“Home” hissed Gran, wrenching me out of my thoughts as she yanked her arm away from me with a strength that once again made me doubt her need for support at all. “Run inside Lizard. Get the fire started then back out with ya. We need meat yet. Check the trap for rabbits. We don’t want to waste than nice shilling’ on food for you when there is buttered ale to be bought. The wine’s running dry an' all.”
As we started to walk up the small hill leading to the house I ran ahead. Malkin Tower is no tower at all. In fact it’s little more than a barn and a broken down old barn at that. As I got closer I could see the crumbling stone work dappled with moss and the soggy thatched roof, worn so thin in places that there were constant puddles of dirt stained water all over the house. I'd always wondered why the barn held the name Malkin Tower. I always thought that it was a name chosen by Gran for its airs n' graces and no-one dared challenge her on it. Whatever the reason for the name here it stood. This was home.
Chapter 5 - Roger
Roger took his hat and coat off as he arrived at his home in the village of Read. As he entered Read Hall he bashed his riding boots against the hard boot brush he kept on a brass stand mounted inside the doorway. Flakes of dried, crusted mud showered over the doorstop. Roger called to his manservant to come and remove his boots and replace them with his house shoes. Archibald Johnson, had been with Roger for many years and knew his master’s needs often before Roger himself did.
“I have prepared the drawing room Sir” said Archibald, in his clipped, monotone voice. “Your papers have arrived from London. The paper prepare by King James is in there, as expected Sir. I have asked Cook to prepare you some supper. Would you like a drink while you wait?”
“No thank you Johnson” said Roger “I am eager to get to my reading. Tell Cook I will eat in the drawing room then you can all retire for the evening. I have a lot of reading to do.”
Johnson nodded and drifted away in his usual silent and unobtrusive fashion which he had spent his many years in service cultivating. He made his way to the kitchen, warmer and brighter than the rest of the house and the only place in Read Hall still to have a bit of the bustle and rumble of life about it. He collapsed in an exhausted heap at the kitchen table. It had been a long day between the many errands he had been tasked with alongside managing the house staff.
“Send his grumpiness some supper up Elsie” said Johnson, allowing his King’s English accent to slip back into its real local twang, as broad as the accent of his family and friends in the nearby town of Barnoldswick.
“What would ‘is ‘igh an' mighty want this evenin’?” chirped Elsie. At age twenty she had already been in the service of Roger Nowell, magistrate and High Sheriff of Lancashire, for five years but she doubted he even remembered her name and was sure he wouldn’t recognize her if he passed her in the street.
Elsie was not a fan of the master’s pious Protestant ways and the snooty way he looked at people, as if he pitied them for not being as religious as he was; or as wealthy. He had kindly ways. He’d ever been mean to Elsie. She had never been beaten, like she knew that some staff in other wealthy houses were, and he gave her a whole shilling every Christmas. It wasn’t that he was a bad man at all. It was just that look that he gave everyone that Elsie hated, like he was so much better than them.
“Just some cold meats and cheese I think tonight” said Johnson “then boil the water and get the teapot on the go. It's time we all called it a night and had something to eat ourselves before bed. I'll call the rest of ‘em in”
With a sigh and trying not to crack his back as he levered himself out of the kitchen chair, Johnson went to gather the rest of the house staff. There were not many in Roger’s service. Johnson was manservant and head of the household, Elsie was the cook and house maid, Tilly, “the young ‘un”, was junior housemaid and Tom the stable hand. Once Elsie had served supper to their master she laid the table for the staff and they talked of the day’s events as they dunked chunks of heavily buttered bread in their mugs of tea.
“No company for ‘is highness tonight Mr Johnson?” chirped Elsie as they enjoyed their supper.
“Company? When was the last time that old grump had company?” said Tom as he brushed his sleeve across his mouth to clear a buttery smear from his chin.
“Now, now you two. You know that the Master has been economic in his company since the Mistress died”
Tilly looked at Johnson with a puzzled look which Johnson caught. Young and new into service Tilly was still inexperienced and quiet and her education was proving tiring.
“Economic, Tilly, means he doesn’t have much company over.” Johnson, as usual, guessed what was causing the puzzlement and took the opportunity to teach Tilly something new.
“Aye, economic with the money too” joined in Elsie, gesturing towards the last of the bread, just a bit too hard and dwindling by the day.
In the drawing room Roger had managed to read through his latest court papers and the news sheets from London before his super arrived. As a prominent Protestant in the county of Lancashire and a magistrate of the court he made it his business to remain informed of the goings on at the palace and in Parliament. It was less than seven years ago that Parliament King James I had become increasingly paranoid and had begun to strengthen his links with the well known and most zealous Protestants in each county. Lancashire was among the counties that King James feared the most. With its Catholic stronghold it had always been viewed as a dangerous and lawless place but even more so since it had been discovered that several of the gunpowder plotters had been planning to encourage an uprising in the county.
Roger had taken a few bites of his supper before picking up the most important of his papers. That had been an hour ago and his supper had remained untouched since then. The paper he had been waiting for had been written several years ago but was redistributed often as new tales of witchcraft arose across England. Less of a paper and more of a book it had been commissioned by King James himself after he had heard of a book called Malleus Malificarium being banned by the Catholic Church in the fifteenth century. It had been lauded, by King James, as being second in importance only to the Bible and was called The Daemonologie.
Roger had read and absorbed the The Daemonologie over the last hour with a passion, despite having read it in almost identical form every time it had been issued. It told him of the ways to spot a witch, the practices they indulged in and the harm they did. He blushed with outrage at the descriptions of witches suckling daemons in the form of animals. He was disgusted at the tales of their intimacies with these animals which they called “familiars” and morally offended by the visions painted of witches dancing naked around fires on the Sabbath day, chanting their spells and charms so similar to the dangerous prayers said by the Catholics that over-ran the county.
Roger had welcomed King James’ Witchcraft Statute in 1604. Crimes by witches which caused even the slightest damage to a bewitched victim were now a hanging offence. Anything less earned them a spell in the pillory in the nearest market town, a wooden box with holes for the witch’s head and arms, in which they could be duly humiliated for their crimes and revealed to all as a witch. Roger had never approved of the lax way in which Queen Elizabeth had dealt with witches, with the maximum penalty being a year in prison. Roger felt personally responsible for clearing the county of Lancashire of witches and Catholics and knew exactly where to start. He had thought about it for several years now but the latest re-issue of The Daemonologie and the reports of the latest duckings and hangings around the country, and of course the favours extended by King James to the magistrates who had put the wretched souls to death, had renewed Roger’s motivation to begin a crusade of his own.
Roger knew just who he was going to target for his investigations. There were many that didn’t go to church; many who needed closer inspection but there were those more obvious who called for Roger’s attentions. The two families that plagued this area with their superstitious ramblings wer
e the families of the old crones Demdike and Chattox. The two families had been feuding for years over which of the old women was the most powerful or most influential. Each took money or food from the local villagers for herbal remedies, charms and curses. Each family was as pitiful and as dishonest as the other.
Just that morning Roger had come across one of Demdike’s family; one of the runts, Alizon. He had shown her some Christian kindness, as was his way, and interestingly she had lied about who she was. Perhaps there was one member of the families who had some pride. Perhaps this Alizon was not a devil worshipper. Yes Alizon interested him. Perhaps there was one soul among the damned families that could still be saved. If she was willing to be saved.
Chapter Six
“Out of your bed Lizard. Time to get to work.”
I flinched as I felt a booted foot kick my leg, connecting painfully with my shin. I opened my eyes a crack to peer at James as he stood over my bed, arms folded.
I stretched and shivered as the cold air of the room hit me. There are fair amounts of holes in the thatch over the room I shared with our Nettie and no glass in the window. I put my feet on the floor, already soggy from the leak in the roof, and pulled a hessian shawl around my shoulders. Finally sick of freezing half to death I'd decided to use some sacking to make a shawl to cover my shoulders. Not pretty, I'll grant you, but warmer than nothing.
“What’s the rush? I've not even heard the cock crow yet”
I rubbed at my eyes, struggling to wake up fully, until I saw little flashes of white floating in my vision mixing in with the dust motes shimmering in the shaft of light coming through the window.
“Just cos you made a bunch o’ money doing favours for one o’ the rich folk don’t mean you get the day off Lizard. It’s a good month since you whored yourself out to that gent and money’s running short. The old woman needs to visit John Nutter Got a sick bull. You get to walk her there. Hurry up your scrawny behind or y’ll be sure to get a beating”
I did as I was told. Not because James had a bad temper, although he sure did, but because I knew that Gran would make my day a misery if I didn’t. James weren’t one to talk at me about money but I wouldn’t dare argue with him. Our James was eighteen and a spiteful lad. If he weren’t fighting or thieving he was drinking till he passed out. He weren’t all there, our James, a bit twisted he were, and folk called him moon kissed but he weren’t as dumb as he made out. He could be more vicious than Mam and Gran put together. I tied my shawl and put my shoes on, bought from the milk maid the week before, then I went to join Gran before her temper flared.
“Let's go child. No more dilly dallying from you today. Hold my arm.” Snapped Gran when I got outside “There’s money to be earned.”
I knew better than to answer back and moved to her side to take her arm. As we walked Gran muttered to herself in her usual manner. Spells, charms, curses, they all sounded the same hissing through her flaked, chapped lips. The hiss continued for the hour that it took to reach the Nutter farm. As we approached I caught the sweet sulphur smell of manure that caused a haze in the autumn air around every cattle and dairy farm in the area. Although I hated spending time with Gran I relished any chance I got to see people other than my kin. Good people, kind and honest folk, and what’s more Gabe might be there. Though I kept our friendship secret from Gran we did sometimes manage to grab a moment to chat when I visited the Nutter farm and I hadn’t talked to him since our tiff at Beggar’s Bend. My stomach flipped with excitement that I might see him.
As we got even closer to the farm I stared and couldn't help but envy the farmhouse, even the barns, all of which were in better condition than Malkin Tower. We walked through the farm gates and I smiled as delight and sorrow washed over me. I watched the five children who lived at the farm playing. They were throwing small stones at an old milk churn in the hope of getting one in and their laughter tinkled and rang out in the air. Their smiles displayed the pure unadulterated joy the game gave them. Me and Gran made our way towards the milking barn and I heard a shout, a woman's voice.
"Come on children. There's bread hot from the oven to be eaten. Jane pick up your little brother and help him in."
I watched the children run to the farmhouse where their mam stood in the doorway. They jostled and pushed as they carried on laughing and tried to dodge their mam's kisses as they squeezed in the small space between her and the door frame. The eldest girl looked about my age and walked at the back carrying the baby. She must be Jane. Jane smiled at her mam and leaned in for a hug as she reached the door and handed the baby over. Jane and her mam looked the best of friend as they went into the house chattering away about everything and nothing. I scanned the rest of the yard for signs of Gabe but couldn’t see him anywhere.
"Lizard. Snap out of it you stupid girl. I stubbed my toe on a rock then. Do you want me to be lame you little idiot?" Spat Gran as she wrenched the arm that I held to pull me back to the present.
"Sorry Gran" I said quickly and abandoned my daydreams of being one of the farmer's children. I led Gran out of the morning sun and air and into the cold, dark barn where the farmer was waiting for us.
"Mother Demdike. How are you today madam?" Came a voice from the other side of the barn. The voice, belonging to John Nutter, was slow and deep and calm.
"I am fine John Nutter. How is that cow of yours? What do you call me here for?"
"She's sickening for something. That calving took it out of her. She won't eat, just wants to sleep. She won't be good for nothing if you can't help"
"Fear not John Nutter. I brought my herbs. You go and be with your family and leave this to me."
As she spoke to the farmer Gran sounded almost nice. Though her voice remained low and hissing the tones behind it sounded polite and reassuring. As the farmer left the barn and went to join his family Gran returned to her usual malicious voice.
"Get me that milking stool and clear a space on the floor Lizard. Then get your scrawny bones out into the yard. You’re too clumsy and stupid to learn the ways of the Devil yet. You don't deserve his favour. This is woman's work. Now hurry, and then get out!"
I did as I was told. I fetched the stool and helped Gran to sit down, though I’m sure that the old battle axe needed no help. Then I left the barn with a sigh of relief as Gran spread her various herbs, dried fruit, small animal bones and stones on the barn floor. I wasn’t offended by Gran and Mam thinking that I didn’t deserve to have the favour of the Devil. In fact I was relieved. I didn’t know what I’d do when the day finally came when they wanted to initiate me into their wretched sisterhood.
Before Pa died he taught me about the Protestant faith and about God. Whenever I’d been too wide awake to be soothed just by lullabies Pa would sit on my bed and read me stories from a small tattered Bible that he had. I never found out if he could really read or if he just remembered the stories but I would listen and I loved the stories in the book. The day Pa disappeared, two days before Mam bothered to tell me he’d died, and I found the Bible under my bed. I still don’t know if it had fell there accidentally or if Pa knew his death was coming and left the book to help me with a future without him. Whatever the reason, the Bible and my belief in God, was all I had left of Pa and I secretly wrapped my beliefs around me like a security blanket which made me feel warm and loved. I was even too embarrassed to admit the depth of my feelings to Gabe. He believed in God but went to church under sufferance. He took it for granted that he could go to church or talk about God whenever he wanted.
It was with relief that I left the dark barn. Once outside I found a wall to sit on. The wall was near the barn and, although I would have loved to explore, I knew I should stay where I was. Gran would call me when she’d finished casting her charms and she had a wicked temper if I dilly dallied when she was called. It wasn’t just her tongue that would give me a lashing either.
I sat on the wall and swung my feet as I leaned my head backwards, eyes closed, to take in the morning sun. It was turn
ing into a slightly sunnier day now, though still with a bitter crisp, and with my newly made shawl I didn’t feel as cold as usual. I basked in my senses; in the reassuring smells of the dairy farm, the feeling of the rough stones under my legs and hands, the sounds of the cows and the chickens and the odd bark from the farm dog. The sound which was most bittersweet to me was the sound of the children’s laughter which drifted out of the kitchen. The farmer had joined them and I could hear his low, rumbling voice, calm and warming, a bit like Pa’s had been. Though it made my heart ache to wish I was sitting in that kitchen it also made me happy to hear people laughing and talking. If this was the nearest that I could get to happiness then at least it was something. Some happiness that I could secretly share in if only for a few minutes.
I felt a hand on my arm and my eyes shot open and heart sped. For Gran to catch me resting like this would earn me a whole heap of strife. I blinked away the flittering lights that had settled through my eyelids from the sun and realised that it was Gabe.
“Hi Lizzie. Having a hard time napping while I slog my guts out spreading muck eh?” Gabe chuckled as I felt myself blush.
It was so wonderful to see him after the last few weeks of nowt but my kin that I almost hugged him. He stared at me with a half smile on his lips and I felt my skin pleasantly warm where his hand sat on my upper arm. Then he seemed to shake himself and look back towards the yard where the chickens were scrabbling over bits of wheat which Mrs Nutter had tossed from the kitchen window.
Blood and Clay Page 3
