Spook's Curse (5 page)

P
riestown, built on the banks of the river Ribble, was the biggest town I’d ever visited. As we came down the hill, the river was like a huge snake gleaming orange in the light from the setting sun.

It was a town of churches, with spires and towers rising above the rows of small terraced houses. Set right on the summit of a hill, near the centre of the town, was the cathedral. Three of the largest churches I’d seen in my whole life would have easily fitted inside it. And its steeple was something else. Built from limestone, it was almost white and so high that I guessed on a rainy day the cross at its top would be hidden by clouds.

‘Is that the biggest steeple in the world?’ I asked, pointing in excitement.

‘No, lad,’ the Spook answered with a rare grin. ‘But it’s the biggest steeple in the County, as well it might be with a town that boasts so many priests. I only wish there were fewer of them but we’ll just have to take our chance.’

Suddenly the grin faded from his face. ‘Talk of the Devil!’ he said, clenching his teeth before pulling me through a gap in the hedge into the adjoining field. There he placed his forefinger against his lips for silence and made me crouch down with him, while I listened to the sound of approaching footsteps.

It was a good, thick hawthorn hedge and it still had most of its leaves, but through it I could just make out a black cassock above the boots. It was a priest!

We stayed there for quite a while even after the footsteps had faded into the distance. Only then did the Spook lead us back onto the path. I couldn’t work out what all the fuss was about. On our travels we’d passed lots of priests. They hadn’t been too friendly but we’d never tried to hide before.

We need to be on our guard, lad,’ the Spook explained. ‘Priests are always trouble but they represent a real danger in this town. You see, Priestown’s bishop is the uncle of the High Quisitor. No doubt you’ll have heard of him.’ I nodded. ‘He hunts witches, doesn’t he?’ ‘Aye, lad, he does that. When he catches someone he considers to be a witch or warlock, he puts on his black cap and becomes the judge at their trial - a trial that’s usually over very quickly. The following day he puts on a different hat. He becomes the executioner, and organizes the burning. He’s a reputation for being good at that and a big crowd usually gathers to watch. They say he positions the stake carefully so that the poor wretch takes a very long time to die. The pain is supposed to make a witch sorry for what she’s done, so she’ll beg God’s forgiveness and, as she dies, her soul will be saved. But thafs just an excuse. The Quisitor lacks the knowledge a spook has and wouldn’t know a real witch if she reached up from her grave and grabbed his ankle! No, he’s just a cruel man who likes to inflict pain. He enjoys his work and he’s grown rich from the money he makes selling the homes and property of those he condemns.

‘Aye, and that brings me to the problem for us. You see, the Quisitor counts a spook as a warlock.

The Church doesn’t like anyone to meddle with the dark, even if they’re fighting it. They think only priests should be allowed to do that. The Quisitor has the power of arrest, with armed churchwardens to do his bidding -but cheer up, lad, because that’s just the bad news.

The good news is that the Quisitor lives in a big city way to the south, far beyond the boundaries of the County, and rarely comes north. So if we’re spotted and he’s summoned, it would take him more than a week to arrive, even on horseback. Also my arrival here should be a surprise. The last thing anyone will expect is that I’ll be attending the funeral of a brother I haven’t spoken to in forty years.’

But his words were of little comfort. As we moved off down the hill, I shivered at what he’d said.

Entering the town seemed full of risks. With his cloak and staff he was unmistakably a spook. I was just about to say as much when he gestured left with his thumb and we walked off the road into a small wood. After about thirty paces or so my master came to a halt.

‘Right, lad,’ he said. Take off your cloak and give it to me.’

I didn’t argue; from the tone of his voice I realized that he meant business, but I did wonder what he was up to. He took off his own cloak with its attached hood and laid his staff on the ground.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now find me some thin branches and twigs. Nothing too heavy, mind.’

A few minutes later I’d done as he asked and I watched him place his staff amongst the branches and wrap the whole lot up with our cloaks. Of course, by then I’d already guessed what he was up to. Sticks were poking out of each end of the bundle and it just looked like we’d been out gathering firewood. It was a disguise.

‘There are lots of small inns close to the cathedral,’ he said, tossing me a silver coin. ‘It’ll be safer for you if we don’t stay at the same one, because if they came for me, they’d arrest you too. Best if you don’t know where I am either, lad. The Quisitor uses torture. Capture one of us and he’d soon have the other. I’ll set off first. Give me ten minutes, then follow.

‘Choose any inn that hasn’t got anything to do with churches in its title, so we don’t end up in the same one by accident. Don’t have any supper either because we’ll be working tomorrow. The funeral’s at nine in the morning but try to be early and sit near the back of the cathedral; if I’m there already, keep your distance.’

‘Working’ meant spook’s business and I wondered if we’d be going down into the catacombs to face the Bane. I didn’t like the idea of that one little bit.

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ the Spook added as he turned to go. ‘You’ll be looking after my bag, so what should you remember when carrying it in a place like Priestown?’

‘To carry it in my right hand,’ I said.

He nodded in agreement, then lifted the bundle up onto his right shoulder and left me waiting in the wood.

We were both left-handed, something that priests didn’t approve of. Left-handers were what they called ‘sinister’, those most easily tempted by the Devil or even in league with him.

I gave him ten minutes or more, just to be sure there was enough distance between us, then, carrying his heavy bag, I set off down the hill, heading for the steeple. Once in the town I started to climb again towards the cathedral, and when I got close, I began my search for an inn.

There were plenty of them all right; most of the cobbled streets seemed to have one, but the trouble was that all of them seemed to be linked to churches in some way or other. There was the Bishop’s Crook, the Steeple Inn, the Jolly Friar, the Mitre and the Book and Candle, to name but a few. The last one reminded me of the reason we’d come to Priestown in the first place. As the Spook’s brother had found to his cost, books and candles didn’t usually work against the dark. Not even when you used a bell as well.

I soon realized that the Spook had made it easy for himself but very difficult for me, and I spent a long time searching Priestown’s maze of narrow streets and the wider roads that linked them. I walked along Fylde Road and then up a wide street called Friargate, where there was no sign of a gate at all. The cobbled streets were full of people and most of them seemed to be in a rush. The big market near the top of Friargate was closing for the day, but a few customers still jostled and haggled with traders for good prices. The smell of fish was overpowering and a big flock of hungry seagulls squawked overhead.

Every so often I saw a figure dressed in a black cassock and I would change direction or cross the road. I found it hard to believe that one town could have so many priests.

Next I walked down Fishergate Hill until I could see the river in the distance, and then all the way back again. Finally I came round in a circle, but without any success. I couldn’t just ask somebody to direct me to an inn whose name had nothing to do with churches because they’d have thought me mad.

Drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted. Even though I was carrying the Spook’s heavy black leather bag in my right hand, it still attracted too many curious glances my way.

At last, just as it was getting dark, I found somewhere to stay not too far from the cathedral where I’d first begun my search. It was a small inn called the Black Bull.

Before becoming the Spook’s apprentice I’d never stayed at an inn, never having any cause to wander far from my dad’s farm. Since then I’d spent the night in maybe half a dozen. It should have been a lot more, for we were often on the road, sometimes for several days at a time, but the Spook liked to save his money, and unless the weather was really bad he thought a tree or an old barn good enough shelter for the night. Still, this was the first inn I’d ever stayed in alone, and as I pushed my way in through the door, I felt a little nervous.

The narrow entrance opened out into a large gloomy room, lit only by a single lantern. It was full of empty tables and chairs, with a wooden counter at the far end. The counter smelled strongly of vinegar but I soon realized it was just stale ale that had soaked into the wood. There was a small bell hanging from a rope to the right of the counter, so I rang it.

Presently a door behind the counter opened and a bald man came out, wiping his big hands on a large dirty apron.

I’d like a room for the night, please,’ I said, adding quickly, ‘I might be staying longer.’

He looked at me as if I were something he’d just found on the bottom of his shoe, but when I pulled out the silver coin and put it on the counter, his expression became a lot more pleasant.

‘Will you be wanting supper, master?’ he asked.

I shook my head. I was fasting anyway, but one glance at his stained apron had made me lose my appetite.

Five minutes later I was up in my room with the door locked. The bed looked a mess and the sheets were dirty. I knew the Spook would have complained but I just wanted to sleep and it was still a lot better than a draughty barn. However, when I looked through the window, I felt homesick for Chipenden.

Instead of the white path leading across the green lawn to the western garden and my usual view of Parlick Pike and the other fells, all I could see was a row of grimy houses opposite, each with a chimneypot sending dark smoke billowing down into the street.

So I lay on top of the bed and, still gripping the handles of the Spook’s bag, quickly fell asleep.

Just after eight the next morning I was heading for the cathedral. I’d left the bag locked inside my room because it would have looked odd carrying it into a funeral service. I was a bit anxious about leaving it at the inn but the bag had a lock and so did the door and both keys were safely in my pocket. I also carried a third key.

The Spook had given it to me when I went to Horshaw to deal with the ripper. It had been made by his other brother, Andrew the locksmith, and it opened most locks as long as they weren’t too complex.

I should have given it back but I knew the Spook had more than one, and as he hadn’t asked, I’d kept it.

It was very useful to have, just like the small tinderbox my dad gave me when I started my apprenticeship. I always kept that in my pocket too. It had belonged to his dad and was a family heirloom but a very useful one for someone who followed the Spook’s trade.

Before long I was climbing the hill, with the steeple to my left. It was a wet morning, a heavy drizzle falling straight into my face, and I’d been right about the steeple. At least the top third of it was hidden by the dark grey clouds that were racing in from the south-west. There was a bad smell of sewers in the air too, and every house had a smoking chimney, most of the smoke finding its way down to street level.

A lot of people seemed to be rushing up the hill. One woman went by almost running, dragging two children faster than their little legs could manage. ‘Come on! Hurry up!’ she scolded. ‘We’re going to miss it.’

For a moment I wondered if they were going to the funeral too but it seemed unlikely because their faces were filled with excitement. Right at the top the hill flattened out and I turned left towards the cathedral. Here an excited crowd was eagerly lining both sides of the road, as if waiting for something.

They were blocking the pavement and I tried to ease my way through as carefully as possible. I kept apologizing, desperate to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes, but eventually the people became so thickly packed that I had to come to a halt and wait with them.

I didn’t wait long. Sounds of applause and cheers had suddenly erupted to my right. Above them I heard the 
clip-clop
 of approaching hooves. A large procession was moving towards the cathedral, the first two riders dressed in black hats and cloaks and wearing swords at their hips. Behind them came more riders, these armed with daggers and huge cudgels, ten, twenty, fifty, until eventually one man appeared riding alone on a gigantic white stallion.

He wore a black cloak, but underneath it expensive chain mail was visible at neck and wrists and the sword at his hip had a hilt encrusted with rubies. His boots were of the very finest leather and probably worth more than a farm labourer earned in a year.

The rider’s clothes and bearing marked him out as a leader, but even if he’d been dressed in rags, there would have been no doubt about it. He had very blond hair, tumbling from beneath a wide-brimmed red hat, and eyes so blue they put a summer’s sky to shame. I was fascinated by his face.

It was almost too handsome to be a man’s, but it was strong at the same time, with a jutting chin and a determined forehead. Then I looked again at the blue eyes and saw the cruelty glaring from them.