Deliver us from Evil (15 page)

C

aptain Foxe did not leave Broadchalke by the Salisbu
ry road. Instead he climbed the
valley's northern side, until
he had
reached the chalk trackway along the summit of the downs. He paused there, and admired for a moment the beauty of the landscape stretching far away from him: the woods and hills, the villages and fields, dyed with the colours of the afternoon sun, and all peaceful, so peaceful, with nothing stirring but the sheep cropping at the grass, and the wisps of smoke from far distant hearths. 'As
I
was born to this land,' thought Captain Foxe to himself, 'so shall
I
return as dust to it. Where then is the triumph of evil in that, even though
I
be doomed to die tonight?' But an image of his family swam across his thoughts; and he felt his anger return. He spurred his horse on, and did not stop again; for he had a long way to travel before the setting of the sun.

Even so, he did not ride as fast as he could, for he did not wish to tire his horse; he knew that the final stretch of his journey might be when he would need the fullest speed. He met no one on the ridgeway track; nor, when he ventured back into the valleys, did he permit himself to be seen, for there were many trees along the river banks, and he was able to avoid the villages and towns. Only when the road began to climb again did he start to feel exposed; for the woods were thinning now and ahead of him, desolate and bare, stretched the lonely expanse of Salisbury Plain. Soon he had left the trees behind; and as he began to ride across the downs, so he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks.

He did not look back for a couple of miles, for the wind - even on such a temperate day - came gusting across the Plain, and it was only when the breeze dropped that Captain Foxe heard the first beating of hooves. He stared round and saw three horsemen, black silhouettes on a distant ridge, their cloaks flapping like the wings of crows. He dug his spurs in even further; but he could feel his horse tiring, and he knew it would be close. He glanced round again; he had not been able to shake the horsemen off, but nor had his pursuers made any ground. Captain Foxe smiled grimly; he swung away from the road, and began to ride across the open land.

The grass was rougher than the track, but Captain Foxe was an experienced horseman and well-practised at riding on the Plain. Soon his pursuers were starting to flag, and he felt his hopes revive. The sun was a deep red above the horizon now, and behind him the east was growing dark; but when he stared ahead, he could see the distant silhouette of Stonehenge, and he knew there was only a mile more to go. Nevertheless, he would not take the straightest route, for he had no wish to ride beneath the circle on such a day; and so he swung to the right, and left the stones behind.

He had almost passed Stonehenge when he heard more hoofbeats, ahead of him now, and saw horsemen approaching, blocking off his route. He wheeled again even further to the right, so that he was riding away from Woodton, but once more, above the pounding of his own horse's hooves, he heard other hoofbeats approaching him, and he had no choice but to wheel and turn once more. Now he was riding directly towards the circle. All its stones loomed black against the sky - all save one, touched along its edges by the rays of the sun so that it seemed washed a bloody red. Captain Foxe glanced round involuntarily; and saw how his pursuers were forming an arc, closing in on him, so that he had no choice but to continue straight ahead. The nearest horseman to him was cloaked in black; his face could barely be made out in the twilight, but it gleamed even so, and Captain Foxe could guess who it was. The rider was nearing: for desperately though Captain Foxe urged on his own horse, he could feel how tired it was growing, and he knew that soon, very soon, he was bound to be caught. At least, he thought, let it be once he had passed beyond the stones.

He was approaching them now: under the lintel and into the circle itself. At once, he stopped, for his path was blocked. He recognised the horsemen he had escaped on the road; they sat frozen in their saddles, stationed in the gaps between the giant stones. He would not escape them now. He stared desperately beyond the ring, towards the road that led on to his family. He could see now that there was a giant cloud of smoke rising above the wood which blocked out his view of Woodton. He tensed himself. There was an unmarked gap between two of the stones. He dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

Immediately, there was the crack of a pistol shot. Captain Foxe was flung from his saddle as his horse whinnied, rearing upwards, then crashing to the ground. Captain Foxe heard a snapping, and felt a sudden searing pain in his leg as his horse rolled across it in the agony of its death. There was a second pistol shot. The horse rolled once again, then lay suddenly still. Captain Foxe struggled to move, but he couldn't feel his leg and he knew that it was shattered. He closed his eyes. The chase was over. He was snared in the trap.

He felt a shadow pass between his face and the last dying rays of the sun, and he opened his eyes again. Sir Charles Wolverton was standing above him, staring down. He seemed almost unchanged: a little older perhaps - the face more lined, the thin beard more streaked - but otherwise the same. 'If
I
must die,' said Captain Foxe,

'then
I
am ready for death. But my family - spare them. Glut your anger on me.'

Sir Charles gave no sign of having heard him at all; his face remained frozen, a rigid mask of ice. He knelt slowly, until he was squatting on Captain Foxe's chest; but still his expression continued unchanged, and Captain Foxe knew suddenly that it was not Sir Charles at all but a true mask indeed, concealing a different and dreadful breed of thing. Captain Foxe stared into the eyes; and saw only an eternal depth there, blind, and pitiless, and cold as space. 'No,' he whispered, 'no,' before a hand was placed across his open mouth and a blade of steel against the vein in his neck. Life ebbed from the stare of Captain Foxe; but still the expression of his killer did not change.

'. . . thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor . . .'

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

I

t was early evening when Robert heard the first rolling of the drum. He had been studying in one of his favourite spots with his toes in the stream, his back against a tree, his books in a scattered ring around him on the grass. Mr Webbe had ordered him to stay inside the house all day, but the sky had been so blue, and the sun so warm, that Robert had felt little guilt about slipping away. He knew he would not be punished - Mr Webbe never punished anyone.

The drum roll sounded louder. Robert gathered up his books, and scampered up the bank. Woodton lay before him; and beyond the village, a line of men was descending from a hill. They were dressed as soldiers, but their uniforms were tattered and their breastplates and helmets were stained with mud. One of the men, at the head of the line, was beating the drum; a second held a standard. A light breeze caught it, and for a moment it fluttered in the air. The flag was decorated with a coat of arms; and Robert stared at it wide-eyed. He had seen the arms before: carved above the doorway of Wolverton Hall.

As he ran towards the village, people were starting to gather on the road. Robert pushed and slipped his way past them, but the nearer the column of troops approached, the slower his progress became, and he grew ever more desperate to reach his mother and home. He cursed himself for not having stayed with her, for with each beat of the drum his dread was growing as he thought of what the Wolverton standard might portend. He remembered his father's description of what had happened the last time it had fluttered above Woodton; and how close-run the rescue of the village had been then. Robert stared about him. Where was his father now? It was not possible that he could be away at such a moment of crisis. Suddenly, as he looked, Robert saw a man on horseback, and for a moment mistook him. He waved and shouted; the man turned, and Robert saw that it was Sir Henry. Emily was clinging to his back; she seemed pale and afraid, but when she saw Robert, her face lightened and she slipped from her horse to run across to him. 'Robert!' she cried, as she held him in her arms. She kissed him; but then her head was abruptly pulled away, and she screamed as her father hauled her back by her hair. He seized her in his arms, then roughly placed her where she had been before. Sir Henry leant over from his saddle to hiss in Robert's face. 'Save yourself,' he whispered. 'Find your mother, and both of you, run for your lives.' Then he wheeled his horse around, and cantered away. Robert stared after him; Emily was crying something, her eyes damp with tears, but her father rode on, and they were soon lost amidst the crowds.

Robert did as Sir Henry had advised, and ran for his life. He reached home at last and found his mother with Mr Webbe in the yard; she cried with delight, and held her son tight in her arms. But Mr Webbe pulled them roughly apart. 'We do not have the time,' he said and, picking Robert up, put him in the saddle of a horse. Robert realised that his mother and Mr Webbe had been waiting for him, and he felt a burning flush of shame.

'
I
have delayed you,' he said.

'It is no matter,' answered Mr Webbe shortly, as he climbed into his saddle.

'Who are the soldiers?' asked Robert.

Mr Webbe stared at him; and his face seemed twisted. 'It is an army of the dead,' he whispered. Then he spurred his horse on, and galloped from the yard.

But it was too late. As Robert followed, he heard the drumbeat stop and a terrible silence Fill the evening air. He saw Mr Webbe reining in his horse, and then his mother too; and as Robert emerged on to the village green, he almost fell from his saddle, so great was his shock. For ahead of them, the soldiers he h
ad seen marching on the village
were now ordered in a single rank; and the stench of the grave rose heavy from their line. All seemed decay: the flesh rotting on the soldiers' bones, the breastplates smeared with rust, the uniforms streaked with the silver trails of worms. Their eyes met Robert's stare, and seemed to gleam as though with thirst. Robert turned in his saddle, and looked away.

It was only as he did so that he realised how the villagers too were gathered round the green. They were lined in a ring, so that every course of escape was cut off. Mr Webbe scanned their silent faces. 'In the name of God,' he cried suddenly, '
I
beseech you, let us pass.' Some of the villagers looked down at the ground, but most continued to stare as before - coldly, with their lips pressed tight and their faces set. Not a single one of them stepped aside.

But then there was movement from the soldiers' ranks. Robert turned again and saw that a passage was opening through the centre of the lines, and a horseman was approaching through the gap. His face was very pale and appeared to gleam, a pallor offset by the curling blackness of his beard; his eyes were bright, and as hungry as his men's. He passed through the lines, then reined in his horse and sat silently, not looking once at Robert, or his mother, or Mr Webbe, but at the ring of villagers around the edge of the green. He smiled, as though accepting a triumph already won; then lifted up his hand.

'Men and women of Woodton,' he proclaimed. 'The days of rebellion are finished.' His accent was foreign; but he spoke English with perfect command, and although he barely raised his voice, his every word seemed to reach into the depths of Robert's mind. 'My name is Faustus,' the horseman continued. 'In his exile,
I
was the companion of your master, Sir Charles.'

At the mention of Sir Charles' name, a sobbing moan rose up from the villagers, and they began to shuffle and writhe.

Faustus smiled and raised up his hand again.

'You need fear nothing,' he said softly, 'although all of you, by your traitorous revolt, have well merited a cruel and bloody punishment. But Sir Charles is generous; and he chooses to forgive. Indeed, more than just forgive. You have all of you,
I
think, during the past few months, benefited from the gold which
I
- as Sir Charles' steward -have handed out to you. And yet the wealth you have been given so far may be nothing compared with what is still to come. See!' He turned and, at his command, two of his soldiers brought forward a chest.

Faustus gestured that it should be opened. As the soldiers obeyed his order, the villagers caught the sudden glint of gold, cast red by the setting sun; and almost as one they began to surge forward, for they could see how the chest was full to its brim with coin, and plate, and treasures of every kind. Faustus smiled mockingly; then lowered his hand. His soldiers raised their muskets, and fired a volley into the air. At once, there was silence. The villagers stood frozen, then shrank guiltily back.

'Patience,' smiled Faustus. He inspected his nails. 'Patience.'

'What would you have us do?' a voice cried out desperately.

'Tell us!' yelled another. 'Tell us what you want!'

'Why,' replied Faustus in a low and silky tone, '
I
want nothing but your loyalty.
Your undying obedience.'