hearts of wrongdoers at the Bloody Assizes. He said that God had decreed that the moon would be seen by day as a sign of judgement when the last days were coming.”
He concentrated on not rear-ending the Triumph sports car ahead as they meandered up to the Field of Judgement, which tomorrow would return to grazing cattle.
A steward waved them into position, and as they pulled the hamper from the boot, the kids ooh-ed and aah-ed at the hundreds of pieces of kit on display. Over each marquee the twin banners of the Union flag and the cross of Royal Order of the Knights Inquisitor of St. George snapped in the breeze.
Tom looked around, half-hoping half-dreading that he would see someone he knew. No-one, he thought. Sighing with mingled relief and disappointment, he held up his knife and one of his knee-pads, the rusty spikes of the pad dull in the sunlight. “With a little imagination, I could have passed as a torturer when we first met,” he said to Linda with a wicked grin, though the spikes were designed for nothing more sinister than gaining purchase on a thatched roof. He shrugged at Abi’s look of disdain. “Maybe not.” Dropping the knife and pad, he slammed the boot shut.
Tom followed his wife and daughter’s gazes, and smiled at the ceremonial torturer at the main gate. The man was a black-clad wall of flesh and leather standing nearly seven feet tall, arms folded across his chest, muscles highlighted by a sheen that Tom suspected came from oil. A broadsword hung from his waist almost down to the ground.
“He looks like the guy on the cover of The Sword of the Torturer,” Shane whispered. He’d read it perhaps a dozen times.
“They never had anyone like that on the gate when we were your age,” Linda said. Her tone was disapproving, but her eyes shone.
“Did you have anything that wasn’t prehistoric when you were our age?” Abi muttered. “No doubt the Witchfinder-General, ankle-length skirts and iron maidens?”
“We met at a show like this,” Linda smiled, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter’s sarcasm, and Abi rolled her eyes. “They’ve made it more like a funfair now.”
She’s right, Tom thought. The clenched fist to scare the weak, hot-dog stands and test-your-saintliness-quotient for the children’s hearts and minds. No one ever said the Order were stupid.
To one side of the show was an Army recruiting tent. Two squaddies chatted up a couple of lanky young girls in Goth outfits, one of whom leaned up against a tent-pole. She turned and surveyed Tom with kohl-lined eyes then losing interest, looked away. On the other side a funfair blared Kylie, and staring back, Tom hummed, “I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky…”
“She’ll be lucky not to be accused of Satanism,” Linda said, and glared at Tom. "Wipe the dribble off your chin."
"Meow," he replied.
The family wandered through the crowds. The wind was bitter, and huge columnar heaters filled the spaces between tents, the hot air above their gaping muzzles dancing like a mirage in the desert.
Open-sided caravans sold toffee apples, cups of tea, t-shirts, even Babushka dolls. Linda clucked. "I don't like these. What are they doing selling Godless artefacts?"
"They're pre-Revolutionary, these dolls," Tom said. "They weren't Godless then."
"They have Inquisition ones, Mum," Abi said. "How twee is that?"
Tom decided not to say that he liked them; liked the idea of layers within layers. Very symbolic, he thought.
At the History of the Order stands, old-style iron racks echoed to the screams of volunteers. Nearby, cats-tails hung in a neat line next to an iron maiden. They passed a modern stainless-steel rack with a fat old man on it, another --younger-- man standing at one end.
The second man paced up and down, running his hands through his hair. He opened then closed his mouth, and held his hands out, imploring the torturer. At the inquisitor's blank-eyed look the other man snatched them back, and
He concentrated on not rear-ending the Triumph sports car ahead as they meandered up to the Field of Judgement, which tomorrow would return to grazing cattle.
A steward waved them into position, and as they pulled the hamper from the boot, the kids ooh-ed and aah-ed at the hundreds of pieces of kit on display. Over each marquee the twin banners of the Union flag and the cross of Royal Order of the Knights Inquisitor of St. George snapped in the breeze.
Tom looked around, half-hoping half-dreading that he would see someone he knew. No-one, he thought. Sighing with mingled relief and disappointment, he held up his knife and one of his knee-pads, the rusty spikes of the pad dull in the sunlight. “With a little imagination, I could have passed as a torturer when we first met,” he said to Linda with a wicked grin, though the spikes were designed for nothing more sinister than gaining purchase on a thatched roof. He shrugged at Abi’s look of disdain. “Maybe not.” Dropping the knife and pad, he slammed the boot shut.
Tom followed his wife and daughter’s gazes, and smiled at the ceremonial torturer at the main gate. The man was a black-clad wall of flesh and leather standing nearly seven feet tall, arms folded across his chest, muscles highlighted by a sheen that Tom suspected came from oil. A broadsword hung from his waist almost down to the ground.
“He looks like the guy on the cover of The Sword of the Torturer,” Shane whispered. He’d read it perhaps a dozen times.
“They never had anyone like that on the gate when we were your age,” Linda said. Her tone was disapproving, but her eyes shone.
“Did you have anything that wasn’t prehistoric when you were our age?” Abi muttered. “No doubt the Witchfinder-General, ankle-length skirts and iron maidens?”
“We met at a show like this,” Linda smiled, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter’s sarcasm, and Abi rolled her eyes. “They’ve made it more like a funfair now.”
She’s right, Tom thought. The clenched fist to scare the weak, hot-dog stands and test-your-saintliness-quotient for the children’s hearts and minds. No one ever said the Order were stupid.
To one side of the show was an Army recruiting tent. Two squaddies chatted up a couple of lanky young girls in Goth outfits, one of whom leaned up against a tent-pole. She turned and surveyed Tom with kohl-lined eyes then losing interest, looked away. On the other side a funfair blared Kylie, and staring back, Tom hummed, “I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky…”
“She’ll be lucky not to be accused of Satanism,” Linda said, and glared at Tom. "Wipe the dribble off your chin."
"Meow," he replied.
The family wandered through the crowds. The wind was bitter, and huge columnar heaters filled the spaces between tents, the hot air above their gaping muzzles dancing like a mirage in the desert.
Open-sided caravans sold toffee apples, cups of tea, t-shirts, even Babushka dolls. Linda clucked. "I don't like these. What are they doing selling Godless artefacts?"
"They're pre-Revolutionary, these dolls," Tom said. "They weren't Godless then."
"They have Inquisition ones, Mum," Abi said. "How twee is that?"
Tom decided not to say that he liked them; liked the idea of layers within layers. Very symbolic, he thought.
At the History of the Order stands, old-style iron racks echoed to the screams of volunteers. Nearby, cats-tails hung in a neat line next to an iron maiden. They passed a modern stainless-steel rack with a fat old man on it, another --younger-- man standing at one end.
The second man paced up and down, running his hands through his hair. He opened then closed his mouth, and held his hands out, imploring the torturer. At the inquisitor's blank-eyed look the other man snatched them back, and
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