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Authors: Kirsty Ferry
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Prefect.
Janus allowed himself a small smile as the cart passed his
men. He missed nothing, either.
1650
‘Cuthbert Nicholson. Are you willing to assist us further
afield?’ The row of magistrates sat on a long wooden bench, staring at the man
in front of them. Cuthbert Nicholson was a tall, imposing man. He favoured
black clothing and stood like an immense bird of prey before the city
dignitaries. He tapped his wooden staff on the floor thoughtfully, then raised
it up and weighed it between his hands.
‘How much?’ he asked. His voice was deep and throaty. The
measured tones had driven fear into the heart of Newcastle’s under-classes.
Twenty-seven citizens had met their fate, albeit indirectly, by his word.
‘Twenty shillings per witch,’ replied the chief dignitary.
‘And where would I be travelling to?’ asked Nicholson.
‘Scotland.’
Nicholson laughed and shook his head.
‘No. I shall not travel through those border lands
unprotected. You must find yourself another man. I refuse to do that for such a
paltry sum of money.’ He turned and made to leave the room.
‘Wait! Mr Nicholson. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?
There is a like-minded gentleman we would be interested to meet, a Mr John
Kincaid. We have had word from our fellows in Dalkeith that he has done a great
deal of good these last few years. We want you to bring him to us. He shares
your concerns and Christian values.’ The magistrate leaned forward and
interwove his fingers. ‘What would persuade you to travel north for our
purposes?’
Nicholson paused, tapping his fingers with the filthy, bitten
nails off the door frame.
‘Safe passage to Scotland and back would be a pre-requisite,
of course,’ he said thoughtfully. Then he turned and fixed the magistrate
with his heavy, hooded eyes. ‘And a payment of three pounds, per head, of each
and every witch I convict. I shall travel north through all your market towns
and small villages. I shall flush them out for you on my way. But it must be
worth my while. It is what God wills. These wenches are well-documented in
country villages.’
The magistrate nodded, and conferred with his colleagues.
They men bent their heads close together, their grey, curled wigs nodding like
sheep in unison at muttered comments. Finally, they broke apart. Nicholson
remained by the door, waiting politely for the response.
‘We agree to your terms, Mr Nicholson. This evil is
widespread. If you are willing to bring trials to these villages, three pounds
per head is a reasonable sum to pay.’
‘You will not be disappointed,’ said Nicholson. He nodded at
the magistrates and took his leave. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I trust you will
arrange my escorts forthwith?’
‘Leave it with us, Sir. Good day. And may God go with you.’
Nicholson made the sign of the cross and bowed to the
magistrates. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind
him.
AD 391
‘It is true, faithful ones. The new Commandant is a
Christian,’ said the Pater. The men were reclining on the benches in the
Mithraeum. The detritus of their feast surrounded them and it was Marcus’ job
as the Corax to clear up. He moved between the men, emptying flagons of wine
into goblets so he could tidy up.
‘It is more important than ever that we protect our
identities. Let nobody know you are a member of the cult. Tell nobody your
rank,’ continued the Pater. Marcus felt himself flushing. He needed to make a
conscious effort to rein himself in. Janus was still waiting for his invitation
to join and had been pressing Marcus for information.
‘Perhaps, with Titus Perpetuus here, the cult will need more
men?’ Janus had asked eagerly. ‘Will that be a factor in my initiation? I am
willing to enter the cult as soon as they need me. We can be strong and fight
against this Christian. He is here to change things, and I do not like to think
about what he might try and do.’ He had looked across
Janus allowed himself a small smile as the cart passed his
men. He missed nothing, either.
1650
‘Cuthbert Nicholson. Are you willing to assist us further
afield?’ The row of magistrates sat on a long wooden bench, staring at the man
in front of them. Cuthbert Nicholson was a tall, imposing man. He favoured
black clothing and stood like an immense bird of prey before the city
dignitaries. He tapped his wooden staff on the floor thoughtfully, then raised
it up and weighed it between his hands.
‘How much?’ he asked. His voice was deep and throaty. The
measured tones had driven fear into the heart of Newcastle’s under-classes.
Twenty-seven citizens had met their fate, albeit indirectly, by his word.
‘Twenty shillings per witch,’ replied the chief dignitary.
‘And where would I be travelling to?’ asked Nicholson.
‘Scotland.’
Nicholson laughed and shook his head.
‘No. I shall not travel through those border lands
unprotected. You must find yourself another man. I refuse to do that for such a
paltry sum of money.’ He turned and made to leave the room.
‘Wait! Mr Nicholson. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?
There is a like-minded gentleman we would be interested to meet, a Mr John
Kincaid. We have had word from our fellows in Dalkeith that he has done a great
deal of good these last few years. We want you to bring him to us. He shares
your concerns and Christian values.’ The magistrate leaned forward and
interwove his fingers. ‘What would persuade you to travel north for our
purposes?’
Nicholson paused, tapping his fingers with the filthy, bitten
nails off the door frame.
‘Safe passage to Scotland and back would be a pre-requisite,
of course,’ he said thoughtfully. Then he turned and fixed the magistrate
with his heavy, hooded eyes. ‘And a payment of three pounds, per head, of each
and every witch I convict. I shall travel north through all your market towns
and small villages. I shall flush them out for you on my way. But it must be
worth my while. It is what God wills. These wenches are well-documented in
country villages.’
The magistrate nodded, and conferred with his colleagues.
They men bent their heads close together, their grey, curled wigs nodding like
sheep in unison at muttered comments. Finally, they broke apart. Nicholson
remained by the door, waiting politely for the response.
‘We agree to your terms, Mr Nicholson. This evil is
widespread. If you are willing to bring trials to these villages, three pounds
per head is a reasonable sum to pay.’
‘You will not be disappointed,’ said Nicholson. He nodded at
the magistrates and took his leave. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I trust you will
arrange my escorts forthwith?’
‘Leave it with us, Sir. Good day. And may God go with you.’
Nicholson made the sign of the cross and bowed to the
magistrates. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind
him.
AD 391
‘It is true, faithful ones. The new Commandant is a
Christian,’ said the Pater. The men were reclining on the benches in the
Mithraeum. The detritus of their feast surrounded them and it was Marcus’ job
as the Corax to clear up. He moved between the men, emptying flagons of wine
into goblets so he could tidy up.
‘It is more important than ever that we protect our
identities. Let nobody know you are a member of the cult. Tell nobody your
rank,’ continued the Pater. Marcus felt himself flushing. He needed to make a
conscious effort to rein himself in. Janus was still waiting for his invitation
to join and had been pressing Marcus for information.
‘Perhaps, with Titus Perpetuus here, the cult will need more
men?’ Janus had asked eagerly. ‘Will that be a factor in my initiation? I am
willing to enter the cult as soon as they need me. We can be strong and fight
against this Christian. He is here to change things, and I do not like to think
about what he might try and do.’ He had looked across
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