The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt, Page 2

  “What have you done?” she demanded of her husband.

  “Nothing. The fool challenged me and was hurt with a pike.”

  Still holding the child, Bess Dymock knelt beside the inert man and examined the wound. There were tears in her eyes as she wiped her bloody hand on the child’s blanket. “You can save him. I know you can. He does not deserve to die like this.”

  None-to-gently, Einyon hauled his wife to her feet. “What is your interest in the traitor?” he demanded. “Is he your lover?”

  Bess looked at him narrowly. His quick temper and impulsiveness had cost them dearly in the past, and she was not about to let it happen again. “Take care, Einyon. People are already talking about you. Better be known for a healer than a devil.”

  Cuthbert opened his eyes. “Leave me be. I would rather die than seek thy intervention.”

  Bess knelt beside him again, her voice soft and imploring. “Listen to me, thou wilt not die if Einyon tends thy wound.”

  “Never! I know what he is. Where’s Hal?”

  Hal was now sporting a cut lip courtesy of the soldiers. He wiped away the blood and grasped his dying friend’s hand. “I am here. Tell me what thou wilst.”

  Cuthbert’s breathing was rapid and shallow. “Do not let him touch me,” he begged. “Farewell my friend. I pray God to keep you.”

  “Enough!” shouted Stoddard, turning his horse towards the abbey again. “I will not tarry with traitors.”

  Einyon grabbed his wife and child and hurried away. Hal watched their retreat through tear- filled eyes. “You will die, Einyon Dymock. As God is my witness, you will die.”

  III – The Malediction

  As the procession resumed its sombre journey, Father Hewitt gazed at the fields and meadows, the rich forest teaming with life, the river which dissected the tranquil landscape like a silver snake, and knew he would never see them again. He saw several of his brethren who were now in disguise, their rough brown habits, for safety’s sake, having been replaced by common clothing. Children and adults alike were weeping as the cart trundled past, whilst many others fell to their knees, their lips moving in silent prayer. The devotion of the people, his people, touched him more sharply than the torturous implements at Leeds Castle.

  “Bless you,” he said, trying to sound bolder than he felt. “Do not weep for me. I bear my cross with resignation. Look to yourselves, and the wolfish councillors who would devour you. Be…”

  But he was not allowed to continue. Sensing the mood and animosity of the crowd, Stoddard shouted, “And while doing so, you might remember that he is a traitor and has been justly condemned.”

  There was an outbreak of murmuring and catcalls, and one old woman bravely yelled, “A pox on you, Henry Stoddard, and your cock-sure friend, Howarth Faulkner.” She was silenced by a guard who struck her across the face.

  Though outraged, the abbot did not trust himself to speak. The last thing he wanted was for anyone else to be hurt on his behalf. He suddenly felt impotent, ashamed of his inability to help and protect the people he loved. Then, as the procession stopped for the gates to the abbey to be opened, he saw Einyon Dymock and his wife, the baby held tightly in her arms, standing to the side. This time the abbot did not mince words.

  “Einyon Dymock, you killed Cuthbert Durham as surely as if you’d held the pike yourself. The law might countenance your wickedness but I will not,” and turning his gaze on Bess, he raised a hand as though to bestow a blessing. “By the holy saints and martyrs, I curse thee and thy child. May all her progeny suffer eternal damnation.”

  “No!” Bess flung herself at the cart. “Curse me if thou wilt but not my innocent child. I am not like my husband. I do not believe as he does.”

  “Innocent? Look at its garments. In blood has it been baptised, and through bloody paths shall the course of its progeny be set.”

  Bess suddenly clutched her chest. “Einyon!” she screamed through agonising pain, “he has done something to my heart. Save me! Save me!” but it was too late.

  Einyon only just caught the child as it fell out of its mother’s arms. He turned on the abbot, his face a mask of satanic fury. “Thou hast killed her!”

  The abbey gates now open, the procession began to move into the courtyard. “On the contrary,” called Hewitt over his shoulder, “a stronger voice than mine hath spoken. Threaten him if you dare!”

  ***

  Released from their bonds, the prisoners were led to the chapter house, where Henry Stoddard was already seated in a carved oak chair. Closely watched by the guards, Father Hewitt was extraordinarily calm as he and his companions approached their captor. Nothing could dispel the abbot’s sense of righteousness, especially in regards to the malediction he’d placed on the child.

  “By law,” said Stoddard, whose loins, inflamed by jubilation and power, were aching for the caresses of his lover, “I am required to record anything you may wish to say,” and he indicated a short, squat man, sitting in the corner with parchment and quill. Father Hewitt could hardly believe his eyes. Never had he seen a man look more like an ape. “You may speak for the others should they desire it,” added Stoddard, his gaze wandering to Howarth Faulkner, who was sipping a cup of ale and looking bored.

  There was a profound silence as the abbot stated, “Though we die penitent, we only wished to free His Majesty from the bonds of false friends and evil counsellors, and to maintain our church.”

  Father Eastgate was standing with a small wooden cross in his hand, given to him by a man in the crowd. He clutched the relic as he brazenly announced, “Amen to the latter, but as to the former, I cannot in all good conscience acknowledge a man who unashamedly defiles the church.”

  “Nor I,” added Father Haydock bitterly. “I send no felicitations nor will I grovel to the bloody tyrant.”

  “Remove them!” screeched Stoddard, pointing at the two defiant priests. “Throw them in the cellars.” Four guards stepped forward, two holding each priest roughly by the arms.

  “Do not hurt them!” Hewitt turned beseeching eyes on the knight. “They have suffered enough. They speak from fear. Please, they are old men, on that ground alone allow them some dignity. Let them stay in their old rooms. They will not trouble you, I give you my word.”

  Stoddard’s face softened a little. In truth, Father Eastgate reminded him of his own grandfather. He addressed the first guard. “Give them food and wine and the means by which to wash, but if they give you any trouble, restrain them.”

  The monks and their guards left the chamber, quickly followed by Howarth Faulkner. Father Hewitt exhaled a sigh of relief. He had won a reprieve for his fellow condemned - albeit a minor one. “Thank you.”

  Stoddard called for more refreshments. “Are you hungry?” he asked, handing the abbot a goblet of wine and indicating that he should sit down. Father Hewitt made for his old oak chair and then thought better of it. If he wanted to, the knight could make his last hours very unpleasant.

  “Not especially,” he responded, sitting on a stool.

  Stoddard smiled to himself. He would have liked nothing better than to hang the miscreants there & then. However, as the scribe was still in the corner and recording proceedings, to flout the law now would be foolish in the extreme.

  “I regret that matters have reached this conclusion,” he said, resuming his seat and crossing his legs. “However, I am not without heart. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  They both knew that the statement had been uttered as a matter of course. Nevertheless, Father Hewitt sought to take advantage of it. “Yes. Will you see that Cuthbert Durham is properly buried? He has no kin hereabouts. He has a sister, but I know not where she is.”

  “He is a traitor and deserves no consideration.”

  “Nonsense. He is no more a traitor than you, and you know it. The same applies to Hal Mcnab.” The abbot leaned closer and said earnestly, “The religious whims of the King will tear this country apart. He has become a master of self-delusion and ha
s often bitten the hand that fed him. If you will take the advice of an old man, watch your back.”

  Stoddard smiled. “I am grateful for your concern, but rest assured that my back is well-covered. Now, is there anything else?”

  “Yes, I would like to conduct a final mass, the people will expect it.”

  “Not possible. In the eyes of the law thy are no longer a priest.”

  “But whether priest or commoner, I am entitled to a confessor.”

  Stoddard nodded as he gestured to a guard. The interview was over. “True. I will arrange it,” and as the abbot was led out of one door, Einyon Dymock slipped in by another.

  ***

  The abbot was escorted to his old chamber, which after the desecration of the abbey, was remarkably intact. Tired and drained, he fell asleep fully clothed on his bed. A short time later he was awakened by somebody shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Einyon Dymock holding out a cup of water.

  Father Hewitt drank thirstily and wiped his mouth on his dusty sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

  “My lord Stoddard has appointed me to watch over you.”

  The abbot could not suppress a groan. He did not relish the prospect of spending his last hours with a murderer. “Would that I could perish before morning.”

  “And deprive the people of seeing you hang? How very unchristian of you.”

  “If you can do no more than torment me, then you can leave.”

  Einyon laughed mockingly. “So you can commune with your god?”

  “He’s your God too.”

  The warlock winced as though he’d been struck. “I will not bandy words with you. I wish to make you an offer.”

  “I doubt there’s anything you could say that I’d want to hear, but go ahead.”

  “I take it you value your life.”

  “Of course.”

  “How much?”

  Father Hewitt stood up and spread his arms. “All I own is that in which I stand. Search me if you like, I have nothing of value.”

  “On the contrary, you have something that no other man possesses.”

  “Really? And what is that?”

  “The power to lift the malediction.”

  The abbot resumed his seat, his curiosity aroused. “Thy are, if reports are to be believed, gifted with certain talents of your own. Moreover, since you arrived in Holton, you have not evinced the slightest interest in spiritual comfort. Therefore, why should the malediction trouble you?”

  There was a brief pause in which Einyon’s face betrayed some inner turmoil. Indeed, when he next spoke, it was almost as though he was afraid to say the words. “Bess was a good woman. We have roamed the country for the past two years, but no matter where we settled she was soon branded a witch, though she was nothing of the sort. She heeded this little until she discovered she was with child. She begged to settle where we were unknown, and so after the birth, which was long and laboured, we came here, and then… well, suffice to say that the child is in danger. It was Bess’s fervent wish to have it…” He paused again, and this time there was no mistaking his distaste as he finished, “…blessed. If you will remove the malediction, I have it in my power to set you free.”

  The abbot’s expression became one of alarm. His compassion was as natural as breathing. “Who threatens the child?”

  “Someone no power on earth can conquer.”

  “Ah, you mean your own particular God. No, thank you. As much as I love life, I value my soul even more. The malediction stands. Besides, it will avail nothing to bless a child conceived and born out of wedlock.”

  The latter was a guess but it seemed to hit home, for Einyon glared at the priest as if he would strangle him on the spot. “May the devil personally meet you in hell!” he hissed and stormed out of the room.

  “Yes,” said Father Hewitt dryly, “he probably will.”

  IV - The Execution

  The following morning, Father Hewitt stood at the window and watched the breaking dawn. A cold, damp drizzle was falling, and the fields and forest in the distance were partially obscured by a low, crawling mist. The abbey seemed shrouded in melancholy, enhanced by the limp royal standard now mounted on the gate, its impotency seeming to reflect the authority it represented.

  The expressions of the men and guards moving about in the inner courtyard, were a perfect match for the atmosphere of gloom. So was their clothing. Bright jerkins were dull and sullied, while boots and shoes were caked in mud. Sentinels shivered as they paced the walls, and the extra guards posted at the entrance gate, did what they could to stay warm and dry.

  Stoddard and Faulkner were up and ready, and yet they too showed signs of despondency. They paced the makeshift banqueting hall in silence, both men counting the minutes which seemed to pass with painstaking slowness.

  Fathers Haydock and Eastgate were in no better state. The boldness that Father Eastgate had exhibited during his interview with Henry Stoddard had evaporated during the night, while Father Haydock, instead of accepting succour from the monk permitted to visit him, had given vent to copious yet pointless lamentations.

  Of the condemned men, only Father Hewitt was philosophical. His mental strength had never been stronger, and rather than dreading death, looked upon it as a happy release. He was praying on his knees when a man entered the room, and thinking it some official, was surprised to hear the voice of Hal Mcnab.

  “I got leave to visit ye for a minute.”

  The abbot rose quickly to his feet. “Sir Henry didn’t arrest you?”

  “Nah. Gave me a good talking too, but that’s all.” Hal drew closer and whispered, “I must be quick. Ye will not greet the hangman.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just don’t be affrighted when ye see me next. Both ye and Cuthbert will be avenged,” and without further explanation, Hal exited the room.

  Father Hewitt fell to his knees again and sent up a more personal prayer. “Oh Lord, please don’t let him do anything foolish.”

  Not long after this, a group of bedraggled guards marched into the banqueting hall, their expressions grim and serious. They were closely followed by Hal Mcnab, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the floor.

  “Well, what is it?” asked Stoddard impatiently, noticing their unease. “Has anything happened to the prisoners? By God you shall all answer for it if there has.”

  “Nothing hath happened to them, sir,” said the first guard nervously, “but… well, the executioner we brought from Leeds has… fled.”

  “What! God’s teeth! No doubt this is a delaying tactic until a rescue can be effected. You must procure another hangman at once.”

  “Sire, it cannot be done, leastways not today.”

  Stoddard, who had been nursing a goblet of mulled wine, threw it at the wall. There was something ominous about the blood-red liquid as it trickled to the floor, so that he felt compelled to turn his face away.

  “Find another man, hangman or not!”

  It was the opening Hal had been hoping for. “Sire, yesterday ye accused me of being a traitor. Allow me to prove my loyalty. If ye pay me well and allow me to wear a hood, I’ll do it.”

  “Ha! You speak of loyalty and reward in the same sentence.”

  Hal shrugged. “If you doubt my sincerity, sire, then I will withdraw. But I tell ye now, none hereabouts will hang a churchman, let alone three.”

  As Stoddard vacillated, Einyon pushed his way to the front of the milling crowd. “My lord, this man is not to be trusted. He hath no enmity towards the monks, and it was he who murdered my dog the day they were arrested. There is no need to find another executioner. I will do it.”

  Stoddard raised an eyebrow. “You?” he questioned sceptically, as Hal hastily disappeared, his retreat covered by the many sympathisers present.

  “Aye. Last evening, after I had discharged your Lordship’s instructions, I was in a tavern when I overheard the plot to bribe the hangman to go away. Naturally it was my duty to apprise you of the fac
t and offer my services. Put the matter in my hands and it will be done. Trust me, no man is more eager for the task than I.”

  Stoddard hesitated again. He didn’t particularly like the man and had no illusions as to his overtures of servitude. By tradition, a hangman was supposed to be anonymous and detached. But then, so Stoddard reasoned, what was so difficult about slipping a noose around a neck? Besides, the weather was deteriorating rapidly, and a nice warm bed and excellent breakfast were far preferable to murky weather and delayed proceedings.

  “Be it so.” Stoddard addressed the guard. “Go forth with the new executioner and see that all is made ready.” Einyon bowed in acknowledgement and walked away, a satisfied smile on his face.

  ***

  As a final act of degradation, the monks were to be paraded through the streets. However, more as a safeguard than comfort, Stoddard had ordered the men be placed back in the cart, and shortly before eight o’clock, a procession comprising of horsemen in full livery, and a troop of archers with bows at the ready, set forth from the abbey. Behind them was a Fool in a paper mitre, who was waving a painted banner depicting three grotesque figures in monastic garb.

  Next came Einyon Dymock, and never had a man looked happier. Now dressed in a leather jerkin and blood-red hose, he whistled as he walked between two hooded assistants, both of whom he’d chosen personally. A band of halberdiers brought up the rear.

  As the procession moved down the street, a man dressed in miller's garb, his face obscured by flour and a drooping felt hat, ran beside the cart.

  “Father,” said Hal in a low voice, “my scheme failed but I am not deterred. All I need is one chance and Dymock will suffer the same fate as his dog.”

  “He probably has a charm against knives,” replied the abbot, hoping to divert Hal from his purpose.