Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Witch Hunt by Terry Mullins

In the early fourteenth century, the Christian church began a fierce ban on the pagan practices from which witchcraft derived that was to last three centuries. One outcome of the severe line taken by the ecclesiastical authorities, some say, was that belief in witchcraft spread. Certainly by the time of Mr. Mullins’s story, most Europeans “had been brought up with a lively fear of the black art.” And under the guise of this art, many a wicked man might manipulate his terrified neighbors...

The witches’ terror fell upon Liege with a suddenness that left the citizens — all but a few — shuddering helplessly. A warm summer passed and the crops were good. Levo the innkeeper got three large casks of beer from Germany and Julien Feys the head weaver sent goods south. Then, just when everything was serene, the witches came.

Alain Schram was among the last to hear of their presence. A handsome young merchant, he had no wife to give him news. Sir John Mandeville, the world traveler who was recuperating in Liege, was perhaps the last person in all of Flanders to learn of the witches. People in Liege listened to him, for he had much wisdom and even greater knowledge; but they seldom had opportunity to tell him much. Had these two received word of the presence of witches earlier, much terror might have been averted.

A murky spring outside the city was called the Spring of Beelzebub. It was on land owned by the Bishop of Liege, but no amount of ecclesiastical activity could cleanse it of its reputation. An earlier bishop had built a small shrine in a grove of trees surrounding the spring. The shrine, never popular with the people, became a gathering place for robbers. When the bishop, with the help of soldiers of the local nobility, acted to clear the robbers out, he destroyed the trees which concealed them. What he found when he came upon the shrine was never openly told, but he had the shrine burned and its ashes cast into the spring.

That spring, then, was where the coven of witches gathered in the year of our Lord 1352.

Farmers told about it on Saturday when they came into town for market. They told of weird sounds and strange lights and of owls flying through the air the night before. On Sunday a priest heard of it and led some of his bolder parishioners to the spring. They found the destroyed grove grown up into a thick and rambling copse. There was no sign of the burned shrine. But there were other things.

Sir John Mandeville lived at the inn, so he was usually among the first customers at its tavern after dusk. On a cool September evening, Tuesday the third of the month, he was especially convivial. People crowded in, seeking light and warmth and companionship. As on many recent occasions, they looked to the one man in the city who would know how to deal with arcane events.

Mandeville received them gladly. He told them of the race of Cyclops, huge men with one eye in the middle of their foreheads, of others who had no heads at all but had eyes in their shoulders, of the damsel changed into the likeness of a dragon — all scary tales from distant lands. But of the horror at home, no one spoke.

Then Alain entered. Hankin Levo, the innkeeper, greeted Alain with enthusiasm. Patrons of the tavern were even more obsequious. After all, Alain was an echevin, a member of the municipal governing council, and a man of undetermined but considerable wealth.

Only Mandeville failed to show pleasure at his entry. The old man was in the middle of one of his yarns and hated distractions. He paused, waved Alain to an empty chair at his table, and resumed his narrative. “It has been told, though I myself have not seen them, that there are Pygmies only a cubit tall who marry and beget children when they are only three years old and who grow old when they are five. They are nourished solely by the aroma of apples...”

The traveler’s story continued but Alain’s thoughts were on Louise de Broux.

He had seen her only once, last May. He had found her, a beautiful child of fourteen, screaming in terror as a large rat alternately lunged at her and then retreated when she kicked at it and flapped her skirts. The rat had her cornered and was attacking out of simple meanness.

Alain didn’t bother to scare it away. He drew a dagger and hurled it at the beast, killing it at once. The girl calmed immediately. She smiled at him and laughed, a wonderful smile and a happy laugh. “You must be Alain the rat killer,” she said.

He admitted that he was.

“How lucky for me it was you who came by.”

“And how lucky for me,” he replied.

The unconscious gallantry brought about a subtle change in the girl. Her hands, which had been clutching her skirt, let it drop and smoothed it out. Her smile softened from delight to pleasure and her eyes spoke messages which no daughter of the nobility would ever put into words to a commoner, even a wealthy echevin.

Laughter in the tavern brought Alain back to the present.

Mandeville had finished his story and was looking at him with mock disgust. “You don’t have to laugh at my stories,” he said, “but at least you might listen. Where was your mind? You have been staring at that glass of wine for ten minutes. Wine is meant for drinking, not for crystal gazing, though there is a certain Spanish wine that can conjure up five friendly familiar spirits if one gazes intently enough and says the right charm.”

“I wasn’t crystal gazing. I was thinking of a rat I killed last summer.”

“It must have been some rat. What made it different from the hundreds you kill every week?”

“Not hundreds. The people exaggerate. Still, hardly a day goes by that I don’t kill at least one. I hate the creatures.”

The last was said with such passion that Mandeville couldn’t ignore it. “Some special reason?”

“When I was a child,” Alain began, then moved his hand across his eyes to dismiss the subject. “Let’s not talk about rats. I hate them. How’s your gout?”

Mandeville smiled and drained the last of his wine. “The gout is much better,” he said. “The climate of Liege suits my old bones.”

Mandeville’s beard of three colors began to bristle. Alain knew this to be a sign of curiosity. The man who had traveled all over the world never lost his inquisitiveness. “When will Freddy Pluys return?” he asked.

“Not until November. We are delivering tapestries to Genoa for Julien Feys. Freddy is to come back with olive oil. Why?”

“I asked Freddy to make notes for me on the increase of rats in Paris, Naples, and other places. I’m puzzled at the increase. I’d like to know where it is greatest and why. Your mention of killing a rat reminded me.

“That brings up another matter. Those daggers of yours, they are especially made for throwing, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I can generally kill a rat with any dagger or knife, but I never miss with these.”

“And I bet I could name the man who made them for you. He lives in Milan, doesn’t he?”

“He does. I met him in my youth. Freddy and I delivered him enough Flemish wine to make the whole city drunk. He saw me throw at a rat in his kitchen. I pinned its back leg to the floor. He said I could do better with a well-balanced dagger and he made me one. I’ve had him make me a half dozen more since. He’s a craftsman.”

Mandeville concurred and added, “He made my sword.”

It was perhaps well for Alain that his mind was absorbed with pleasant thoughts of Louise when he called on Eugene Latteur. He had scarcely entered the house when Eugene’s young wife Denise burst into the room and said, “Alain Schram! I knew I heard your voice!” She turned to her husband. “He is just the man to kill that rat in our pantry.”

Eugene, thirty and more years older than his wife, responded slowly but with increasing agreement. “It’s a wily rodent,” he said, “only moderate in size but with teeth that cut their way through two inches of wood in half an hour. We chased him away from the flour box a dozen times, but while we were at dinner yesterday he gnawed through and had a dinner for himself.”

They rose and headed for the back door, Denise chattering spiritedly and leading the way, Eugene following slowly. The pantry was a small shed behind the house. It was windowless, so Denise threw the door wide open to let in as much as possible of the orange light reflected from clouds overhead.

Alain walked to the entrance and peered in, giving his eyes time to become accustomed to the dimness. Denise pressed close behind, leaning against him and pointing to the right. “That hole is where he gets in,” she said, “and the chest farther on is where he does his thieving.”

The chest had been repaired, but even as he watched, Alain could hear the splintering of wood. “He’s at it now,” he said. He drew and balanced his dagger.

Two steps freed him from Denise’s body. A third step and the rat scooted from behind the chest and made for the hole. It got not quite halfway there before Alain’s dagger struck it.

“He killed it!” Denise shouted, moving in and blocking out most of the fading light.

Alain picked up the rat, removed and cleaned his dagger, and offered the dead rat to Denise. She quickly moved out of his way and called to her husband, who stood watching from the back doorway of the house.

Husband and wife congratulated Alain and they went in to celebrate.

Denise went into the kitchen, made sure the servants were proceeding properly with the dinner, and then ran upstairs. She came down with her three-year-old son and the duenna who had been with the Latteurs as long as Alain could remember. While Alain and Eugene talked, the child walked over to his father and climbed up on one leg. Eugene bounced him with a measured and steady beat. “We’re worried,” Eugene said. “Witches have been covening by the spring on Friday nights. First they killed chickens, then pigs. Last Friday night it was a goat. They’ll kill a child soon. Friday after next is the thirteenth. They’ll steal a child before then and sacrifice it. We’re worried.”

Thus Alain learned about the witches.

The women sat with several items of Eugene’s clothing piled before them. As the men talked, the women searched the coats and breeches for tears and holes. On finding any, they proceeded to mend them. From time to time they would find dead fleas in the garments. These they would carefully shake into a large basin placed between them for that purpose. It was a cozy domestic scene. The men should have been talking about weather, crops, and business. Instead they grappled with dark fears and ominous forebodings.

“Why doesn’t the bailie take some men up to the spring on a Friday night and seize the witches?” Alain asked.

“The bailie? You wouldn’t find Pierre going near that spring with an army. And he couldn’t raise an army in Liege to fight witches. I wouldn’t go and I guess I’m as brave as any man hereabouts.”

“I’ve seen a few witches burned in Italy. They were poor old women. They babbled and people said they were talking in Satan’s tongue. I don’t know. Most of them just seemed to be short on wits. Before they died some of them were grinning and waving to the crowds. They seemed to enjoy the attention they were getting. I doubt that anyone had paid any attention to them in a long time. Frankly, they seemed to be harmless.”

“That’s in the light of day. At night they change shape and Satan gives them power to fly through the air and enter locked rooms and steal children or bewitch healthy people so they die.”

“There is one more Friday night before the thirteenth. This Friday let’s go to the Spring of Beelzebub and watch for them. If there’s a coven of witches meeting there, we’ll grab them and bring them to the bishop for trial.”

Eugene was astounded. “You’d never do that,” he said. “They anoint themselves with magical potions so they can become invisible at will. Or they could change themselves into a cat or an owl. Anyway, you’ll never get me or any of the other citizens of Liege to go with you to a coven on a Friday night. Satan himself might be there!”

Alain looked at the women. The duenna had stopped sewing and was staring at him as if he had suggested going to hell and fighting with the demons. Denise continued sewing, her eyes intent on her work, but her usually cheerful face was ashen. The young child had left its father’s knee and gone to clutch its mother’s skirts.

Alain turned back to Eugene, but at that moment a servant entered. Supper was ready. Plans for putting an end to the witch scare would have to be postponed. And then it would be to Mandeville that he talked.

They settled at table as two servants brought in the first course: Flemish wine and veal pasties, black puddings and sausages.

Once the subject of witchcraft is brought up, it does not die easily. Eugene might shy away from discussing plans for going after witches, but he was willing to elaborate on the danger witches posed to the community.

“We want to protect our son,” he said, “but how do you guard against a force of evil which cannot be kept out by locks or frightened away by dogs?”

Alain temporized. Like most of the rest of the world, he had been brought up with a lively fear of those who practiced the black art. But as a merchant he dealt with men on all levels and he observed that the best educated held witches in contempt. Sir John Mandeville in particular felt pity rather than fear for them.

“What precautions have you taken?” he asked.

“The only one I know,” Eugene replied. “I keep arrows smeared with hog’s blood and hellebore within easy reach. It’s the only thing that can kill a witch. If I see one, she’s dead. But their power to become invisible is what defeats me.”

“You seem to have done all you can do. You have a crucifix above the boy’s bed?”

“Naturally.”

At this point the second course arrived: hares in civey, pea soup, salt meat, and a soringue of eels.

When conversation resumed, it centered on the harm witches do. To Alain’s relief, it moved away from the killing of children at witches’ Sabbat and dealt with their charms and spells.

“The floods which devastated this country in my youth were generally considered the work of witches,” Eugene said. “And once a young woman was accused by the priest of St. Denis of trying to take holy bread away from the Mass to desecrate it. The weavers’ guild rose to her defense since her husband was one of their leading members. The bishop was won over and the woman was not harmed.”

Alain told of stories he had heard in Avignon of women going to witches for spells which would cause their husbands to be faithful. Such spells appeared to have made witches fairly popular in that city.

The third course was served: a roast of partridges and capons; luce, carp, and pottage.

“You could never catch a witch,” Eugene said. “A witch will carry a quarterstaff to beat off pursuers. They use it to help them leap over walls and other obstacles. If you pursue them closely, they put the staff between their legs and fly off to their meeting place.”

Alain didn’t disagree. He had heard such arguments all his life, but he had never met anyone who had seen such things happen.

Eugene brooded. “You’ll never catch them, but if I see one, I’ll put a smeared arrow through its ribs.”

The fourth course brightened him a bit. He looked at the fish à la dondine, the savory rice, and the bourrey in hot sauce and smiled. “I’ll protect my son against Satan himself,” he said.

“Who first reported the witches?” Alain asked.

“Some peasants in one of the count’s villages. Since the lights and such were on cathedral land, they brought the word with them into town instead of telling Count de Broux.”

“And, of course, the count wouldn’t lead his knights onto the bishop’s land even if he was willing to go after the witches.”

“That’s it. The church or the town must deal with the coven. And you won’t find anyone willing to take on the task.”

With the fifth course — lark pasties, rissoles, larded milk, and sugared flawns — Eugene broke off talking about witches and began to recount events connected with the rat in the flour box. Here for the first time the women joined in the talk. Denise told of its first appearance and her futile attempts to get the dogs after it. Eugene marveled at its ability to gnaw its way into the pantry. He told of blocking the rat hole, of nailing boards over it, and of hurling a pitchfork at it. “I feared we’d never be rid of it, but rat killer here got it the first time.”

Denise took up the narrative, telling it in detail for the benefit of the duenna and boy, neither of whom had witnessed any part of the affair. Eugene’s son demanded to see the rat and was promised that after dinner he might.

He squealed with joy as the final course — pears and comfits, medlars and peeled nuts, hippocras and wafers — arrived.

When the meal was over they went out to show him the rat. “It isn’t very large,” he observed.

“No,” said Eugene, “and that made him all the harder to kill. He was quick and wily.”

As Alain was leaving, Eugene clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m glad you came by today.”

Denise hugged him and kissed his cheek, saying, “Come more often.”

He promised them he would and left determined to do something about the witches. It was not right that good people like the Latteurs should worry about the safety of their son.

It was partly youthful impatience, partly a feeling that if he delayed acting immediately, something awful might happen that he could have prevented, and partly a knowledge that if he let Mandeville get going on his tavern yarns, serious conversation might be impossible. For a combination of reasons, therefore, Alain set out to find Mandeville early the next morning.

Shortly after noon he found him at the house occupied by the notary, Jean d’Outremeuse. Mandeville was helping the latter fashion a chronicle of the life of Ogier de Danois. They had reached that point in collaboration where any interruption is welcomed, so Alain was greeted warmly.

His story about the witches produced two different results. Mandeville shared Alain’s view that they must take action. His friend shrank from the idea. “Only a great hero like Ogier could battle witches,” he said. “And even he would not attempt to do so unless they had worked great devastation. Let us instead go down to the Church of the Holy Cross and pray to be rescued from this evil.”

The notary dumped a lap full of verses into a chest and prepared to leave. Alain and Mandeville followed him, discussing plans for deeds of a more mundane sort.

An hour later Alain and Mandeville were alone in the latter’s room. “You’ve seen a few witches,” Mandeville said, “and I’ve seen more — mostly when they were being burned, of course. For the greater part they are old women without money or charm, completely powerless but willing to give anything, even their souls, for ability to control someone or something. Some are very young girls who cannot wait for life to bring them its fruits. All are easy victims of false promises made by others or imagined by themselves. It is ridiculous that people like Jean should tremble before them.”

“He is not the only one. How many men in Liege do you think will join us?”

“You have a point. And we ought not tell the whole city we plan to go after the coven. Do you think we could do it by ourselves?”

“I’m willing to try.”

“Good. We’ll see if we can get help from a few discreet people, then Friday we go witch hunting.”

With the decision made, reaction set in. It was all very well for Mandeville to picture witches as pitiful persons seeking some way to make their dull lives more interesting. But evil did exist.

Alain had seen Grimoria, books of black magic. He had read parts of them: bizarre and confused instructions of pointless ritual, garbled names, and extravagant claims of demonic results. He could reject the comical pictures of horned devils, of fanged furies, of naked women with talons and serpentine hair. But he could not cast off the sinister intent of the books. Evil might express itself poorly, but it existed. And out by the Spring of Beelzebub evil had hold of someone. Evil, or Satan himself, took control of human beings and drove them to diabolical actions.

Alain was silent, moodily pondering such thoughts as he walked with Mandeville to see the bishop and tell him of their plans. As they entered the episcopal palace, an elderly priest met and led them to the bishop’s chambers.

The bishop was delighted to see Sir John Mandeville. He was surprised to see Alain Schram and at first thought that the echevin had come on official business. He thawed a bit when he found that this was not so. Mandeville began to tell the bishop about the witches, only to find out that he was many weeks too late.

The bishop, a short sturdy man with a square head and a strong jaw, laughed before Mandeville had got well started. “My dear Sir John,” he interrupted, “are you just finding out about that outrage? The town has been talking about little else for over a month.” He pulled at his long beaklike nose with stubby fingers. Then he pounded a powerful fist into the palm of his other hand. Black hairs on the back of his fingers shook like antennae. “I have been preaching against those witches every Sunday. I won’t have witches in Liege!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mandeville replied. “Alain and I want to break up this little game, but since they are your witches...”

“They are not my witches!”

“Well, they are on your property. They meet out where the little shrine used to be. We thought we ought to get your permission to go after them, and perhaps your help.”

“Permission? You have not only my permission but my injunction to get them. Bring them to me and we’ll put an end to this deviltry. Alas, I have no knights and I cannot personally accompany you, but you have my blessing.”

His object attained, Mandeville relaxed and began sparring with the bishop. “Why didn’t you get the count to take his knights out there and drive the witches away?”

The bishop, always on better terms with the nobility than the town government, looked at Alain and hesitated before replying. Finally his outrage overcame his caution. “The Count told me he wouldn’t waste his knights on witches. His knights will fight humans and the Church must fight spiritual dangers. Since I have no knights of my own, I must listen to stories of animals being dismembered and parts of their bodies left at the gates of the city, at crossroads, even on the steps of St. Denis.”

He looked at Alain and added, “I even spoke to the town and got the same answer I did from the count. So much for democracy.”

Alain, as an echevin, could understand the town’s reply. Under Charlemagne the counties had been jointly governed by a bishop and a count. But Liege had received a charter from the king and was governed by merchants. The Church had long ago come to terms with this arrangement, but few bishops liked it. Still, he refused to be drawn into the argument.

Mandeville had no such qualms. He almost purred, “But didn’t Aquinas say that the state is a kind of pact between the king and the people?”

The bishop snorted. “In De Regimine Principii Thomas declared that monarchy is the best government. The body has one head, not many.”

When Mandeville replied with a quotation from the Summa Theologica Alain’s attention wandered. He wondered that Mandeville could deal with so many men, all on their own level. He himself had profited from Mandeville’s knowledge of trade, from how and where to get the best wool from England to where and how to find buyers in Italy. The only statement Alain knew from Aquinas, he had learned from Mandeville: Man does not sin in using moderate gains acquired in trade for the support of his household. Since he had a broad understanding of what was meant by support of his household, Alain felt no guilt as his wealth increased.

This was, to Alain’s surprise, one time when Mandeville was not disposed to debate at length. He had got the permission he wanted. Now he thanked the bishop and took Alain back into the dark, narrow streets of Liege to seek a few brave men to help them attack the coven.

Three hours later they had found no recruits. Everyone wanted the witches caught. No one wanted to catch them.

“There is no help in the town,” Mandeville said, “so let us turn to the castle.”

Alain was glad to do so.

As they left the city wall behind them and rode toward the castle, Alain’s thoughts were all on the count’s daughter. He had hoped for an excuse to see her again. None had presented itself until now. He felt lightheaded. His heart palpitated in a strange manner. He felt as if life could give him no greater gift than to see and perhaps speak with Louise de Broux.

Approaching the castle they passed two knights slowly riding their mounts around the exercise ground. They saluted them and entered. The gate leading to the lists was narrow and Mandeville preceded Alain. In this manner they crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle. In its bailey, beyond the stables and smithy, was the count’s chapel. The Count de Broux, his wife, daughter, and seneschal came out of the chapel before Mandeville and Alain reached the castle’s inner wall. The count hailed them. His marshal called several stable boys to tend their horses and the count invited his guests into the palace.

Alain, however, was claimed by Louise. The rat killer must help them, she said. Rats were threatening their stores of grain. She had her way, as she apparently usually did.

So, while Mandeville and the count went into the palace to talk, Alain, led by Louise and accompanied by the countess, the seneschal, the marshal, and several servants, set out to protect the castle food supply.

Across the bailey from the chapel was their bakehouse. This, Louise said, was the area infested by rats. The seneschal, a grizzled knight in his fifties, ordered the door thrown open. Two servants obeyed him and they all saw three rats scurrying about inside.

The marshal, oblivious to everyone around him, grabbed a club and charged in after the rats. With him rushing about in the bakehouse, Alain could not throw at the rats. The seneschal called to the marshal to get out of the way, but the marshal, a little man who scampered about like a dog chasing a rabbit in an open field, ignored the words. He seemed to be a person who could keep only one thing on his mind at a time, and killing rats was his fixed idea.

The seneschal laughed. “Georges Delfose is a wild man,” he said. “He’ll kill one of those pests if it takes him all day.” It seemed as if it might. The man was so comical that everyone laughed. He heard the laughter and his fury increased. None of his blows came within a foot of any of the rats but the rodents were as frantic as he was. Their raucous squeals mixed with his curses and the thunder of the club pounding the earthen floor.

A fourth rat crept from somewhere to see what was going on and quickly disappeared again. The marshal was nimble, strong, indefatigable, and thoroughly inaccurate. One final two-handed blow shattered his club. The seneschal ran in and grabbed the frustrated marshal. “That’s the third club you’ve broken in two weeks,” he said, “and you’ve never killed a rat yet. You stay with trapping them. Now go outside and let Mr. Schram get at them.” He half led and half dragged him out.

Alain walked into the bakehouse. Dust filled the air. The rats were quiet, but Alain could see two of them. One had been running between the oven and a large baking tray in the corner. It was by the oven now in plain sight, waiting to dodge another blow. Alain’s wrist came forward and his dagger accounted for one rat.

Behind him there were cheers. A small crowd of knights, squires, peasants, and servants had gathered to watch the marshal’s antics. Now they applauded the first kill. Louise was so excited that she lost all sense of being a young woman and became the girl he had first seen kicking at the rat which attacked her.

With the first sign of success, several servants volunteered to beat on the side of the bakehouse to scare rats into the open. A rousing hour and a half followed. At the end, seven rats had been killed and no more could be found.

There seemed little point to intruding on the count and Mandeville, so Alain waited out in the bailey, talking with Louise and the countess and the seneschal.

Louise showed him the stables where the knights’ steeds were being groomed. Most of the stalls were empty. “There are only six knights serving the count now,” the seneschal said. “Once there were half a hundred.”

The smithy was equally spacious. One smith and two assistants were at work. The count’s retainers formed a small community now. As the town had grown, the castle and its villages had become less important. But for Alain the castle held one thing the town could not match, Louise de Broux.

When the count and Mandeville returned, Louise changed again. Her artless chattering became witty. Her careless gestures became graceful. Her frank admiration of Alain’s skill with the dagger became warm appreciation as she told her father what had been going on.

The count was gracious in his thanks. As Alain and Mandeville prepared to leave, the count ordered his seneschal to give each a purse of money. “No guest ever leaves without a gift,” he said.

As they rode toward Liege, Alain noted the small farms they passed. “The count’s wealth comes from these serfs, peasants, and freemen,” he commented to Mandeville, “and they live in huts without windows and at most a table and chair or two within. I feel I should return the count’s gift to them.”

“Which ones?”

“That is the problem. I would probably cause jealousy and stir up trouble if I tried.”

“And the count would be mortally insulted. You are wealthier than he is anyway. Would you give your own money to them?”

“I see what you mean. Still, I don’t feel right about it. How did your talk with the count go?”

“He and his knights want nothing to do with witches. They’ll fight against the King of England or the Emperor of Germany, but they want no part of the Prince of Darkness.”

“Then we’ll go it alone.”

That effectively ended their attempt to enlist others. Church, town, and castle had refused to aid them. In high spirits they made their plans.

That Friday was overcast. Mandeville buckled on his sword. Alain, though he wore a sword, too, strapped four daggers on at convenient places. Things you can’t reach with a sword, you can with a well-aimed dagger. They set out shortly before sunset.

They reached the copse, a tangled mass of low bushes and half-grown trees. It looked dark and impenetrable. As they rode around it, however, they found several places where secret paths entered. The openings had been covered with branches in a clumsy effort to disguise them.

“There are several ways in,” Alain said.

“And ways out,” Mandeville added significantly. “But we can’t ride our horses in. If we leave them out here, we might scare the witches away.”

“And we’d find the horses killed, too.”

A small stream which flowed from the spring and eventually reached the Meuse River had wild bits of green growing along its banks. From place to place there would be large clusters of bushes and an occasional very old tree. About half a mile downstream there was a large clump of ancient yews which could hide the animals. They tethered them among the yews and returned to the copse.

Entering one of the paths and covering it behind them, they worked their way toward the center. It took them no more than ten minutes to find the spring.

In a small clearing beside it they found a rude pulpit built. A human skull and a short sword lay on the ground inside the pulpit. Two feet in front of the pulpit was a pile of flat stones arranged to form a sort of altar. Beside the altar was a large basket.

Other than that the cleared area was bare, but there was a rustling in the rue bushes behind the pulpit. Tied there and grazing quite peacefully was a two-month-old lamb.

Mandeville looked worried. “I don’t like this at all,” he said. “The farmers were right. Something has been going on here and it looks as if these aren’t just silly people gathering together for immoral thrills. There is organization of a sort here, someone planning and setting the scene beforehand.”

“That’s an ugly weapon,” Alain said.

“It’s an ancient short sword,” Mandeville replied, “one carried by nobles into battle during the Crusades of St. Louis. It looks sharp. I could guess which noble owns it.”

Alain didn’t wish to hear the name, yet no power on earth could have kept him from asking, “Which?”

“Count de Broux.”

Alain winced. He remembered too well Mandeville’s saying that old women and very young girls were particularly susceptible to the lure of Satanism. He tried to focus his mind on the innocent beauty of Louise de Broux, but a tough strain of honesty made him admit that there was something other than innocence in the way her smile had changed, the way her whole attitude had changed when he had blurted out, “How lucky for me.” There was no wantonness, he would swear, but there was nothing childlike in her eyes. Even in the present macabre circumstances, the memory of that brief encounter sent blood pounding in his ears.

Their first meeting had been brief but more intimate than his recent tour of the castle’s bailey. The presence of a couple of dozen of the count’s retainers had sounded a convivial but not a personal note on the latter occasion.

He looked with loathing at the short sword. It cast a pall over him.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Mandeville asked.

“No! This thing has got to be stopped.”

There was nothing more to be found in the clearing. The setting sun cast formless shadows and the place grew dim. The stone altar took on the appearance of a coffin. The rude pulpit seemed to change shapes in the enfolding dark. One moment it was a poorly built screen thrown up to hide the sword and the skull. The next it was a monstrous cage which might hold feral creatures steeped in forbidden craft of human and unhuman lore. And the next it would disappear altogether, a blank space merged with the surrounding blackness.

Mandeville motioned to some thick bushes at the edge of the clearing. “We can hide there,” he said. “If we crouch down, no one will see us even if there are lights; and I’m sure there will be lights.”

They beat their way into the brush, cutting down small plants which might trip them if they needed to leave their hiding place quickly. Soon they had a safe, if not altogether comfortable, blind from which to watch the clearing.

They had less than an hour to wait. They heard snappings and rustlings, then the sound of people walking over dead leaves and brittle sticks. Then they saw the flickering of small lights. The sounds and glimmers came closer.

Three naked figures entered the clearing from the side opposite the watchers. Two men and a woman approached and touched the altar. They had a single torch which they fixed in the ground at one corner. Then they lay face down in front of the altar.

A few minutes later others came by threes. When four torches had been set at the altar, there were six men and six women prostrate in the clearing. One more and the coven would be complete.

He appeared with a suddenness that surprised Alain. A man with a horned mask rose behind the pulpit and shouted in a high falsetto voice. The coven shouted reply.

All the witches wore masks, crude caps of cloth or poorly woven straw or leaves and twigs tied together covering half their faces. Mostly the effect was bizarre rather than awesome. But the leader’s mask, a leather hood with eye holes and three horns, was grotesque enough to appall. Around the face it had obscene shapes which danced and dangled when he moved.

The leader, speaking as Satan himself, led the coven in a litany of blasphemy. The crowd swayed and stamped.

The men were ill-nourished specimens past middle age. Five women were ancient crones with shriveled breasts and sagging flesh which flopped loosely on their bones. The sixth was a young girl. She it was who walked up to the altar and lay down on it. The Satan figure, carrying the human skull, left his pulpit and approached the altar. He placed the skull on the young girl’s navel and she held it in place. Then he disappeared into the darkness and reappeared with the lamb and a sword.

Four men came forward, two on each side of the altar. They each took one leg of the animal and held it over the skull. The leader seized the lamb’s head, pulled it back, and cut its throat. Blood gushed forth, filling the skull, and pouring out over the young girl’s body. The Satan figure took the lamb and skinned it quickly and expertly. He cut its skin into thirteen parts and called the coven forward.

He took the skull from the girl and, beginning with her, made each to taste of it. Then they all took a part of the lamb’s skin and rubbed the blood and grease all over their bodies. They kept up a monotonous chant.

As they were doing this, the leader cut off the left back leg of the slaughtered animal and waved it about, dancing frenetically and beating the altar with the lamb’s leg. He continued in a mad passion even after the coven had finished anointing themselves.

When the chanting ended, he signaled for two men to hold the girl. He put on a pair of heavy gauntlets and reached behind the pulpit, drawing forth a huge ferocious rat. He held it up, shouting, “This is Judas and this shall be the Judas kiss.” The rat bit viciously at the gauntlets as the man approached the girl.

When she realized that he meant for her to kiss the rat, the girl screamed and tried to break free, but the men tightened their grip on her arms and held her head so she couldn’t move it.

Mandeville said, “The rat will bite off her nose.” He seized his sword and started to rise. But Alain had moved sooner. He was already standing clear of the bushes with a dagger in each hand. The rat was still two feet from the girl when it died.

The coven was stunned. Its leader dropped the rat and vanished behind the pulpit. Others started to run. Alain, clearly visible in the torchlight, held the second dagger poised to throw. “Stand still, all of you!” he shouted.

They were transfixed with fear.

Mandeville looked behind the pulpit, but the leader was gone. He herded the others together. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. One man replied that they removed them as soon as they entered the copse.

Since they had come by two different paths, Mandeville drove one group and Alain the other back as they had come. Outside the copse they came together again, dressed and unmasked. Alain recognized the men and three old women as poor townspeople. The young girl was no one he had ever seen before. Two old women said they lived on farms of the count’s estate.

Alain got the horses and he and Mandeville marched the coven to the town and woke the bishop.

No one in the coven knew who the leader was. They all thought he was Satan. They had never seen him without his mask.

Mandeville shook his head. “These are just miserable victims of the man who posed as Satan,” he said. “Until we find him, we have not crushed the menace. He will find more dupes and start over.”

“I think I can find him,” Alain replied.

The next day Alain, Mandeville, and the bishop rode to the castle. The bailey was filled with knights, squires, peasants, and servants. Word of the night’s events had got around.

The count himself came out with his seneschal. Mandeville and the bishop spoke with him. They motioned for Alain to take over. He moved through the crowd to the stables. There he found the marshal, whom he turned over to the bishop.

A crew of the count’s servants rummaged through old equipment from days when the count’s knights numbered half a hundred. Under a pile of saddles they found the gauntlets, rat-gnawed and bloodstained. Further down they discovered the mask of Satan. Since none would touch it, Alain hauled it out and gave it to the bishop.

As they carried the marshal to the cathedral for ecclesiastical trial, Mandeville asked Alain, “How could you recognize the marshal with that mask on?”

“You weren’t there,” Alain responded, “when he tried to kill the rats. Once you have seen him in a frenzy, you can’t mistake it. The weird gyrations with the lamb’s leg gave him away as if he had on no mask at all.”