Deliver us from Evil

Deliver
us
from Evil

Tom Holland

A
Little, Brown
Book

First published in Great Britain by Little, Brown and Company 1997

Copyright © Tom Holland 1997

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Endpapers © British Library

ISBN
0316 882488

Typeset by Solidus (Bristol) Limited Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

Little, Brown and Company (UK) Brettenham House

Lancaster Place London WC2E 7EN

...
Satan, he who envies now thy state,

Who now is plotting how he may seduce

Thee also from obedience, that with him

Bereaved of happiness thou mayst partake

His punishment, eternal misery;

Which would be all his solace and revenge,

As a despite done against the most high,

The once to gain companion of his woe.

But listen not to his temptations
...

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

For Bro - a true swash-buckler

1

'Phantoms. -
I
will not conclude that there is no truth at all in

these reports.
I
believe that ordinarily there have been such apparitions.'

John Aubrey,
The Natural History of Wiltshire

I

t was always said that animals would never cross spilled blood. Mr Aubrey considered this, then tried to spur his horse forward one last time. Again the horse whinnied and backed away from the rampart of Clearbury Ring, its nostrils flaring with unmistakable fear. Mr Aubrey scratched his head, then swung down on to the frozen ground. It had to be a coincidence, of course. The sacrifices had been offered up a long, long time ago. There could be no blood now for his horse to smell. Nevertheless, as he had often found in the course of his studies, there were many ancient sites in Wiltshire which bore an evil reputation, and he doubted that all such reports could be merely credulous invention. For it was a constant maxim of Mr Aubrey's that, in the study of the dim and uncertain past, even superstitions might hint at some truth.

Why else, after all, was he standing where he was? Because he had heard a tale from the women in the village below, that on Yuletide ghosts might be seen on Clearbury Ring. And now it was Yuletide - the twenty-second of the month of December the year of our Lord, 1659 ~ and a bitter, freezing cold day it was too. Mr Aubrey shivered, then drew his notebook out from his coat. He studied it briefly. If his researches were correct, then the Druids would have gathered to make their sacrifices on this very date, drenching the soil with their victims' blood, attempting to appease the wrath of their mysterious god. He studied his scribblings for the last time, then slipped his book away. He did not expect to see ghosts, of course. Village people were always timorous and gullible

they did not see, as he could, that their legend was doubtless nothing but an echo of the Druids' ancient practice. And yet perhaps ghosts might be seen. Mr Aubrey peered into the darkness of the wood ahead. Perhaps they might. He braced himself. Whatever lay ahead, it was his duty, as an antiquarian chronicling his county's past, to investigate it.

He clambered up the outer rampart, then down into the ditch. As he did so, he became aware how still the trees were ahead of him. He passed into their shadow and, although he walked quietly, the snapping of twigs and the rustling of leaves seemed all of a sudden frighteningly loud. Mr Aubrey froze; he turned and glanced round. He could just make out Salisbury Cathedral through the trees, and saw to his surprise how it was perfectly aligned with the ancient hill town of Old Sarum, which rose hunched behind the spire on the opposite hill. He would have to make a note of such an interesting detail, Mr Aubrey thought. He reached in his pocket for his handkerchief, and tied a knot in it to remind himself. Then, his courage and his enthusiasm for research restored, he continued on his way, pushing through the brambles towards the centre of the Ring.

He saw no ghosts. Instead, to his initial relief, the stillness which had enveloped him on his first entry into the trees was soon broken by the cawing of birds, and he began to observe them perched on branches, or wheeling overhead. He continued forward, and soon discovered a great flock of ravens gathered on what appeared to be the branch of a tree. Then Mr Aubrey realised that the birds were pecking at something; and as he stared at them, he saw one of the ravens swallow down a gobbet of flesh. The bird pecked again, and
seemed
to hold in its beak, for a second, a human eye. Mr Aubrey shrieked; he rushed forward, and the birds flapped reluctantly up into the air. The corpse could be seen quite clearly now. It had been left beneath a tree, an old man, stripped of all his clothes. Numb with horror and scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Mr Aubrey bent down beside the body. It was possible, of course, that the birds had inflicted most of the wounds: pecked out the eyes, certainly; punctured the skin with tire points of their beaks; but the worst mutilations could only have been inflicted by a human hand. There were terrible slashes across the stomach, face and limbs; and yet there was a mystery, Mr Aubrey realised, for the wounds themselves seemed utterly dry. The flesh was blanched; it was as though every drop of blood had been drained away
,.
. and yet when he inspected the soil below the corpse, there was not a trace of blood - not a single splash.

Mr Aubrey rose to his feet again. He removed his coat and draped it over the corpse. Unsure now whether he was shuddering with the cold
or
with his fear, he began to run, breaking through the branches and out
on
to the open fields beyond the Ring, screaming all the time for help as loudly
as
he could. Behind him, in the silent trees, the ravens began to settle again upon their interrupted meal. The coat did not impede their hungry beaks for long.

'And not only among the Romans and Jews, but also among Christians, a like custom of observing days as evil
is
used, especially childermas or innocents' day .
. . we
dread to do business on Childermas Day.'

John Aubrey,
Miscellanies Upon Various Subjects

R

obert Foxe had been with his father when the old man had been found. They had been riding across the fields that stretched below the hill.
He
had not been allowed to climb up to Clearbury Ring and
see
the corpse, but he knew that whatever his father had witnessed there, the sight had affected him badly. Captain Foxe, his son realised, must have been half-dreading, half-expecting further news. And now, eight days later, it seemed to have been brought.

The trooper from the militia hurried across to his captain, and began to whisper into his ear. Only the faintest frown of surprise darkened Captain Foxe's face.
He
muttered a short prayer beneath his breath, then reached at once for his sword and gathered up his cloak. As he strode to the door, he paused and glanced back. His son, naturally, was still sitting with Emily Vaughan. Captain Foxe smiled.
He
thought,
as
he he often did, how like a brother and sister they seemed. Both were rosy-cheeked,
fine
-featured, with golden hair, Robert's cropped short and Emily's
an
untamed
flow
of ringlets and curls. They were holding each other's hands, inseparable as they always had been, it seemed, since they had been born just days apart thirteen years before.

'You are to wait here,' Captain Foxe ordered them sternly. He brought out a coin from his purse. 'You may send for a pastry,' he added, a note of vague apology in his voice. Robert took the coin reluctantly, and fingered it with distrust. It was growing late now -almost time for dinner. They were meant to be leaving for Woodton very soon. Despite his father's gift, he had no wish to spoil his appetite: they had already bought provisions in Salisbury that day, and tonight Hannah, their servant, would cook them a goose. It was to be the most delicious meal they had ever had. His mother had promised him as much. It was to be his reward - his reward for attaining a scholar's rank. Hannah had whispered the same promise in his ear. When they had left for Salisbury, she had added a kiss. She was very fond of Robert - he smiled at the thought - and he was fond of her.

He wished, though, as he remembered how she had held him, that she were not quite so large. He did not like large women. Indeed, as he considered Hannah's size, he realised that he had almost forgotten what she looked like when not on the point of giving birth. He offered up a quick prayer that she would not have had her baby while he was away in town. She had promised him before they left that she would not - for after all, didn't she have his goose to prepare? - but when he had asked his mother, she had said that babies were sometimes hard to put off. This news had only confirmed his darkest suspicions, and all day he had been worrying that time was not on their side, that the baby was waiting, any moment, to be born. Robert watched darkly as his father left the room. He didn't want a baby - he wanted his goose. He wondered if they would have to remain in Salisbury for long now. He sighed, suspecting that they would. For he had guessed at once on what business his father had been called.

He waited until Captain Foxe's footsteps had faded away, then jumped to his feet and turned to Emily. 'We must go,' he said.

Emily frowned. 'But we were told to wait.'

Robert shrugged, then made a face.

Emily stared at him a moment more, before she tossed her head and clambered off her stool. Robert realised that he was still holding her hand. He squeezed it. Together, they crept on tiptoes down the stairs.

Outside the Council Hall, snow had muffled everything. The market-place was almost empty. Only a few dark figures could be made out slipping like ghosts across the square, or into the gloom of the adjacent streets. Robert searched for his father. He just caught him, a cloaked shadow, as he turned and disappeared towards the Poultry Cross. Captain Foxe's footprints were clearly before them, leading through the otherwise undisturbed snow. Robert and Emily followed them.

The trail, they soon realised, was heading towards the Cathedral. Robert stared up from his father's prints. High above the snow-hushed town, the spire seemed almost a phantom of the mist, as insubstantial as the darkening clou
ds. Robert remembered something
his father had told him - of a ghostly battle he had seen in the sky, he and countless others, on the eve before Naseby, when they had fought the King and destroyed his cause forever. And now, Robert thought, the Cathedral and the dark streets seemed as spectral as that vision in the clouds must have been. A ghost-haunted place. Unreal. He shivered; then returned his gaze to the footprints in the snow. He could barely make them out now, the street was so narrow and dark. Then, as they passed St Thomas's, he saw from within the church the barest flickering of light. He turned aside and stared in through the doors. The candles could not have been lit to illuminate the building: they were far too tiny and delicate for that. There were people beside them, kneeling in prayer.

'It is Childermas,' whispered Emily.

'Childermas?'

'When Herod killed the babies in Bethlehem. The candles - they are for the babies, to remember them.' 'Why?'

Emily shrugged. 'It is just what we do.'

Robert looked at her, surprised. Emily's parents were not like his own. Her father had fought against the Parliament - he was said to be almost a Catholic. 'We,' Robert repeated slowly. He glanced into the church again, at the figures bent before the candle flames. 'So those people' - he pointed at them - 'they are worshipping according to the practice of your parents?'

Emily shrugged again. 'They must he,
I
suppose. If they have lit the candles,
I
mean.'

'But
...
in a church
..
.' Robert frowned and shook his head. 'It is forbidden, you know it is.'

Emily smiled shyly. 'Have you not heard, Robert? The King is coming back. That is what my father says.'