The Pendle Curse

by Catherine Cavendish

  “And table tennis balls rolling across the floor, perhaps?”

  I smiled. “Well, you never know.”

  But I’d always been a skeptic. Funny really. Of the two of us, the usually practical Dawn seemed more inclined to believe in the supernatural, whereas I, the more emotional of the two, needed far more convincing. Until now.

  If only I could explain the noises. The voice. And, yes, the damned ping-pong ball.

  Chapter Six

  James made his way along the stony street to the alehouse, over mud, sheep droppings and rotten, slimy vegetables. Maybe after a few mugs of beer, he would be able to face the onslaught of his mother when he told her there would be no more wine or quality meat for her pot. No more fine linen for his shirts either, or soft wool for Alizon’s skirts.

  Alizon. How could he tell her she would have to go back to begging every day? How could he tell his grandmother that she would have to put a little less fuel on her fire?

  James shivered in the chill early evening air and pulled his cape closer around him. Ahead, past the weavers’ cottages, the welcoming lights of the busy alehouse drew him in.

  Inside, twenty or so of the village menfolk were grouped around small, scrubbed tables, mugs and tankards of beer in their hands. Barmaids mingled, ready to top up their customers with jugs of ale, or deal them a sharp slap if one went too far and tried a quick grope.

  James found a vacant table and sat. Two barmaids appeared either side of him. One slammed an ale-filled pewter mug down on his table. “Where have you been, James? We haven’t seen you here in days. Mistress Towneley been keeping you busy then?”

  He flashed her a smile and grabbed her around the waist. “Now, Sal, you know I would never stay away from you unless I was truly occupied—and not with any old lady either. I’ve been looking after my family as a dutiful son should.”

  He drew the buxom Sal onto his lap, and winked at the other barmaid. She sighed and moved off.

  Yeoman farmer John Duckworth made his unsteady way towards him. “Dangerous thing you did today, James. You were Mistress Towneley’s favorite. Her little lapdog. Why ruin such a soft life?”

  Anger rose in James’s gut. His body tensed, and Sal rolled off his lap and backed off. James stood to face the half-drunk man. Conversation gradually died as more of the men became aware of the developing scene. James came closer to the farmer, who remained where he stood, swaying slightly. John Duckworth looked up at his opponent, at least six inches taller and ten years younger than him. He belched.

  The sour mix of ale and onions assailed James’s nostrils. “If you weren’t drunk, I would make you pay for those words.”

  The older man squinted at him. “If I was sober, I would give you a fight. No mistake. Got no time for cheats and cuckolds.”

  An audible intake of breath issued from the half dozen men nearby.

  James felt the demon spirit move inside him. He stared at Duckworth.

  “By’r Lady, he’s giving him the evil eye,” the blacksmith said, crossing himself. “Don’t look at him or you’ll catch it too!”

  John Duckworth staggered backward and fell over a stool. His mug flew out of his hand, splashing beer over the men, who seemed hardly to notice. Their horrified faces finally registered on James.

  You have had your sport. Enough.

  The spirit heard and grew silent. James knew his eyes would be normal now.

  Conversations resumed. Although this time the demon had let them see, they wouldn’t remember the fire in James’s eyes. It hadn’t been directed at them.

  Only one man would remember, and right now he clearly couldn’t get away fast enough. He continued to stare at James with terror in his eyes, as he backed off.

  The blacksmith pushed him out of the way. “Oy, Duckworth. What are you about? Watch yourself!”

  John Duckworth whimpered like a frightened puppy.

  James stood, legs apart, arms folded, as the terrified farmer diverted in a wide semicircle to avoid passing close to him. Then Duckworth shot out of the door, letting it slam behind him. James knew that would be the last time that man supped in this alehouse. He had put the curse on him, and John Duckworth would never see another dawn.

  James sat back down at the table and supped deep from the pewter mug. When Sal returned to his side, he grabbed her hand and she followed him, laughing all the way to her bed, where he threw her down and mounted her.

  As he pounded into her, he saw her eyes turn from lust to fear.

  “James, you’re hurting me.”

  She tried to shove him away, but he pinned her down with his body, trapped her hands above her head with one hand and ripped her bodice with the other.

  She pleaded with him to stop, tears streaming down her face. But something drove him on, harder and harder. She screamed. “James. Your eyes! What’s happened to your eyes?”

  Then she went limp under him.

  Within seconds, he poured his seed into her. Sal lay still, her eyelids closed.

  James pulled himself out of her, spent and panting. What had she meant about his eyes? He hadn’t summoned his spirit, so they should have been normal. But the demon had still waxed within him from his encounter with the farmer. He had taken Sal too soon.

  He went to the small chest of drawers at the far end of the bedroom and picked up a hand mirror. His eyes stared back at him, no longer black. No longer burning with the dark fire of his demon. No longer as Sal had seen them.

  Sal stirred. “What happened, James? Why am I so sore down here?” She touched her groin and then spread her legs. Blood smeared her thighs and stained the grubby white sheet.

  “Your courses,” he said quickly. “Maybe they have come a little early.”

  If his demon spirit had done this to her, she would not remember. He had never intended her any harm. He had miscalculated. She stared at the blood and then back at him.

  “My courses. Yes…” Her voice had a faraway quality, as if trying to recall something, but failing.

  “I’ll go now. Leave you to…” He indicated the mess on her sheets.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice still in that other world as she continued to stare at him.

  He dressed quickly and dropped a light kiss on her forehead as he left her, still sitting up in the messy bed, still trying to remember.

  He awoke from a deep sleep to find his mother shaking his arm. “What have you done to Mistress Towneley?”

  He sat up, wiped his sleep-filled eyes and blinked at the light pouring into his room. Normally a dawn riser, he must have slept late.

  “James.”

  He couldn’t miss the panic in his mother’s voice. “What has happened?” he asked.

  Elizabeth paced the floor, her arms folded and her lips set in a thin line. “Mistress Towneley is ill. Set to die, so I have heard. It seems a group of the men witnessed an exchange between the two of you, and the day after that, she fell ill of a fever. The doctors cannot find the cause and now they are saying someone bewitched her.” Elizabeth stopped pacing and came up to James where he still lay in bed. She stood over him. “James, they are saying that they saw you give Mistress Towneley the evil eye. They are accusing you of witchcraft. You know how serious that is.”

  “Nonsense, Mother. If I had truly given her the evil eye, only she would remember it. You know that. This is idle talk.”

  “Nevertheless, you must dress yourself. We will go to Malkin Tower and ask your grandmother what is to be done. Idle talk or not, people have hanged for less.”

  James pushed the sheet aside, and his mother averted her eyes from the sight of her son’s naked body.

  “Where is Alizon?”

  “Your sister has gone to Colne. Begging. At least she is aware of her responsibilities to this family.”

  James bit back the retort that sprang to his lips. As his mo
ther, she deserved to be accorded some respect. But she had known what he was about with Mistress Towneley. As long as the food kept coming, she had been quite content to let her son behave no better than a common whore, so finding that respect came a little hard some days.

  In the kitchen he found her drinking a mug of spiced wine. She pointed to it. “I am enjoying this while it lasts. There will be no more after this, I suppose. Not now my son has killed his employer’s wife.”

  Again James bit back the words he longed to hurl at her. He cast a quick glance around. No sign of William. Alizon had probably already taken him up to Malkin Tower. As his eyes scanned the room, they alighted on the child Jennet sitting on the floor, her arms clasped around her thin knees. He recoiled from the look of hate in her eyes and turned back to his mother.

  She slammed her mug down hard on the table. “So if not the evil eye, what was it? A death curse? Or perhaps a little demon to agonize her along the way to Purgatory.”

  James shook his head. “Anger, Mother. Pure anger and rage. She accused me of thievery when she herself gave me those turfs and the food. Never have I stolen from Henry Towneley. All that we have had has been freely given by his wife.”

  Freely given? The irony of his own words almost brought a smile to his face, but he stopped it just in time. His mother wouldn’t have understood and would have taken it for levity. But truly, he had paid dear for every morsel of food and every stitch of clothing that had come into this house.

  The door burst open. Alizon. She hurried to him and he held her close, soothing her as she wept.

  “I have terrible news,” she said. “The worst news. Mistress Towneley died not one hour since. Oh, James…”

  Damn the bloody woman. This meant trouble of the worst kind. And not only for him. Many out there would like to see scores settled with his family.

  Elizabeth Device jumped to her feet. “We must go to Malkin Tower. Mother will know what we must do.”

  A biting March wind sent gunmetal clouds swirling and threatened to knock them off their feet. James steadied Alizon as she staggered up the short, steep slope to Malkin Tower. He caught his mother watching as his arm snaked around his sister’s shoulders.

  “Not here. Not in public,” she said, her voice almost lost in the wind. “Do you want to bring further trouble on us all?”

  James withdrew the offending arm, exchanging a bittersweet smile with Alizon as he did so. She pulled her shawl tighter over her head, and tied it around her neck, in a vain attempt to stop it from billowing out behind her.

  They reached his grandmother’s front door, and as Elizabeth unlatched it, the old woman looked up from where she sat on her straight-backed wooden chair by the smoking fire. Once the three of them were in, James shut the door.

  “Lock it,” the old woman rasped. “If they get angry, we don’t want them bursting in. They may yet send for Master Nowell and his henchmen.”

  “Surely not, Grandmother,” James said as he sat down at the table. “What would they need a magistrate for?”

  “To question you. What else? You have abused your powers, settled too many scores in ways bound to draw attention. That Hopkins boy—”

  “He had base intentions towards Alizon.” James didn’t need to be reminded of the fellow laborer who had entertained all and sundry at the alehouse with tales of what he wanted to do to Alizon. Well, he would never get to do it now.

  “He could have been dealt with and still be alive today. So already you have two deaths that may call you to account. I suspect there may be more. You have been foolish and headstrong, James. And in so doing, you have exposed us all to danger.”

  Her gaze burned into him and James lowered his head. Grandmother. The only person he truly feared. Her great power had never diminished over the years.

  “I am sorry, Grandmother.”

  Alizon came and sat beside him, while their mother went over to the only other chair, by the fireside, opposite her mother. William played with a ball on a threadbare rug on the stone floor. Jennet had been left behind, forgotten, at the cottage. No one would know if she went out. No one would care.

  Without a word, the old woman reached down to a little recess at the side of the hearth. She opened a tiny door and took out a small wooden box, blackened with age and wear. Her misshapen fingers fumbled with the hinges.

  She thrust it out towards James. “Open this for me, boy.”

  James took it from her and struggled for breath as a rush of energy surged through his body. The Power. Not for nothing did they call his grandmother “Demdike”—demon woman.

  His hands trembled as he tugged at the lid. A musty smell combined with some bitter herb—rue maybe—stung his nostrils. Inside the box lay the teeth from the skull he had dug up so recently. And there were others too. Surely today his grandmother couldn’t be planning to heal someone. Before he could peer further into the deep interior of the small box, the old woman made a grab for it.

  “It is not for you to know the secrets within, boy. Give it to me.” Her voice grated, like iron being scraped across gravel.

  James handed it over without a word.

  Alizon and his mother watched in silence as Grandmother poked about until she found a tiny leather bag, tied at the top. She held it up. Then she lay the box carefully at her feet.

  She thrust the little bag at Alizon. “You, girl. Open it for me.”

  Alizon took it from her and, with difficulty, wrenched the cord apart. She didn’t look inside. Maybe fearful of a similar rebuke to the one James had received.

  Their grandmother took a handful of what appeared to be gray dust from the bag, and her lips moved as she muttered some incantation. Then she flung the dust on the fire.

  The flames shot up. Ice blue. Fierce. Everyone recoiled except the old woman. She struggled to her feet and stood in front of the fire, her arms upraised, as the flames shot higher and higher up the chimney.

  “I conjure thee, spirits of flame, do my bidding.” She chanted under her breath for a full minute before, as fast as they had sprung up, the flames died down.

  A sharp rapping sounded at the door.

  “They have come for you, boy. Go with them. No lasting harm shall come to you this time. The spell is cast.”

  James stared at her for a second. He didn’t know what power she had summoned, but he trusted her words. But “this time”, she had said. What about next time?

  The rapping sounded again. He nodded at his grandmother and gave a reassuring smile to Alizon. His mother looked away. Her shoulders heaved but he knew she wouldn’t want him to see her weep.

  He said nothing and opened the door. Outside, a small crowd had gathered, eager to see the spectacle of old Demdike’s grandson being shackled and led away in ropes and chains. James glared at them and had the satisfaction of seeing some of them cross themselves and look away. Hypocrites! He despised them all.

  In front of him stood three men in uniform, armed with pikes. They flanked an official holding a scroll, which he now unrolled.

  “James Device,” he said, “I am arresting you on suspicion of causing the death of Mistress Anne Towneley on this day, by witchcraft. I am commanded to take you to be questioned.” He rolled up the scroll. “You will come with us now.”

  James said nothing. The crowd mocked as they tied him up and led him away, yanking the rope so that, with his feet hobbled in chains, he stumbled and almost fell.

  They had taken him as he was, in his shirt, with no coat to ward off the fierce wind that chilled him to the bone. Within seconds, he could barely feel his lips. The rough rope chafed his wrists as they dragged him along, to the jeers of the villagers who lined the rutted lane. He looked straight ahead. Nothing they could say would hurt him.

  “Where are you taking me?” His teeth were chattering so much he could hardly get the words out.

  The guard
next to him answered, his voice unemotional, “Our orders are to deliver you to Master Nowell at Read Hall. He wishes to question you.”

  Read Hall. James knew it and he knew of Master Nowell—one of the richest men in the area. A God-fearing man too, but not averse to employing techniques designed to make strong men confess to crimes they might not actually have committed. A clutch of fear tugged at James’s spine and began to wind its way upward like ivy on a wall. He must control it. He must summon up his spirits to help him stay strong. Just as his grandmother had taught him.

  The guard behind him shoved him hard. “Get along there.”

  A gray haze descended in front of James and he fought to control it. Not now. The spirit could not reveal itself with so many around. It must wait. So he said nothing and quickened his pace.

  They had left the villagers behind. Still the wind whipped through his linen shirt, and the ropes binding his wrists grew bloody as they broke the skin. He knew from the milestones they had trudged four miles, so they had another mile or so before they came to Read Hall.

  In his mind, a vision of Alizon appeared. He could see her as clearly as if she walked beside him, and he could smell her freshly washed hair. Lavender and rosemary. Her voice echoed in his head from far away. “I love you James. I will cast a spell of protection for you.”

  The sweet image faded, and once again he was stumbling along the dirt track. Soon they neared a stone-built manor house. Read Hall.

  The guard who had shoved him earlier spoke. “We’re here.”

  Four towering columns framed a heavy oak door, which now opened.

  “Untie him.”

  James eyed the man who had issued the order. Here stood someone used to a sumptuous dining table. James was at least a head taller than him, but this man wore a fur-lined cape with a heavy chain of office. It gleamed in the light from the many massive candles in the entrance hall.

  He knew the house’s owner, with his podgy hands and velvet breeches. Master Roger Nowell, magistrate of this district. James stared at him, his expression unwavering as the guards cut the ropes that bound his hands and unlocked the padlocks to the ankle chains.