THE HOLLOW MEN.
by KEITH TOPPING & MARTIN DAY.
For Charlotte sorry your sister's book has more jokes in it - MD.
'There is no such thing as society.
There are individual men and women, and there are families.' and there are families.'
- Margaret Thatcher, 1987 Margaret Thatcher, 1987
FIRST PROLOGUE.
THE BLOODY ASSIZES.
To some, the moon was the face of an ancient witch, pale against a thunderous sky. To fishermen, grateful to be far from the sea during the howling gale, it was 'the old in the arms of the new', a silver crescent that brought ill luck.
Inland, where the storm was at its worst, the moon was visible only when the clouds, like black ink in churning water, parted for a moment. The moon's sad face regarded the storm-lashed land, its cold expression unchanging as it watched a single figure braving the driving rain.
The door burst open and a whirlwind of rain and rusty leaves rushed into the tavern, accompanying a man bent double against the storm. He turned to close the heavy oak door and let out a long sigh of relief as the warmth from a crackling log fire began to draw the chill from his aching bones.
'Is this the foulest night that ever was on God's earth?' he asked, removing his tattered, soaking greatcoat. 'Thy finest ale,' he added quickly, and moved closer to the fire.
''Tis a night when the devil a monk would be, Long John,'
agreed the innkeeper as he poured a mug of beer.
The newcomer was tall, with a thin, pockmarked face. The others looked away whenever his cold blue eyes came into contact with their own.
The landlord left the ale just within reach of the man, who removed a dirty copper coin from a small leather purse. 'Old Lucifer 'imself, aye, and no mistake!' said Long John with a guffaw, although the others in the tavern seemed reluctant to share in his laughter.
There was a lull in the storm, and a chilly silence settled over the inn, broken only by the howl of a distant dog and by the clop of approaching horses.
'Two riders. And a coach,' said the landlord, moving to the widow.
'Only a wicked man would be out on a night like this,' said one of the taverners, casting an anxious Sideways glance at Long John.
Again the door was flung open, to admit two men, swathed in thick black cloaks and broad hats.
'Welcome, sirs,' said the innkeeper as he reached for two mugs.
'Treat me like a stranger, Tom Spence?' said the first man, removing his hat and shaking the rain from it. He was even taller than Long John, and seemed as broad as a barn door.
His eyes were a piercing green.
'Joseph Jowett?' asked the innkeeper, nervously. 'Been a long time. Never thought I'd see thee back in these parts.'
'Aye,' said Jowett. 'Nor I, Tom Spence.' He paused and looked around the tavern's dingy interior, moving to the fire to warm his hands. 'My master will stay in thy finest room this night.'
A look of unreasoning terror crossed Spence's face. 'Tell thy master, Joseph Jowett, that 'e ain't welcome in this place,' he stammered.
Jowett looked up with an expression of plain amusement on his face. 'Hear that, Richard?' he asked his companion, who was also chuckling to himself. 'We're to tell the master that Tom Spence o' Hexen Bridge don't want the King's Men in his tavern.'
'Sirs, I never did mean to say -'
'Good,' snapped Jowett. 'Because my master don't take kindly to having his custom refused by the likes of 'ee, Tom Spence.'
'Aye,' said Richard, whose gruff accent indicated the north country. 'He has been known to end a man's livelihood over such an impoliteness. And he must be to his bed afore night is come, or there shall be grave retribution.'
Spence turned, calling into the kitchens. A young serving girl bearing a lantern appeared, and she began to question the innkeeper's whispered instructions. 'Taint no business o'
thine,' he snapped angrily. 'The gentleman commands chambers and victuals.'
She hurried off towards the stairs.
'Hold,' said Jowett. He strode across the hushed room, and turned the girl's face towards him. 'What be thy name, girl?'
'Sarah Hatch, sir,' she said, quickly, averting her eyes from Jowett's piercing gaze. There was a slight quiver in her thickly accented voice.
'Ah,' said the man. 'Hear that, Richard?' he asked, to his companion's obvious amusement. 'Sarah Hatch, eh?' He looked her up and down with a lascivious grin, then grasped her slender arm tightly, causing her to wince in pain. 'You're all skin and bone, Sarah Hatch. B'ain't no meat on 'ee, least ways not enough for the King's Bull to go hunting for rabbits, eh? Eh?' He sniggered across the tavern to his friend, then returned his attention to the girl. 'Be kind to old Joseph, and ye shall have a shilling.' He paused. 'Be thy mother's name Mary?'
The girl nodded, mute with fear.
'Aye. The resemblance is plain. She was a fine, strapping woman, your ma. Tell 'er Joseph Jowett o' Hodcombe was asking after 'er.'
'That I will, sir,' said Sarah, pulling free of Jowett and hurrying up the stairs, the candle sputtering and dying as her movement extinguished it.
'Buxom girl, that Mary Hatch,' Jowett said to no one in particular. 'Knew 'er since she was no bigger'n a sparrow.'
'She's old and sick now, Joseph,' said Spence. 'These years ain't been kind to her.'
'They ain't been kind to any of us,' added Jowett sadly.
'Cept for the master.' He looked over to Richard and nodded towards the door. 'Bring 'im to this place.'
'Who be this master he speaks of?' Long John asked the innkeeper in a whisper.
'The most evil man on God's earth,' replied Tom Spence.
'The infamous Jeffreys.'
He was not at all how other men imagined him. The tales of Baron George Jeffreys of Wem had made him a legend in his own lifetime. To those of London, terrified by Monmouth's West Country rebellion, he was a figure of charm and grace, a godly man who carried out the wishes of his King, ridding the nation of sedition and treason. To those in the south-west he was a vile, murderous dog; the killer of Titus Oates and Richard Baxter; the man who had hanged, whipped, fined and transported hundreds of their number - miners and farmers mostly - in a vengeful parody of justice.
'God save the King,' said Jeffreys as he entered the tavern with Richard and four others of his retinue. He was a slight man, in his late thirties, wearing a dark coat, jerkin and long-sleeved blouse, and leather breeches. There was a trace of rural Welsh in his accent.
'Aye,' said Tom Spence. 'God save 'im.'
Everyone else in the tavern stood, respectfully, as the judge entered. He looked around him with a sour expression on his face. He was, clearly, a man used to more lavish surroundings than these.
'Be this the best thou canst do, Master Jowett?'
'Aye, Thy Lordship, 'tis but a poor ale house, known to me from my younger days.'
'Indeed,' said Jeffreys dismissively. 'Curious that temperance did not follow thy misspent youth.'
Someone sniggered briefly and Jeffreys snapped his head around to find the culprit. His gaze fell upon Long John and he moved towards the man, slowly. His eyes were as cold and unblinking as a snake's.
'What is thy name, sir?'
'John Ballam,' he said. 'A blacksmith of these parts.' He looked down at the much smaller Jeffreys and the merest hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. 'I am known to all as Long John,' he continued, 'on account of my considerable size!'
Jowett moved, menacingly, behind Long John, and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing the blacksmith to stoop until his face was level with that of the judge.
'And art thou a righteous man, John Ballam?' asked Jeffreys.
John grimaced. 'No one has ever said to my face that I am not.'
'Knowest thou of Monmouth, John Ballam?' continued the judge.
'Aye, sir. A man of considerable standing with some in these parts.'
'Shall I tell thee of Monmouth?' asked Jeffreys with a savage grin. 'Shall I tell thee, John Ballam, of how that rotting bastard-spawn of the King's father was caught in a ditch at Ringwood and dragged to the Tower, caked in his own filth? How he wept and begged before His Majesty for his life? Him that was proclaimed King by cowards and traitors at Taunton this July, now dead - shall I tell thee of him?' He paused and looked closely into Long John's eyes. 'Or dost thou know? Wast thou at Sedgemoor?'
'No, never,' said Long John. 'I am a loyal Englishman, true to my King.'
'Then thou hast nothing to fear from me, or from His Majesty, nor from God,' said Jeffreys. He turned away from the terrified man, to Spence. 'Master innkeeper?' he asked cheerfully.
'Aye, sir,' he said, bowing.
'Be there a room where a servant of the King can rest his weary head this night?'
Jeffreys was high above the Earth, arms crossed over his chest, as if he had ascended directly from a coffin to the very heavens. He looked ever upward, and towards the face of the Almighty. But there was war in the heavenly realm, and angels were being cast out in droves. They fell like flaming arrows through the chill of space, merging into one great fiery dart that burnt white-hot. Down, down to the planet cursed by God and man, through skies and clouds and air, until the angels fell like rain upon Hexen Bridge. The village green ruptured as if under cannon fire, and closed over the demons, who immediately set about creating their own hell.
Jeffreys looked, and saw filth and abomination everywhere.
In this cavern, this microcosm of the world, figures in robes indulged in unspeakable acts. The ground was a writhing carpet of snakes, their tongues flicking up at Jeffreys, heavy with poison. He turned to run, but slipped, and, crying out to God, fell under the shuddering mass of snakes. Hell was cold, and they sought entrance into his warmth, pushing into nose and mouth.
Jeffreys awoke screaming.
Baron Jeffreys of Wem was often troubled by bad dreams.
The voices of those whom he had sent to their maker seemed to return, still seeking their vengeance upon him. But the dreams he had in the tavern in the village of Hexen Bridge on the Somerset-Dorset border were the worst. As he tossed restlessly in his bed, the dreams seemed to continue even when the judge lay awake and trembling. This was a bad place. Satan's own.
As Jeffreys exhaled slowly, resting back on the sodden sheets, the answer came to him. With a grim smile he drifted into the untroubled sleep of the just.
Jowett entered Jeffreys's chamber to find the man stooped by the open hearth, jabbing at the few remaining logs with a small iron poker. The judge was not yet fully dressed, his wig hanging from a hook by the door. The shutters were still closed over the windows, and in the sputtering flames of the fire Jeffreys seemed like a little bald-headed imp, tending the ovens of hell.
Jeffreys turned the moment he heard Jowett's footfall.
'The wench said thou hadst orders,' explained Jowett hurriedly.
'Indeed,' said Jeffreys. He seemed to Jowett unusually sanguine - perhaps he had rested well. 'There is much to do, Master Jowett. We find ourselves in the very heart of the villainy. Monmouth's rebels are all around us.'
'This village harboured rebels?'
'Aye, and produced them, I am inclined to think. Thou art a good man, Jowett. The traitors must be known to thee.'
'I knew not of rebellion, sir,' stammered Jowett.
Jeffreys shrugged. ''Tis clear to me.' He turned to look at Jowett for the first time, and the unnatural calmness in his eyes was more terrifying than his usual anger. 'The villagers are to dig a pit. The green afore this inn.'
'For what reason?'