There was a ripple of fearful excitement, mingled with virulent hatred,
at just the prospect. Many had lost a friend or relative during Snaith’s
ruthless crusade.
Scalplock, a rotund and ruddy-faced pie-maker who ran the nearby establishment known as the Mutton House, was inclined to be impatient. ‘I wish things would get moving one way or t’other. I’ve got pies in the oven.’
The Doctor turned to him. ‘Isn’t the saving of a young life worth expending some time on, my man?’ he demanded.
‘Save your breath,’ advised a desiccated old crone. ‘Scalplock cares for naught but his vittles and his takings.’
‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Mistress Whitlock,’ the piemaker threw back at her, ‘and I’d be further obliged if you’d keep that bedraggled moggy of yours out of my bakehouse.’
Mistress Whitlock laughed derisively, revealing no more than four or five yellowed teeth. ‘If he’s in there I should be worrying about him, not you,’ she jibed, meaningfully.
Scalplock’s fleshy face became even redder. ‘Only the finest cuts go into my pies,’ he spluttered indignantly, eyeing the crowd of villagers who were his customers anxiously.
Bishop Snaith welcomed this diversion, which had eased the tension a very little, and attempted to reassert his authority.
‘Proceed to bind the heretical woman, or be punished,’ he snapped at his servants.
Annie Goather countered this by addressing the crowd again. ‘Think of your lost loved ones and how they suffered,’ she urged them passionately. ‘Stop this!’
Alfred Gant, a middle-aged, grim-faced fellow, pushed through the crowd, his eyes blazing with venom when he stared into Snaith’s. ‘Aye!’ he roared. ‘Aye!’
Many recalled the death of Gant’s daughter at the stake. The sticks had been damp and the fire had burned very slowly. Philippa Gant, serious-faced and flaxen-haired, had suffered even more than victims usually did before she died. The memory of this resulted in several more, almost involuntary, cries of agreement. Moments later, with everyone shouting now, each new protest having encouraged others, it seemed that the crowd possessed a single voice, raised in a resounding cry of uncontrollable fury.
Snaith paled, but was still quite unable to believe that he, a pious servant of God, could really be in danger from his own flock.
The Doctor, though wanting to see the girl saved, was nonetheless horrified by the transformation of a group of ordinary villagers into a vengeful mob.
Alice Marsh’s eyes were wild. ‘Seize him,’ she cried hysterically, pointing at Snaith.
The nearest villagers fell upon the astounded cleric with enthusiasm. Others, seeing what was happening, surged forward.
Snaith began to shout as eager hands proceeded to tie him to the stake.
‘My good friends and neighbours....’ he pleaded.
‘Go beast, into hell, and find your friends there, for we are none of them,’ snarled Alfred Gant.
Annie Goather watched as the sticks were ignited.
‘I never meant things to go this far,’ she told Dr Who, her voice unusually subdued.
He patted her arm. ‘I don’t believe you did, my dear.’
‘Perhaps there was no alternative, if the burnings were to stop at once.’
‘You could be right,’ he admitted.
But he still deplored the terrible scene before him. Snaith’s features, intermittently visible through the hungry flames, were twisted, not only in agony but also in righteous and volcanic rage. His eyes were glowing, reflecting the fire that was consuming him.
The Doctor turned away, sickened and also somewhat disturbed. The burnings in Stenton Abbas would end here, yes, and that was undoubtedly good. What worried him, however, was the thought that his own trifling attempt to stop the burning of Alice Marsh might have inspired Annie Goather to take up where he had left off. Or would she have incited the crowd as she had anyway? Had he changed history, after all his dark warnings to his former fellow travellers about doing so, or hadn’t he?
Would he ever know?
written by
MICHAEL BAXTER
copyright 2014
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2014
Scalplock, a rotund and ruddy-faced pie-maker who ran the nearby establishment known as the Mutton House, was inclined to be impatient. ‘I wish things would get moving one way or t’other. I’ve got pies in the oven.’
The Doctor turned to him. ‘Isn’t the saving of a young life worth expending some time on, my man?’ he demanded.
‘Save your breath,’ advised a desiccated old crone. ‘Scalplock cares for naught but his vittles and his takings.’
‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Mistress Whitlock,’ the piemaker threw back at her, ‘and I’d be further obliged if you’d keep that bedraggled moggy of yours out of my bakehouse.’
Mistress Whitlock laughed derisively, revealing no more than four or five yellowed teeth. ‘If he’s in there I should be worrying about him, not you,’ she jibed, meaningfully.
Scalplock’s fleshy face became even redder. ‘Only the finest cuts go into my pies,’ he spluttered indignantly, eyeing the crowd of villagers who were his customers anxiously.
Bishop Snaith welcomed this diversion, which had eased the tension a very little, and attempted to reassert his authority.
‘Proceed to bind the heretical woman, or be punished,’ he snapped at his servants.
Annie Goather countered this by addressing the crowd again. ‘Think of your lost loved ones and how they suffered,’ she urged them passionately. ‘Stop this!’
Alfred Gant, a middle-aged, grim-faced fellow, pushed through the crowd, his eyes blazing with venom when he stared into Snaith’s. ‘Aye!’ he roared. ‘Aye!’
Many recalled the death of Gant’s daughter at the stake. The sticks had been damp and the fire had burned very slowly. Philippa Gant, serious-faced and flaxen-haired, had suffered even more than victims usually did before she died. The memory of this resulted in several more, almost involuntary, cries of agreement. Moments later, with everyone shouting now, each new protest having encouraged others, it seemed that the crowd possessed a single voice, raised in a resounding cry of uncontrollable fury.
Snaith paled, but was still quite unable to believe that he, a pious servant of God, could really be in danger from his own flock.
The Doctor, though wanting to see the girl saved, was nonetheless horrified by the transformation of a group of ordinary villagers into a vengeful mob.
Alice Marsh’s eyes were wild. ‘Seize him,’ she cried hysterically, pointing at Snaith.
The nearest villagers fell upon the astounded cleric with enthusiasm. Others, seeing what was happening, surged forward.
Snaith began to shout as eager hands proceeded to tie him to the stake.
‘My good friends and neighbours....’ he pleaded.
‘Go beast, into hell, and find your friends there, for we are none of them,’ snarled Alfred Gant.
Annie Goather watched as the sticks were ignited.
‘I never meant things to go this far,’ she told Dr Who, her voice unusually subdued.
He patted her arm. ‘I don’t believe you did, my dear.’
‘Perhaps there was no alternative, if the burnings were to stop at once.’
‘You could be right,’ he admitted.
But he still deplored the terrible scene before him. Snaith’s features, intermittently visible through the hungry flames, were twisted, not only in agony but also in righteous and volcanic rage. His eyes were glowing, reflecting the fire that was consuming him.
The Doctor turned away, sickened and also somewhat disturbed. The burnings in Stenton Abbas would end here, yes, and that was undoubtedly good. What worried him, however, was the thought that his own trifling attempt to stop the burning of Alice Marsh might have inspired Annie Goather to take up where he had left off. Or would she have incited the crowd as she had anyway? Had he changed history, after all his dark warnings to his former fellow travellers about doing so, or hadn’t he?
Would he ever know?
written by
MICHAEL BAXTER
copyright 2014
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2014