Chapter 1: SUSSEX POSSESSION

The roast chicken is still raw in the middle and the tall, thin, elderly bewigged Judge, red of face and with a hooked beak for a nose, pushes the pewter plate away from him in disgust. Summoned hotfoot to Whitehall from the Quarterly Assizes in Bristol at Michaelmas 1688, he found the Privy Council were not yet ready for him, as the King slept in late at St James’ Palace this misty morrow. So Lord Ferdinando Briant, the Crown’s Lord Chief Investigating Justice of the Peace, to give him his full official title, has retired to this rude inn close by the river Thames for lunch, taking a private room upstairs, to avoid the public and snug bars, full of vulgar and smelly river men.

“Be it fodder or meat,” he intones in grim humour at the disgusting rejected repast, “you are what you eat!”

A light knock on the door and Jones, the junior one of his two manservants pokes his head around the door. “My Lord, a messenger hath come from the Privy Council, thee be summonsed forthwith.”

“Possessed! My son is possessed by the very devil, Satan himself!” the late arrival yells, a bent and spare-built Lord dressed in a long red cloak collared in ermine.

Just before the outburst, the candle flames flared up as the door to the Privy Chamber was thrown open by the wild-eyed old man, who burst into the meeting, chaired by His Catholic Sovereign Majesty King James II of England and VI of Scotland, so suddenly and unexpectedly.

The Lord President of His Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council, yells from his position next to the head of the table, “Albury, ye’re not invited to this meeting, I will have yon Clerk evict thee directly!”

The disheveled Lord Albury, stands ramrod straight, though in his sixties, and sneers at the Lord President as if he were a bug fit to squash under leathern boot.

“Best behead the lad,” Albury spits, “release my poor son from his Evil Tormentor, and send the Foul Beast that occupieth him back to the Hell where Satan belongs! I am a member of this Privy Council, and my opinion will be heard!”

“This sitting of the Privy Council,” the Clerk speaks calmly and firmly, pouring oil on troubled waters, “has been called to discuss the grave matter of the Satanic Possession of Sir Valentine Albury, your only son, Lord Albury. The Crown’s Witchfinder General here will directly seek out the Foul Demon, be he Satan himself or some devil underling who carries out Lucifer’s Work of Evil, and will restore your son to thee in due course, fully sane and well, if Almighty God wills it!”

Lord Albury suddenly deflates, as if feeling all his years weigh down upon his shoulders, as he mutters, “Then all is lost, all is lost!”

A murmur automatically rises as half the Council intones “Amen!”, several of the noble worthies crossing themselves, as they hear the gate-crashing Lord admit his son is no doubt lost from this earthly realm.

The Lord stumbles, almost in a faint and is carried forth from the chamber by two Royal Pikemen, helped by the woman accompanying him, a tall, slim, comely brunette lady of noble bearing, who appeared to be barely half the Lord’s age.

The meeting is called to order, once the intruder is removed, and the flaring candles return to normality. Seven men stand around one end of the long table, Privy Council convention being that the King never sits, nor may any of his Noble Council seat themselves before the King, thus ensuring the agenda is despatched in timely fashion.

The Archbishop of Canterbury continues his interrupted report from whence he left off.

“I’ve received word from the Archdeacon of Lewes, in the Diocese of Chichester, the Dellamere village Parson, and the Vicar of St Mark’s, Swainley, the nearest town to Dellamere in the County of Sussexshire. All three worthy gentlemen of the Clergy declare that attempts to drive out the Demon from Sir Valentine Albury, both medical and spiritual, have failed miserably. The Archdeacon recommends to His Majesty that we leave well alone, clap Sir Valentine in irons and hope the poor creature will, in time, come to his senses and survive this Evil Demonic Possession.”

King James purses his thin lips, “An’ what, pray, ver ze circumstonces leadin’ up to zis possessyon, si’l vous pla’? Ve’re sure zat mon prêtre-”

“Sire,” the Lord President swiftly interrupts, “while your Jesuit priests no doubt dealt with demonic possessions all the time, while you were once resident at the Court of Versailles, we’ve our own means of dealing with such grave matters, to wit: the WitchFinder General.”