Read Online John Saturnall's Feast by Lawrence Norfolk - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Norfolk
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Clough's brother Aaron stood behind them with his stick.
After the first deaths, Father Hole had preached from Romans.
We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience.
A hard text. But the last grains in the glass had hardly fallen before Mercy Starling had risen from her pew.
‘Patience, Father? It ain't want of patience making our children retch.’ The woman had cast her eye about the church. ‘Is it, Meg? You ain't laughing at me now, are you? Or you, Rose. Or you . . .’
Her finger had stabbed in accusation and the Lessoners had risen around her. Then a terrible clamour had filled the church, of accusing voices and fearful oaths. He should have descended, Father Hole knew. He should have stridden among them as he had on the night of the Ale, cuffing heads and scolding ears. But the noise had befuddled him, echoing back and forth in the nave until at last a voice had bellowed over the din.
‘How dare we defile God's house with curses!’
Timothy Marpot had marched down the aisle.
‘God tested Adam with Eve. His own wife. Now he tests us.’
‘And how's he do that, Brother Tim?’ a sullen voice had challenged from among the villagers. One or two chuckled. But Marpot raised his Bible.
‘My name is Timothy,’ he declared, his blue eyes raking their faces. ‘Timothy means Fear-God. And I fear only God. He tests us as He did once before. With a witch.’
The church fell silent. In the pulpit, Father Hole looked on.
‘We will let our faith guide us,’ the warden had declared. ‘If the witch walks among us, we will find her. We will examine consciences.’ Then he had raised his eyes to the pulpit. ‘That is, if Father Hole permits.’
So the hearings had begun.
‘Keep silent there!’ Aaron barked now as Connie Cullender shifted her weight and grunted. Marpot's instructions were precise, Father Hole knew. No idle speech. No raising of the eyes to heaven. For the defiant, the stocks beside the animal-pound. Tom Hob occupied them now. Or worse, thought Father Hole. At the end of the line of penitents, Jake Starling fixed his gaze on the floor, his lips moving in silent prayer. A livid bruise closed one eye.
Some examinees proved recalcitrant, Brother Timothy had explained. They might kneel before the table until nightfall while their neighbours bore witness to their deeds and misdeeds. They might resist until dawn, or even mid-morning. But at last their penance would be handed down and they would don the white sheet. Then the Lessoners would gather with their long switches and harsh laughter, ready for the run to church. They had mocked God, Marpot had declared. Now God mocked them back.
Father Hole dropped his own gaze to the floor. John Sandall had drawn the palm tree on these stones, the boy's hand shaking more than his own before the first drink of the morning. How long was it now since Susan Sandall's return to the village? Eleven years? He remembered her reappearance after Lady Anne's death, the church hung with black by Sir William's order and her belly bulging with the child who would take the chalk. A week ago they had watched him together from the door of the hut, picking his way through the meadow. What would become of him, she had demanded? She had exacted his reluctant promise. Now it weighed upon him. He felt weary. And thirsty.
Outside the air was damp. Tom Hob's snores resounded across the green. Lights burned in Marpot's house but the other cottages were dark. Some had hung buckthorn over their lintels until Brother Timothy's men had torn it down. The old ways, thought Father Hole. The old fears.
‘Only the pure of spirit can see her,’ the blue-eyed man had told him, flanked by Aaron Clough and his scowling boy Ephraim. ‘That is why she attacks the innocent. To blind them to her true guise. For a child will know her, Father. Mark my words.’
But Father Hole remembered the bent old man in his blue smock. Would he have beaten simpletons? Or forced old
After the first deaths, Father Hole had preached from Romans.
We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience.
A hard text. But the last grains in the glass had hardly fallen before Mercy Starling had risen from her pew.
‘Patience, Father? It ain't want of patience making our children retch.’ The woman had cast her eye about the church. ‘Is it, Meg? You ain't laughing at me now, are you? Or you, Rose. Or you . . .’
Her finger had stabbed in accusation and the Lessoners had risen around her. Then a terrible clamour had filled the church, of accusing voices and fearful oaths. He should have descended, Father Hole knew. He should have stridden among them as he had on the night of the Ale, cuffing heads and scolding ears. But the noise had befuddled him, echoing back and forth in the nave until at last a voice had bellowed over the din.
‘How dare we defile God's house with curses!’
Timothy Marpot had marched down the aisle.
‘God tested Adam with Eve. His own wife. Now he tests us.’
‘And how's he do that, Brother Tim?’ a sullen voice had challenged from among the villagers. One or two chuckled. But Marpot raised his Bible.
‘My name is Timothy,’ he declared, his blue eyes raking their faces. ‘Timothy means Fear-God. And I fear only God. He tests us as He did once before. With a witch.’
The church fell silent. In the pulpit, Father Hole looked on.
‘We will let our faith guide us,’ the warden had declared. ‘If the witch walks among us, we will find her. We will examine consciences.’ Then he had raised his eyes to the pulpit. ‘That is, if Father Hole permits.’
So the hearings had begun.
‘Keep silent there!’ Aaron barked now as Connie Cullender shifted her weight and grunted. Marpot's instructions were precise, Father Hole knew. No idle speech. No raising of the eyes to heaven. For the defiant, the stocks beside the animal-pound. Tom Hob occupied them now. Or worse, thought Father Hole. At the end of the line of penitents, Jake Starling fixed his gaze on the floor, his lips moving in silent prayer. A livid bruise closed one eye.
Some examinees proved recalcitrant, Brother Timothy had explained. They might kneel before the table until nightfall while their neighbours bore witness to their deeds and misdeeds. They might resist until dawn, or even mid-morning. But at last their penance would be handed down and they would don the white sheet. Then the Lessoners would gather with their long switches and harsh laughter, ready for the run to church. They had mocked God, Marpot had declared. Now God mocked them back.
Father Hole dropped his own gaze to the floor. John Sandall had drawn the palm tree on these stones, the boy's hand shaking more than his own before the first drink of the morning. How long was it now since Susan Sandall's return to the village? Eleven years? He remembered her reappearance after Lady Anne's death, the church hung with black by Sir William's order and her belly bulging with the child who would take the chalk. A week ago they had watched him together from the door of the hut, picking his way through the meadow. What would become of him, she had demanded? She had exacted his reluctant promise. Now it weighed upon him. He felt weary. And thirsty.
Outside the air was damp. Tom Hob's snores resounded across the green. Lights burned in Marpot's house but the other cottages were dark. Some had hung buckthorn over their lintels until Brother Timothy's men had torn it down. The old ways, thought Father Hole. The old fears.
‘Only the pure of spirit can see her,’ the blue-eyed man had told him, flanked by Aaron Clough and his scowling boy Ephraim. ‘That is why she attacks the innocent. To blind them to her true guise. For a child will know her, Father. Mark my words.’
But Father Hole remembered the bent old man in his blue smock. Would he have beaten simpletons? Or forced old
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