Free The Heretics by Rory Clements Page B

saddlebag, forced it into a gap near the lock and wrenched. The lock gave and the door flew open.
    ‘The lantern.’
    Boltfoot returned the crow to his saddle and unhooked the lantern, struck a light with his tinderbox and handed the lamp to Shakespeare. He pulled out his pipe, tamped in a wedge of tobacco, lit it and drew deeply, then waited by the horses as his master entered the house.
    Shakespeare stepped in through the doorway and held the lantern aloft. The hall was large and empty of furnishings. No table, no settles, no hangings. He tried to imagine the exorcism services held there: a table in the centre of the room, with just one girl sitting there, bound, while priests and acolytes swarmed around, chanting their Latin gibberish, describing the demons in detail as they were cast out. Behind them, all the Catholics from the district would be gathered, to watch and wonder. It would have been some display; his own brother, Will, might have been pleased with such powerful theatre.
    He walked through the echoing rooms of the shuttered house. There was nothing here but emptiness and a pervasive whiff of damp and rot. Certainly, there was nothing to give a clue to the whereabouts of Thomasyn Jade.
    Back in the main hall, he spotted some writing on a wall and held the lantern up to read it. The strange words sounded like the names of demons. Hobberdidance, Modu, Succubus, Mahu and many more. Some scratched in ink, some scrawled in paint. He returned to the front door.
    ‘Come, Boltfoot.’
    They mounted up again. ‘Did you note the gatehouse, master?’ Boltfoot said.
    ‘I did. It seemed as empty as this place.’
    ‘There was a thin spiral of smoke behind it, as though a bonfire had been lit.’
    Shakespeare nodded, recalling the scent of burning wood. ‘Let us go there.’ He handed the lantern to Boltfoot. ‘Keep that lit; we may need it.’
    They rode back along the track. Night was closing in and soon they would have to find an inn. The gatehouse seemed to be unoccupied but Boltfoot had been right: there was a bonfire, still alight. Shakespeare went to the back of the little house and lifted the latch on the door. It was unlocked and he entered. The gloom was pervasive, but the lantern showed him all he needed to know. There was a home-made coffer containing threadbare linen from another age, a single palliasse instead of a bed. Some bread, dried oats and a leather jug with a meagre mouthful or two of spirit at the bottom; a tallow rushlight, extinguished.
    ‘Someone doesn’t wish to be found, master,’ said Boltfoot. ‘Must have seen us coming and fled into the woods. Perhaps a vagabond or an outlaw.’
    ‘Or a priest.’
    Boltfoot stood at the doorway, surveying the woods for movement. They were vulnerable here, especially with the lantern illuminating them. A silent arrow from the trees, a musket-shot . . . they wouldn’t even see their killer. Boltfoot unslung his caliver from his back and loaded it.
    Shakespeare turned over the palliasse but there was nothing underneath, then he tipped the old linen from the coffer. He was about to put it all back in when he spotted a scrap of paper in the fold of a sheet. He picked it up and held it close to the lantern. It appeared to be a map, showing southern and eastern England. Certain towns were marked with dots: Norwich, Yarmouth, Lincoln, Wisbech, Bury St Edmunds, Canterbury, Sandwich, Winchester, Portsmouth, Weymouth. Beside each town there was a set of initials. He stuffed the paper in his doublet, then returned to the palliasse and felt carefully along its seams, but found nothing.
    He looked up at the walls. A small recess caught his eye. On his toes, he could just reach into it. At first he felt nothing but dust, but when he stretched a little higher, his hand went further and touched something else, some sort of small jar or jug, set back deep into the wall. He could not get a grip on it.
    ‘Come here, Boltfoot.’
    Reluctantly, Boltfoot left his guard