Another guard spoke now. His voice sounded less cruel, and he whispered into her ear. “Let your eyes adjust. You’ll see the stairs then.”
She turned slightly to acknowledge him but he had moved back. She looked forward and blinked rapidly. In the dark, the dim outline of a flight of steep stone steps took shape. They disappeared into the blackness far below, and she breathed through her mouth so she would be spared as much of the stench as possible.
“Get down there. You first.”
A hand pushed her and she staggered forward. Her grandmother clung to her arm. She guessed her enemy would be doing the same, but had neither the inclination nor the time to check. Chattox and that witch daughter of hers had got them into this desperate situation in the first place.
Alizon began the steep descent, taking one step at a time, balancing herself carefully before guiding her grandmother down. One step, then another, then another. She lost count of them, and of the number of times she nearly pitched down them.
Above her, the guards grew impatient, but to move any faster would be to court death or, possibly even worse, broken limbs.
With each step, her fears worsened, and with each step, the terrible stench grew worse.
Finally, she reached the bottom. The stone floor beneath her felt greasy and wet. She didn’t need to guess at the cause; the sickening smell told her—and all of them—what they must all have feared. How many others had been thrust down here, and how many had died in their own filth in this hellhole?
“What are we come to, girl?” her grandmother asked.
“Hell on earth, Grandmother,” Alizon replied, looking around her. All four women were now down there. Scared into silence. Four guards soon joined them. One carried a flaming torch. In its flickering light, Alizon could finally see the extent and nature of their new prison. No more than a few feet square, and in the center, a large iron ring had been fixed firmly into the stone. To her horror, she saw the guards had chains. Even her infirm grandmother and Old Chattox wouldn’t escape this. All four women were to be shackled to the floor. Like animals.
They grabbed her first. The cold iron cuff snapped shut on her right ankle, grazing the bone. Alizon bit her lip against the pain.
Next, her grandmother, then Anne Redferne, who struggled in vain to get as far away as possible. Finally they chained Chattox. Then they were left alone.
The only light came from the gateway above. So when the sun went down, as it would surely soon do, they would be plunged into utter darkness until morning.
The women sat, each lost in her own thoughts and fears. All except Old Chattox, who still seemed incapable of controlling the chattering sound her few remaining teeth made as her mouth moved incessantly.
Alizon would have liked to shut her up permanently, but she hadn’t the strength. She needed all her energy to focus on trying to find her spirit familiar. If only the powerful spirit she knew as Black Dog would appear to her…but still she searched in vain.
“Alizon! Alizon!”
The familiar voice came to her in a dream. She moved towards it, feeling her way along a silken rope that became rougher with each step she took.
Then it fell away and her eyes opened. Dismay hit her in a second. She was still in the dungeon and her ankle ached from the heavy iron clamp.
“Alizon!”
She peered upward as the women around her stirred, woken by a mix of her movement and the voice.
At the top of the stairs. A male outline, silhouetted against a pale sun. “James?”
“What have they done to you?”
His voice sounded more frightened than angry. That shocked her. She had never known her brother scared before.
“I can barely see you,” he said. “Can you come into the light?”
“We are chained, James. None of us can move more than a few feet in any direction.”
She managed to wriggle forward a little, despite protesting grunts from Chattox. Alizon’s grandmother helped to release a few inches of her chain, which had become entangled, and now the meager light bathed Alizon in its dim glow.
“I have to get you out of there.”
She could tell by his reaction that tears were near the surface, but he mustn’t lose control. Things were bad enough now, but who knew how much worse they could get? At least they were still alive. If James acted unwisely, he could be the next to be thrown down here. Up there, he might be able to help them.
“Is that Chattox with you?”
“Yes, and her daughter.”
“Bitches. They’ll swing for this.”
That remark drew angry threats from their enemies.
“James, be careful,” Alizon said.
A pause. Alizon could almost hear him trying to control his rage and calm himself.
“I only have a few minutes.” His voice was muffled, as if he didn’t want anyone up there to hear. “I bribed one of the guards to let me see you. How is Grandmother?”
“I am here, boy.” Her voice croaked more than ever. She sounded exhausted. The tortured sleep had done her no good at all.
“I hear you, Grandmother. Try not to worry. I will do whatever I can. You’ll soon be out of there.”
“I am assured of that,” she said, before a fit of coughing overtook her.
Alizon knew what she meant. If James couldn’t get her grandmother out, a wooden box would.
The rattling of the padlock stirred Alizon into life and she opened her eyes. Someone started down the steps. Beside her, Grandmother groaned and coughed.
Alizon reached behind her for the small bowl of brackish water she knew to be there. “Drink this. For your throat.”
Her grandmother took it from her, but her twisted hands trembled. She almost spilled it. On her grandmother’s other side, Anne Redferne lunged for it. Alizon snatched it away and held it for her grandmother to sip from.
Redferne snapped at her. “My mother has need of it too.”
Alizon spat in her direction. “You had your own. Too bad if you were not frugal with it.”
The guard tugged at her arm. Alizon had no choice; she pressed the bowl into her grandmother’s shaking hands as he dragged her to her feet. In a second, Anne Redferne snatched the bowl away and handed it to her mother, placing it carefully between her outstretched hands. She smiled in triumph at her enemy.
“You’ll regret that,” Alizon said between clenched teeth. Redferne laughed at her, mocking her for the impotence of her words.
Alizon felt the welcome relief of the clamp removed from her throbbing ankle.
“Get up the steps, girl; you stink like a sewer.”
The guard pushed her and she limped. Her ankle, bound for so long, needed time for the blood to circulate. Two more guards stood sentry at the top so there could be no possibility of escape. Not that her ankle would allow it anyway.
As she reached the sweet, fresh air, she became aware of a sickening stench close by and realized it came from her. She blinked painfully in the bright sunlight, even though the day was—mercifully for her—overcast. She looked down and took in her filthy dress, her muck-streaked legs and arms. God alone knew what her face must look like.
“You are to be bathed. On orders of Master Covell.”
Alizon turned her eyes upward and glared at the guard who had spoken. “And who, pray, is Master Covell?”
“The keeper of this prison. You will do well to mind him. He has your life in his hands.”
The old Alizon would have laughed with contempt at the presumptuousness of this remark, but she had buried that Alizon. Instead, she worked hard at maintaining a defiant glare. The guards took no notice. They bound her hands and pushed her along. She hobbled painfully. As she glanced down, she could see the skinned and smarting ankle, filthy like the rest of her but also horribly discolored and misshapen, twice the size of her other
one.
The old iron tub was battered and bent, the water so cold it snatched her breath, but Alizon closed her eyes, scrubbing away the filth and bathing her aching limbs. Two women removed her old clothes and left her some well-worn but clean ones. Twice they ordered her out of the tub and she sat, shivering and naked, as they refilled it, the last time warming the water slightly and adding a cake of soap and a clean wash rag.
Alizon eyed the soap suspiciously. Such a luxury. When James had been sharing Mistress Towneley’s bed, he had sometimes brought small slivers of it home with him as a special treat for her, but she had never seen it in such quantity, and this was quality soap. Scented. The owner of this must be rich. But why would Master Covell—if indeed it be him—want her so clean and sweet smelling?
She shuddered. Soon she would know his purpose. She dried herself with the threadbare towel they had left for her and dressed, aware of two pairs of female eyes watching her every move. She looked down at her injured ankle. Now cleaned, she could see the purple, angry red and yellowish-brown mottling. Here and there the skin had broken and the flesh oozed. It felt hot and tender to the touch and burned with a fire that set her teeth on edge. She dabbed it with the towel and winced.
Alizon addressed the women. “Is it possible to have a dressing for my ankle? It pains me greatly.”
They exchanged glances. One of them nodded at the other and left, returning with some bandaging, which she handed to Alizon.
“I don’t suppose it can do any harm. Master Covell did say you were to be well-treated this day.” Her voice sounded surprisingly gentle but her words did nothing to reassure Alizon. For what purpose would she be “well-treated”?
Yet again, cold fear grabbed her, and this time she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“Come with us,” the other woman said as Alizon finished tying the bandage.
She left the room with them and limped along a lengthy corridor, hung with portraits whose subjects she didn’t recognize. Maybe they were kings and queens; how would she know? She had never seen one. She knew King James sat on the throne of England now and that he also ruled Scotland—the first ever to govern both countries. But if she had been asked to select him from a group of sumptuously attired men, she would have had no clue which one to choose.
The women arrived at a large, carved oak door and opened it. They motioned Alizon inside, and she took in the dark oak panels, the large, arched window at the far end and the exquisite multicolored rug.
Behind a massive desk sat a well-dressed man in a dark green jacket and snow-white shirt. He was writing with a quill pen and didn’t pause when they brought Alizon in. She had to wait until he finished and replaced the pen, precisely, in the holder on his desk. Only then did he clasp his hands in front of him and look at her.
His eyes were cruel. Hard and ice-blue. Even when he smiled, as he did now, it remained at his lips. Nothing would warm those eyes.
“Alizon Device,” he said.
She stood firm, ignoring the pain.
He indicated a wooden armchair in front of him. “Please. Sit.”
What was his game? Why so polite? Her eyes never left him as she limped to the chair and sat down.
His gaze shifted to the women behind. “Leave us. Fetch me two guards.”
She heard the swishing of skirts and imagined the two women almost fighting to get out of that man’s presence. The door opened again and she heard the stomping of two pairs of feet in heavy boots.
The blue eyes focused on her once more as he came out from behind the desk. “I am Master Covell, and on this day you are going to confess to being a witch.”
Alizon opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again as she saw his hand rise. Was he going to hit her now?
He lowered the hand and smiled, then returned to his desk to pick up a sheet of paper. He waved it at her.
“On this sheet, I have a confession, prepared by Master Nowell of Read Hall. You know Master Nowell of course?”
Alizon nodded. Confession? She had confessed nothing to Master Nowell.
“In this document, you confessed to bewitching the peddler, John Law, of Halifax.”
“I never—”
“Silence.”
Alizon said no more but her mind worked fast. What confession? There had been no confession, and she had threatened John Law if he ever spoke against her, he would pay for his betrayal. Then dismay hit her. How could she make him pay? Her spirits had deserted her. They’d left her powerless to exact her revenge.
Thomas Covell returned to his paper. “You confessed to having a familiar. A black dog, which you summoned. It asked what you wished of it. You told it to hobble the man. It did so and the peddler fell down lame.” He looked up at her. “What say you to this?”
Alizon sprang to her feet, only to be pushed back down again by an alert guard. “Move again and we will tie you to the chair,” he said.
Alizon’s anger overcame her fear. “I said nothing of this. Nor of any familiar. It is lies. Lies!” How could he have learned about her black dog? No one outside the family knew of it. And John Law.
Thomas Covell smiled and read again from the sheet. “Here it says that two years ago, a certain Rich Baldwin did fall out with your grandmother, and that you and she resolved to exact revenge on him for calling you whores and witches. You did make him sick, along with his girl child. A year later, the child died—a victim of your witchcraft and that of your evil grandmother known in Pendle as Demdike.”
Alizon clenched her fists, but this time she remained seated. How had he learned of that?
“Who has told you this?”
Thomas Covell waved the paper at her. “Why, no one but you, Mistress. Your words are written upon this paper, as sworn to by Master Nowell.”
“Then Master Nowell is a liar.”
The sharp, stinging slap sent her head slamming into the back of the chair. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall and continued to stare at her accuser. He had calmed down once more, and resumed reading from his accursed sheet.
“There is more here, Mistress, much more. But that will suffice. For now.” He laid the paper down on his desk. Alizon waited. Behind her, the guards shuffled their feet. They must have witnessed scenes like this countless times. Unlike her, they must know what would be likely to follow.
He came close to her. Too close. She fought with herself not to sink back into the chair. She must show no weakness.
“You are a very pretty young woman, Mistress. With a very pretty neck.” He stroked it and a thousand insects crawled on her skin. “Such a shame if we had to stretch that pretty neck and then break it.” He made a clicking sound as his hands mimicked the snapping of a twig.
She blinked hard, tasted bile and swallowed it down.
He smiled. “I have enough evidence here to send you to the gallows. No jury in the land would set you free. But I could make it so different for you if you will give me what I need.”
Her body? She had given it for less. Let him have it.
No, that wasn’t what he meant. He had her at his mercy; he could take that whenever he chose. Indeed he might still do so this very day.
“Master Nowell tells me of a long-running feud between your family and the person and family of one Anne Whittle, with whom you are incarcerated.”
What new treachery was this?
He picked up another sheet of paper. “Master Nowell also tells me that your own father fell foul of this woman and her daughter. He says John Device had covenanted with Anne Whittle to pay her in oatmeal every year so that she should not harm him or his family by witchcraft. About eleven years ago, he ceased to pay her, and as a result, she bewitched him to death. Master Nowell writes that you told him this.” He paused and looked at Alizon.
She said nothing. Too stunned to speak. That her father had been
killed in this way was true, but again, where had Nowell learned of it?
“I have more.” He looked back down at the paper. “You also told Master Nowell that, about two years ago, your good friend, Anne Nutter, was bewitched to death by the woman Anne Whittle—known as Chattox. And you spoke of seeing Chattox with a clay image of the child of one John Moore. This child, Hugh Moore, then sickened and died.” He laid the sheet down. “Now what say you to these heinous crimes of witchcraft, Mistress? Does Master Nowell write the truth? Did the woman called Chattox commit these terrible crimes?”
Alizon’s heart pounded and her breath came in short gasps. Had he offered her a lifeline here? If she testified against Chattox, then not only would she be avenged against her sworn enemy, but maybe he would use his influence to have the charge against her waived.
Her tongue passed over her parched lips. “If I do say that what Master Nowell has written against Old Chattox is true, what of the charges against me?”
“I will ponder on them.”
Not good enough. “How do I know that if I do as you say, you will not still send me to the assize?”
Thomas Covell smiled that cruel smile and shrugged his velvet-clad shoulders. “You do not know, Mistress. Only I know what is my will to do.”
She took a deep breath. “Then I refuse. Only if I have your word, as a gentleman, and witness you tearing up the statement purporting to be my confession, but which was never obtained from my lips, will I agree to what you propose.”
She felt the soldiers stiffen behind her. She saw Thomas Covell’s expression change. Into those cold eyes came a bestial glare. He wasn’t a man used to being thwarted.
He advanced towards her and drew back his hand. Two ringing slaps, one to each cheek, followed, sending her head reeling.
“Hold her down,” he ordered, ripping her blouse and exposing her breasts. She struggled, but the guards were strong and her ankle hurt too much to be any use to her. He fumbled with his hose and pulled her skirt up.
With no undergarments, her privy parts were exposed to him. She knew what would happen and that she must defy him by keeping silent. Her body went rigid. This would not be what he wanted. He wanted her to struggle. He wanted to have to beat her into submission. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction.
The Pendle Curse Page 17
