Believe or Die Read Online Free Page B

consuming our community. Think you on this. You did not elect those men to Parliament, those that you now feel so aggrieved for. No more did I have a say in the choosing of those who advise the King. We must try and reason with our friends and neighbours hereabouts and keep the pestilence of strife away. We are sliding down a slippery slope and only by helping each other may we arrest our descent. You must reason with the Roundhead and Puritan supporters, I must speak with the Loyalists and the tavern hotheads. We must constrain this lunacy before it is too late, we must make all see reason. Are you in agreement?”
    “Aye, well, for the sake of our friendship, I will try. Nay, for the sake of all of us, I will truly try.”
    But the time for reason had passed. The time for discussion and debate was gone.
    Christopher Pitkin and his son finished their tankards. The elder man was flushed with pride and ale. Wil kept up a façade of equal jollity but inside he was churning, wondering if he would ever find the courage to tell his father what was on his mind.
    “May the Lord forgive my vanity, but I must look on it one more time this night,” said Christopher.
    Wil knew his father spoke of the pale and smiled indulgently.
    “Do so then aged one,” he laughed, “I will see you at home directly.”
    “Ah, you wish to call upon the lovely Joanna I’ll wager. Very well, but remember we must be up at cockcrow.”
    “I’ll remember slave driver ”
    They left The Swan and parted company at the crossroads, Christopher going to the church of St Martin, Wil to call on his intended.
    Joanna’s mother permitted Wil to walk her to the pond, no further for they would then have been out of sight to the sharp-eyed widow. There they sat making vague, largely impossible plans for their future together, but mainly just enjoying each other’s company. The evening drew on and both knew that Joanna must now be escorted home. They rose from the wall upon which they’d been seated and stood holding hands their eyes locked upon each other. Then something, seen over Wil’s shoulder, distracted Joanna.
    “Wil. Did you say your father was at the church?”
    “Aye. He’ll be sitting there just looking at his work, like as not, he’ll be there a while.”
    “What are all the torches for?”
    “Torches?” puzzled Wil turning sharply around.
    Sure enough, lights were to be seen, lights aplenty. Almost immediately shouting came to his ears.
    “Get you home girl, NOW!” he cried propelling Joanna homewards while he himself set out at a run towards the church.
    He burst through the door to find a mob ransacking and wrecking the church. Statues were being smashed, torches put to the drapes and tapestries. His father was desperately battling with three or more men who were attacking the pale with axes and billhooks. Wil threw himself at them and a furious melee ensued, combat made more surreal by the flickering light of the now burning hangings within the church. At length the ruffians fled leaving the bleeding and battered Pitkins on the floor. Momentarily unconscious, Wil came round to find St Martin’s ablaze and choked with acrid, impenetrable smoke. He grabbed his father and half carried, half dragged him out of the building. A hasty bucket chain was being organised, people were screaming, dogs barking. Christopher slipped down to lay propped against a wall spluttering and coughing, his lungs full of mucus and smoke. He waved Wil away impatiently to assist with the fire fighting, tears streaming down his face as he tried to take in what the mob had done. It took the best part of two hours to control the blaze; clearly the instigators had come armed with pitch to aid their torches. At length Wil stood in what was left of the centre aisle, wet, scorched and bloody, as the preacher scrabbled about in the ruins of his church. The man was sobbing quietly and coughing frequently as he tried to salvage something, ANYTHING, from the chaos. Wil