Sacrifice (35 page)

“I am in need of absolution,” he said, “God and the church must forgive me my crime. I dared not approach any other priest save you. Please, help me.”

Lewis recoiled. He had already risen from his chair and spilled his port. A small man, even smaller than Henry, with sharp, bony features and bulging eyes full of much judgement and little mercy, he looked torn between assaulting Henry or lunging for the door.

“Must?” he exclaimed, wringing his hands, “do not presume to make demands of the Almighty or his church. The fault lies with you. To give over your soul in return for cheap earthly rewards, to...to fraternise with servants of Hell - it is horrible, horrible!”

He covered his face with his hands, and retreated as the other man advanced on him. “Please, cousin,” Henry begged, falling to his knees, “we were friends as children. We are kin. I know you would not see me burn, especially since I repent of my sin. Tell me what I must do to break the covenant.”

Lewis recovered his courage. Breathing hard, he gripped the little silver crucifix about his neck and looked Henry up and down, as though at some terrifying new species.

“There is only one course” he gulped, “you must kill this messenger of Beelzebub who goes about in the garb of a preacher, and burn the covenant. Whether it will be enough to claw back your soul, I cannot be certain. God may at least look kindly on you for ridding the world of such an evil creature.”

Henry looked down at the sword hanging from his hip. “I am already a deserter,” he muttered, “and like to hang if the King’s officers catch me. Must I be a murderer as well?”

“You asked my advice,” snapped his cousin, “so I gave it. To put an end to one who deliberately corrupts the souls of the innocent may be murder by the strict letter of the law, but surely no great sin. Rather, you would have done England a service.”

“Now I must ask you to depart,” he added, sidling back towards his desk, “it gives me no joy to see you brought so low, cousin, but it is a mess of your own making.”

His eyes flickered towards the top left-hand drawer, where Henry suspected he kept a pistol. “Will you not at least give me your blessing, then?” Henry asked, putting on his hat.

Lewis hesitated. “No,” he replied, “come back to me when the preacher is dead, and I may reconsider. At present, you are outside the mercy of God.”

“Have a care, Henry,” he called out as his cousin turned to leave, “your soul is in deadly peril. If you were to die now, with the covenant intact, the immortal part of you would most assuredly be pitched into Hell.”

Fear slashed at Henry like a sword as he retrieved Faith from the stables of a nearby inn. She was a strong animal, and quite recovered from the strains he had subjected her to.

“Another hard ride lies ahead, lass,” he said, stroking her muzzle, “all the way back to Stafford, and Doxey Marshes.”

He thought his best chance of finding the preacher was to go home. If nothing else, he could fall back on his old talent for eavesdropping, and hope to pick up some news of the man’s whereabouts from local gossip.

Henry tried not to dwell on the possibility that the preacher had moved on to spread his evil outside Staffordshire.

I shall pursue him
, he thought stoutly,
wherever he goes. I must slay him, not just for my own salvation, but for all those who heed his lies and deceptions.

He was careful to follow a circuitous route back to Stafford, wary of meeting soldiers riding back and forth along the highways. Essex must surely have advanced north from Warwick by now. The King would march out to meet him, or possibly attempt to dodge the army of Parliament and make a dash on London. Whatever happened, the roads would be choked with scouts and outriders from both armies.

This part of the country was unfamiliar to him. He picked his way along muddy side-roads and stretches of open countryside, spending some of his money on extracting directions from the occasional farmer or shepherd he met on the way. One or two looked indignant at this stranger riding across their land, but his soldierly appearance ensured they confined their objections to dark looks.

Finally, after a day and a half of riding and another comfortless night spent in the open, Henry reached the country he knew. Just after noon he glimpsed smoke rising from the chimneys of Stafford, and reached the crest of a rise overlooking the town.

The royal colours flew from the walls, but there was no sign of any military activity. Stafford appeared much as it always was, a peaceful yet busy county town.

Mindful of being taken for a soldier - and a possible deserter - by the Royalist garrison, Henry doffed his buff coat and hid it under a hedge, along with his pistol and bandolier. He kept his sword, since any gentleman might carry one, and urged Faith down the slope to the town gate.

A few ironic cries of ‘Ho, The Spider!” greeted him as he led her on foot through the streets towards his old lodging. Henry ignored them. His fear was of meeting his former employer by chance, for Audley was the only man likely to know or care that Henry had joined the King’s army.

Fortune was with him, and he reached the baker’s shop without incident. He glanced up at the window of his garret, and was surprised to see a lumpen female face staring back at him.

Fool,
he chided himself,
of course the landlord has found another tenant. Where shall I bed down for the night?

He thought of The Rose & Crown, which had stables. Turning away from the shop, he led her down the cobbled street towards the inn.

Henry had just enough money left for a hot meal, a bed for the night, and a stall for Faith. Feeling that all eyes were on him, he ate quietly in a corner of the taproom, shunning all conversation and a half-hearted invitation from one of the local whores.

Despite being obliged to share a stinking bed with three other men, Henry slept well. Driven by exhaustion into a dreamless pit, he did not emerge from it until after dawn. Gingerly removing the hairy forearm flung over him during the night by one of his bedmates, he swiftly dressed and made his way down to the stables.

It seemed best to begin his search for the preacher where he had met him, on Doxey Marshes. The bright, dry chillness of the morning made his blood tingle as he rode Faith out of Stafford, into the heart of the wetlands he knew so well.

This was the hour I met him,
Henry thought, narrowing his weak eyes to search the horizon,
I shall hunt all day, if necessary, and rely on God to lead me to my quarry.

God saw fit to lead him back and forth across acres of waterlogged meadow and forest. The morning had almost passed before Henry found himself on the heath again, where he had signed away his soul.

He feared returning to this place, which was why he left it until last. The lone tree was still in place, bent like an old man against the lash of storms and winds.

By now Henry’s senses were dulled, his initial optimism faded. He trotted slowly towards the tree, thinking he may as well eat his meagre lunch under it before quitting the marsh.

He dismounted and tethered Faith to the withered trunk. Sighing, he was digging inside a saddlebag for bread and cheese when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“Master Malvern.”

Ripping his hand out of the bag, Henry spun around. His fingers closed on the hilt of his sword.

He had no chance to draw. The barrel of a flintlock musket was pointed directly at his face, held by a burly, grinning ruffian in a stained russet coat.

The hammer of the ruffian’s weapon was half-cocked, and his finger on the trigger. From a range of less than ten yards, he could hardly miss. Henry had seen the damage musket balls could do to the human body at Powick Bridge, especially at close range, and went very still.

Another russet-coated man stood to his left. This one held a sword, and looked like he knew how to use it. The preacher, distinctive as ever with his gleaming bald pate and ruined face, stood behind them.

“Greetings, Henry,” he smirked hideously, folding his thick arms, “we have looked for your coming, and now here you are. God rewards patience.”

7.

The King was making ready to advance on London. Word reached Heydon Court, carried by a Puritan townsman from Lichfield, on the fifteenth of October. Two days later the same man brought another message. The Earl of Essex had reached Worcester, and the city had opened its gates to him. He would bar any attempt by the Royalists to seize the capital.

“The battle is coming,” Francis said gloomily, “God means to test England, this latter-day Israel, to see who truly loves Him or not. And we must be tested also.”

He studied his old cavalry helmet, turning the heavy steel object over and over in his hands. It was of a type called the burgonet, with a high, narrow crest and no visor. Francis had not worn it for almost twenty-five years, since he came back from his brief service with the Dutch army in the Netherlands.

“You must not go,” said his wife, watching him pensively, “all the other gentlemen of the county have declared for the King. If you join Essex, they will be your enemies forever. Our enemies.”

She touched his shoulder. “Think, Francis. Remember the fate of your ancestors at the hands of their Yorkist neighbours. We cannot afford to be cut off, alone, surrounded by a sea of foes.”

“Our own people are growing to hate us,” she added when he failed to reply, “the tenants on our manors, who have called the Boltons master for generations without complaint, now look on us with suspicion. Not three days ago poor Susan’s windows at Sedgley farm were smashed, and I heard of the people of Cromford setting up a popinjay in your likeness. The clods then set fire to it and danced around the evil thing in pagan fashion.”

Francis remained silent. It was not his way to argue with Anne, whom he was usually happy to defer to in family and household matters. Neither would he allow her to make him do anything that might compromise his honour. His way of resistance was to say nothing, and let her fires wither and die for lack of fuel.

The uneasy silence was broken by their second and youngest son, George, who had sauntered over to the window. “I see our loyal retainers are arming,” he remarked, peering down at the courtyard, “Jenkins and Taylor and the rest. What on earth is young Storey doing with that ancient sallet? It’s far too big for his head.”

“Giles Storey is nine months your senior, boy,” Francis said harshly, “and a good lad, if a trifle thick in the head. He wears the sallet because I gave our servants permission to take gear from the armoury. Much of it, as you well know, is old and out of fashion.”

“It suits Jenkin, then,” George countered, “he must be fifty-five if he is a day. Do you truly mean to lead this rabble of gardeners, grooms and decaying serving-men into battle?”

“I do,” replied Francis, eyeing him sharply, “and you, sir, should ride with us. It would be shameful if neither of my sons fought on the side of God.”

“We have spoken of this,” said Anne, “and agreed that George can act according to his conscience. If he wishes it, he may stay here with me. That way, if you and Robert are killed in the battle...”

She could not go on. “If we are killed,” Francis said while his wife wiped away a tear, “there will at least be one adult male heir to inherit the Bolton estates.”

Otherwise they would fall to Robert’s sons, and the son of Robert’s late cousin John. All three boys were minors. Francis’ blood turned to water at the thought of his lands being in the hands of lawyers until the heirs came of age. Other members of the Bolton clan would gather like vultures over a carcase, eager to grab their share.

Francis was loath to allow the Bolton estates, acquired through much blood and suffering on the part of his ancestors, to be carved up like a pie. At the same time he wanted George to do his duty. Barely seventeen, the lad was feckless and changeable as a weather-cock, and did not conduct himself as befitted the son of a Puritan gentleman.

In his darkest moments Francis suspected his youngest son of having inherited the family curse. It only surfaced every couple of generations, and only in one man at a time. The curse took the form of vice: drunkenness, womanising, gambling, all the sins young men were prone to indulge in, but taken to excess.

The most notorious of the cursed Boltons was one James, brother to the Elizabeth and Martin who lay in the family vault. James did not lie beside them. No-one knew where he lay, since he had vanished into the Tower after the Battle of Tewkesbury, never to be seen again. Francis suspected the Yorkists had murdered him, as they murdered poor Henry the Sixth, and quietly disposed of the bodies somewhere inside that dreaded fortress beside the Thames.

Francis would not go so far as to say James deserved his fate - he was brave, by all accounts, and loyal to Lancaster - but he was a man of the most appalling character. Thanks to his crimes of lust, there were probably any number of peasants in Staffordshire with Bolton blood in them, had they but known it. Worse, this fornicating drunk had masqueraded as a priest.

I will not allow you to go the same way, my lad,
Francis thought grimly, studying his son. George was well enough to look, lean and wiry, with a head of crisp auburn curls and mild blue eyes. Typical Bolton features. His brother Robert was entirely different - a tall, long, severe-looking man, dark of hair and visage, more like a Spaniard than an Englishman.