Rich had pulled in to a service station on his way home, started to fill up with petrol and collapsed onto the forecourt. The aneurysm had exploded in his brain, killing him before his body hit the ground. It took them less than a minute to tell me all this. By the time they’d finished, my world had ended.
The minutes ticked by, but I was oblivious to them. On top of my grief, I added anger at myself. I really thought these uncontrollable outbursts had stopped. After all, I hadn’t experienced one for a few weeks, but it seemed the tidal wave of grief still bubbled so close to the surface, it could erupt at any time.
Why today? I grabbed a handful of tissues, blew my nose and scrubbed at my tear-stained face.
“God, Rich, what would you say if you saw me now? ‘Silly bitch, what are you crying for? Pull yourself together.’”
Fresh tears threatened to burst the dam but I forced them back. No more now. I must stop this. Got to take my mind off it.
I turned to the bookcase and scanned the shelves. Philippa Gregory. That should absorb me and take my mind away from dark thoughts. I carried her novel over to the sofa, where I curled up and leaned against the large red cushions.
Rich’s voice soothed me. Concentrate and lose yourself in the story.
I opened the book and found the first page, but my eyes stung from all the crying and I missed the sleep from my disturbed night. Gradually, my eyes closed before I’d even finished the first chapter. The book fell out of my hands, the street sounds faded and I fell into a deep sleep.
Rain whipped my hair, lashed at my thin top and streamed down my face. I struggled to keep my eyes open against the force of the howling wind that pushed me back down the hill I seemed to be struggling to climb. Ahead of me, through a billowing mist, a much larger hill loomed, colored charcoal by the storm, naked and exposed to the elements.
Where am I? What am I doing here? I looked down at my soaked jeans and T-shirt.
I fought against the force of the gale and kept trying to turn around and see where I’d come from. How had I got to this unfamiliar place? What had happened to the apartment? If I called for help, would anyone come—or even hear?
“Help me!”
But the wind caught up my words and turned them into little more than an agonized squeak.
My clothes were plastered to me like icy swaddling. My teeth were chattering. I had to find shelter, but I couldn’t see any anywhere. Not even an old shed. In a distant field, sheep, huddled together by a hedge, while I stood here, exposed to the elements in the middle of this field. The animals had the right idea; a hedge had to be better than nothing. At least I could crouch down beside it.
I tried again to move, but could only manage a stagger. I kept being blown off course and my skimpy sandals were hardly adequate for this bleak, muddy ground.
I heard a male voice behind me. I pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes, turned and saw a dark shape moving closer. I couldn’t distinguish his features, but he seemed to be telling me not to move any farther. How did I know that? I couldn’t hear him speak, but somehow I sensed his thoughts. I stopped struggling against the elements and waited, swaying slightly as the wind gusted and threatened to blow me over.
The gale didn’t seem to bother him. His voice drifted over on a gust of wind. “At last I have found you. After all these years.”
I awoke in the same position in which I’d nodded off, the dream crystal clear in my mind. My watch showed ten past two and a gnawing pain in my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten.
As I went through the motions of buttering two slices of bread and slapping a slice of ham between them, the dream wafted back—so real I could have been there, except I hadn’t smelled anything. But then you’re not supposed to smell anything in dreams. Everything else had been as if it had really happened. And I would know that hill again if I saw it. Assuming it existed. An involuntary shiver reminded me how cold and wet I’d been.
I looked down at myself. I saw the same jeans, top and sandals I’d been wearing on that hillside. I half expected my clothes to be wet and clinging to me, but that would have been ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?
Back in the living room, the Philippa Gregory lay where it had fallen. No matter. I could find the page later. Besides, I no longer felt in the mood to lose myself in historical fiction. Maybe I’d watch some TV, but ancient reruns of Diagnosis: Murder, talk shows, old films, and comedies that hadn’t been especially funny the first time around reminded me why I rarely switched on the TV before the news at six.
I sat on the settee and memories swam into my mind. Rich and I curled up together, watching our favorite old films like Casablanca, or even a football match. We fitted so perfectly together. I couldn’t imagine ever finding anyone I could feel so alive with. Hell, I didn’t want anyone else. An old saying drifted into my mind: “Why go out for chopped liver when you’ve got steak at home?” Well my “steak” might not be at home anymore, but he still filled my heart and soul.
Always and forever, Rich.
I hit the Off button and tossed the remote onto the settee beside me. Now what?
I should go out. I could go for days without leaving the apartment, until an empty fridge forced me into action.
“You and I used to enjoy our walks. And the exhibitions we went to. Do you remember the Titanic centenary? Of course, that was before we moved here. Do you remember…”
Talking to myself again. It had become a habit. One I couldn’t break. I picked up the broken frame and removed the photograph. An old photo of a group of friends sacrificed its frame, and Rich was once more restored to smiling out from behind a small sheet of unbroken glass. I stroked it and Rich sighed in my mind.
Now, how about that walk?
The sunshine tempted me but the thought of squeezing into the milling throng on the city streets didn’t appeal in the slightest. Antisocial. That’s what I’d become. Not that I’d ever been what you might call a party person.
Then my latest dream swirled back into my mind, along with a clear vision of that distinctive, glowering hill I’d seen in the distance, dominating its landscape.
What if that hill existed? Maybe I’d seen it somewhere and my mind had retained the information in my subconscious. Here, at last, was something that grabbed my attention away from my grief.
I crossed over to the desk and booted up my laptop, entering my password when prompted. Richgirl79. I sighed. It had been funny at the time. A little play on words.
My home page appeared and I clicked onto Google. I hesitated. What the hell should I search for? A hill? I hadn’t the faintest idea where I would find it, even assuming it really existed. Okay, I could narrow the search down to pictures only, but even so a massive search engine like Google would probably throw up hundreds—if not thousands—of entries. Why not try something smaller? I selected a more obscure one from my menu of search engines and typed in “big hill UK” in the query box before clicking Images.
The first of what appeared to be two pages flashed onto the screen. Some of the pictures weren’t even of hills, let alone big ones, but I recognized the Neolithic, man-made Silbury Hill in Wiltshire before moving on to page two. Only a few images here. I dismissed each of them before settling on one—just an artist’s representation. But…
I hovered my cursor over it and clicked. A website appeared, with different landscape paintings, and I found the one that had caught my eye. It looked familiar, but I needed to see photographs. The caption read Pendle Hill. Somewhere inside me, a distant memory stirred.
I returned to the search engine, typed in “Pendle Hill” and clicked. As the page filled up in front of me, I gasped. Image after familiar image flashed up.
I stared at them. It did exist.
I had found the hill in my dream.
Chapter Two
March 1611
James Device pulled his coat closer around him a
nd buttoned it tightly against the icy blast he knew would greet him. He opened the heavy oak door. Even through the thick stone walls of Carre Hall, he could hear the wind howling over the grasslands of Pendle. He turned the handle and the door creaked a little. No doubt she would have him oiling those hinges tomorrow. If he came back tomorrow.
The force of a fierce, whistling gale snatched James’s breath away. He pulled up his high collar and bent his head into the wind. Through the yard and down the lane, he fought against the strength of the natural force as it threatened to knock him off his feet. He squinted over at the long, brooding rise of Pendle Hill and the maelstrom of dark clouds swirling over it. Hard to tell how much of the encroaching darkness belonged to the approaching storm and how much was due to night drawing in. At some time after six on a March evening, it could be either.
He had half a mile to walk and kept up the best pace he could as the wind fought him for every step. James had youth, strength and his stout leather boots on his side. A smile curled his lip. This year he went about dressed for the elements. At least those hours of pounding away at Mistress Towneley had not been for naught.
The thought of her froze his smile. Six months had passed since she first made her desires known to him. He could remember that first time as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He had been chopping logs for her fire, stripped to the waist in the heat of an early September afternoon. Intent on his labors, he hadn’t heard her approach until her soft voice had caused him to halt his ax.
“You have grown, James. You’re no longer the little boy who used to play around my cook’s skirts and beg her for tidbits.”
He laid the ax down on a tree stump and turned to her, making no attempt to cover himself. He smiled. What did she want? It didn’t take him long to guess; he could see it written in her eyes. He knew his dark eyes and even white teeth would raise the heat in her blood still further as he continued to smile at her. She caught her breath and touched her throat self-consciously. Was that a blush creeping up from her bosom? The woman must be nearing fifty. Maybe the heat that signaled the end of her monthly courses had given rise to that unnatural flush.
“James, I have a fancy that we could be of great benefit to each other.”
He made his eyes grow wide in a feigned attempt at innocence. “Benefit, Mistress Towneley? How so?”
She advanced towards him and her podgy, bejeweled fingers stroked his arm. Her breath came in short bursts and her eyes half closed. Oh yes, she had wanted him then and she wanted him now. Just like this. Hot and sweaty from his labors.
“I can improve your lot, James. I can give you food, clothes, money. If you will do me a kindness in return.”
He maintained his innocence. Let her work for it. “Kindness, Mistress? What kindness could I do for you?”
Her eyes opened wide and a questioning look appeared on her face, her head slightly on one side. She searched his face and then gave a light laugh. “Oh James, you would have me think you such a naive young man, but I believe you know exactly to what I refer. Master Towneley is away at his business a great deal and I am left here all alone.” She had lowered her eyelids in what she must have believed to be a demure gesture. Such a look might have been appropriate on a girl of sixteen, but her face, with its sagging jowls and crow’s feet, rendered it an ugly parody. “I have certain—needs. And I am quite sure you can help me to, shall we say, satisfy them?”
He had laughed with her then, thinking of what he could gain from this alliance. Then he had picked up his shirt and followed her and had chopped no more wood that day.
At first he hadn’t minded too much. She would call on him maybe once in a week, whenever Master Towneley went away to attend to his business. But for the past six weeks or so, her demands had become more frequent. Now she took risks, coming out to the fields to find him, in full view of the other laborers, ordering him to go with her to the barn. He knew all eyes followed them and he knew what they said behind his back.
But she remained true to her word. Unlike his neighbors, his family had meat most days, cloth for his mother to make skirts and blouses for Alizon and shirts for him. Mistress Towneley had even bought him the good, thick coat he wore now, woven in Halifax from the finest wool. She provided him with the leather boots that kept his feet warm. And the breeches.
Now, on this freezing night, James trudged on, growing weary. The wind still howled around him, lashing at his face, stinging his cheeks. And then the rain came, sheeting off the hill, soaking him in minutes. No point in seeking shelter. Nothing would stop the relentless blast in Pendle Forest—a forest without trees.
He struggled to raise his head against the force of the wind. Ahead of him he thought he saw the figure of a woman, dressed strangely. The rain dripped into his eyes and blurred the image but, like him, she was battling against the elements. By her stumbling gait, it looked like she was losing too. A sudden stab of pain in his gut doubled him over for a second. He must go to her. Something told him she needed him to help her find her way. He pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and tried to focus, but she seemed faint somehow, wraithlike. Out of time and out of place. He stood as still as the buffeting wind would allow, peering into the gloom. Surely she had seen him? From deep inside his soul, he felt a strange connection with her, even though he knew for certain he had never before laid eyes on her.
At last I have found you. But he had no idea why he thought that.
He blinked hard, and each time he did so, she faded still further. She must be an apparition. Nothing new in that. He had seen them before. All his family had. All except Jennet maybe, and little William.
One more blink and she had gone. If she had ever been there in the first place.
The darkness closed in all around him and the rain poured heavier. Ahead a hundred yards or so, he could see the lights of the cottage. Despite the freezing cold, a warm glow crept up his body. Soon he would be home. His mother would be sewing. William, his five-year-old half brother, would be playing with his ball. The living room, its hearth burning with turfs from Mistress Towneley, would spread its smoky warmth, and a pot of rabbit stew would be simmering away, ready for James’s homecoming. He wouldn’t ask where the rabbit had come from.
Alizon, with her dark eyes and flowing black hair, would be waiting for him. The thought of her stirred his groin.
I am almost here, sweetness.
She would hear his thoughts and make ready.
Mistress Towneley tugged at James’s sleeve. Two of his fellow laborers smirked and giggled, but she seemed neither to hear nor care.
“I need you now, James. You must come. He is away for the rest of the day.”
James inhaled. “Mistress, I must finish these staves before the master returns.”
She waved her hand. “Let Robert do them. I have need of you urgently.”
“Go and do the mistress’s bidding, James.” His fellow laborer’s voice held more than a hint of a smirk. “I’ll chop those for you.”
The giggles became raucous guffaws, but still Mistress Towneley took no heed.
James’s anger welled up inside him, twisting and coiling around his intestines. He had an urge to silence these upstarts with the power that strained for release inside him, but that would have to wait. Besides, in their place, he might well have behaved in the same way. He bit back his fury, nodded and set down his ax.
He followed Anne Towneley across the yard and through the front door, knowing the others were still watching him, knowing also that they resented him. But then his whole family was hated, even feared by many. What should he care for their sniggers? He had the power and could vanquish them whenever he chose.
Where would she take him today? Not the master bedroom, he hoped. He held no malice for Henry Towneley and no wish to cuckold him in his own marital bed. But, with fleeting dismay, he saw that indeed this would be their destination. And Mistress
Towneley had no time to waste.
“Quickly, James, I’m on fire. I’m burning for you.”
He forced a smile and unbuttoned his shirt. She had already scrambled out of her skirt and petticoats. He sat on the bed and allowed her to pull off his boots. Then her hand moved to his crotch, and he read the disappointment in her eyes.
“But you are not ready for me.”
James pulled her plump body to his chest, nestling her cheek into the curls of black hair. His hands drifted down to her bodice and he unhooked it, exposing her chemise.
“Now, please, now.” She tugged at the buttons on his breeches.
He closed his eyes and forced a vision of Alizon to flood his brain.
He awoke suddenly, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to his surroundings. Clean linen caressed his naked body. A soft pillow nuzzled his head. Next to him, gentle snores. Alizon? No, Mistress Towneley. The familiar disappointment gripped his stomach. Then a sudden urge to get out of there clutched him. He couldn’t bear lying next to that woman a moment longer.
James stretched long, muscular legs, careful not to wake the slumbering middle-aged woman into whose barren womb he had so recently deposited his seed. Light flooded the room from the high Tudor windows. James couldn’t have slept long, but he had to dress and go. He had known her want him to mount her twice in one afternoon, and today he hadn’t the stomach for it.
He pushed the sheets back and stood, reaching for his breeches. She stirred and opened her eyes, then focused her gaze on his groin. Lying on her back, she licked her lips and stretched. Her plump breasts flopped back, almost into her armpits. James felt a wave of disgust. How pale and lardy, compared to his firm, young Alizon.
She pulled back the sheet next to her and patted the mattress. “Come back to bed, my sweet.”
James forced a smile as he pulled up his breeches and reached for his shirt. “I regret I cannot, Mistress. I am spent for the rest of the day. You have sapped all my strength. And my juices.”
She seemed satisfied with that and contented herself with watching as he tidied himself. He gave his cock a lingering stroke before putting it inside his breeches, knowing she liked that. He saw the thrill shiver up her body. With any luck that one simple gesture would earn him a bottle or two of ale to take home to share with Alizon and his mother.
The Pendle Curse Page 2
