Witch Finder

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Luke lifted his head and sniffed the dusk. The rich smell of roast chestnuts pierced the cold foggy air, above the more familiar Spitalfields stink: horse manure, coal smoke, rubbish. Another day he might have searched his pockets for a farthing, bought a paper cone of hot, burst chestnuts and burnt his fingers as he ate. Not today. Not with his stomach churning like a wash tub and a fluttering sickness in his gut.

Instead he pushed past the scurrying children and sharp-faced errand boys, and stepped into the foetid, muck-strewn road.

At the Cock Tavern the gas-lamps were lit and the working girls called out to him, trying to catch his eye for the evening trade. Their cheap perfume wafted across the muddy street, cutting through the sharpness of the burning chestnut skins. He turned up his collar, readying himself to run the gauntlet.

‘Come on now, Luke Lexton!’ Miriam called as he drew near. ‘A man like you can’t be a monk all yer life. I’ve seen you with those horses, how’s about I teach you to ride something a bit more lively?’

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