make livestock sick, cause food to rot.  

Francis, who considered the Royalists enemies of God and true religion, thought of witches as the King’s unofficial allies. They were all on the same side, and had to be defeated. Before he buckled on his armour and rode off to war, possibly never to return, he was determined to win the battle against evil at home.

To that end he had allowed Marshall to rove about Staffordshire, posing as the Devil’s messenger, tempting the ungodly to sign a (false) covenant with his unholy master. It was the only certain way, so Marshall claimed, to root out those with evil in their hearts.

“You have done well,” he said at last, “what of the other seven? Common women, I presume?”

“Yes, my lord,” Marshall answered, “all of them young. None above twenty, I should say.”

Silly, impressionable country girls,
thought Francis,
looking with favour on anything that might enliven their dull lives.

He was a godly man, but not a bloodthirsty one, and had no wish to see all the people who had signed the covenant hanged. As a local Justice of the Peace, it was likely Francis would preside over their trials. With the clear proof of their guilt in his hands, he would be obliged to condemn them all.

There was a way of fulfilling his duty to God and showing mercy at the same time. Most of the would-be witches on the list were harmless, foolish girls who had decided to dip their toes in murky waters. They would be given a chance to repent.

First, they must be given a shock. An example would be made of the only man on the list. He was clearly educated, and should have known better. There was no defence, no excuse of ignorance, for Henry Malvern.

“This one,” he said, tapping Malvern’s name on the parchment, “if I sent you out again to find him, and bring him to Heydon Court, could you do it?”

Marshall’s little eyes glinted. “I know not where the man is at present,” he replied, “but God shall yield him up to me.”

Francis knew he risked re-igniting the dormant feud between his family and the Malverns by having this man hunted down. He cared little. The Malverns were a degraded, scattered rabble of clerks and minor churchmen and the like, with no power or money left to challenge him. 

“Do it, then,” he ordered, “and take three of my men to aid in God’s work. Bring him here - alive, you understand - and you the ministry of All Saints shall be yours.”

Marshall gave another little bow and strode towards the door, his staff thump-thumping on the thick carpet.

7.

Prince Rupert returned to Worcester, where Sir John Byron was still waiting with the precious convoy of jewellery and plate.

The night was far advanced by the time the Royalist cavalry rode wearily through the gates, so Rupert billeted his men at the castle. Those who could get no shelter were ordered to find their own quarters for the night, and the streets were soon full of armed men, tired and hungry, hammering on the doors of inns and private houses and demanding shelter. Even churches were made to open up and provide lodgings for men and horses. 

Henry was one of the latter. So tired he could barely keep his eyes open, he wandered the town like a man already dreaming, leading Faith by her bridle. Three inns refused to take him in or provide stabling for his horse, and the landlord of the third dumped a bucket of slops over his head.

“No more soldiers!” the man barked while Henry stood below dripping with filth, “my taproom and cellar is already packed with rogues, playing at dice and devouring my beer and vittles. I’ll take no more, even if the prince himself threatens to hang me for treason.”

Henry lacked the energy to argue. He gave up and plodded down the street until he found an alley, strewn with rubbish. There he removed Faith’s harness, threw his cloak over her to stop her catching cold during the night, and settled down himself on the hard ground with her saddle for a pillow.

Many years had passed since he last slept rough. Only the terror of hellfire kept the cold and misery and discomfort at bay. Sheer exhaustion robbed him of the capacity to think, to reason with his fear, leaving him unprotected against the certain knowledge of damnation.

He shuddered violently, and not just with the cold.
Lord save me,
he thought, teeth chattering as he hugged himself,
what have I done? What has vanity and the base desire for revenge and riches brought me to?

All the Christian teachings of his youth, previously smothered, rose again in his tired and frightened mind: memories of Anglican preachers, standing in the pulpit of the little medieval church his parents used to drag him to, bellowing warnings of the eternal pain that awaited the ungodly: not only Catholics and devil-worshippers, but Puritans, Presbyterians and every kind of nonconformist sect.

When the night-watchman appeared at the end of the alley and rang his bell - yelling “Two of the clock and all’s well!” - Henry could stand it no longer.

When first light comes,
he resolved,
and the city gates are opened, I shall quit both Worcester and the army.

There was a small risk of being caught and executed for desertion, but Henry reckoned it worth taking. Worcester was stuffed full of soldiers, and one dragoon more or less wouldn’t be missed. Besides, Sir William Woodhouse was dead, and the surviving men of his company had not yet been assigned another captain. Rank amateurs, they didn’t even have a sergeant to take the roll-call in the morning.

Quitting the futile quest for sleep, Henry rose and sat with his back against the wall. He drowsed for hours, warmed slightly by the nearness of Faith. She, poor beast, was condemned to stand all night, and stood shivering in the pre-dawn chill, occasionally nuzzling her master’s hand.

As soon as the sky started to lighten, Henry got up, groaning at the aches and stiffness in his body, saddled Faith and led her towards Saint Martin’s gate. They were still shut. A lone musketeer stood on the parapet above the gate, wrapped up in a shawl and cloak, oblivious to the eyes watching him from below.

“Six of the clock!” the dreary cry of the night-watchman echoed through the grey streets, “and all’s well!”

Moments later, the door to the guardroom swung open, and three more soldiers stepped out. Yawning and stamping their feet against the cold, they lifted the heavy bar on the gates. A loud scraping and rattling from inside indicated the portcullis was being raised.

Henry was already in the saddle. As soon as he saw daylight through the arch of the gate, he clapped in his spurs and urged her forward.

After a night in the open, with scant feed and rest, Faith was not at her best. She whinnied in protest and lurched into a stiff canter.

“On!” rasped Henry, raking his spurs mercilessly down her flanks, “on, lass, for my soul’s sake!”

She found a burst of speed, and was too fast for the musketeers. Wiping the sleep from their eyes, they blinked in dumb astonishment at the lone horseman charging towards them.

“You, there!” shouted their sergeant, the only one who dared stand in Henry’s path, “halt, in the name of the King!”

Henry lugged out his sword and struck at the sergeant’s head, meaning to knock him down with the flat. Realising his mistake at the last second, the sergeant yelped and dived out of the way.

Pursued by indignant shouts, Henry sped through the gateway onto the road, the same road he had entered Worcester by from Shrewsbury. He ducked low, fearing the sentries on the wall might shoot at him.

There were no shots. Word of his flight spread slowly, and morning mist had enveloped the city walls behind him before he heard the faint clang of an alarm bell.

The Devil looks after his own,
Henry thought grimly, trying to remember the layout of the road ahead. At some point, he recalled, there was a crossroads with a turning to the west.

West, or rather south-west, was his destination. It was ten years since he had visited his kin in Hereford, one of his rare excursions outside Staffordshire. He would go back there now to find salvation.

The Malverns of Hereford, like the rest of the family, had done their best to trim sails and survive in these difficult latter days. A few had gone into the church, including Henry’s first cousin Lewis. The two men were of an age, and had been playmates as children.

Lewis is my friend and kinsman,
Henry told himself as he kept Faith at a swift canter,
he will listen to my woes, and understand. He must!

More than that, he must help me. Only a man of God can pluck me from the Devil’s clutches.

He passed little traffic on the road at such an early hour, and reached the crossroads without incident. Giving thanks to the God he soon hoped to be reconciled with, Henry turned his horse’s head west.

*

“You are the worst of sinners,” whispered Lewis Malvern, regarding his cousin with a mixture of fear and disgust, “by rights, I ought to deny you entry to the house of God. You ought to have burst into flames when you crossed the threshold!”

Henry suffered this denunciation in silence. He had reached the outskirts of Hereford in safety, and made for the Anglican church of Saint Michael, where Lewis was minister.

His cousin had greeted him warmly at first, expressing dismay at Henry’s desperate, travel-stained appearance, and ushering him through to a private chamber beside the vestry. There was a fire here, and Henry accepted a glass of port before revealing why he had come.