Halloween Fires

HALLOWEEN FIRES

A Mediaeval Tale

Val McMurray

Halloween Fires

Copyright © 2015 Val McMurray

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Smashwords Edition

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742845-30-2 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

For Joyce and Jim and all my family.

Contents

ALL HALLOWS EVE

THE DOMINICANS

FIRE IN THE FOREST

THE ASSAULT

A NEW DAY

AFTERNOON IN THE FOREST

GRAVE NEWS

A SECRET MEETING PLACE

AT THE MANOR HOUSE

INTERROGATION

PLOTS AND PLANS

CONVERSATIONS AT THE RECTORY

AT THE SWAN

AN INFANT AND A CAVE

THE SHERIFF RETURNS

A WELCOME AT THE MANOR

A DARK PLACE

A MEETING AT THE MANOR

MESSAGES

IN THE CELLAR

NIGHTFALL AT THE RIVER

MURDER, TORTURE, DEATH

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

ANGELO AND CHRISTIAN

SIR HUBERT INVESTIGATES

THE MANOR COURT

BRISTOL

BENNY FINDS A FRIEND

THE SHERIFF PREPARES FOR THE JOURNEY

PEARSON CHOOSES HIS FATE

BRISTOL CASTLE

THE CAVE

THE AMBUSH

IN SEARCH OF TREASURE

THE DEVIL WINS

THE SHERIFF MAKES PLANS

BROTHER PIETRO TRIUMPHS

THE RECTORY AT SWAN

BROTHER PIETRO LOSES FACE

BAKER REPORTS

A NIGHT IN BRISTOL

THE MASTER SPEAKS

MISTRESS TILLEY

THE SHERIFF GATHERS INFORMATION

SIR HUBERT WELCOMES A GUARD

REINFORCEMENTS

FATHER SIMON

A BUSY DAY IN BRISTOL

THE GLADE OF STONES

SUNDAY

SIR HUBERT’S ESTATE

WISE WORDS AT THE CHURCH

THE JOURNEY HOME

ALL HALLOWS EVE

It was an hour before midnight on All Hallows Eve, the year of our Lord 1340. Fire was burning deep in the forest across the river Severn, almost opposite the village of Swan.

A high, screeching, tearing sound ripped the deep darkness of the forest, like the death throes of all the fiends of hell, impaled on blazing brands for eternity.

As dusk fell that same evening, Father Simon Bassante turned his sturdy horse and looked down at Swan village. With his acolyte, James, who rode at his side, the rotund village priest was returning to his church at the hilltop. He had given tacit approval, for the annual All Hallows Eve celebration, hosted by Gill Thomas, the owner of the White Swan tavern. Gill was a solid, broad shouldered man who had fought alongside, Sir Hubert Longhurst, the Lord of the Manor, in France. It was said that Gill had saved his Knight’s life on more than one occasion. His reward had been ownership of the tavern and wide strips of land on either side.

A huge bonfire lit the spacious yard behind the tavern, and there was a glow from the tavern doors and the chinks between its shutters. Father Simon could see the river winding around sharply to his right, where farmlands stretched into the distance. Barges moved steadily up river with the tide. Around the bend in the river, where the Mill stream entered, several longer boats were moored. At the far bank, the forest sloped down to the river. It was owned by King Edward 111. Any game was reserved for the royal hunt. A villager would be hanged if he killed a deer.

Father Simon turned his kindly brown eyes on James. Such a slight boy, he thought, wondering how James would survive the restraints of the priesthood and especially the back-stabbing politics. A flicker of light deep in the forest caught his eye. A grim look crossed his usually pleasant countenance. ‘Come,’ he said, turning his horse towards the church. ‘They are waiting.’

Around the tavern bonfire were most of the local villagers, as well as visitors to the festival, or travellers who were breaking their journey at the tavern, before moving on to Bristol, a few miles south, or to the market town of Berkeley in the north.

The White Swan stood a little back from the road, a long, wooden, thatched roofed building, housing the taproom below and a large area above, Here guests slept on rushes or, if they could afford them, feather mattresses. This was accessed by a ladder from the taproom. There were also two separate chambers at one end, reached by a flight of steps at the corner of the building, with whitewashed walls and wooden furniture; only wealthy visitors chose these. A large sign hung over the front door of the tavern, on which was painted a graceful white swan spreading its wings above rippling water. The sign could be seen clearly from the Bristol road.

Ann Thomas emerged excitedly from the tavern kitchen, which was set apart, but built close to the back doors. Here the taverner’s wife and daughters baked the food and brewed the ale. She hurried towards their large barn where chickens and cows were housed at night. The privies were behind the barn. Familiar smells of the animals pervaded the air, mixed with the smoke from the fire. The stables were beyond the barn where her brothers tended the horses belonging to the guests, and also those which her father kept for sale or hire.

Ann lifted her skirts as she hurried to join her friends, tendrils of damp, brown hair escaping from under her light veil, cheeks rosy from the steamy kitchen; she was unaware of how pretty she looked, as her hazel eyes shone and the fire lit her happy smile. Children queued around two large barrels filled with water and apples, laughing and jostling for their turn at bobbing their heads into a barrel, to grab an apple with their sharp little teeth. Ann greeted several of them as she ran towards the barn, avoiding the mud puddles they were creating, as water splashed everywhere.

Her friends Mercy and Eleanor were sitting on a bench peeling apples and watching a group of young men lounging against the tavern wall.

Eleanor giggled. ‘John, the Forester’s son, can’t take his eyes off you Ann. He watched you all the way across from the kitchen.’

Ann replied briskly, ‘Elli, don’t be silly!’ but she was pleased.

John was a tall boy, not so much handsome but with a cheery, round face, long, dark hair and clear blue eyes. She truly did like him. ‘Have you managed to peel a complete strip yet?’ she asked, redirecting their thoughts. Both girls were carefully peeling an apple. A complete peel was needed for their game. Several failed attempts sat in Mercy’s lap. The apples would not be wasted. Mercy, a short, plump, vivacious girl with golden curly hair, had a very good appetite! Now she squealed, ‘I’ve done it!’ holding up a long strip.

‘Good,’ laughed Ann. ‘Stand up and throw it hard over your left shoulder and wish for your true love.’

Mercy threw the strip and ran to where it had fallen. ‘It’s an O,’ she shouted.

‘No. It’s a C, it is not quite closed,’ corrected Ann, bending beside the curled peel.

‘Who do you know whose name starts with C?’

‘Ah ha,’ grinned Mercy. ‘That’s my secret!’

‘That’s not fair!’ moaned Eleanor. ‘You have to tell. Is it Cuthbert?’

‘Of course not, he has a squinty eye!’ Mercy smiled and walked away towards the stables. Ann followed. ‘Is there really someone?’ she asked. Mercy grabbed Ann’s arm and drew her into the shadows. ‘Promise you won’t tell!’

‘Of course. Who is it?’

‘The boatman who brought those four holy men from Bristol, I met him drawing water from the well. You know, they are staying here. His name is Chris and he is being paid well to take the men across the river every day to collect herbs. You’ve seen him. He’s tall and strong and makes me laugh! Those men say that rare herbs found in our forest are needed for their healing potions. I have been meeting Chris in your barn at night. I slip out once my family is sleeping. He wants to meet behind the stables tonight. Will you say I have gone home, if anybody asks?’

Ann was appalled. Her father had been suspicious of the so-called holy men, who could afford his best accommodations. They wore long, white, hooded robes but he saw no ave beads at their girdles, and they spoke to no one, using the sturdy, young boatman to bring them food and wine. He slept at their door and would answer no questions. Ann knew a messenger had been sent to Father Simon, telling of Gill’s concerns.

‘Mercy,’ she said in a worried tone. ‘Please don’t go. You know nothing of this fellow. Ask him to join us here. That would be better.’

‘Oh, alright, but you worry too much!’ Mercy giggled. ‘See you soon.’ And she slipped away.

Ann looked after Mercy despairingly, wishing the girl would just listen, but she was always impetuous. Thinking she might send John after her friend, she looked around and walked up to the group of young men who had been with John earlier. ‘Looking for John Furness?’ enquired one fellow with a knowing grin. ‘Yes,’ Ann replied. ‘Do you know where he is?’ ‘Gone. Left you, sweet Ann, but I am here!’ he laughed, sweeping her a mocking bow. Ann turned on her heel and walked quickly away, annoyed at her own blushes as she heard the giggles behind her.

Ann went back to the fire and joined in the dancing. The musicians her father had hired were playing as loudly as they could, perspiration gleaming on their foreheads. Many revellers were holding hands and dancing round the fire. Couples were seeking dark corners. The ale was flowing and everyone seemed to be enjoying the rare celebration. Two heavy looking farmers, whom Ann’s father had hired to keep the peace, were busy dunking a rowdy drunk in the river, which was a few feet below the edge of the bank, as the tide was turning. A fight had broken out among some men near the barn. Gill Thomas was advancing on them grimly, cudgel in hand. Most of the children had been shepherded to their beds and Ann looked around for John. He was nowhere to be seen. She was disappointed as they usually spent some time together. The night was becoming colder and clouds were gathering, she wrapped her arms around herself as Cuthbert approached. ‘Have you seen Mercy?’ he asked. The wayward eye seemed more noticeable in the firelight. Ann shook her head. ‘I think she went home,’ she replied, wishing she did not have to lie. ‘Oh,’ said Cuthbert sadly. ‘I had hoped to see her. She is…’ he tailed off.

Ann felt sorry for the young man. Everyone knew he liked Mercy. She was lively and popular, but like most of the village girls, she was put off by Cuthbert’s appearance. Ann sighed. ‘Sorry Cuthbert, I must go in. Early start tomorrow. Most of our guests will be wanting to go on their way, then there’s the mass for All Saints Day. I’m sure you’ll see Mercy there,’ she said kindly. ‘Goodnight.’

She walked away, still vaguely wondering where John had gone and feeling uneasy. Mercy had not returned.

THE DOMINICANS

The church of Saint Luke was Norman built with solid stone walls and an impressive square tower. At this time it lacked the bell. Some weeks earlier the original, old bell had cracked badly and Father Simon had sent it to Bristol to be recast. He missed its regular summoning. A messenger had arrived only this morning to inform the priest that it would be ready soon. Father Simon and his companion rode around the church, passed his thatched cottage, to the stable, where a boy leapt up from the grass and took the horses. They made their way down a well worn path towards a long, low, wooden building, the church hall, which was used for various village gatherings, such as visits by Sir Hubert or his steward, to collect taxes or settle disputes among the villagers. Today it housed different visitors.

The message Father Simon had sent to St. Stephen’s Church in Bristol, telling of his concerns about the odd behaviour of the holy men at the White Swan tavern, and requesting that the priest confer with the Abbot at nearby St Augustine’s and give him some guidance, had not fallen on deaf ears. Amazingly, three Dominican monks were already residing in St. Augustine’s Abbey. They had been sent from France by the Pope in answer to a request by the Abbot, to investigate rumours that devil worshippers were at large in Bristol. The monks were to root out the heretics and destroy them. They were using the church of St. Stephen for their devotions, since the abbey church was undergoing extensive renovations.

The three Dominican monks had arrived with the Sheriff of Bristol and four men-at-arms in the early hours, much to Father Simon’s surprise, circling the village and approaching the church from behind, so that their presence would not be noted by the villagers. They had brought their own provisions (though they had helped themselves liberally to Father Simon’s stock of ale and wine), hiding in readiness for the night. The King’s Forester, Tim Furness, had been fetched by William, the clerk, who had been waiting on the guests while Father Simon and James had been down to the village.

When Father Simon and James entered the hall, the Dominicans were seated at the long wooden table in the only three armchairs. The Sheriff of Bristol, Richard Bateman, and the Forester sat on stools to the right, in deep conversation, and the men-at-arms rested quietly on the rush covered floor.

The tallest of the Dominican monks, Brother Augustus, rose, a thin man with a sharp, straight nose and unruly dark eyebrows, his deep set brown eyes were shining with anticipation. ‘So, Father Simon, is anyone missing from the village? Young man? Young girl?’ His English was heavily accented, but could be understood. The other two monks sat with their black hoods folded back, their capes open over white robes, and stared dispassionately at the gathering. Father Simon sighed, he did not take to these zealous monks. ‘No. No-one is missing,’ he replied quietly.

He sincerely hoped that he was wrong in suspecting the men at the tavern. He had not expected a visit from the inquisitors and feared for his flock.

Brother Augustus looked down for a moment, and then addressed the men. ‘Now we must prepare. First the King’s Forester, who patrols this forest and knows its secret paths, will speak.’

Tim Furness stood up, not nearly as tall as the monk, but sturdily built, with a tanned, weather beaten face, dark hair and sharp blue eyes, alive with intelligence. He scanned the gathering. A frisson of expectancy ran through the hall. ‘The forest is very dense. I have four boats tied up. Two will carry us across the river. We will be towing the other two. They will be for the prisoners or bodies we bring back. I will guide you around behind the glade, where I have been keeping watch these past days. ‘Til we get to within a short distance, you must keep close to me. We travel with no torches and to get separated is to be lost. A man could blunder around and never find his way out.’

He sat down and Sheriff Bateman rose to address the men-at-arms. He was a tall, broad man whose piercing grey eyes stared at them from a square, grim face. ‘You must make no noise. Leave swords and shields here, daggers and clubs only.’

Brother Augustus interrupted saying, ‘You will need to cover your noses and mouths just before we attack – ensure you have a cloth with you. Their fire will be set, and it is part of their obscene ceremonies that they burn devilish herbs, whose smoke produces monstrous dreams and fantasies. They chant, and believe that they can summon the Devil and his fiends from hell. This night of All Hallows is chosen, because these so-called holy men, believe that the spirit world and our natural world become one, and so it is the most auspicious time for their evil rites. They think they will be granted powers beyond their imaginings! On an altar will be the sacrifice – a young boy or girl. The wind blows across the river tonight, therefore, as long as we attack from behind and capture the evil ones quickly, the smoke will be less harmful. If they resist, kill them. There will be one man whom we have not yet seen.’ Father Simon interjected, puzzled, ‘Who? How do you know?’Augustus turned with a grim smile. ‘We have four holy men and one boatman. Only five, the magic number is six, at the very least. The sixth will be the Dominus, the Master. We want him alive! He will face our own special methods of interrogation.’

Father Simon shuddered at the fanatical cruelty of the Dominican’s smile.

FIRE IN THE FOREST

Chris pulled the boat up the bank and hid it among the trees. This was his second trip across the river. The tide had been high and strong; to row against it had been a real test of his strength. He had taken the four holy men over at dark. Now he had the unconscious girl. She had been so easy to persuade to drink the ‘magic phial,’ with which he had teased her behind the stables. He had simply dared her to try it! Within minutes she was asleep in the boat. His masters had promised him two pieces of silver to bring her across. She would awake refreshed and join in a glorious party, they had assured him. His brown eyes twinkled in his cheerful, young face as he anticipated the ‘night of magic’ the men had promised.

One of the holy men met Chris on the bank and led the way through the dense forest. Carrying little Mercy over his shoulder, Chris ignored his protesting muscles, as he tried to avoid the branches tearing at her long skirts. The forest closed behind them and they reached a clearing. Here Chris saw a long, ancient, stone platform. A large, wickedly curved scythe leant against it.

‘Place the girl on the stone,’ ordered his guide. Chris laid Mercy down gently.

The other three holy men were already in the clearing. All wearing their long pale robes with hoods that shaded their faces. Chris noticed that Mercy’s