The Daylight Gate

by Jeanette Winterson

  ‘Who is it?’ said Potts. ‘Who is the witch?’

  ‘Alice Nutter,’ said Elizabeth Device.

  The Hourglass Running

  ALICE NUTTER RETURNED to the Rough Lee. The herbalist was waiting for her with the poppet.

  ‘Now do you believe me?’

  Alice nodded. She was shaking. She did not tell her about the head. ‘Will you help me?’

  Together they packed the chest with silver and clothes, and had the stable boys load it onto a cart hitched to the herbalist’s donkey, and away she went with money to take two horses and a coach to Manchester the next morning.

  Alice secured her jewels and cash and deeds of deposit in a soft leather bag and hid the bag in the passage that connected her study and bedroom. She took several vials of liquid from her cupboard, and as she did so, she saw Edward Kelley’s letter where she had put it on the day that it burned.

  She took it out.

  And if thou callest him, like unto an angel of the north wearing a dark costume, he will hear thee and come to thee. Yet meet him where he may be met – at the Daylight Gate.

  She put the letter inside her dress.

  Then she opened a small box and took out a tiny mirror. The mirror had a silver rim and a silver back and its glass was made of mercury. This was the mirror that John Dee had given her.

  There was one thing left: the vial of elixir.

  She went to bed. She turned her hourglass to start its running. She would rise by 2 a.m. and be gone before three o’clock.

  And Running Out

  IT WAS AROUND nine o’clock at night when Christopher Southworth rode into Lancaster.

  He lodged his horse at the Red Lion near Gallows Hill, took a room for himself and ate bread and meat. Then leaving unnoticed on foot he made his way to Lancaster Castle.

  It was easy enough to get past the sentries. The fog had not lifted. He was as good as invisible. He had a rope and a hook and he scaled the wall. He had done this before.

  He found the Well Dungeon by the grating in the ground.

  He lay down. ‘Jane!’

  Jane Southworth was standing in her customary spot under the grating, waiting for rain. She heard her name. Now she knew she had gone mad. The voice came again. ‘Jane!’

  She looked up the thirty feet to the grating. She could see nothing. Then she heard the grating being lifted away. She looked round. The others were asleep but for Nance Redfern who was somewhere with the gaoler.

  A rope dropped down into the dungeon. Down the rope came Christopher Southworth.

  ‘Jane!’ He threw his arms around her. She knew then that she must be dead. ‘Jane, climb onto my back and we will be gone. Hurry!’

  She looked at him, shaking her head. ‘Is it you, Kit? Am I dead?’

  He gave her water and she drank the whole flask. He gave her a piece of meat that she ate slowly, never taking her eyes off him. He told her that she was not dead. That he had come from France to rescue her.

  ‘It is a plot,’ she said. ‘They had a child accuse me of holding the Black Mass. My maid accused me of sticking pins into a poppet. They will find any way to ruin the Southworths.’

  He held her to him. She was bones and filth. He wanted to cry and he wanted to tear the dungeon apart with his hands.

  ‘Catch hold fast to my body. I have strength to pull us both out of here. We shall go at once to London and then to France.’

  She shook her head. ‘If I stand trial I may be acquitted. If I escape with you tonight, even if we are not caught, then they will claim it as witchcraft.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Then they have won. If they win others will suffer. And do you believe that they do not know you are here?’

  ‘They are looking for me in Pendle. Not here. Come with me.’

  Old Demdike woke up. Her eyes were filmy with cataracts but she could see the tall dark outline of Christopher Southworth. ‘It is the Dark Gentleman! I knew he would come!’

  Alizon Device roused herself, rubbed her eyes and stared at Christopher. Chattox snored on.

  Old Demdike struggled to her feet numb in their rags, and shoved her stinking body up against him. ‘I knew you would not abandon me!’

  Christopher pushed her off. ‘Get away from me, you hag! Which one are you?’

  ‘Demdike. I am Demdike! You have my Soul. Here is my body.’

  Her hair was matted. Her skin was thin and lined with red vein marks round her nose and cheeks. Hairs grew from her moles. Her neck had joined her shoulders. The rest was a shapeless mass.

  He did not know what to say or what to do. Was this the lover of his lover?

  She put out her hand. One finger was missing. It was the third finger of her left hand … ‘Remember me …’

  He remembered the ring on Alice’s finger, her skin smooth and clear.

  He looked at Old Demdike again. She had green eyes. Eyes like a pool in Pendle Forest. Eyes like the forest when it rains and the sky is green and the earth is green and the air is green. She had green eyes.

  Jane would not go with him. She asked him for a Bible and he gave her his missal. He gave her money to bribe the gaoler for food and water. He took off his cloak and wrapped it round her.

  There were noises outside. He had to leave. He kissed Jane and climbed rapidly up the rope hand over hand. He was strong and agile. He hauled himself out at the top and lay on the stones level with the grating. He could hear them below.

  ‘It was the Dark Gentleman!’

  ‘Then why didn’t he take us?’

  ‘He will, I tell you he will!’

  *

  He lay on the stones, his heart beating. Life was an intervention. At every moment the chances change. If Jane were with him now. If they were escaping together. If James had not come to the throne. If the Gunpowder Plot had never happened. If Elizabeth had not executed Mary. If Henry had not wanted a divorce. If the Pope had not excommunicated England. If England were a Catholic country still.

  All the history, all the facts, what were they but chances? And for himself, so far, he was not dead. And there was Alice, who had chosen for him. If he had not come back, she would not have chosen for him.

  He lay on the stones. He could change his name, his country, his faith. The tortures had changed his body. He had tried to change history.

  He could not change the fact of his birth or, by very much, the fact of his death. This was his time.

  He had an image of an hourglass.

  Dead Time

  ALICE NUTTER WAS up early. She had dressed and was ready to leave when she saw them from the window. She was in no doubt. They had come for her.

  She left her precious things in their secret place and went downstairs to open the door herself. She would not hide like a coward. Let them come for her. She would leave of her own free will. She would not be taken.

  At Read Hall Roger Nowell had blazed up the fire. The room was warm and bright. He bowed. She curtsied. He asked her to sit down. Potts came in, his eyes like spears. He asked her if she had read the King’s book Daemonology.

  Alice replied that she had. She added that she had no great opinion of it.

  ‘Then I will ask you to pay attention as follows,’ said Potts, reading from his own copy.

  ‘The two degrees of persons which chiefly practise Witch-craft are such: as are in great miserie or poverty, for such the Devil allures to follow him, by promising great riches, and worldly commoditie: Others, though riche, yet burne in a desperate desire of Power or Revenge. But to attempt a woman in this sort, the Devil had small means … How she was drawn to fall to this wicked course, I know not, but she is now come to receive her trial for her vile and damnable practices.’

  ‘There is no evidence against me,’ said Alice.

  Roger Nowell lifted his hand and Constable Hargreaves brought in James and Elizabeth Device. Neither had slept.

  They were asked to identify Alice as coming to Malkin Tower on Good Friday. They were asked to say her
business there, and Elizabeth agreed that Alice Nutter had always been a friend to her mother, Old Demdike.

  ‘She is more powerful even than her!’ shouted Jem.

  ‘I am not a witch,’ said Alice. ‘I have nothing else to say.’

  ‘What do you say to this?’ said Roger Nowell.

  Constable Hargreaves brought in the poppet. Elizabeth Device looked pale. ‘I didn’t make no poppet,’ she shouted.

  ‘It is a crude likeness to myself,’ said Roger Nowell. ‘And yesterday I was struck with disease and agony.’

  ‘Bring in the herbalist from Whalley,’ said Potts.

  Alice’s friend came into the hall. Roger Nowell had her stand before him. ‘Did you not say yesterday that my ague was no ordinary illness but witchcraft?’

  The herbalist nodded. She did not look at Alice.

  ‘Then what do you say of this doll found at Mistress Nutter’s house? Her servant brought it here.’

  Potts took the doll and examined it. ‘This is witchcraft. Alice Nutter, did you fashion this doll?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Then how is it that it came to be in the study of your house?’

  Alice could not answer; she could not incriminate her friend the herbalist.

  ‘The doll has a scalp of human hair. I do not know how you robbed the graves,’ said Potts.

  James Device shouted out: ‘I robbed them! She bewitched me to the form of a hare and I escaped Malkin Tower, and robbed the graves at Newchurch in Pendle and brought her teeth and the rest. She bewitched me. Let me go free like the spider said.’

  ‘The spider?’ asked Potts. ‘Is that your Familiar?’

  ‘You all said if I testified against Alice Nutter I should go free.’

  ‘So that is it,’ said Alice. ‘Bribery and intimidation – but all legal because the Law is doing it.’

  Potts stood up. ‘Alice Nutter. You are accused of witchcraft. You will stand trial at the Lancaster Assizes.’

  Roger Nowell stood up. ‘Clear the room.’

  Alice Nutter sat still. They left one by one, and Potts too, until only Alice and Roger Nowell remained. It was not yet five o’clock in the morning.

  ‘So you have me,’ said Alice. ‘I do not know why.’

  Roger Nowell smiled. ‘I have you, but I could let you go.’

  ‘What is the price of my freedom?’

  ‘Christopher Southworth.’

  ‘He is not at my house. You searched it.’

  ‘But you know where he is, don’t you?’

  ‘I do not know where he is.’

  ‘Your groom tells me you lent him a horse yesterday.’

  ‘Jem Device says I turned him into a hare. Do you believe that too?’

  Roger Nowell was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Sir John Southworth is my friend. I take no pleasure in this. My own situation is threatened. Do you not see that? Christopher Southworth came to Lancashire and he came to you. You imagine I do not have my spies? You hid him six years ago when he fled London after the Plot – yes, I know you did so, and it is true I turned a blind eye. They caught him when he left you for the coast of Wales. He would not confess who it was who had hidden him. He did not give your name.’

  Alice felt the tears in her eyes as she thought of his tortured body. Roger Nowell noticed them and he came towards her.

  ‘It does not surprise me that he loves you.’ He put his arms out to her. She neither yielded nor resisted. He said softly, ‘You think your servants cannot be bought like every other servant?’

  Alice looked at him. ‘Did you have Jane Southworth arrested?’

  Roger Nowell shook his head. ‘Potts.’ There was a pause. ‘I had reason to believe that Christopher Southworth was returning to Lancashire. I did not know why. Frankly, I thought he had gone mad. Then Potts came with his witchery popery popery witchey. I am caught in this trap every bit as much as you are. There has to be a sacrifice – don’t you understand that?’

  And in her mind she was in the house at Vauxhall and Elizabeth was saying, ‘She is the One.’

  Still Alice did not speak. Roger Nowell stood back, took a bag from his pocket, and drew out the heavy silver crucifix. He swung it from side to side like a pendulum; like an omen of time. ‘This was found in your bed.’

  ‘A witch with a crucifix. Am I accused of the Black Mass or the High Mass?’

  Roger Nowell kissed her forehead. He felt her body resist him. ‘Potts makes no distinction and neither does our Scottish King. Whatever you are, you are facing death.’

  ‘I am not afraid.’

  Roger Nowell drew back from her. ‘I am going to give you a chance. Go home. Think carefully. Run away and I will hunt you down. Return at dusk and tell me where to look for Christopher Southworth – that is all – and you will be in your own bed tonight. Refuse, and I will send you to Lancaster Castle.’

  Bankside

  CHRISTOPHER SOUTHWORTH HAD arrived in London. He came through the turnpike at Highgate, sold his horse and walked down into the city.

  Stables, kennels, breweries, carpenters’ shops, pudding dens, low-roofed sheds where they sewed jerkins or rolled candles. Inns, taverns, bakers, cook shops, men and women smoking clay pipes carrying fish baskets on their heads. Dogs running in and out of the cartwheels, a parrot on a perch, a woman selling bolts of cloth from a cart. A tinker with pots and pans hung round his thin body. A fiddler playing a melody. A sheep on a rope, the smell of mutton flesh cooking, the smell of iron being heated till it glowed. A little boy with bare feet, a girl carrying a baby, two soldiers, ragged and thin.

  Soon he reached the River Thames, wide like a dream, jammed with boat-craft and bodies, like a nightmare.

  There was a boatyard at Bankside. Boats upended, sanded, oiled, the smell of pitch heating in a vast pot. At the boatyard two men in dresses were joking with a charcoal burner who wanted to go and see a play.

  Christopher Southworth went up to them and asked where was the House at the Sign. ‘What’s it to you?’ said one, and he gave them a penny, and they pointed to a stumpy pier where a cowhand was branding his cow in a hiss of steam.

  The house was timber. Pitch-painted frame, in-filled with plaster, with handsome glass and lead windows. A woman was leaving the house. He introduced himself, showed her Alice’s seal and letter and key, and although she seemed surprised, she let him in. He told her his name was Peter Northless.

  ‘If it is True North you are looking for, you have come to the right place,’ she said, reaching down and feeling for his balls. His hand stopped her. She laughed. ‘We shall not disturb you unless you wish to be disturbed.’

  He went in. He understood. This was a brothel.

  And a handsome brothel. Well appointed. There was a staircase up to a gallery with neat doors leading off it. So this was how Alice kept up her income. She said she got a good rent for the place.

  He went up to the gallery. This was not the floor she had described. A room at the top, Alice had said.

  He came to a little swing door. He pushed through it and found a flight of stairs, narrow and unused, if dust was a guide. His footsteps left prints on the treads.

  He went up, and up, impossibly up, it seemed, and at the top of the stairs he was faced with a big sturdy square door entirely painted with a face. The keyhole was in the right eye of the face. He looked at the face. The face looked at him.

  Christopher went in.

  There was a high bed against a square-panelled wall. A table by the window set for two people but thick with dust. A portrait of a beautiful woman with green eyes. ‘Elizabeth Southern,’ he said, amazed that this was the hag he had pushed away in Lancaster Gaol.

  He felt he was intruding on another life. A secret life.

  There was a calfskin book on the table. He opened it. It was Alice’s handwriting.

  John Dee has returned to Poland to rejoin Edward Kelley. There is no news of Elizabeth. I have succeeded in making the mirror.

  The mirror?

>   He looked around. There was a mirror on the wall, but nothing unusual about it. There were no cupboards in this room. No drawers in the table. Perhaps she had taken the mirror with her. Perhaps it had been stolen or lost.

  Well, she would be here tomorrow or the next day, and on the day after, they would ride to Dover and sail to Calais.

  The room had long windows to the side that opened onto a rough square balcony. He freed them from years of neglect and went outside. He could see the river winding through the city, and all the teeming life of London rolled out like a carpet. He felt peaceful and suddenly very tired. He had ridden hard, changing horses, hardly sleeping. Now he could sleep. After all, it was Alice’s bed.

  The Daylight Gate

  Stand on the flat top of Pendle Hill and you can see everything of the county of Lancashire. Some say you can see other things too. This is a haunted place. The living and the dead come together on the hill.

  ALICE KNEW SHE was being followed. Let them follow her. They would not come too near.

  She heard wings. She held out her arm. It was her bird. He scarred her arm where she had no glove but she did not care because she loved him and she knew that love leaves a wound that leaves a scar.

  She had the letter from Edward Kelley. Yet meet him where he may be met – at the Daylight Gate.

  ‘I have come,’ she said.

  For a while nothing happened. The mist that wraps the hill close like a cloak was up to the belly of her pony. She dismounted and stood holding the reins. There was no sound. It was as if the hill was listening.

  Then she saw a shape coming towards her. Hooded. Swift. Her heart was beating hard. The falcon flew up into a blasted tree.

  The figure stopped a few feet away from Alice and threw back its hood. It was John Dee.

  ‘I did not expect to see you,’ said Alice.

  ‘Who were you expecting?’

  ‘I have a letter … from Edward …’

  ‘One of his summoning spirits, I expect,’ said John Dee. ‘None such can help you now.’