The Fickle Winds of Autumn

6. A Restive Audience

Father Steadman rubbed his fingers deep into the smooth arms of his canopied seat as he looked out with an uneasy concern at the sea of troubled faces which filled the Great Cathedral of Burisdon.

He could not remember ever seeing its sacred expanses so busy - except perhaps on oecumenical days of high ceremony - but it was not the robed dignitaries of religious office who had gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling of its splendid carved stone nave, but the humble weight of his parishioners who had squashed themselves into its cavernous fold; and they had not gathered there in celebration, but in a clear and obvious state of panic and fear.

The grand ornate columns and rich flow of delicate light from the patterned windows contrasted sharply with the general state of dishevelment of the assembled peasants, burghers, and yokels. Some had not even had sufficient upbringing to remove their hoods or the damp autumn coverings from their heads when they had entered the hallowed building; and from his position on the raised dais which dominated the western end of the nave, he watched as the swirling drifts of vapour steamed up from the anxious heated heads of his worried flock.

The earthy smell of the muddy fields and livestock they had worked that morning, combined with the dirt from the roads they had travelled to attend the meeting, meant that the decorative brass incense burners were working overtime in an attempt to cover their odour: their anger and concern had only added to the stench of their drab wet woollen clothes; and although the pomanders struggled bravely, unerring in their sweet smoky task, his nose told him that they were fighting a losing battle.

His trained eyes missed little, even in the midst of such a thronging crowd, as he noted which ringleaders might spark trouble, and which were simply frightened out of their own good senses.

There was certainly no disguising the fact that the meeting to discuss the latest appalling witch attacks had not gone well.

Several minor clerics had addressed the frustrations of the crowd, but their words had only served to inflame the situation. The unruly congregation had cowed and intimidated them, leaving the blanch-faced priests to shuffle away from the lectern while trying to shrink and hide themselves inside the deep folds of their own robes.

A general murmuring discontent had bubbled and boiled over into a shouting, jostling anger and fear of abandonment, and those with the loudest voices were keen to make their views known.

"You must act now!"

"Please help us!"

"Just last week the village of Upper Thorndale was attacked. Men, women and children left for dead!"

"It will be us next - you mark my words!"

"All the cattle we had raised for the winter market died suddenly in the night - and we dare not eat their flesh, for the smell of witchcraft still lingers on them."

Their angry voices reverberated out across the vast sacred chamber and struck a chord deep in Steadman's memory.

In his younger days, he had seen such panic and urgency many times: during the long nights before the morning of an important battle, when even the most experienced soldier would snap and argue; squabbling with each other under the tense burden of the coming fight.

He thought he had left these strained, restive scenes far behind him for the peaceful forgiveness and quiet of the Church; but he now understood that he had simply exchanged the onerous task of saving lives in battle, for the heavy responsibility of saving souls for all eternity.

The restless anger of the congregation grew louder and more palpable. The assembled clerics were greatly outnumbered by the ordinary folk; several looked around and edged towards the doors, while a few turned to look up at him and the other six members of the Church hierarchy who sat with him up on the dais.