Hiding From the Light (17 page)
Lyndsey leaned her bike into its usual place in the brambles and switched off the lamp. Staring round she held her breath, listening. It had stopped raining hours before, but the trees were still dripping – she could hear the sound all around her. It emphasised the silence. A cold, clammy mist was lurking in the hollows of the land and clinging to the water.
Across the lane Liza’s cottage was in darkness. The houses further up the road were invisible behind the black curtain of trees. Above them, high in the sky, clouds shrouded what witches call the Blood Moon.
Fumbling with the wet metal clip, she managed to remove the bicycle lamp and cautiously she switched it back on. She hadn’t expected the night to be so dark. Scrambling over the wall, she crept across the grass, following the narrow beam of light. Everything looked different by torchlight. The contours of the churchyard were more uneven, the trees more angular, the bushes thicker, disembodied in mist. For a minute she lost her bearings completely and she felt a wave of panic sweep over her. She stopped, forcing herself to breathe more slowly. She had to be calm. Centred. And strong.
Everything looked strange. The rectangle of greener grass she had convinced herself might be Hopkins’s grave was indistinguishable from the rest of the grass around it. She took a step forward, shining the lamp around wildly, unable suddenly to find the right place. She had been here so many times, cast the circle, murmured the binding spell, woven the trap to hold him down, to chain that vengeful sadistic spirit to the earth. It was here. Surely.
Hopkins was one of the reasons she had stayed in Mistley and not given in to her first intention of selling the cottage she had been left. Her careful, painstaking research into witchcraft as the old religion of the mother goddess would have brought him to her notice even if he had not been so infamous locally. But even more than that, this battle was personal, for he had persecuted her own ancestors. She shivered. And his spirit was still prowling the back lanes and fields in the mist. The mist which she feared so much. The mist which carried the scent of blood and the echoes of past evil.
Her toe touched a lump beneath the grass. It was part of the foundations of the demolished church. It was here she sometimes sat, going over the words she was about to recite, murmuring them under her breath, feeling their resonance. Special words; words of power.
There was something about this site that terrified her. It wasn’t just that Hopkins might be buried here. It was more than that. It was as though this place was one of those where the evil on which he fed had its origin. There were several places in the neighbourhood like this; she didn’t know why, or where that original evil came from, but while the church was here the source of that evil was plugged. She had to admit it, the church had acted as an antidote. The evil was held down, sealed into the earth. The day the last piece of the church was pulled down that seal was broken. She swung her battered leather backsack off her shoulders and set it down in the wet grass. Inside were all the tools she needed: candles, salt, oil, water, in small bottles, a little bowl which stood as her cauldron, the athame, the robe she wore for special ceremonies, the wand she had cut and carved herself from the branch of a hazel tree.
Putting the lamp down, she turned it off. The moon behind the thinning cloud was a dull amber, a colour echoed in the heavens above the estuary where the ports of Harwich and Felixstowe reflected useless wasteful light all night endlessly up into the sky.
Slowly she walked around the spot, laying out her candles and the rest of her tools, preparing the ground. Then when all was ready, she cast the circle. Round she went, again and again, pointing wand and black-handled knife-tip, seeing the light streaming from them, building the wall to keep the spirit of a man locked deep in the ground.
The flames of the night-lights in their little jars flickered in the wind. One blew out and she paused, frowning. She had been conscious only of the sound of her own voice calling out the words of her spell, but now suddenly she was aware of the profound silence around her, broken only by the patter of the rain on the brown and golden leaves of the trees. She shivered and bent to the candle, fumbling with matches from her pocket. Her resolution was wavering. The wall of power was dissolving. She couldn’t hold it.
‘Help me!’ She stood up, her arms outstretched into the darkness. ‘Guardian spirits of the four corners, be here. Be strong. Help me hold the circle! Great goddess of the witches help your daughter keep this evil and this man imprisoned!’
She paused, her hands outstretched, her eyes fixed on the sky. The wind which had brought the sharp cold shower had whipped the cloud away from the face of the moon, so that the countryside was lit under its strange copper light.
‘Don’t let him out to haunt our houses and our roads! Don’t let him out to visit our women and bring terror to their lives again. Hold him firm. Bind him here to the earth!’ Her voice rang out over the sound of the rain. She stared down at the patch of grass contained in her circle. It was dark, barely lit by the tiny flickering night-lights. There was no sense of power there, no wall to hold him in and within the circle nothing but emptiness.
Her arms dropped to her sides in defeat. He wasn’t there. It had all been in vain. He had gone. Escaped. The spirit of the Witchfinder once more prowled the Earth. She had not been able to contain him. He was free.
A gust of wind whipped through the hawthorn trees near her and her candles blew out. She was left in sudden total darkness as the moon once more drew back behind a shroud of thick black cloud.
‘No!’
She turned round slowly.
‘No! You bastard! You can’t have me! You can’t have anyone! Not any more!’ Her voice had risen to a shriek.
She faced the wind, feeling the cold bite her face. It contained the smell of salt marsh and sea. The branches of the trees were beginning to thrash back and forth, leaves torn away, flying in her face.
She didn’t see the figure behind her in the darkness until it was nearly at her side.
Emma was profoundly asleep. Under her eyelids her eyes moved back and forth, staring into the past. In her dream she was Sarah Paxman again. She was standing outside the Thorn Inn in the centre of Mistley and she was surrounded by crowds. Nearby, at the quayside, a spritsail barge was loading a cargo of sacks of grain and wool. Sailors swarmed up from a flyboat which had just come alongside on the top of the tide. Wheels rattled over the cobbles and the stench of ale from the open door of the inn was overwhelming. She pulled her cloak around her more tightly and beckoned one of the men who had stumbled out of the taproom.
‘Master Hopkins, is he here?’
The man stared at her bleary-eyed. ‘I reckon.’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs.’ He jerked his thumb behind him. ‘You don’t want to go in there, mistress.’
‘Oh, indeed I do.’ Sarah raised an imperious eyebrow. She turned and beckoned her maid. ‘Follow me, Agnes, and don’t say anything.’
Leaving John Pepper with the groom holding their horses, the two women entered the doorway and found the narrow staircase. It led up to a dark corridor. All the doors were closed.
‘Master Hopkins?’ she called. She managed to keep her voice firm. ‘A word, if you please!’
The first door when she flung it open led to a large communal bedroom. It was ill lit and the air was fetid. In the corner the single occupant lay flat on his back on the straw mattress, snoring loudly.
She shuddered and moved on to the next door. This room was a private bedroom, available at a price, for the more discerning customer. It was musty and empty.
‘Mistress?’ Agnes touched her sleeve. ‘See. There.’ The girl’s voice shook with nerves. She pointed towards one of the doors. A slim line of light showed underneath, clearly visible in the dark passage.
Sarah took a deep breath. She stepped towards it and flung the door open. ‘Master Hopkins? I would like a word with you, if you please.’
He was sitting at a wooden table with a goose feather quill in his hand, a young man in his early twenties. His narrow face, already marked by lines down either side of his mouth, was pale of complexion in contrast to the dark beard and hair. His eyes were very bright, his expression watchful. Opposite him sat a plump, fresh-faced, middle-aged woman dressed in black. Sarah bowed to her, unsmiling. ‘Mistress Phillips.’
The woman stared back at her, her eyes cold and unblinking. ‘Mistress Paxman.’
‘You have arrested Liza Clark, Master Hopkins.’ Sarah walked to the table and rested her hands on it, leaning towards the young man who had not risen to his feet when she walked in. The candles in the candelabra at his left hand flickered in the draught from the door.
‘Indeed we have taken her up.’ His voice was quiet; thoughtful. ‘What is your interest in the matter?’ His quill hovered over the notebook in which he had been writing, as though he were going to take down her words.
The gesture did not frighten her. Her eyes blazed. ‘My interest, Master Hopkins, is that she was my nurse as I am sure you know and she is still my friend. She has no dealings with the Devil, if that is what you claim, and you, mistress,’ she turned to Mary Phillips, ‘know that full well as you have worked together in delivering children all over this very parish!’
‘I should be careful of defending her too passionately, Mistress Paxman.’ Hopkins was indeed writing down her name. He dipped the nib in the ink pot and underlined the words twice. ‘We might be forced to suspect you of sharing her practices.’ He narrowed his eyes, his drawn, pale face perspiring slightly. ‘I suggest you go home.’
Sarah met his eyes steadily. ‘Not until I have your word that you will release her.’
‘Impossible.’ His mouth snapped shut on the word like a trap.
‘She must have taught you a great deal, Mistress Paxman,’ Mary Phillips put in quietly. ‘How long did she look after you when you were a child?’
Sarah’s mouth went dry. She had not taken her eyes from Hopkins’s face. ‘She taught me the value of love and loyalty and kindness,’ she said slowly.
‘But not, I would guess, any good Christian teaching.’ He scanned her face for a few more seconds, then he looked down at the notebook in front of him and wrote something next to her name. The very simplicity of the gesture was loaded with threat. ‘I do not believe we have seen you in church here, Mistress Paxman.’
Sarah could feel the heat in her face. ‘I do not live here any longer, as you well know. My home is in Colchester.’
‘But while you visit your father I would expect you to attend service with him.’
‘I do not have to explain myself to you, sir,’ Sarah retorted hotly. ‘If you watch people closely then you will be aware that I have been here only since Monday at noon. And I am here to talk about Liza, not about me. Where is she?’
‘She is being held in Manningtree. For questioning.’ He paused. ‘Then she will be taken before the magistrates.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘Out of the question.’ He looked up. ‘Mary will search her for witch’s marks this afternoon. I do not doubt she will find them. If you do not want to find yourself put to the same test, I suggest you leave Mistley Thorn and go back to Colchester this very day. Do not meddle, mistress. I have a job to do, given me by Parliament. I do not brook any interference.’ He put down his pen and at last he stood up. He was not a tall man, shorter than she was by a hand’s breadth, but she could feel the strength of his gaze.
She looked from him to Mary Phillips, who had folded her arms, and then back. ‘I shall obtain legal representation for her, Master Hopkins.’
‘That would be a waste of money, mistress, and a foolish, sentimental act. My powers are total in this matter. I cannot be overruled. If the woman is innocent then God will exonerate her. If we find the marks this afternoon and Mary uses her pin to good effect, we shall swim her to make sure. Good morning, mistress.’ He bowed.
‘You can’t. You can’t swim her –’
He was walking past her, the notebook under his arm. Pausing, he gave her a final cold look. ‘After swimming her, if the Lord finds her guilty we will ask her for a confession which will complete the matter. I feel sure she will confess. In the end.’ He gave a thin smile, bowed, and without giving her another glance walked out of the door and down the corridor.
‘If I suggest it, Master Hopkins will have you taken up, Mistress Sarah.’ Mary Phillips hadn’t moved. ‘I’ll wager a pretty sum I would find witch marks on your person. You went to Liza for a spell to give you a babe, didn’t you? Don’t think I had forgotten. You asked me as a midwife why your womb didn’t quicken from that fancy husband of yours. I couldn’t help, so you went to her.’
‘You wouldn’t help, Mary.’ Sarah glared at her, her eyes hard. ‘You refused. You wouldn’t even examine me.’
‘Because England does not need more spoiled royalist brats!’ Mary spat the words at her.
‘Is that why you asked a fee so exorbitant I could not pay without asking my husband?’
Mary shrugged. ‘Whatever. The fact remains that you went to Liza and she gave you a spell.’
‘She did not.’
‘She gave you a spell and a potion containing the Devil’s seed.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘It’s easily proven. If you took the potion you too are a witch, confirmed, enslaved, a harlot of the Devil! Well, Mistress Hoity Toity, we shall see. Witch marks don’t bleed from my pin.’ She put her hand into the pocket of her gown and produced a long pin set in a handle. ‘Shall we try it, Mistress Sarah? Master Hopkins heard of this special test that they use in Scotland. It finds the place the Devil sucks his servants.’
‘Don’t you touch me!’ Sarah whirled away from her, keeping well out of reach. ‘You are an evil, cruel woman.’
‘I just do my job as Master Hopkins bids me.’ Mary held out the pricker at arm’s length. ‘We’ll get to you, my dear, don’t you worry. Liza will confess everything and I shall ask her about you especially.’
‘She will tell you nothing!’ Sarah paused in the doorway.
‘Oh, but she will.’ Mary gave her a slow, cold smile. ‘Believe me, she will. They always do.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’ Sarah could feel the fear spreading through her body like ice-water.
‘So you say. Liza will tell it different. By the time we’re finished asking her questions, she will incriminate everyone she has ever known, sweetheart. And you shall be chief amongst them.’ Mary thrust the pricker back into her apron pocket. ‘I shall enjoy questioning you; finding out where you hide the Devil’s tit. In your privy parts, I’ll be bound. It’s always the best place to look.’
Sarah gasped. Her face was white and for a moment she thought she would faint. Mary took a step forward and Sarah turned. She fled down the stairs, through the taproom and outside to the sound of jeering, beer-soaked voices behind her.
‘Mistress Sarah, are you all right?’
Sarah realised suddenly that Agnes had not followed her into Hopkins’s room. As she went in, Agnes had fled. The girl had been waiting outside the inn, giggling with a couple of maids from the kitchen.
‘Where is Master Hopkins?’ Sarah took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
‘He rode off, mistress. Along the river.’
Sarah closed her eyes. She was shaking, she realised, as relief that he had gone swept over her. Shaking and cold with fear.
‘We’ll ride home, Agnes. Back to Papa’s. Call John with the horses.’
‘Is it going to be all right, mistress?’ Agnes was staring at her. The girl’s face was red with excitement, her eyes sparkling. The reason, Sarah realised suddenly, was not unconnected with the two pot boys lounging at the inn door.
‘No, Agnes,’ she said bitterly. ‘It is not going to be all right. I don’t know what we are going to do.’
‘I don’t know what we’re going to do!’ Emma repeated the words as she opened her eyes and stared round the dark bedroom. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what we’re going to do!’
She lay still, her heart pounding. She must have been having a nightmare, but whatever it was it had slipped away as she woke, leaving terrible fear behind it. She put out her arm towards Piers, seeking reassurance, and then pulled it back. How stupid to expect to find him there after all this time.
She sat up, shivering. The window was open a crack and she could hear the rain pattering down on the leaves of the honeysuckle on the wall outside her window. The bedroom was cold. There was no sign of the cats. With a groan she pushed her feet out of bed and went to pull on a heavy sweater. Then she went to the window. She pushed back the billowing curtain and was reaching to shut it when she saw a flash of light out in the darkness beyond the garden.
She frowned, staring out. There it was again. Not in the garden, but across the lane in the old churchyard. Someone was moving around in there, carrying a torch. She leaned forward and pushed the sash down a little further to see more clearly. The night air was cold on her face and she could feel the odd drop of rain.
Someone was shouting. She could hear a woman’s voice coming from the churchyard. It was anguished, almost screaming. She leaned out even further, straining her eyes in the murky darkness, suddenly afraid. Was someone being attacked out there? Should she call the police?
She shivered violently. The torch light was waving wildly about, and near it she could see a circle of what looked like small flickering candles.
Suddenly making up her mind, she ran down the stairs and pulled on her boots. Taking down her raincoat from a hook in the hall she pulled it on over her pyjamas and sweater and reached for the big torch she kept by the hall phone.
It was cold and damp outside and the mizzle of rain soon found its way down inside her collar as she walked cautiously down the path and let herself out of the gate. Her boots were silent on the wet leaves as she crept through the hedgerow trees towards the churchyard wall. Putting her torch out now she was close and half hidden behind a stunted hawthorn, she peered round. The wind was rising, thrashing the branches in her face, driving the rain into her eyes. It was hard to see. Cautiously she scrambled over the old bricks and crept closer. The dark figure appeared to be walking round in circles; the lights were, as she had guessed, coming from candles on the ground. There seemed to be only one figure there, now she was closer, and she did not seem to be the victim of any sort of attack. She was shouting and gesticulating as she moved round and round in a circle.