Free John Saturnall's Feast by Lawrence Norfolk

her. She had thought she would expire of shame when he had stripped off her brown wool dress. She was a loosemouth, he had admonished her, to speak so promiscuously with the son of Susan Sandall. But she would have endured a thousand such penances.∼ She was God's messenger, he had told her. Now the man's blue eyes found her own.
    ‘Are you prepared, Sister Cassandra?’
    A disturbance of the gloom, John thought first. His mother's worsening cough had driven him out. He stood in the meadow, the water jug clutched in his hands. High above something was moving on the slope. As he watched, a tattered white pennant seemed to flutter out of the dark brambles. Someone was descending. He stood before the door of the hut. Only when the figure reached the lowest terrace did John recognise the bonnet.
    Cassie advanced through the long grass. But as she drew near he saw her halting gait. Her limbs moved with awkward jerks. Abruptly she stumbled and fell. John dropped the jug and ran forward, offering his hand to the girl. But then he recoiled.
    There seemed no part of Cassie that had not been scratched. Long red lines ran over her limbs. Her woollen dress hung in tatters. Blood smeared her hands and forearms. She had used them, it seemed, to protect her face.
    ‘Cassie?’
    ‘I know the witch.’
    Her blue eyes were almost black in the gloom.
    ‘Come with me,’ he told her. ‘My ma will help you.’
    But she shook her head, rising stiffly to her feet. ‘I saw her go up there.’ Cassie looked up the slope to the dark line of trees.
    ‘But there's no way in,’ John replied. ‘It's all thorns, remember?’
    ‘That don't make no difference.’ The girl stood before him in her shredded dress. ‘I told you, John. Witches don't bleed.’
    A sinking feeling grew in John's stomach. He heard the hand-bell ring out from the green below. Faint shouts answered the clanging noise.
    ‘God sent you to help me,’ Cassie said, stumbling through the grass. ‘You led me to her, John.’
    ‘Cassie, wait,’ he pleaded. But at the top of the bank the girl launched herself forward. Together they half ran, half fell down the bank. Picking himself up beside the trough, John heard a familiar voice.
    ‘Took your time, John.’
    Ephraim Clough stepped out of the hedge. John straightened and faced the older boy. Ephraim glanced at Cassie.
    ‘What have you done to her, Witch-boy?’ He turned towards Two-acre Field, and shouted, ‘I've found her! Over here!’
    A sick feeling gathered in John's stomach, familiar and unwanted. But against it rose a new anger. He stared at the boy's heavy brow, his full cheeks and broad face. With a cry, John sprang, his first punch rapping the top of Ephraim's skull, stinging his knuckles and drawing nothing more than a surprised grunt from his opponent. But the second swing ended in a gristly crack as his fist found Ephraim's nose. Ephraim gave a cry and clutched his face. A giddy abandon took hold of John. He wrestled his enemy down then he and Ephraim were rolling about the path, grabbing and punching and kicking. Ephraim was bigger and stronger but John's anger seemed to lend him a new strength. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cassie stumble away. He heard the hand-bell ringing. He hit out again and again, careless of the blows that Ephraim returned. At last he pinned his opponent, trapping the boy's arms. Blood streamed from Ephraim's nose.
    ‘Go on, Witch-boy,’ he dared John. ‘We'll see how your ma sings.’
    The words only enraged John more. He raised his arm. He would punch the boy's face as hard as he could. Keep punching until he was silent. But even as he shaped to deliver the first blow a hand gripped his shoulder. He was pulled backwards. A furious face glared into his own.
    ‘Where have you been!’ his mother hissed. ‘Come, John! Hurry!’
    They were running again, running as hard as they could, the long grass whipping their legs, across the dark meadow and towards the first bank. Once