The Heretics by Rory Clements Page B

that made her yet madder than she already was. Tied her to the chair and stuck her like a pig and burnt her with holy water and bones till she cried out in pain. I saw her spit out needles and pins, and I saw devils come crawling from her belly, clasping at her with their talons, like horned cats with no fur.’
    The landlord brought the beer, avoiding Goliath as best he could. He was drenched with sweat.
    Shakespeare tried to stop him. ‘Mr Swinehead?’ But the landlord scurried away. Shakespeare let him go. There must be a good few men in these parts who would rather not be reminded of Thomasyn Jade. He turned back to Goliath. ‘So you saw these exorcisms?’
    ‘I saw one. The priests let local people attend, mostly relatives of those to be exorcised, for they were after the catching of souls and they wished them to see their kin being saved. They were careful at first because they were worried that spies would come and report back to the Council, but it all came out of their control as more and more people from hereabouts went to gape and gasp. Great Catholic nobles and gentlemen from London and elsewhere, too. Many men – and goodwives – liked the exorcisms better than a hanging. It is to my eternal shame that I went even that once.’
    ‘Why shame, Mr Goliath?’
    The man drank half his beer and sat for a few moments, lost in his memories again. Shakespeare waited.
    At last Goliath spoke, carefully, in measured tones. ‘Though I am a big man, I must tell you that I was scared almost to the point of death by what I saw. You may doubt what I say, but I saw the demon run up her leg, under her skirts, and I saw her shiver with pleasure as it entered her. I tell you, Mr Shakespeare, I never went there again and nor have I missed a Sunday service at St Mary’s ever since.’
    Shakespeare lowered his voice so that no one beyond the booth could possibly hear him. ‘Take me to the house where she lived.’
    ‘There is no point. It’s been empty since her mother died. No one will live there, for they believe it haunted.’
    ‘Take me. Finish your beer and we will go.’
    ‘Very well, if I must.’
    They rose from the table, Boltfoot, too, but Shakespeare restrained him. ‘Stay here, Boltfoot. Get sleep. I will go alone with Mr Goliath.’
    Boltfoot nodded. He knew what to do.
    Goliath picked up his beer and downed it in one long gulp. Stooping beneath the low ceiling, he trudged to the doorway. Shakespeare demanded a lantern from the landlord and went out on to the street. The track was slippery, making it difficult for them to keep their footing as he and Goliath walked warily past the church.
    ‘Was it you , Mr Goliath? Was it you who went to the pursuivants to put an end to the exorcisms?’
    Goliath’s whole body shook. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I wish I had done so. It went on for many months. I should have done something sooner while there was still hope for the girl. But I didn’t. I was a coward, you see, and a poor Christian.’ He stopped before a bank of hovels set against the muddy road. Piles of horse dung clogged the path. ‘There it is,’ he said.
    It was a tiny house, no more than twelve feet wide, and windowless. There was no front door, just a hole. Holding the lantern in front of him, Shakespeare stepped over the threshold. The yellow light threw strange shadows around the single ground-floor room There was nothing except rubble and dirt. It seemed to him that this whole village was composed of lightless empty houses, like a town after the plague had swept through – the echoing emptiness of the Denham manor, the eerie presence of the gatehouse and now this wreck of a hovel.
    ‘What of the father?’
    ‘Tom Jade? Died when Thomasyn was ten. Trampled to death by cattle.’
    ‘They must have other relatives in the village.’
    ‘No more. Look around you, Mr Shakespeare. The very heart has been ripped out of the place by what happened.’
    ‘Someone must know where she is. She must have