“Less of that nonsense!” I snapped. Jamesey reddened. It was all Peggy McGregor’s fault – she was forever turning the childer’s heads with this jabber.
“It’s not seagulls you hear crying at the Gobbins,” piped up Sarah. “It’s the ghosts of the Magee women and their babbies, begging the soldiers for mercy.”
“Whisht now. No more of that. It’s only one of them yarns we touched on, Mistress Mary. The wee’ans have no business repeatin’ it.”
“So there was no raid on the Magees of Islandmagee by soldiers who rode out from Carrickfergus Castle? They weren’t all slaughtered, the whole clan of them?” asked Mary.
I busied myself hooking up the casement shutters. They helped to block out the roar of the wind, or maybes it was the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks, floating across the fields to our ears. Or, if you believed the tale, neither wind nor waves but the crack of hooves, carrying men with blood on their blades and more bloodshed in their hearts.
Mary Dunbar wouldn’t take the hint. “Long before I came here, I heard about what happened on Islandmagee. My old nurse told me the story. She said every Magee on the island was put to the sword that night – or worse. Not a man, woman or child survived.” She looked meaningfully at me. “And a soldier called Hamilton Lock was the ringleader.”
I sighed. “Aye, there was a raid. But it was a long time ago. Getting’ on for seventy years now. Only one toothless aul’ dear minds it, and she was a wee cuddy at the time. She says no soldiers rode out from the castle, that’s fancyin’ up the truth. And God knows this truth needs nothin’ added. The soldiers came from Ballycarry – they were quartered out that direction. Some were on horseback, most of them on foot. All of them were fired up after bein’ in a shebeen.”
“But is the rest true? Were the Magee men run through while they slept in their beds? And the women and children chased to the cliffs, and forced onto the rocks at sword-point?”
“There were bodies found caught on the rocks below the Gobbins, and fishermen saw more floatin’ in the water. The corpses were all women and bairns. I doubt if they went willin’ over the cliffs.”
“The soldiers were avenging the Scotch people,” said Jamesy. “It gave the Irish a lesson they never forgot.”
“The Irish would have cut our throats,” put in his sister.
“It chills my blood just thinking about it,” said Mary. “If it’s true, that is. You hear conflicting accounts.”
“Things happen when men go to war, mistress. Things it’s best not to dwell on. All’s peaceful in these parts now.”
“And Hamilton Lock? What did he do?”
“What didn’t he do, more like. Some say ’twas him paid for the drink to flow like water in thon shebeen. He fixed it with the landlord to keep it comin’. And all the time they were tipplin’, he reminded the soldiers about the wrongs done to the Scotch settlers. Then when they were quare and worked up, he put forward a bloodthirsty scheme. He was the one stoked the fires of vengeance, and led the way. Without him, it might only have been men talkin’ in their cups. Childer, you need to get a move on and tidy yourselves afore supper. By the way, mistress, I cleaned the blood off the floorboards in your room. Rhubarb leaves do the trick every time.”
I took myself back to the kitchen because I’d had enough of Mary Dunbar for now. Questions, questions, and all of them about Hamilton Lock. I was starting to have doubts about the mistress’s cousin.
* * *
Mistress Haltridge was well enough to join the family for supper, though her appetite was slight. When the old mistress was alive, Peggy and me dined with the family, but now she was gone my master’s wife made up her mind we should feed in the kitchen. Putting on airs and graces for her cousin’s benefit. It was no odds to me. I could take more enjoyment from my meat without her passing remarks over the way I used my penknife to cut it, or yammering about how much I ate. Sure, where was the point in being maid in a gentleman’s household if you couldn’t eat your fill?
Poor Peggy was not able to taste her own food any more, with all her teeth lost. She had to soak bread in milk before she could manage it, and most nights she dined on a bowl of mashed turnip. While we ate, Peggy quizzed me about the visitor. I said she was quick to ask about what happened at the Gobbins – I couldn’t bring myself to mention Hamilton Lock’s name.
“Better about the Gobbins than about the aul’ mistress,” I added. “At least what took place at the cliffs was ne’ther today nor yesterday. Thon business with Mistress Haltridge is too close for comfort.”
“She’d be better still not gabbin’ about anythin’. Nobody likes a chatterbox. Jus’ you chew on that, Ellen Hill.”
We finished our meal in silence. Peggy McGregor could let her tongue run away with her as well as the best of them, but nobody ever sees the mote in their own eye.
As I was clearing the table, Peggy spoke up.
“I’ll wager Sammy Orr is the reason the mistress took to her bed. Not her monthlies. She’d have heard all about it after prayers at the meeting-house yesterday. Tongues were flapping like loose sails in the wind.”
“Aye, it was all the gossip. But why would our mistress take that to heart?”
“No mistress likes to hear about a husband givin’ the glad eye to one of the maids. It makes all mistresses feel at risk. They hate to think of lassies leadin’ on their foolish men.” Peggy shuffled to the fireplace, holding the furniture for support, to check on water boiling in a pot there for the dishes.
“Who’s to say it was Ruth Graham leadin’ on Sammy Orr?” I said. “He could a coaxed her.”
“No odds if he did. It’s her job to say no, as loud and often as need be. And to tell the minister if he keeps on at her. Whether he sweet-talks or forces her, her answer must be the same. A maid has no business actin’ the wife to her master – in partic’lar when he has one already. No good can come of it. Never you forget that, me lass.”
“I don’t know why you’re sayin’ that to me. I’ve allus been a good girl.”
“I was’n born yesterday. Ne’ther was the mistress. You’ve been making big cow eyes at the master for months now. You want to watch your step.”
Horrified at being caught out, and afraid the mistress might have her suspicions too, I went back to the dining room to clear away their platters. Mary Dunbar and the mistress were discussing a gown the mistress was making for wee Sarah, and Mary said she had buttons to match the flowers in the cloth.
“May I see them?” asked the child.
Mary turned to me. “Would you fetch my sewing box? The buttons are inside. The box is japanned, and about so long.” She held her hands nearly a foot apart. “I’m nearly certain I left it on the window seat.”
I saw the sewing box at once. Near-hand, the lid of the chest where her clothes were stored lay open. When I went to close it, something blue near the top caught my eye. What should it be but the missing apron, folded neatly with the strings wrapped round the cloth. At first I was pleased, because the mistress held me responsible for its disappearance, but when I lifted it I noticed knots in the apron strings. I counted eight on one side, one on the other. Nine in all. Too many to be an accident. And these were bulky, deliberate-looking knots. I grew up watching fishermen knot their nets: I know when a knot is purposeful.
I brought the apron downstairs to Mary Dunbar, thinking she might have an explanation. I must have spent longer in her room than I realized, staring at what I found, because the visitor was alone at the table, tracing circles with a finger on the cloth.
“Do you know anythin’ about this, Mistress Mary?”
She reached out both hands for the apron, and took it from me. “What is it?”
“The missin’ apron the mistress was vexed about.”
“But why should I know anything about it?”
“I found it in your bedchamber. In the chest.”
“Who’d leave an apron in my room? Surely my cousin isn’t suggesting I scrub her floors!” Her
laughter died away as she touched one of the knots. “How curious they are!”
“These are no ordinary knots. Knots stand for fastenin’ magic – somebody has tied a charm into the apron. It’s a way of castin’ a spell on the owner.”
“That’s daft, Ellen.”
“It’s as true as I’m standin’ here afore you.”
“This is a God-fearing household – my cousin’s husband is son to a minister of the Lord. Spells would have no sway here.”
“But look, there are nine knots. Three times three – the number must have meanin’.”
“You might just as well say there’s meaning in eight knots on one side and a single knot on the other.”
“Maybes there is.”
“These knots are only significant because we cannot take our eyes off them. Very well, I’ll put paid to that.” She began to unpick one of the knots.
“No, Mistress Mary. You’re releasin’ the evil. Don’t do it, mistress. Please! Stop! Listen to me! None but the witch who tied these knots can undo them. The only way round it is to burn the apron – it purges the sorcery.”
She was working at a second knot. Shocked and scared, I forgot myself and put my fingers on hers to stop her. Her flesh was on fire, and I dropped my hand at once. Then I ran like the wind for Mistress Haltridge, who was hearing the childer’s prayers.
“I found the missin’ apron,” I panted.
“Good, I hate carelessness. It’s no way to run a household.”
“But mistress, its . . .”
“Have you torn it?”
I shook my head. “Its strings are knotted.”
“Well, knots can be unpicked. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“These are no ordinary knots, mistress. They look like . . .” I didn’t want to say it but I had no choice. I took a deep breath. “They look like witches’ knots.”
She made fists of her hands. “Show me.”
By the time we reached the parlour, the apron ties were bare of knots. Mary Dunbar held the garment, staring at it. She looked as if she was waiting for something.
“Mary, I see you have my apron.”
“Yes, it was found in my bedchamber.”
“My maid says the strings were knotted.”
For a long moment Mary did not speak. I thought she meant to deny the knots, but then she tossed her head. “They were in a state, but I managed to smooth them out.”
“There was nothing odd about the knots?”
“There was a right dose of them. Here, Isabel, have your apron back.”
The mistress shook out the apron to examine it. From between its folds, a white flannel cap with a frilled edge fell out.
“What’s that?” A wobble was threaded through Mistress Haltridge’s voice.
I said nothing, though I knowed as well as she did what it was. She waited for me to pick it up, but I could not bring myself to touch it.
Finally, she bent for the cap, holding it by the ribbons, her arm stuck out as far as it could go. “Do you recognize this, Ellen?”
“It belonged to the aul’ mistress.”
“One white cap looks much like another,” said Mary.
The mistress pointed to the letters AH embroidered on the edge. “Anne Haltridge. James’s mother.”
“Throw it on the fire, mistress. Only place for it.” I ran to the fireplace and used the poker, setting the flames dancing. She stared into the fire, frozen. I went back to her and plucked at her sleeve. “It must be burnt, mistress. Sooner the better.” Still nothing. “Thon cap belongs to the dead mistress,” I reminded her, and she came to life.
She darted forward and hurled it in. I nudged the scrap of material with the poker, pushing it into the heart of the blaze.
“I don’t understand,” said Mary.
The mistress and I watched as the cap curled and blackened, shrinking to nothing, and we held our tongues. You see, Mistress Anne Haltridge was buried in that cap.
* * *
Peggy chewed on the stem of her clay pipe the whiles I told her about finding the apron with witches’ knots on its strings – and the bonnet hidden inside.
“The mistress should a burned thon apron, as well as the cap,” she said.
“Once a thing’s touched by witches it’s no use to man nor beast. Mind you, the mistress would hate to see a perfectly good apron go to waste. Thon tight-fisted nature o’ hers will be her downfall.”
“I never thought to tell her to put it in the fire – it was the cap put the fear o’ God in us. It must a been robbed from the aul’ dame’s grave. If there’s witchin’ afoot, young Mistress Haltridge must be the target. The apron belongs to her.”
Peggy took the pipe out of her mouth and pointed it at me. “The mistress reads her Bible every night. Witchcraft cannae harm her.”
“The aul’ dame read her Bible night and day, and was wife to a minister forbye. Yet she was witched into her grave in this very house. The bonnet is a message from beyond the grave. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one wee bit.”
“We have horseshoes nailed above all the doors to keep us safe. Trust in God and in horseshoes, lassie.”
At that, I put words on the dread that was gathering in my mind. “Horseshoes cannot keep out evil that’s inside a house already.”
Peggy heaved herself to her feet, never letting on she heard me. “Me aul’ bones need their rest. Be sure and say your prayers afore you go to sleep. Put your faith in the Lord and he’ll never let you doon.”
After she left, I finished redding up the house, and prepared to do what I knowed I must, in the hopes of bringing on my monthlies. I had a remedy from the Irish wise woman that Mercy and I paid, after she promised we’d see the faces of our future husbands in the looking-glass dipped in egg white. When I went to leave, the scraggy old woman had held me back, in a surprisingly strong grip, and whispered the makings of it to me. She said I’d need it one day. I didn’t believe her – didn’t want to believe her – but that need was come, less than a year later.
That night, I was bent on brewing up her mixture. Many’s the lassie went to her grave trying to do what I intended – drinking a poisonous concoction that killed her, as well as the child she was seeking to miscarry. I didn’t know if mine was any safer than theirs. I didn’t want to die. My only hope was that the sooner I acted, the less the risk. The wise woman said it worked if a lassie took it early enough.
Mary Dunbar’s bell rang just as I was about to give it a try. Vexed though I was, the bell could not be left unanswered, and so I lifted a candlestick and went to her. She was tucked up in bed, although the curtains round it were open so she could see out. She let on she needed me to trim the wick on her candle, which was guttering, but she was well able to do that herself. Really, she wanted to question me.
“While I was waiting in Carrickfergus for Noah Spears to collect me, I heard another story. It was about a Magee boy on the night of the massacre. He hid in a great chest when the soldiers came looking for him and his family.”
“Aye, so ’tis said.”
“It was a good place to hide. But they found him and killed him anyway.’
“That was Philip Magee. He was ten years old.” I should have stayed silent, but I could not help myself. “They did’n find him – they tricked him into givin’ hisself away. When he did, they murthered him.”
“He must have been terrified.”
“I daresay he was’n the only one. It was a night ruled by terror.”
“What made him show himself, I wonder?”
“They coaxed him out with promises about bein’ helped to safety.” I was about to say something further, but bit my tongue. There was nothing to be gained from telling her any more of the tale than she knowed already. No good could come of recalling how Hamilton Lock and Philip Magee groomed horses together, and the boy trusted the man. How Lock called out Philip’s name, and he left the safety of the chest. How Lock put his hand on Philip’s shoulder, looked into his eye
s, and stuck a dagger into the side of his neck. Then the soldiers battered him to a jelly for nearly making fools of them.
Ten was young to die, and such a cruel death. But they were violent times. Thanks be to God, Ireland was well settled now. Nineteen was young to die too, said a voice in my head, but I paid it no heed. I could not afford to.
Mary went on, “Do you suppose it was a chest like that one?” She pointed to the domed wooden box, with a huge iron lock on front, where I found the apron. It had squatted in that chamber since first I came into Knowehead.
“Aye, it could be, mistress.”
“I wonder if it’s the same chest?”
“I har’ly think so.”
“But it might be. It looks old enough. It’s certainly big enough – I could fit in there myself. I have a fancy this is Philip Magee’s hidey-hole. He’d have stayed alive if he kept inside. Papist or not, you have to pity him.”
“What on earth sets you to thinkin’ on such a thing?”
The House Where It Happened Page 6
