The Power of Dark. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ am Sir Melchior Pyke, natural philosopher, scholar and, at this moment, a whisker’s breadth away from adding butcher to my accomplishments,’ Annie’s protector thundered, and the authority in his voice caused many to gasp and stare. ‘What justice is here? I see none. Here is but a wretched girl cruelly wronged.’

      ‘Wronged?’ the Puritan cried. ‘Did you not hear? That foul hussy is in the devil’s service. Her mother was a witch and so is she. She is an abhorrence in the eyes of the Lord.’

      ‘I heard naught but frightened sheep bleating foolish accusations, and now I perceive that you are the shepherd who drives them to commit murder.’

      ‘Shepherd?’ the Puritan repeated with pride. ‘Aye, I am John Ashe, licensed preacher, and this is my flock.’

      ‘Whitby folk?’

      ‘Nay, Master,’ Annie spoke up from the folds of the cloak. ‘Them’s from Sandsend and yonder. There’s none in Whitby would hurt their Annie.’

      ‘Stay silent, witch!’ the preacher commanded, flinging sand at her face.

      ‘Do that again and I shall fillet you,’ her saviour growled.

      ‘You spoke of sheep,’ the Puritan said, undaunted. ‘Amen to that. Tom Brooksby, stand forth.’

      A stout, bald-headed man edged forward, not daring to meet the stern gaze of the man with the sword. Muttering under his breath, he explained he farmed a modest plot near Goathland. With a quick glance at Annie, he related how, yesterday, he caught her trespassing and chased her away. That night he was tormented by evil dreams in which she danced with a black ram and that morning he found two of his sheep dead.

      ‘’Twas her doing an’ no mistake,’ he said bitterly.

      ‘And them’s not the first to be killed in the dead of night!’ called another. ‘There’s many who’ve lost livestock.’

      ‘A wild dog is the most likely cause,’ Melchior Pyke stated. ‘As for your dreams, Tom Brooksby, they are the busy night’s work of your own conscience and ale-soaked fancies.’

      ‘All know she’s a witch and more!’ the preacher declared hotly.

      ‘And I say unto you, where are your proofs of malice? It’ll be the assizes for all if you dare harm this girl – and thence the drop.’

      ‘Proofs?’ the preacher cried. ‘There are ways of obtaining such proofs. Stand aside and I shall provide them. I have learning in these matters.’

      The sword jerked to the man’s throat and nicked a ribbon of blood from his neck. The preacher recoiled and the crowd murmured unhappily.

      ‘The law of King James allows it,’ the Puritan spluttered indignantly. ‘His own work, his Daemonologie, is most clear . . .’

      ‘Do not throw His Majesty’s name at me! I am lately come from Scottish Jimmy’s court. I know the king well and account him friend and patron. Before you cite any more of the king’s works, know that I assisted with the translation of his own Bible!’

      The claim drew astonished cries from everyone and any lingering resistance was quashed.

      ‘Friend of the king,’ they whispered in awe. ‘An’ a right holy one at that.’

      John Ashe studied the man’s face as if for the first time. He was surely not yet thirty years of age, his handsome features were strong with character and an intelligence as keen as his sword blade glinted in his steel-grey eyes.

      ‘I must yield to your greater learning,’ the Puritan said humbly. ‘Pray forgive any imprudence on my part.’

      ‘I do not call an attempted burning “imprudence”,’ the man replied sternly. ‘Yet you beg pardon of the wrong person. It was not I whom you wronged.’

      The Puritan looked down at the cloaked girl with displeasure.

      ‘The Almighty has watched over you this night,’ he said coldly. ‘Give thanks for His boundless mercy. Take learning from it and leave the paths of wickedness.’

      Annie glowered up at him and spat.

      ‘That was no apology,’ her rescuer agreed. ‘Now get gone from this place; you have done enough evil work this night. But hear me, all of you: restitution must be made. You will catch no fish, nor tend your beasts, till you have built a new home and furnished it to this lady’s liking. You will begin at first light, so bring timber and tools. Am I understood?’

      The crowd grumbled and John Ashe shook his head in defiance.

      ‘And you, preacher,’ Melchior Pyke instructed, ‘will bear the expense of those things that are not so easily replaced or remade, from your own purse.’

      ‘You overreach yourself !’ he objected.

      Many in the crowd agreed with him and their initial fear of the stranger was beginning to fade.

      ‘He can’t make us do that,’ some of them mumbled.

      ‘Oh, I can,’ he assured them. ‘If you are not here tomorrow, I will send my manservant to fetch each and every one of you. For your own sakes, I pray you, do not compel me to send him on that errand. He is not so patient as I – are you, Mister Dark?’

      He had called out, past the crowd, and they turned to see whom he was addressing.

      A tall, wiry-looking man in a long black coat had crept up silently behind them and they drew in their breath when he stepped into the firelight.

      No one had ever seen flesh so grey and cadaverous on a living man. His eyes were set deep under heavy brows, across which thick black hair bristled in a single unbroken line. His nose was long but crushed to one side and his mouth was wide and downturned, with thin, cruel lips. Grains of gunpowder were embedded in his cheeks like seeds, and a rough, jagged scar ran down the right side of his face, through his lips and down to his chin. Bound about his throat, tucked under his collar, was a thin scarf of grubby green silk, but it couldn’t disguise his misshapen neck. A nub of bone protruded from under the skin, where the marks of an old rope burn were still clearly visible.

      At the sight of him, half the mob hurried away and the rest followed when he pulled a snaplock pistol from his belt.

      John Ashe was visibly shaken and he turned back to Melchior Pyke.

      ‘Now I know you, my lord,’ he declared. ‘There has been talk of this crook-necked man. He has gained an ungentle reputation in the alehouses, and what is it you do, locked away in your rooms behind The White Horse?’

      ‘Science,’ Melchior Pyke answered flatly.

      ‘Science, is it?’ the Puritan snorted. ‘What science could guide you to Whitby?’

      ‘I was invited here to discover a more efficient method of extracting alum from the local shale.’

      ‘Is that why those foul, sulphurous reeks hang over The White Horse?’

      ‘Verily, sulphuric acid is essential to the process. СКАЧАТЬ