by Stacey Halls
Her mouth opened wordlessly, and her shoulders sank a little. “I do not know exactly.”
I stared at her. “You do not know how old you are? Well, when is your birthday?”
She shook her head and shrugged. “I have slightly more than twenty years, I think.”
“You do not know your birthday?”
She swallowed. “I am afraid I have to confess something.” I waited while she opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I lost the horse you gave me.”
“You lost it?”
“I tied it outside my house and the next morning, it was gone.”
Every line of her was apologetic, and I cursed silently at my own foolishness; I had not thought to ask if she had a stable, but of course she did not. I should have paid for her to keep it at an inn or nearby farm.
She mistook my reaction for intense disappointment, and breathed deeply, and said, “I will pay you back. I will work for free. How much are horses?”
“I don’t know...a few pounds?” Her face fell. “Do not worry, it is done now, and I will pay you just the same,” I said without conviction, for Richard’s anger would know no bounds.
How would I tell him? Never mind. While Alice was there, we would focus on the immediate.
I asked her what she had brought, and she walked over to the dresser and began lifting up her skirts, taking little linen parcels from her pocket and lining them up on the polished top before opening them to reveal herbs of varying shades of green. With the fire full and friendly and the dog snoozing nobly on the rug, my chamber had the same atmosphere of purpose as the kitchen, and I went to the edge of the bed and sat on it, not knowing what to do.
“What have you brought?” She waved me over, and I went to look at her display. “You are like a traveling herb merchant—Richard would be impressed.”
“Anethum graveolens.” She pointed from left to right. “Calendula, lavendula, camamelum.” I stared at her in bewilderment, and she laughed. “To you, and your cook—dill, marigold, lavender, chamomile.”
“You know the Latin names? I thought you couldn’t read?”
She blinked. “I can’t. My mother taught me. Every good herbalist knows the proper names.” She held up the first bunch: soft and feathery with fine, waving fronds. “Have your cook chop this and mix it into butter, which you can put on your meat, fish, anything.”
“What does it do?”
“A lot. These petals—” she held up the delicate golden flowers “—can be dried and stirred into hot milk, or used to flavor cheese. Have the kitchen make you a hot cup each morning and night and stir this in, and it will help with the sickness.”
I nodded, remembering: butter, hot milk, cheese.
“Lavender,” she said. “Infuse it in some rainwater to make a tincture, and sprinkle it over your pillowcase to help you sleep, and keep away bad dreams.”
She looked meaningfully at me, and for a moment I wondered if I had told her about The Nightmare. How could she know?
She lifted her apron again and brought out a tiny glass vial between finger and thumb. “I made you some already—this is the only bottle I had.” She went over to the bed and, stopping up half the neck with her finger, shook it lightly over the pillows and down. Something made her pause, and she leaned farther over to examine it. “Your hair is falling out?”
I patted it self-consciously, where it barely covered the rolls beneath. “Yes.”
I could not see her face, but she appeared to be thinking about something as she smoothed the lavender water over the bedclothes. A moment later she was back at my side, pushing the vial of lavender water into my hand, then holding up a fistful of a daisylike plant.
“Like a chamomile bed, the more it is trodden, the more it will spread,” I recited.
“Yes, chamomile spreads easily,” she said, missing my point about triumphing in adversity. “Steep this in hot milk, too, and strain it, then it can be drunk. And the final one—” She held a narrow strip of what looked like tree trunk between her long fingers. “Willow bark. Chew on this if you have any pain—it will help.”
“Where do you get all these from? Mr. Blezard in Padiham?”
“Women I know,” she said.
“Wise women?”
“Most women are wise.”
I could not tell if she was teasing me. “Are they to be trusted?”
Alice gave me a look. “According to the king? No. He has driven them into the shadows, but people are still sick, and dying, and having children, and not everyone has a royal physick. The king has muddled wise women with witchcraft.”
“You sound as though you are not a supporter of his.”
She did not reply, and began folding up the little squares of linen. The people in these parts had their opinions on the king but kept them to themselves for good reason, so I was taken aback by her candor. Perhaps all lower-class people spoke as boldly.
“The king is not a supporter of women trying to make their way in the world any way they can—helping neighbors, and driving off sickness, and trying to keep their children alive. And while he is not, I am not of him.” She brushed her palms together and became more businesslike. “You remember each of the instructions?”
“I think so.”
How glad I was that Richard or the servants had not overheard. Alice took out her pocket, folded the linen back into it, then asked to see my wrist.
“I almost forgot,” I began as she examined it, pressing here and there and bending my palm backward and forward. There was no pain now. “I bled the other night. Not a lot. In fact I was not even sure it was blood, until I tasted it.”
Alice fixed her large amber eyes on mine and once again I smelled lavender. Where did it come from? She could not have perfume; she must crush it at her wrists and neck. It was touching, really, that she made this daily attempt at femininity.
“Was there any pain?” I shook my head. She licked her lips and narrowed her eyes in concentration. “There may be too much blood in your body, which is not good for you or the infant. Next time I come, I will bring something.”
“When will that be?”
“In a few days. Until then, use these as I directed, and you should see an improvement.”
I went to my cupboard where I kept the doctor’s letter, and took out a small cloth bag of coins, handing it to her. She asked, “What’s this?”
“The first month in advance. How much do I owe for the herbs?”
“Nothing.”
She held the weight of the bag in her palm, letting the coins slide around. The sound reminded me of Richard, and I glanced toward the door. I had not told him or James how much I was paying Alice—that could wait until later, until I grew bigger and he could see her tinctures were working. Then he could hardly protest.
I saw her out, waving from the top of the stairs, and went back to my chamber to rest. Usually I had to pluck my dark hairs from the pillow and toss them in the fire, met with the anxious thought that eventually they would all fall out and I would be bald as an egg. What else would this child take from me? They made fine wigs these days, but a woman’s hair was as much an asset as her clothes and jewelry, and one that could not be removed. If Richard did not desire me already with my growing belly and gray skin, he certainly would not without my thick black hair that used to be shiny as a raven’s coat. When I met his sisters I’d envied their fine golden heads. But black was an expensive color, difficult to dye and maintain. Black meant wealth and power.
I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my hand over the pillow, but no black threads showed on the white. Alice must have moved them. I lay down, closed my eyes and let the lavender carry me to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From the very start of our marriage, Richard took pride in showing me off. At parties, his friends’ houses and local dinners, I would shine under his compan
ions’ gazes like a jewel in candlelight, always meeting his eye for approval and finding it, and shining brighter.
I was looking forward to dinner at Roger’s, and shining like a jewel once again now Alice’s tinctures were working. I was glad, though, she could not see me pacing my chamber building the courage to go down to the kitchen and repeat her instructions to the servants. My mother said I always cared far too much what people thought, but really I cared far too much what people said, especially when my back was turned. Thoughts were private; rumor was not, and as mistress at Gawthorpe I knew I was the subject of both. The cook listened to me with one eyebrow raised when I showed her the dill for the butter, and scattered the chamomile leaves onto the scrubbed wooden table. But listened she had, and a cup of warm milk infused with sweet chamomile was delivered to my door at night, and a special butter dish brought for me at dinnertime the next day, and for the first time I felt quite fond of the staff. Richard was still sleeping in the next room, so I hoped to shine so brightly at Roger’s the truckle bed would remain undisturbed for tonight.
Friday arrived, and at eleven o’clock we were ready to ride to Read Hall. The days were longer now, and even if we stayed at the Nowells’ all afternoon it would still be light by the time we left. I did not much like riding at night, when the edges of the forest couldn’t be seen but could be heard shivering and straining from their roots like hounds on leashes. I had been ill for so long I couldn’t recall the last time Richard and I went out visiting together, so I put on one of my favorite dresses of dark blue, embroidered with exotic birds and beetles, and a tall silk hat, with my riding things over the top. I decided to leave off telling him about the missing horse and save it for another day, because it would no doubt spoil the evening. I was determined nothing would.
* * *
“Ah, the two turtledoves,” Roger greeted us in the great hall, handing us each a glass of sacke. He was dressed finely but retained an element of the countryman about him in his black velvet suit and soft boots.
His wife, Katherine, made straight for me in her gown of black lace with fine gold embroidery. She was hatless, and her dress was cut very low. I was younger than her daughter, but we had mutual interests in fashions and London and the best clothiers in Manchester and Halifax and Lancaster.
“What news at Gawthorpe? We have not seen you in such a long time—Richard said you were quite ill. I hope you are recovered?” Katherine said once we had done the necessary complimenting of each other’s clothes. Her emerald drop earrings shimmered in the candlelight. I had not noticed her look at my stomach, but it would have been difficult to see anything in the dark room with my dark clothes.
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, I was confined for some time but now I am better, thank you.”
“Roger said you went hunting with them not long ago? I was surprised—all that mud spoiling your things!”
“Yes, although Richard blamed me for driving the quarry away with my voice—hunting is perhaps not the best opportunity to talk with friends.” I smiled.
“You are always welcome at Read—although we are a chamber short at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“I will leave of Roger to tell you at supper.”
At that moment one of the men in the party turned and I saw it was Thomas Lister. He caught my eye and gave a polite nod.
“Master Lister was not long at Gawthorpe, on his way to York,” I said.
Shrunken old Nick Bannister, the former magistrate of Pendle, also stood with Roger, Thomas and Richard, cradling his cup to his chest.
“And Roger persuaded Nick out of his confinement with the promise of a few fat birds and barrels of sacke,” Katherine added warmly, before asking us to sit. Thomas Lister was on my left and Nick Bannister on my right, with Roger, Katherine and Richard opposite.
“We must separate the turtles or they will be crooning at one another all night,” Roger said with a wink.
I smiled, and imagined the effect that announcing these two turtledoves slept in different rooms would have.
The first course was brought out: a spread of mutton pies, fallow deer pasties, and ham and pea pottage. Roger waited for everything to be set down and served before he spoke. “Now,” he said as we picked up our knives. “As you will all know, I have been investigating a series of crimes in the Pendle area. What some of you may not know is further arrests have been made after some deeply disturbing interviews.” He moved in his chair and indicated for a servant to top everyone’s glasses with sacke. “You may remember I told you of Alizon Device, the girl who performed witchcraft on John Law the peddler? It satisfies me to report she is now safely in gaol with her family, so the innocent people of Pendle are no longer at the mercy of the Devil’s work for the time being.”
“Her family are in gaol, too?” I asked.
Roger nodded slowly. “Her mother, grandmother and brother all confessed to witchcraft and popery. Many lives have been lost to the Device family—they have eluded the eyes of the law for too long.”
The wizened, elderly man on my right spoke for the first time. “It is a coincidence, is it not, that Device sounds like Devil?”
Laughter broke out at the table and I waited to speak. “What did they do?”
“Oh.” Roger waved a casual hand. “A horrible medley of things—dolls made of clay, spells, curses. Each of them has their own familiar spirit, which is proof enough.”
“You saw their familiars?” I asked, recalling that he had never seen Alizon’s with his own eyes.
“I did not need to. I know they exist. John Law described Alizon’s—the dog. Her mother, Elizabeth, also has a dog named Ball, and her grandmother has kept one for some twenty years. For two decades she has had a pact with the Devil, carrying out his work across the county!”
“But if you cannot see them, how can you know for certain?” I asked.
There were a few beats of silence as everyone chewed and swallowed around me.
Roger regarded me. “The Devil only appears to those he recognizes to be his servants. They let their animals suck blood from their bodies—does that sound like a normal pet to you? Do you let your dog do that, Fleetwood?”
“Roger,” Richard said coolly. “I will set my falcon on you and it will suck your blood.”
Everyone apart from me laughed.
I took up my knife and fork and moved the food around my plate, but the fatty mutton made my stomach churn.
“What news of the Preston woman?” Katherine asked Thomas Lister, who always needed coaxing into conversation. He sat up a little straighter at the mention of his servant, clearing his throat.
“It was a blow when she was acquitted.” He spoke quietly, swilling the sacke in his cup. “But I am sure she will be back before she knows it.”
I was not sure I had heard him right. “Back where?” I asked. “Surely you would not have her back at Westby if you thought she killed a child?”
He set down his cup and dabbed his small mouth with a napkin. “On trial at York.”
I looked around at the other guests. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Well,” he said softly. “Jennet Preston murdered my father.”
The table went silent. The only sounds were the wind at the window and the flames roaring heartily in the great fireplace. The other guests appeared to be as confused as I was. Roger sat back and gave Thomas a paternal nod, as though he had laid bare some deep truth.
Richard spoke. “Your father died four years past.”
Thomas fixed his eyes on his plate, his small frame rigid. “I did not tell anyone of the words he spoke at the time he died,” he said softly. “Only my mother knows. We did not speak of it. He was terrified out of his wits.”
“Of what?”
“Of Preston.” He took an invigorating swig. “My father on his deathbed cried out, ‘Jennet lies heavy upon me! Pr
eston’s wife lies heavy upon me—help me, help me!’” For this part he raised his voice into a high, excited cry. Everyone at the table was silent, and his ringing voice sent a shiver over my skin. “He bade us shut the doors, all the doors in the house so she could not escape.”
“She was there?”
“Her spirit was there. He could see it, I know. After his death she was brought to my father’s corpse and it bled at her touch.”
“The surest sign of a witch,” Roger said with confidence.
“But,” I began, “if this did happen four years ago, why is she only being brought to trial now? And was brought for something else last month?”
Master Lister looked to Roger.
“Last week, on Good Friday, when all of us good citizens were praying, a party was gathering,” Roger said in a slow, revealing way. “And when all of us were fasting, as is the Lord’s wish, this party was feasting on a stolen mutton. It took place at a miserable dwelling called Malkin Tower—the home of Alizon Device’s grandmother old Demdike. And one of the party was Jennet Preston.”
“Preston is connected to the Device family?” Richard asked.
Roger nodded once. “Because she is a witch. And what did they speak of at this gathering, other than comparing their familiars and blaspheming the Lord Jesus, for whom they should have been fasting? Why, they spoke of young Master Lister here.”
I could not have been more confused. “Why?”
“Preston was plotting to kill him,” Roger said simply.
Next to me, I could feel Thomas Lister shaking. He began touching all his cutlery and dishes, moving them and lining them up in a meticulous display.
Roger went on. “That is not the only thing they spoke of. The lot of them were gathered to discuss a plot not dissimilar to the one that almost unseated the king from his throne not so long ago.” He leaned in, his teeth shining in the candlelight. “They planned to blow up Lancaster castle, where their kin are held. To set them free.”
“How do you know this?”
