Read Online John Saturnall's Feast by Lawrence Norfolk - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Norfolk
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don't dare.’
‘They ain't come up here neither,’ Seth said with a glance at John. ‘I ain't saying they'd find her or anything.’
John nodded and looked back at the meadow. Ephraim Clough's father and the others stamped about the village as they pleased, banging on doors. The thought of his mother being hauled out of the hut gave him a sick feeling. What would he do if they stripped her like Connie Cullender? Or made her run to the church?
Dando was the next to go. John and Seth passed awkward comments back and forth. But at last the desultory talk petered out. Cassie's singing came as a relief.
‘Ephraim was boasting,’ Seth said when she finished. ‘Said his pa was going to examine your ma. Said he was going to test her.’
‘Test her how?’ He kept his voice casual.
‘I don't know,’ Seth said. He stared hard at the ground. ‘It's just what I heard.’ He rose to slip back through the hedge. ‘Best get back.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ called John. But the bushes closed behind the boy. Seth did not answer. The next day John waited in vain.
He began to spend his days on the slopes. Tramping up and down the terraces, he heard Marpot's hand-bell and watched the dark-suited lines form outside the long cottage. When the latest white-sheeted figure stumbled out, he imagined the harsh shouts and mocking laughter as the hapless penitent scampered under the Lessoners’ long switches.
When evening came he still wandered in the meadow, waiting for Cassie to sing. But the Starling cottage was silent. When next he heard her song it was fainter, drifting up on the still night air. It came from the church.
The soft psalm stroked the bare ceiling and walls. It slid along the pews and curled around the pulpit's dark turret. The words settled on the hard stone floor. Cassie's heart swelled. She thought of the little stones in her purse, the ones she had collected. She knew each one, how it bit as she knelt her weight upon it. Now she heard them skitter on the hard floor.
Saint Clodock had carried an axe and torch against the witch. He had chopped up her chestnut tables. He had burnt her palace. Now the witch was back. But this time Brother Timothy was waiting. Together Cassie and he would finish Saint Clodock's work. They would set the witch a sharp trial.
Cassie understood sharp trials. She drew out the pin from her bonnet and put the tip to her blackened nail. She began slowly as she always did easing the point down its prickling groove. Witches did not feel pain, she reminded herself. They did not bleed. When the first drop fell, she began to pray.
She gave thanks for her life and the lives of her families, the old one in the cottage and the one to come, with Brother Timothy, the Cloughs and all the others. She prayed that Abel and her father would find their own way to the Garden. That everyone in the village should find their way there. Everyone in the Vale from Sir William all the way down to Tom Hob.
It was time. Brother Timothy had told her so.
She had asked God to take her after Mary died but God had refused. The witch had hidden herself among them, Brother Timothy said. Cassie's penance was to find her. Every Sunday, she had prayed in the corner of the meadow. She had all but given up hope before God had answered. But at last He had sent the one she needed.
She remembered his face, startled and bloody, looking up from the water trough.
The ache from her knees crept up through her bones. A second bead of blood trembled down the pin. She would count to a dozen tonight, she thought. From her corner of the meadow she had kept watch on John Sandall, a tiny moving speck high above. Then she had seen the woman weaving her way through the brambles. Disappearing into Buccla's Wood. At that moment all was clear. Rising to her feet and hitching up her skirts, she had felt God's purpose course through her veins. She had run to Brother Timothy.
A dark form loomed above. An instant later the man knelt beside
‘They ain't come up here neither,’ Seth said with a glance at John. ‘I ain't saying they'd find her or anything.’
John nodded and looked back at the meadow. Ephraim Clough's father and the others stamped about the village as they pleased, banging on doors. The thought of his mother being hauled out of the hut gave him a sick feeling. What would he do if they stripped her like Connie Cullender? Or made her run to the church?
Dando was the next to go. John and Seth passed awkward comments back and forth. But at last the desultory talk petered out. Cassie's singing came as a relief.
‘Ephraim was boasting,’ Seth said when she finished. ‘Said his pa was going to examine your ma. Said he was going to test her.’
‘Test her how?’ He kept his voice casual.
‘I don't know,’ Seth said. He stared hard at the ground. ‘It's just what I heard.’ He rose to slip back through the hedge. ‘Best get back.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ called John. But the bushes closed behind the boy. Seth did not answer. The next day John waited in vain.
He began to spend his days on the slopes. Tramping up and down the terraces, he heard Marpot's hand-bell and watched the dark-suited lines form outside the long cottage. When the latest white-sheeted figure stumbled out, he imagined the harsh shouts and mocking laughter as the hapless penitent scampered under the Lessoners’ long switches.
When evening came he still wandered in the meadow, waiting for Cassie to sing. But the Starling cottage was silent. When next he heard her song it was fainter, drifting up on the still night air. It came from the church.
The soft psalm stroked the bare ceiling and walls. It slid along the pews and curled around the pulpit's dark turret. The words settled on the hard stone floor. Cassie's heart swelled. She thought of the little stones in her purse, the ones she had collected. She knew each one, how it bit as she knelt her weight upon it. Now she heard them skitter on the hard floor.
Saint Clodock had carried an axe and torch against the witch. He had chopped up her chestnut tables. He had burnt her palace. Now the witch was back. But this time Brother Timothy was waiting. Together Cassie and he would finish Saint Clodock's work. They would set the witch a sharp trial.
Cassie understood sharp trials. She drew out the pin from her bonnet and put the tip to her blackened nail. She began slowly as she always did easing the point down its prickling groove. Witches did not feel pain, she reminded herself. They did not bleed. When the first drop fell, she began to pray.
She gave thanks for her life and the lives of her families, the old one in the cottage and the one to come, with Brother Timothy, the Cloughs and all the others. She prayed that Abel and her father would find their own way to the Garden. That everyone in the village should find their way there. Everyone in the Vale from Sir William all the way down to Tom Hob.
It was time. Brother Timothy had told her so.
She had asked God to take her after Mary died but God had refused. The witch had hidden herself among them, Brother Timothy said. Cassie's penance was to find her. Every Sunday, she had prayed in the corner of the meadow. She had all but given up hope before God had answered. But at last He had sent the one she needed.
She remembered his face, startled and bloody, looking up from the water trough.
The ache from her knees crept up through her bones. A second bead of blood trembled down the pin. She would count to a dozen tonight, she thought. From her corner of the meadow she had kept watch on John Sandall, a tiny moving speck high above. Then she had seen the woman weaving her way through the brambles. Disappearing into Buccla's Wood. At that moment all was clear. Rising to her feet and hitching up her skirts, she had felt God's purpose course through her veins. She had run to Brother Timothy.
A dark form loomed above. An instant later the man knelt beside
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