Several months had passed and it was now the late autumn of 1586. Once again Robert Finch was at Hollyburn, but this time it was not to rest. He had left Belinda at Whitehall and had come down himself, ostensibly, on private business. Actually, it was secret, not public, business that had brought him to Essex.
For many years, Chelmsford and the surrounding Essex countryside had been the stronghold of English witches. Reginald Scott's famous attack on the belief in witches had been published two years earlier, and there were many in England who agreed with him. Even the law was not too concerned with these creatures, unless actual murder or destruction of livestock could be proven. Certainly the brilliant and shrewd Walsingham had no interest in such things. However, it was to attend an assembly, or Sabbath, of these mysterious beings that Robert had been sent to Essex.
The particular coven in which his employers were interested had already been infiltrated, and their proceedings reported. It was not the mystic rites, odious as they were, that brought the attention of the mighty, but the almost certainty that these things were, indeed, no more than a cover for the hiding of foreign priests. These servants of the Pope were far more dangerous than any servant of the devil in less human shape.
Sir David's contact was a local man, and it was because Robert was also local that they felt there would be no difficulty in introducing him. Since only the female novice was subjected to initiation, there was no danger of Robert being put through that indignity. There was to be an initiation, though, this being the main reason for holding the Sabbath, and Robert hoped that the orgies following the ceremony would enable him to do some scouting. If the priests were indeed being hidden, they must be hidden somewhere, and as the rites were held hard by an old, ruined manor, it was thought that the hiding place might logically be there, perhaps in the old cellars that lay beneath the crumbling building.
Robert leaned against a tree and took out his watch. He had been waiting patiently in a small grove of trees near the entrance to the drive at Hollyburn, but he was becoming restless. His man was late. The bright moonlight made it a simple thing to read the raised numerals, and Robert smiled to himself as he closed the case. The Nuremberg egg had been a gift from Belinda on his last birthday. It was heavy gold, ornately carved, and contained, as well as the mechanism for telling time, an astrological calendar and the signs of the zodiac. Were he really interested in witchcraft, these items would be most handy for ensuring that his spells were cast at the most propitious time for their success.
He shifted his position again and began to wonder if the whole thing had been called off, when he heard a faint noise to his right. Turning quickly, he saw a figure moving through the grove toward him.
Recognizing his contact, he hurried forward to meet him.
“Hurry. It's over an hour's walk and we don't want to be late.”
The man was heavy-built and swarthy; his person was as unkempt as his rustic attire, and only the shrewd intelligence in his eyes set him apart from any local bumpkin. It was his completely typical appearance that had made him so successful in gaining the confidence of the group they hastened to join. That, and the fact that he pretended to Catholic sympathies. Though he hadn't learned anything definite along those lines, enough incautious hints had been dropped that Walsingham, through Sir David, had felt it worthwhile to send Robert on this mission.
As they walked, the man spoke quietly to Robert, preparing him for the evening ahead.
“It won't be pretty. Hope you've got a strong stomach.” He spat, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jerkin. “When ya kiss the goat's arse, try not t' gag. They take it as very bad manners.”
Robert's eyes opened wide. “Kiss a goat's arse? Man, you can't be serious.”
“I am,” the man said laconically. “Be glad you're a man. The novice, she's got t' kiss his stinkin' hole but the rest of us get off with just the cheek.” Hearing Robert's strangled gasp of protest, he chuckled. “Remember it's all for the good o' the country. There's a trick to it, anyhow. Take a real deep breath and hold it, and keep it held while ye brush the hair with yer face as quick as ye can. Won't bother ye much if ye can't smell it.”
Trick or not, getting that close to a goat's arse was not a prospect that filled Robert with delight. Quickening his pace to keep up with his companion, he asked ruefully, “Is there anything else I should know? I'd hate to be accused of bad manners.”
The man laughed softly, then became serious.
“Ther's lot will happen that might jar ya, but nothin' ya can't handle. Ya'll be expected to do a fair bit o' fomicatin', but yer big an' strong enough yer not likely t' get buggered against yer will.”
Thank God for small mercies. Robert wondered if Sir David had been aware of these fine points when he had chosen him for this service. Oh well, as his tutor had pointed out, it was all for the good of the country.
They walked on in silence. His contact, used to much hard exercise, set a pace that forced Robert to save his wind for keeping up.
Somewhere ahead of them, Robert could see a flicker of firelight, and he guessed that they were almost at their destination. God knows, it was a fit night for a Sabbath. The moon, full and bloated, shone coldly through an inky sky, obscured now and then by the raggle-taggle of clouds that sailed across the night. A sharp wind howled through the naked branches of the trees, mouthing obscenities and cutting through his clothes to bite his flesh. It was a night when a man, no matter how enlightened, could readily believe in the earthly presence of unearthly demons. Robert shuddered, only partly from the nipping wind.
The lights went out. They descended into a valley and walked on. As they climbed the rise on the other side of the depression, Robert could hear voices mingle with the howl of the wind, and the high, thin strains of a flute piped out the theme for this sinister concerto. At the top of the rise, the firelight showed again, and Robert looked down into a wide hollow. Nearly forty people were assembled, the women having the edge in numbers over the men. A platform had been erected in the center of the ring, and covered with black cloth. On this platform stood a large buck goat. He was black and shaggy, and malevolent yellow eyes peered out at the assembly from under two, long sharp horns that rose from between his ears and swept back over his head, terminating in sharp points. These points had been gilded, and a gold chain hung around his neck. The stink of the animal wafted across the clearing where Robert was standing, and he guessed by the potency of the stench that the animal must be rut. Whatever the cause, it did nothing to make proximity to the source more pleasant. He grimaced at the thought. Although witches are supposed to fly to the Sabbat, and since this was All Hallow's Eve, their holy of holies, and one would think it likely that all the stops would be pulled out, Robert noticed that the people arriving after him seemed to have chosen a more prosaic means of locomotion, since they were all on foot. It was highly likely that those who had preceded him had also arrived in the conventional manner rather than supernaturally, since there was no evidence of the notorious brooms so popularly supposed to be the favorite mode of transport for witches. This omission, however, did less than Robert expected to alleviate his feelings of uneasiness. Human, these creatures doubtless were, but normal, they certainly were not.
A man climbed onto the platform beside the goat, and raised his hands. As he began to chant, the flute wailed faster, and the congregation began to gather in a wide circle. The high priest, or devil's advocate, was the only one in costume. He wore a long robe of deep red, embroidered in black with scrawls and designs of a strange and eastern nature. He, like the goat, also wore a chain of gold. His massive shoulders and tanned face bore evidence to the humble status of his daily occupation, but at this time, in this light, he looked no simple peasant. Steel grey hair fell thick around his shoulders and his deep blue eyes burned hypnotically as he screamed against the wind, intoning in Latin and English, the ancient spells used for calling his master up from hell.
Robert fell into line with the others, sticking close to his fellow agent. With him, at least, he could feel some sort of kinship. He could also get some hint of how he was expected to behave.
After several minutes of ranting, during which the crowd stood motionless and silent, the black goat shook his horned head and uttered a loud, hircine bellow. The man beside him stopped abruptly and fell to his knees.
“Our master is present. Hear me, oh King of Demons! Your servants gather to do you homage. Grant us in return, your favors. Hear our prayers; answer our supplications; bear witness to our subservience. Accept, oh God of Hell, from these, your most humble slaves, the kiss of shame!”
At these words a low chant began in the crowd, more a sort of rhythmic moan than intelligible words, and they began to form a long line in front of the platform. Taking the goat by the gilded horns, the priest turned him around so that his back was to the people. In this position his hairy buttocks were a little over five feet from the ground.
“Come forth,” the warlock chanted, shaking his grisled mane. “Come forth and give the devil his due.”
As he spoke, each member of the coven stepped forward in turn to “kiss the goat's arse.” All Robert's deepest instincts made him want to hang back to the very last, but he knew that since he had to go through with it or risk immediate expulsion he had better get it over with before he lost his courage. His fellow conspirator caught his eye as he stepped forward, and winked in encouragement. Robert took a deep breath, though a bit late, pushed his face forward hurriedly until he felt the rough hair scratch his chin. That was enough. Quickly he moved away, and stood watching. To his utter amazement, most of the witches seemed to actually enjoy this debasement. There were great moans of fanatic ecstasy as they rubbed their faces against the filthy buttocks, inhaling eagerly great drafts of it's overpowering stench. To every crow his choice of meat, of course, but Robert found this particular aberration quite impossible to sympathize with.
Slowly the procession wound it's way past the dais. The priest continued to chant, the music grew wilder, and those who had already performed their foul obeisance clapped their hands and stamped their feet. Afraid he would be noticed if he remained so obviously detached, Robert caught the rhythm and joined in. A lute now joined the pipe and someone worked steadily over a muffled drum.
As the last witch passed the King of Kings, the high priest jerked the goat around again and shouted above the uproar.
“Dance! Dance to the devil's singing; dance to the croon of dead souls riding the wind to join you. Dance to the beat of a demon's heart, the hopping feet of a thousand imps, the squeal of a harpy, the sigh of a shade. Whirl! Leap! Straddle the air.”
The wild music, the chants, the thrashing, contorted bodies drove Robert on till he was caught up in the mass orgy of motion. He flung himself madly about, whirled from one partner to another, dancing a fiendish gavotte with male and female alike. He was fast reaching a point of physical exhaustion but the spell of the drum drove him faster and faster.
Silence struck him like a club, paralyzing him in a grotesque position, one leg lifted and his right arm half supporting the crone who partnered him. In a single instant everything stopped; music, chant, the cries of the mob. The silence was absolute. Even the wind died momentarily, as if hesitant to disturb the stilled air.
Slowly, Robert dropped his foot to the ground and let go of the woman who righted herself like someone in a trance. He stood still, his eyes turning automatically to the dais, his limbs heavy and lifeless, his mind blank.
“Bring forth the bride!”
Two men walked through the silent crowd, a young girl between them. She had no expression of any kind on her face and she walked like an automaton, her escorts supporting her with a hand on each elbow. Somewhere in the sane part of his brain, Robert wondered if she had been drugged.
The men lifted her onto the platform, and the high priest helped her to her feet. She stood before him, her hands at her sides, staring straight ahead. If she hadn't been drugged, she had been mesmerized.
The warlock raised his hands above her head.
“Oh, fortunate female, to be this night the bride of Satan. You have sought him out, you have drunk of his wine, and now you will be joined to him for all eternity.” He stepped back. “Disrobe!”
Still staring straight ahead of her, the young girl untied her girdle and pulled her loose shift down over her shoulders, letting it fall around her ankles. She looked very young, her sturdy little body in the first stages of that lush development that would someday make her more than ample. High, solid breasts thrust out from her chest, the pale pink nipples taut in the cold air. Her hips were gently rounded, her waist neat, her white legs well formed and long. Flaxen hair hung loose, almost to her thighs.
The man stepped forward and ran his hands over the fresh, young body. He tweaked the pale nipples, caressing expertly the soft belly and smooth, cool thighs. At first the girl remained as though made of marble, but as the priest continued to fondle, she started to sway, spreading her legs slightly.
“Rise, lust of Gehenna! Fill this wench with carnal heat. Charge her loins with the fires of Tophet; scourge her with the snake of passion; drench her body with sperm of dibbuks. Wanton! Harlot! Satan's leman!”
The drum had begun again, softly, and under the man's hands the girl began to writhe and twist, her budding breasts rising and falling as her breath quickened.
“Kneel, Jezebel! Give the bridal kiss.”
She knelt down, still swaying her hips. Her eyes were lidded and her lips parted in this grotesque passion. The goat was turned and the sorcerer spread it's buttocks with both hands, baring the loathsome fundament. The girl leaned forward and placed her lips hungrily over the foul orifice. As she moved her head back, the priest pulled her to her feet and turned the goat around so that it sat watching them, a diabolical glow in it's Plutonian eyes.
The priest took a small, sharp dagger from the belt of his robe and quickly slashed a pentagram between the youthful breasts. The blood trickled in thin lines down over her belly, but she showed no sensation except for the continued grinding of her pelvis. She threw her head back and her hands, like creatures apart, stroked her thighs, rising up her body, over the small waist, fondling her own breasts. The priest placed his hand over her mons veneras. It was high and thrusting, lightly covered with blond down, and his hand quite covered it. For a moment he caressed her, then, inserting his fingers in her vagina, he stepped back, crying.
“She is ready! Carnal lust flows from her crevice like the Stygian river. Your bride desires your member, Lucifer! Take her! Fill her! Shame her!”
He turned the girl and directed her toward the black goat so that her dripping sex was directly before it's muzzle. The animal darted out its long, thick tongue and licked avidly. As it did so, the novice writhed and twisted frantically. Between the beast's front legs could be seen it's enormous shaft, thrust full-length, scarlet and pulsing, from it's sheath.
The priest pushed the girl to her knees and directed her to take the organ in her hands, pulling gently on the sensitive gland, adoring and worshipping.
“Now! Consummate, Oh, Satan!”
The girl, still on her knees, was turned so that her arms and upper body rested on a special frame. The goat leaped forward and mounted her without assistance. By his violent thrustings, it was obvious that he was having trouble forcing his great rod past the young virgin's maidenhead, but it was soon accomplished. He thrust into her, snorting horribly, for a quarter of an hour, during which time the high priest chanted hoarsely, and the congregation began to sway in a wanton, sexual surrender to perverted lust.
The beast finally finished his gyrations, and as he slid off his human wife, her thighs were seen to be heavily streaked with the blood of her virginity and the thick, copious semen of the black buck. The high priest then pulled open his robe, revealing his naked masculinity, hard and eager. Before the girl could move, if, indeed, she had any intention of so doing, he fell on her, directing his nob at her anus, and proceeded to bugger her violently, screaming to the skies with every charge.
This was the signal, and the crowd were not slow in following it. Clothes were torn from their bodies and flung on the ground. Jugs and bowls of strong drink appeared from God knows where, and soon the grove was a sea of drunken, fornicating bodies. Seeing how indiscriminately the mating was done, brother with sister, man with fellow man, daughter with mother, father, stranger of either sex, Robert felt that a quick and fairly acceptable selection was the better part of valor. The scene he had just witnessed had chilled and horrified him, but there was no denying that it had also excited him. His prong was rigid and quivering, and he had grabbed the nearest woman, thrown her to the ground and stuffed himself into her, before making any inspection other than that needed to establish that she was at least a female. The act was accomplished quickly, and as soon as he felt his sperm leave him, he leaned back to have a look at the recipient of his lust. It might have been better if he hadn't. Although, in his more riotous moments, he had been known to be less than particular, even the most jaded whoremonger would have balked at the ruin that lay under him. Her face was badly marked from the plague, her gums were toothless, and a trail of spittal ran down her chin. Her rheumy eyes glistened with insane nymphomania, and the putrid stench of her, rivaled that of the devil-goat.
Rolling aside quickly, trying bravely to control his nausea, Robert saw that there was even more to come. The horror stood up awkwardly, seeking new conquests, and in doing so displayed a badly withered arm and leg. Something about these features rang a bell in Robert's mind, but it was not until he heard the man who now grabbed her call her “Agnes,” that he placed her. Twenty years ago there had been a famous trial in Chelmsford, culminating in the execution of Agnes Moorhead, the first woman to be hanged for witchcraft in England. Her daughter, Joan, had also been accused, but had been found innocent and freed. Their accuser had been a twelve year old girl named Agnes Brown-a girl with her right arm and leg badly deformed. This lecherous depraved hag, this ardent attendee of the Devil's sabbath, was the poor molested, child who had so piteously cried “witch”.
This revelation brought Robert completely back to earth, and he hastily began looking for his clothes. If there was ever going to be a chance to sneak away, now was the time.
Snaking his way over and through the madly gyrating bodies, his clothes tucked under his arm in a tight bundle, he made the edge of the clearing. Dressing hastily in a clump of shrubs, he took one last look at the horrendous revel. He noticed his contact, one arm around a plump, redheaded country girl, using his other hand to beat off the attentions of a plowman who seemed determined to mount him. Robert grinned. It would seem that his mate, too, was “big an' strong enough" not to be “buggered against his will.”
Robert leaned against the corner of the ruined mansion, catching his breath. He couldn't stay away too long without running the chance of being missed, and the house was not as close to the hollow as he had supposed. The wind carried to him a distorted version of the cacophony he had left behind, and the moon grew tormented shadows across the neglected lawn. The wind sweeping through the shattered upperstories of the gutted shell sounded like the keening of damned souls. Robert felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He would rather face a brace of first class assassins than venture into the dungeons of this castle of the doomed, but it had to be done. Pulling himself together, he pushed aside the great oaken door, hanging drunkenly from one hinge, and stepped into the black, cavernous hall. He took a dozen paces, trying to accustom his eyes to the almost total darkness, then stopped, hugging the wall. Had he heard something? He listened, straining to catch the sound again over the shrill cry of the wind. Damn! Was it just the old timbers settling, or was it something else?
Moving quickly, he found the door to the lower regions at the end of the long hall. Forcing it open, he carefully descended the stone steps. He had no light, but at least it was quiet under the house, and he had often found that in a search of this nature, his ears served him every bit as well as his eyes.
The huge cellars seemed never ending, and although Robert's search was nasty it was thorough. It was a long time-too long a time-before he found his way back to the staircase, as much by accident as by design. Thorough though his search had been, it had also been fruitless. He climbed the stairs quietly and sat for a moment on the upper step, thinking.
It was quite possible, of course, that there was nothing to find, but he was not satisfied. Sir David's informants were reliable, and Robert himself had a feeling that he was not alone in the great house. He stood up and started down the hall, planning to inspect the groundfloor rooms as best he could. Suddenly he stopped. The front door was being pushed in, and as he crouched by the ruined balustrade of the huge, central staircase, he saw a figure silhouetted in the pale light. The figure entered; another; another. Three people came into the house, walked a short distance down the hall and disappeared.
For some moments Robert remained where he was, then crept silently from his hiding place. So Sir David was right. The house was being used, under disguise of the rites held near by, for nefarious purposes. He had no time for further investigation now; already he had stayed away too long. Tomorrow he would return, armed, and find whatever there was to find if he had to tear the place down stone by stone.
He gained the yard and hastened across it. Just as he reached the protecting woods, he looked back.
A figure, indistinct but unmistakably a figure, was standing just outside the doorway. As Robert watched, the figure turned and disappeared inside. As it did so, Robert made out the line of the long, cowled robe worn by the hated Jesuits.
He was tempted for a moment to go back, but decided against it. He would need weapons and, perhaps, assistance, before he wiped out this viper's nest.
He turned and ran toward the witches' clearing.