Instead, he had married her.
Adam closed the book, his mind whirling. Always these Evangelines, sewn up in the chaotic history of this village. Evangeline the witch, whose spell had even fallen on a Puritan preacher of the severest tendencies – he felt uneasy at the parallel with his own infatuation.
Three weeks after Trevelyan’s pornographic debut, he was no closer to achieving anything. Evie remained maddeningly just out of reach, seeming to come close to him during their Bible sessions, then withdrawing, teasing, always full of excuses and apologies.
He had organised and advertised a number of church events – a youth group, a ceilidh, even a bingo night (despite his own disapproval of gambling) – but nobody seemed to take the remotest interest.
At least he had a congregation now, even if it was only Evie and Julia Shields.
But as he shut his book and p
ut it on the bedside table, he felt the acuity of his failure. This village threatened to defeat him. Even worse, it was impacting on his faith. It was a poisonous place, a well of corruption. What chance did he stand?
He prayed in the dark until consciousness slipped away, and then he was somewhere else, somewhere that was still Saxonhurst, and yet so very different.
The low, thatched cottages with their warped-looking beams still stood around the green, but on that green were stocks and a pillory, and in the pillory was a man, a young and handsome man, but Adam sensed a strong antipathy towards this character without knowing why.
He stood at the edge of the grass, watching while villagers threw rotten vegetables rather half-heartedly.
‘With a will!’ he suddenly roared. ‘Go to it. This man is godless and ye should shun his example.’
The villagers didn’t want to pelt the softening fruit, but they were scared of something. Of – him?
They wore jerkins and leggings and dirty-looking linen shirts, as if taking part in a historical re-enactment.
As Adam watched, he became aware of another man standing beside him. The man turned to him.
‘And these women of whom you spake? Where shall I find them?’
‘They inhabit a cottage at the fringe of the village. Three crones and a younger woman. But there is a maiden there also, whom I believe can be saved if the corrupting influences are removed.’
‘Think ye so? That is for me to determine, Reverend.’
‘They are all in thrall to one John Calderwood, who is in hiding, fearing his satanic alliances will be unmasked.’
Adam and his guest walked along the sun-bleached track to the village edge, arriving finally at a cottage Adam had not seen before, yet seemed to recognise.
It was a squat dwelling with only one shuttered window, rough and dilapidated. Outside, a tethered goat bleated fiercely in a scrappy chaos of overgrowth.
‘Aye, a coven, you can be sure,’ said the witchfinder with relish.
They hammered at the door, which was eventually answered by a very elderly lady, crabbed and bent, the epitome of the conventional imagining of a witch.
She stared at Adam and his guest, before calling behind her, ‘’Tis the preacher and another.’
Another woman, perhaps in her 40s, hair streaming from beneath a filthy bonnet, appeared behind the crone.
‘We have not called on your services,’ she said. ‘Leave us be.’
‘Know you not who I am?’ asked the witchfinder in sonorous tones.
‘Indeed I do not. Good day.’
He stepped between the women and the door, holding up his hand.
‘I have a warrant for the arrest of all who dwell here, on charges of witchcraft.’
The crone wailed deeply, then flung her hands over her mouth.