The Sisterhood - Catthy's Kin

By Annette Siketa

Sybil Ashmore and Stella Redfern have inherited satanic traits from their relatives, but while one woman is rejected by the man she would literally die for, the other suppresses her 'urges' and finds happiness in marriage.  And then their worlds collide, leaving a trail of bodies all the way to the black altar.  Sequel to 'The Sisterhood – Curse of Abbot Hewitt'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393868842

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

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The Sisterhood – Cathy’s Kin

By Annette Siketa

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Copyright © 2021 Annette Siketa.

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No part of this book may be manipulated, transmitted, or altered by any method or manner whatsoever.  All rights reserved.

Author’s Note.

The historical information in the second part of this novel was taken from ‘La Bas’, written by J. K. Huysmans, published in France in 1891.  The French and indeed European attitude to sexual relations was extremely liberal at the time, and it was not until 1928 when the conservative, almost painfully shy British opinion of permissiveness, relaxed sufficiently for an English translation to appear.  Even then, I suspect that some of the more salubrious dialogue and narrative was either toned down or removed.

That Gilles de Rais, or Ratz as it’s sometimes spelt, was a real person, and that he lived during the time of Joan of Arc is beyond question.  However, that he became a satanic monster – ripping open children and wallowing in their blood, is open to conjecture.

This assertion is not due to the passage of time, but rather, that Le Bas is a thinly veiled attack against socialism – especially American influence, the plight of the poor, and the French government.  But the biggest rant is aimed squarely at the Catholic Church, and Huysmans used the story of De Rais to highlight the church’s supposed hypocrisy, arrogance, greed, and exaggerated idolatry.

In its original form, La Bas is extremely difficult to read, and whilst the book is an interesting insight into 19th century French society, by about the third chapter, the constant salvo’s at the Church become predictable and annoying. 

Another source was Devil Worship in France by Arthur Edward Waite.  Published in Britain in 1898, rather than insightful, it is a self-righteous, extraordinarily ill-informed attempt to connect Freemasonry to sorcery. 

I have disregarded all the radical rants and retained only the ‘good’ bits.  However, readers of a sensitive or pious nature are warned that some passages and descriptions – both real and imagined, are either violent, horrific, or blasphemous.

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For Sarah.

Foreword.

When Nancy Redfern escaped being burnt at the stake for witchcraft – a crime for which she was unquestionably guilty, she fled to London where she became enmeshed in the seedy and licentious underworld.  Unfortunately, her short but profitable career in larceny and potion making attracted the attention of the authorities, and in danger of arrest, she took ship for France. 

However, she had not, as Nicholas Faulkner had supposed, relinquished her powers.  Though not as experienced in the ‘black arts’ as her grandmother, Nancy’s unusual compact with the ghost of Abbot Hewitt to destroy the Ashmore family, had been made on the proviso that she ‘put away’ her skills until the task had been completed.

Just why the devout priest chose a witch to assist him is unknown.  Perhaps he recognised that Nancy had a streak of compassion, and that she was not as evil as might be supposed.  But Nancy’s motive for the unusual alliance was all too clear.  The chance to wreak revenge for the murder of her grandmother at the hands of Margaret Dymock – matriarch of the Ashmore clan, was an opportunity too good to miss.  Though the Ashmores’ were eventually brought to the stake, there was one who, for a short time at least, avoided the flames.

Catherine Ashmore, the fourteen-year-old granddaughter of Margaret Dymock, had been born with a deformed or ‘dropped’ shoulder, and in an age where beauty was a tradeable commodity, her chances of making a prosperous marriage were virtually nil.  Indeed, when her mother and brother, Elizabeth and James, were arrested for witchcraft and treason, Catherine might have garnered pity and support had it not been for her sharp tongue and lack of grace.

Opportunistic, spiteful, and at war with the world, Catherine had needed little encouragement to participate in the murder of Richard Faulkner – Nicholas’s good friend and cousin.  Her mentor and co-conspirator, the evil entity Einyon Dymock - father of Margaret and the man responsible for the unjust death of Abbot Hewitt, had given Catherine a ruby ring imbibed with power to instigate Richard’s supposed heart attack.  But, rather than returning the ring after the foul deed was done, she had still been wearing it at the time of her arrest.

Conveyed to Leeds Castle on charges layed by the sycophantic solicitor and would-be witch-finder, Horace Twissleton, Catherine had ‘pleaded her belly’ in order to escape immediate punishment, though whether the father was the despised Twissleton, the sexually depraved Einyon Dymock, or another man, was something she never revealed.  Indeed, being a cock-teasing slut, she probably did not know the true progenitor of her daughter, whom, as was custom, was given the family names of Catherine Elizabeth Ashmore.

After her mother was burnt at the stake, the younger Catherine was given over to a Puritan family, who tried to raise her with all the manners and piety her mother had lacked.  Katie, as she came to be called, was not kept in ignorance of her origin, and she did her best to conform to a simple and humble life.  But as she grew older, the rebelliousness she had inherited from her mother gradually exerted itself, and her misdeeds and cruelty, especially in regards to rivals and women she did not like, became fodder for gossip.

With their reputation virtually in tatters, the family moved from the then rural Leeds to the rapidly expanding metropolis of Manchester.  This was done in the hope that exposure to the seemingly limitless opportunities for advancement in business and social etiquette, would be beneficial.  But the well-intended experiment proved an abject failure, and at the age of twenty, after being harangued by her stepfather for smiling enticingly at a young man, Katie snapped.

It is debatable whether her crime is attributable to pure evil or years of constant and forced piety.  In either event, she was conveyed to an asylum after murdering and dismembering her stepparents.  She was released some ten years later and died giving birth to a son.  The father is unknown, and Katie’s only legacies for her pretty, red-haired son, Oscar, were a sinister heritage and a small ruby ring.  Oscar spent his first thirteen years in a workhouse.  He went out one day and never returned.

Nancy Redfern had no such problem in identifying the father of her children.  Upon arriving in Paris, she soon fell-in with others of her ‘kind’, and within a year, had established herself as trustworthy and discreet.  Her skill as a seer was well known in aristocratic circles, and though constantly showered with invitations to parties and the opera, she was rarely seen in public.  Moreover, she never saw anyone privately without an appointment.

Though not previously promiscuous, she was advised early in her career to learn how to flirt like a high-class whore, or as the profession was more tactfully called, a courtesan.  Her flaming red hair eventually attracted the attention of a wealthy English peer, who indoctrinated her into the pleasures of the flesh. 

Despite taking precautions – both natural and unnatural, she fell pregnant with twin boys.  It was with a sense of irony and a love for the mythical that she named them Romulus and Remus. 

Their father the knight was already married, and he made the usual avowals of love to Nancy whilst at the same time, promising to divorce his wife. 

Blinded by love, Nancy believed him, but as time passed, she came to realise that his promise was as empty as his purse, for as it transpired, it was his wife to whom the wealth belonged.

Incensed, Nancy then employed one of her old ‘tricks’ to reek revenge, namely, an image of him fashioned from wax.

The peer died slowly and painfully.  He went blind in one eye, lost the use of his right arm, and contracted gangrene in his left foot.  Then, one evening, Nancy buried the wax doll near an apiary.  The knight was soon driven mad by a constant ‘buzzing’ noise in his ears, and one evening, unable to stand the torment, he went to his study and blew his brains out.  A figure in a long black cloak was seen fleeing the scene.  This person was never identified.

Prologue.  The Getting of Wisdom.

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I.  September 1682.  Sybil aged Seven.

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It’s time.

Fronwyn looked up.  Oh?  How do you know?

Sybil smiled as she turned away from the window.  Because the wind told me so, just like you said it would.  You’re always right.

Fronwyn put down her needlework and held out her arms.  Come here, child, I want to tell you a story.

Sybil climbed onto the nursemaid’s knee.  Fronwyn looked into the child’s extraordinary bright green eyes.  It never ceased to amaze her how much they resembled those of a cat.  According to the horoscope cast at her birth, Sybil was destined for greatness, and being superstitious as her master, Fronwyn had often wondered when the child would feel the ‘stirring of her blood’.

This is a special story, she began, one with a hidden meaning.

Will I find it?

Ah, my darling, that is up to you.  I can only say the words.

Sybil snuggled closer and prepared to listen.  Her nursemaid was the only mother figure she had ever known, and she trusted the craggy-faced spinster implicitly.

"Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom, there was a very deep pit in the middle of a field.  Now, this pit was supposed to be a bad place and everyone was afraid to go near it.  But one day, a very poor girl who was gathering wood for the fire, tripped on a tree root and fell into the pit.  When she climbed out again she started to laugh, for she had seen nothing strange except lush green grass, red and white stones, and pretty yellow flowers. 

"Soon afterwards, everyone saw that she was wearing a beautiful pair of emerald earrings.  When they asked how she had obtained them, for she and her mother were very poor, the girl laughed and said that the earrings were only made from grass. 

"The next day, she wore a brooch of the reddest ruby anyone had ever seen.  It was as big as a hen’s egg and glowed like a hot coal.  When they asked how she obtained it, she laughed and said it was not a ruby but only a dull red stone. 

"And then she appeared wearing the most stupendous glittering necklace.  It was made from hundreds of diamonds, and was more lovely than anything the Queen possessed.  Once again the people asked how she had obtained it, but she laughed and said it was not diamonds but little white stones. 

"Now, news of these fabulous jewels reached the Queen, who was very jealous of anyone prettier than she, and so the girl was invited to Court.  This time, in addition to her jewels, she wore a crown of pure gold.  It shone like the sun at midday, and was more splendid than the Queen’s own crown. 

"A courtier asked the girl if she was a Princess, but she laughed and said it wasn’t a gold crown, but only some yellow flowers she had put in her hair.

"She was so lovely that everyone fell in love with her, including the Queen’s only son, who said that her eyes were greener than the emeralds, that her lips were redder than the ruby, that her skin was whiter than the diamonds, and that her hair was brighter than the crown. 

"And so they were married.  There was a great feast, and afterwards, the Prince went to his wife’s bedchamber.  But, no sooner had he placed his hand on the door when a dreadful voice said, ‘Venture not inside, for this is mine own wife’.

"The Prince fell down in a swoon, and when the guards came, they heard howls of laughter behind the door.  They broke it down.  The room was filled with a yellowish smoke, and on the bed was a clump of dried grass, a pile of worthless red and white stones, and a bunch of faded yellow flowers.

Now, what do you think it all meant? but Sybil was sound asleep, her rosebud mouth curved in a smile.

II.  March 1684.  Sybil aged nine.

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Oscar Ashmore had never made any secret of his hatred of religion.  It was his opinion that Christ was an ordinary man, and that the church capitalized on the ignorance and superstition of the populus to wield its power.

Listening to this blasphemy over dinner was the pious Claude Zachary.  The sumptuous fare and excellent wine having loosened his tongue, he attempted to argue the point.  Sir, what of all the Christians and Martyrs who have sold their possessions and given the money to the poor?

Oscar grunted.  If they were not preachers for gain, then they were fools. 

But sir, Claude went on, ignoring a warning look from his brother, James, the apostles were philosophers.  Man differs from the brute not through understanding but by faith.  That animals have intelligence is beyond doubt, but as yet, no trace of faith has ever been discovered in them.  You tell us to allow only reason to dictate the truth, but in my opinion, a man who only believes what his senses tell him, might as well graze with the cows in the fields.

Interpreting the latter as a personal insult, Oscar jumped to his feet.  You insolent knave!  Do you compare me to a beast? and before anyone could intervene, he drew his dagger and stabbed the pious man in the heart. 

Claude fell on the floor, his face and legs quivering in agony.  Everyone except Oscar was struck dumb.  Ha!  You base-born son of a whore, I’ll teach you not to compare me to a beast, and bending low, spat in the face of the dying man.

All the guests rapidly departed, none venturing to pick a quarrel with the well-connected, ruthless businessman.  Indeed, his fiery red hair, which admittedly had turned darker over the years, was a match for his temper.

Oscar was not the least perturbed.  Justice, as he well knew, was easily blinded by gold, and there were more than enough sycophants willing to grace his table.  Indeed, a few weeks later during yet another evening of drinking and revelry, rather than remorse, Oscar made sport of Claude’s death.  He also used the occasion to indulge his favourite child.

Oscar had mixed feelings about his children, though he supposed he loved them in his own way.  At 12, Laura was the eldest.  She was prissy and matronly and preferred to read or make garments for the poor, rather than ride or hunt.  She wasn’t a difficult person, just bland and thoroughly boring.

Walter was 11, and in looks and temperament was his father in miniature, being moody, reckless, and greedy.  As yet, the lad had not discovered the advantages of being handsome, but if the smiles and glances he received from young maidens were any guide, it would not be long before he did.

Sybil was only 9, and yet she was already vain and haughty.  With her flaming red hair and large green eyes, she was destined to become a beauty, and as she entered the hall to say ‘goodnight’ to her father, she bowed with a grace that would have charmed a king.

And who is this fine, beautiful child? asked her father playfully.

Sybil had been taught her position only too well.  I am a maiden endowed with riches and expectations. 

And how should you treat an enemy?

Like this.  Sybil straightened a finger and pretended to stab him in the heart.  She then lay on the floor, twisted her face, and jerked her legs in a parody of dying. 

Oscar lifted her up and swung her above his head.  You are truly my daughter, he cried.  Take note, gentlemen, she only turned nine on the 1st of March, and yet her heart is already hard.  He set her on her feet.  And what did you learn today?

The question was not as innocent as it seemed.  Oscar had selected a learned tutor for his daughters, but he was only to teach them to read and write.  Walter however, faced no such impediment.  As heir, he was receiving a full education, but unfortunately, as his expensive tutors often reported, he was not given to ‘much absorption’.

Sybil, always conscious of her appearance, straightened a sleeve before answering, He tried to teach me the Ten Commandments but I told him they were wrong.

Is that so? said Oscar, a flash of anger appearing in his eyes.  And what did you say to him?

I told him they were nonsense and that there was only one ‘heavenly’ father.  I told him that everyone should believe and trust in you, that you were a distinguished and loyal gentleman of England, and that you always help your friends but trample your enemies into dust.

Exactly so!  Oscar beamed with pride.  Now, look at all these fine gentlemen and tell them what kind of a husband you want.

One of legitimate and noble birth.

Oscar ruffled her hair.  And you shall, my dove, you shall.  Now, run along and I’ll send a platter of sweetmeats to your room.

Sybil hesitated and then whispered, May I try it?

Oscar dropped to his haunches, and reaching under his cravat, brought out a small ruby ring suspended on a gold chain.  Sybil slipped the ring on her little finger, but was not concerned when it fell off. 

It will fit one day, she murmured.  Despite its plain style, she had always been attracted to it.

Oscar exhibited an unusual degree of tenderness as he said, And on that day, my love, your great-grandmother’s ring shall be yours.

Sybil kissed his cheek.  Good night, father.  I love you, and nothing will ever separate us.

III.  March 1687.  Sybil aged twelve.

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I had the strangest dream last night.

You probably ate too many cakes at your birthday feast.  Fronwyn’s voice was rather weak.  She was getting old, and she knew she could count her remaining years on one hand. 

Would you like to hear about it? asked Sybil, her slender hands entwined in her thick red hair.  Men were always admiring her hair.  Indeed, several had tried to steal a lock of it, but the ever-present nursemaid had boxed their ears and sent them away.

Of course, but come a little closer.  My eyes and ears are not what they used to be.

Sybil sat on a footstool in front of the fire.  There was a man.  He looked horrible because his face was scarred and his mouth was crooked, and yet he had the kindest voice and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Did he have a name?

Yes, and that too was strange because I’d never heard it before – Einyon.

Fronwyn kept her expression impassive.  Though barely out of leading strings at the time, she had grown up listening to stories of the evil feud between the Dymocks, the Redferns, and the Ashmores, and as Sybil was a direct descendent of the notorious witch and murderess, Catherine Ashmore, the old maid was not surprised that her charge should have ‘strange’ dreams.

Go on.

"I was in bed and then I was awake.  Someone had called my name.  I was suddenly restless, so I climbed out of bed, donned a dress, and threw an old hooded cloak around my shoulders.

"The next thing I knew, I was outside and standing in a forest.  The air was very cold, and I could smell leaf mould and rotting wood.  I shivered and looked through the trees at a gathering mist.  I remember feeling that I ought to turn back, but then I saw a flash of blue, possibly a kingfisher.

"I pulled the cloak tighter and walked a little further.  All the time the mist was getting thicker.  It seemed to be following me, curling around the bushes and the vegetation.  And then I couldn’t breathe.  The mist was all around me, touching my face and my hair like fingers.

"My skin began to prickle and I wanted to run, and then he was there - Einyon.  He was tall and lean and his piercing eyes were seemingly illuminated from the inside.

"A wind suddenly sprang up, rustling and bending the trees but not disturbing the mist.  Einyon put his arms around me as though for protection and said, ‘You are the child the Master has chosen.  Will you come with me of your own free-will?’

"I said ‘yes’, and then we were near a waterfall.  The roar of the water was all around me.  Einyon took my hand and we walked out into the deep pool at the foot of the fall, stepping from stone to stone like gazelles.  He let go of my hand, and as he moved away, I stood still on a stone, the icy water tumbling over my feet.

Einyon raised his arms.  Moonlight touched his skin where the sleeves of his mantel had fallen back.  I copied him and felt a warm breeze touch my skin.  It was no longer cold, and I was also unaccountably naked.

Sybil broke off and blushed.  Fronwyn smiled.  Child, you are nearly thirteen.  Your body is awakening to sensations that, as yet, your mind doesn’t have a name for.  Did he touch you?  Do not be shy.  I am an old woman and there is nothing that can shock me now.

Her words were comforting, and Sybil felt emboldened to continue, I followed him to the grassy bank.  My back was against an old oak tree.  I could feel the bark against my skin.  Einyon removed his clothes and then held a silver chalice to my lips.  The wine was blood red.  I drank, and then he dipped his fingers in it and drew signs upon my forehead, my breasts, my stomach, and with the lightest of touches, between my legs.  He then pointed to the waterfall and asked if I could see anything.

And could you?

Yes, men and women, their bodies half hidden by the spray.  I seemed to feel love and death, fear and joy, laughter and tears.

When Sybil paused Fronwyn prompted, And then?

And nothing.  The dream ended and I woke up.

Are you sure?

Sybil hesitated.  Well, there is something else, but I don’t know where it fits in.

Fronwyn sat back and folded her hands.  Just tell it in your own words.

I seem to remember shouting, ‘no, I don’t believe you.  Leave me alone.  I don’t want to know’.  And then Einyon said, ‘Oh but you will’.  He pointed behind me and said, ‘Ask her.  She knows.  She knows everything’.

She?

Sybil looked at the old woman earnestly.  I turned around.  Fronwyn, it was...you.

IV.  April 1691.  Sybil aged 16.

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The room was dim and stuffy.  There was complete silence save for the ragged breathing coming from the bed in the corner.  Sybil sat by the old woman and took her hand.  You’re not going to die.  I won’t let you.

Don’t be silly.  My time has almost ended, but yours is just beginning.

A solitary tear slid down Sybil’s cheek.  She hadn’t cried in years.  But what will I do without you?

You will do exactly what you’re destined to do.  Just let things happen as they will.  You will know.  Now, I have one more story for you.

Sybil pressed the dying woman’s hand.  No, you must save your strength.

"Be quiet and listen.  This is perhaps the most important story I’ve ever told you.  There was once a young lady who lived in a stately manor.  She was so beautiful that many men wanted to marry her.  But, although she was polite and kind to her suitors, she would not choose one.  She declared she could not make up her mind, and besides, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry at all. 

"Her father, who was a great lord, was very angry, and kept insisting that she make a choice.  But she refused, saying that she didn’t love any of them and that she wanted to wait, and if the men kept pressing their suit, she would retire to a convent.  So, amidst much grumbling and protestations, the suitors agreed to wait for a year.

"This made the young lady very happy, and on nights when the moon was full, she would leave her room by a secret passage and go to a nearby forest.  But she wasn’t just being disobedient.  You see, she knew how to do many secret things.  She knew how to use her feminine charm to influence men.  Indeed, she could get them to do almost anything she liked.  She also knew how to cast curses, so that bad or good would befall whomsoever she chose.

"In the forest, she danced with many strange creatures.  She was much taller than all of them, and when she danced, her eyes shone in the dark like burning coals.  She also sang songs that her friends could not understand.  Even so, they fell at her feet and worshipped her. 

"The lady sometimes went to a secluded place in the forest, where she lay down under an Ash tree and sang a particular song.  Great serpents came out of the ground, hissing and gliding through the trees, shooting out their forked tongues as they crawled towards her.  They twisted around her body till only her head could be seen, whereupon she would begin to writhe and moan in ecstasy. 

"Now, there were three knights desperate to marry her - Sir John, Sir Richard, and Sir Rowland.  But a fourth knight, Sir Simon, thought that she was deceiving them, and so he set out to watch her closely.  He cut off his golden locks, roughed his handsome face, and obtained a position in the kitchen. 

"He waited and watched and listened.  Then, one night, just before the lady retired to bed, Sir Simon hid in her room behind the curtains, and knowing that his life would be forfeit if he was discovered, he stayed as still as a statue. 

"Presently the lady arrived.  She locked the door, reached under her bed, and withdrew a waxen image from a casket.  Her eyes were like rubies as she held the figure to her breast.  She kissed the doll and murmured, ‘Happy am I that begat the man, who married the wife, that kept the hive, that harboured the bees, that gathered the wax that my own true love was made from’.

"She then unlocked a chest and brought out a golden bowl and a jar of red liquid.  She poured the liquid into the bowl and lay the doll in it, washing and caressing it like a babe.  She dried it with a soft cloth and held it to her breast again.

"And then a young man appeared, with hair the colour of fire and eyes green as emeralds.  He kissed her passionately and did things to her body that only a husband should do.  Afterwards, the lady drank some of the liquid and poured the remainder over her body.  The man used his tongue to remove it.

"Sir Simon kept the secret to himself, and when the year was nearly up he hid behind the curtains again.  He saw her make four waxed dolls.  She secreted three under her bed and put the fourth into the golden bowl.  This time however, it was filled with water.  She immersed the doll completely and chanted, ‘Sir Richard, Sir Richard, your time is almost done, tomorrow you shall die in water and to save you they’ll be none’.  Two days later, news reached the manor that Sir Richard had drowned in a moat. 

"The following night, she tied a black cord around the neck of another doll and dangled it between her fingers.  ‘Sir Rowland, Sir Roland, choke thy last breath, for the wench you next bed will cause your death’.  And sure enough, he was hanged by a jealous lover. 

The third doll was placed before a fire until it melted.  ‘Man of lechery, devour your last ox, for your blood, Sir John, will burn of the pox’.  He died a week later completely insane.

Fronwyn stopped speaking and closed her eyes, and there was a long silence before Sybil asked impatiently, What happened to the lady and Sir Simon?

Fronwyn turned her head away.  I know not.

Sybil leaned closer, her voice little more than a hiss.  Oh yes you do.  I demand to know what happened next.  When Fronwyn didn’t answer, Sybil put her hands around the old woman’s neck.  You have taught me well, old friend.  Now tell me what happened or your next breath will be your last.  Still no answer.  There was a sigh, a gurgle, and then silence.  Only one person in the room was breathing, and it was not the old woman.

V.  May 1691.  France.

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The sun had not long risen when the ship slipped its moorings.  The vessel soon cleared the harbour, the blue sky and calm sea auguring a smooth crossing.  Other than to tell Penrose that they must return to England, Radcliffe Faulkner had barely spoken in twenty-four hours.  Even discounting the fact that he’d eaten very little, he still looked gravely ill.

There were few passengers on deck, which was neatly packed with cargo and animals.  A young lady standing by the starboard bulwark was looking at Radcliffe with such compassion, that Penrose thought they must be acquainted. 

Do you know her? he asked. 

Radcliffe barely glanced in her direction.  No.  He sighed with weary indifference.  Please, my friend, don't trouble me with trifles.  I would rather be alone. 

Penrose nodded in understanding and moved further down the ship, and as he absently watched the French coast recede, he shook his head sadly.  Though their acquaintance was only of a few weeks duration, he longed to give his friend, as he now thought of Radcliffe, the spiritual comfort he richly deserved.  And yet to have offered religious consolation beyond what might have been expected would have been dangerous.  Not only would it have revealed his, Penrose’s, true faith, but it would have contradicted the instructions of his mentor and fellow priest, Father David Twissleton.  In addition, there had not been time to send letters.  Consequently, their early return to England was not likely to be treated with joy.

Still deep in thought, Penrose started when a hand gently touched his arm.  It was the young lady.  Excuse me for disturbing you, but I think your friend is...erm...ill. 

Her modesty and self-possession were charming, and her slight blush of embarrassment at having to speak of an unsavoury subject, added to her delicate beauty. 

Penrose thanked her and hastened back to Radcliffe, who was leaning over the side in an unbecoming manner.  Then, when he stood upright again, his eyes were wild and searching.  Assassin!  Murderer!

What is it? asked Penrose, greatly alarmed. 

Radcliffe pointed a shaky finger at the sails.  What do you hear?

Penrose listened for a moment.  Nothing except the wind.

Are you sure?

Yes.  Why, what do you hear?

Assassin!  Murderer!

Radcliffe summoned a weak smile.  Nothing.  Forgive me.  I am being fanciful.

Penrose was not altogether convinced.  And then an idea suggested itself, which although borne from genuine concern, would afford him time to send a letter.  "You’re awfully pale and weak.  I think we should spend a few days in London so you can recuperate before