As for Chattox, she got her comeuppance in a manner of speaking, or at least her daughter Betty did. Though my family had never breathed a word to the Constable of the theft at Malkin Tower, Betty Whittle just couldn't keep herself out of harm's way. Being a witch's daughter, maybe she thought she was too crafty to be caught, or that Gran's reluctance to condemn Betty had proven to the whole parish that she could do as she pleased and get away with it. Then Betty made the mistake of robbing her landlady. On laundry day at Greenhead, Betty was brazen—or gormless—enough to snatch a linen sheet hung up to dry. Wasn't like stealing from poor, simple folk, this. The servants raised the alarm, and the gardener caught Betty round the waist. Margaret Crook, sister to dead Robert Assheton whom folk said Chattox and Annie Redfearn had bewitched, sent for the Magistrate, who examined Betty at Read Hall. Then off to Lancaster she was marched. On account of her poverty, the Judge took pity, sentencing her not to the gallows but to a living death in prison. When Betty did meet her end, it wasn't in a public spectacle, dangling on the end of the hangman's rope. Instead, a month after her trial, she perished of gaol fever, louse-ridden and half-starved.
After that Chattox seemed well gutted, dragging herself round like some sick and beaten dog. No one denounced her now because she had grown too pitiful. Least she seemed to know enough by then to leave my family alone.
Our spot of good luck during those years of mourning arose from a dispute over property boundaries. It came to be known that Malkin Tower and the tiny plot of land upon which it was stood belonged not to the Nowells of Read Hall as folk had believed, but to Alice Nutter, who was the most gracious landlady we could have wished for. A great almsgiver was our Mistress Alice. She would never let her tenants suffer hunger or turn them out of their cottages. Assured that our home at least was secure, Gran, Jamie, and I rubbed along well, just the three of us, resigned to Mam's desertion.
But soon enough my mam returned to the fold. She reaped nothing but bitter disgrace from her dealings with the pious Master Baldwin, who trusted himself to be one of the Elect to inherit the heavenly and everlasting kingdom of his narrow-hearted God. Instead of marrying her, he cast her out as a wanton as soon as she confessed she was carrying his child. Left her to bear his bastard alone did Baldwin, without surrendering a penny to feed mother or babe. Gran brought out the tansy, offering to brew a dose for Mam. She told my mother that she'd be a fool to have this child, but Mam was so heartbroken, so ill-done-to, and she saw this baby as her one consolation, a blameless new life she could cherish. The baby would love her, so Mam hoped, even if Baldwin despised her. Only Gran's fearsome repute as a cunning woman and her vow to reveal Baldwin's shame stayed the Curate and the Constable from pillorying my mother for her out-of-wedlock pregnancy.
Often I asked myself how differently our fates would have spun out had Mam heeded Gran's counsel and never allowed Baldwin's bastard to see the light of day. As it stood, our lives were forever changed. In 1603, the year our Queen died and her Scottish cousin rose to the throne, Mam gave birth to my half-sister, Jennet—borne of Baldwin's unholy lust and my mother's unending grief.
10
OF ALL MY FAMILY, I alone could pass as a girl like any other. I wasn't simple like my brother, nor cock-eyed like my mam, nor a bastard like my sister, nor a cunning woman like Gran. Though I loved my family more than anything, I cherished the fact that I wasn't marked out as the rest of them were.
I felt right sorry for little Jennet. Though Mam had named her after Jennet Preston, her dear childhood friend, and though she had insisted on giving her the surname Device so that my sister would at least bear the name of a good and kindly man, Jennet was the cuckoo in our nest, Baldwin's seed growing up at Malkin Tower. With her mousy hair, her pinched face, her cold blue eyes, she was the very picture of him. Like Baldwin himself, little Jennet seemed to spurn Mam's love. Kept herself to herself, that child. If I tried to cuddle her close, she shoved me away.
"In God's name, I wish Mam wasn't so ugly," our Jennet told me one morning, lying beside me upon the pallet we shared.
She was seven years old and had wrenched me awake from a dream of Gran trying to fit a wreath of roses round my head. Time for the procession. You'll lead them all on Assumption Day.
"And I wish Gran wasn't such a frightful old thing," my sister rattled on in her singsong.
Sitting up, my head still ringing from that dream, I looked to the door leading into the next room where Mam and Gran were fixing breakfast, and I prayed that neither of them had heard the little traitor. God forgive me, but there were times when I fair wished I could pack the brat off and send her back to Baldwin. Let him try raising her.
"Suit yourself," I told Jennet. "Go find yourself another family."
Leaving my sister to chew on that, I dressed and tied my hair up with the rose-coloured satin ribbon Nancy Holden had given me for Christmas. That summer I was fifteen and Nancy was my dearest friend in all the world.
"I'm off to work at the Holdens," I told Mam on my way out the door. So eager was I to be with my friend, I hadn't the patience to wait till the porridge was ready.
"Work?" Mam looked up from the pot she was stirring. "You're more like to while away the hours gabbing with that girl."
"Leave her be," said Gran, winking at me as though she knew just what I had dreamt.
In truth, our gran did look a frightful thing. Her coif was askew and her grey hair, thick and unruly, sprang out every which way, but most unnerving were her eyes, milky and clouded. When she aimed those eyes at you, you'd quail, for she truly saw folk with those cauled eyes of hers—saw what they hid inside and was never fooled by their masks or their lies.
"A true friend is the most precious gift," Gran said, smiling wistful, and I thought with sadness how she had once been friends with Chattox before it turned bad.
"I'll bring back bread," I said, kissing Gran's cheek. "And buttercake!"
At Bull Hole Farm, they'd wool to card and spin, cream to churn into butter—more chores than hands in their household. Whenever I was in need of honest work or just wanted to call in, they welcomed me. Even when I was doing some lowly task, it was never drudgery if I could pass some time with my friend.
Soon as I neared the house, Nancy darted out, apron flapping, eyes sparking in her gladness to see me. Taking my hands, she pulled me into the kitchen where her mam made much of me.
"Our Alizon!" Sarah Holden said. "I'll wager you've eaten nothing this day."
Arms a-flutter, she sat me down at her scrubbed table and brought me a bowl of steaming beef broth with barley and onion. Nancy poured me a mug of small beer.
"No use working on an empty stomach." Clucking and fussing, Mistress Holden filled my bowl again soon as I'd emptied it. I think she loved to stuff me because her own daughter was so thin, without much in the way of appetite, and she wanted to set an example for Nancy as to how much a healthy girl could eat.
Nancy's mam wasn't a bit like mine. Sarah Holden had no deformity, no blot on her reputation, but was her husband's stouthearted wife, her children's proud mother: a broad-faced country woman with strong cheekbones and clear brown eyes.
Though I knew it disloyal of me, and I feared it made me no better than cold little Jennet, I envied Nancy her mother and her happy home. The only daughter left in the house now that her sisters had married, Nancy was her mam's pet and she, in turn, loved to cosset her small nieces and nephews, half-orphaned after her brother Matthew's wife had died having the last baby. Whilst I was sat at the table, the children crowded round to watch me eat, all of them laughing and joking and jibing. Well I remembered the story of how Gran blessed and mended Matthew when he was no bigger than the tousle-headed tot cuddled up by my side. That was why I, Mother Demdike's granddaughter, was ever welcome here. Yet I allowed myself to fancy I was no kin to Gran, but one of the Holdens' own; that Nancy, not Jennet, was my blood-sister; that Anthony Holden, respected by everyone, was my father; and Matthew, strong and kind, the older brother wh
o looked after me.
Children of the sun, the Bull Hole Holdens were, whilst I was a child of the moon. They lived with the warm light a-glow on their faces whilst I dwelled in the shadows. When they left the haven of their home to walk abroad through Pendle Forest, nobody whispered rumours about them. They were spotless.
But envy was a sin, so I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind. Truly it was enough for me to bask in Nancy's friendship and her mother's hospitality. If I spent enough hours at Bull Hole Farm, I could almost believe I was as blessed as Nancy.
Late in the afternoon Nancy kissed me goodbye, and Mistress Holden sent me home with a basket stuffed with bread, cheese, and cake. Even Jennet would smile to see me bringing home such bounty. I was walking past Moss End Farm with nary an evil thought in my mind when a stone whizzed past my face. Spun round, I did then, to see eleven-year-old Isobel Bulcock sat upon the gate and grinning like one of Chattox's imps.
"Witchblood! You've the witchblood! Your granny's nowt but a blind old witch!" The pudding-faced brat swung her grubby bare feet back and forth. "Devil stole her eyes away."
"Shut it, you," I said, turning square to face her.
"Your mam's a whore!" Issy said, growing ever bolder.
Behind the gate a few other children ducked and giggled, daring Issy on.
"Your brother's an idiot. He eats dirt, he's so dim."
God forgive me, but I'd inherited my mam's quick temper. Setting my basket down, I stalked toward Issy. The nearer I drew, the paler Issy became. Her cruel smile vanished and the other children's jeering died. When I was close enough for my breath to hit her face, Issy's mouth hung in a frightened O as though she longed to scream but had lost her voice.
"Mind your tongue, you devil's spawn," I told her, quiet and chill. "If ever I hear you gabbing on about my family like that again, I'll give you something to cry about, our Issy."
Then I turned, picked up my basket, and strode off homeward, my head held high as though I were leading the procession Gran had spoken of in my dream.
Though I did my best to appear calm on the outside, I was seething. Whores and witches. That was what Baldwin called us. To think I'd hear those words from young Issy. Her father, Henry Bulcock, was Uncle Kit's old friend, and Jane Bulcock, her mother, had always been good to my family. If our friends' children could spew such awful rubbish, I fair wondered what our enemies were saying about us.
When I reached the gate of Malkin Tower, my heart lightened to see our Jamie stood there, beaming and proud, holding up a dead hare by its hind legs. God's teeth, my brother had been poaching again. Though I'd no business encouraging him in such lawlessness, I couldn't help but smile to see him so happy. When times were hard, our Jamie always found a way to put meat on our table. Even if he was simple, he did his best for us.
Two days passed in peace. Of an early morning I went to Bull Hole Farm, passing by Moss End, but Issy didn't show herself. On the third day, when I reached home of an overcast evening, tired but cheerful from my hours with Nancy, Gran seized me by my wrists soon as I stepped in.
"Henry Bulcock came by today. He says you bewitched his Issy."
First I could only laugh, but Gran was dead earnest, her face as long as my arm.
"By Our Lady, I never cursed that spoilt chit!" My face burned at the unfairness of the accusation. "What a little liar, that Issy. Gave her the devil, I did, on account of her goading me first, but nowt more. Now I wish I had bewitched her. Might at least shut her up."
"Never say such a thing, even in jest," Gran begged me.
Then I saw how truly frightened she was. Had it come down to this, that an eleven-year-old could condemn a person for witchcraft after trading a few heated words?
"Course I didn't bewitch her," I said to Gran. "I haven't the powers."
"Only Gran and me can curse and bless," our Jamie broke in. "We've familiars but you haven't."
So my brother now claimed to be a cunning man with a familiar spirit like Gran's Tibb? A right mess he would get us in if he went round announcing that to folk.
"Don't butt in where you've no business," Gran said to Jamie. "Go on outside. Alizon and I must talk in private."
"Talk in private with Jennet around?" I pointed at my sister who gawped from her perch in the corner as though she wanted to commit our every word to memory so she could blab it about Colne Market.
"Alizon will get the powers by and by," Jamie declared in a voice loud enough to be heard in Yorkshire. "She'll meet her black dog."
"What black dog, you daft thing?" In the whirl of confusion, I couldn't help but raise my voice. "Have you all gone mad?"
"Enough!" Gran's fist slammed down upon the table. A rare thing, it was, for her to lose her temper with us, but when it happened, we quietened down right quick.
Mam grabbed Jamie and Jennet and dragged them out the door, leaving me and Gran alone.
"Now tell me, what did you say to Isobel Bulcock?" Gran fixed me with her sightless eyes as though she could peer into the very depths of my soul.
Full contrite, I took her hand. "In truth, she spoke ill of you and Mam. Said you were a witch and Mam a whore. I told her to shut her wicked gob or she'd be sorry for it."
Gran winced as though a spasm were passing through her.
"Alizon." She drew me close. "Bless you, you're true to your own. But you must learn to mind your tongue. Tomorrow we'll both go to Moss End. You'll apologise to Isobel, and I'll do my all to bring that child back to good health."
11
I NEVER WISHED to curse or harm anybody, much less a child, even one so irksome as Issy Bulcock. When I saw her, lying upon her bed, her cheeks pale as mushrooms, I longed to cut out my tongue for fear of speaking so harsh to a soul ever again. Such a state she was in, her skin covered in a cold sweat that made her smock stick to her bony chest, that I near believed I had bewitched her. But that could never be. Such powers were Gran's, not mine.
Full calm, Gran stroked Issy's brow, and when she proclaimed that the child would soon mend, we knew it to be God's truth. Issy's parents, and John, her brother, fair wept in relief, as did I. But Gran was not one to allow me to kneel there snivelling like a wet thing when I could be useful. So she bade me fill the kettle, hang it upon the hob, and take the herbs from her bundle. Alehoof, I brewed for Issy, along with dittany, black horehound, and archangel wort. Whilst they steeped, Gran chanted over the child and I prayed to the Mother of God, for hadn't Gran taught me the forbidden prayers, word for word. Five Pater Nosters, five Aves, and the Creed, recited whilst picturing deep inside my heart the Five Wounds of Christ—this could heal a child. This and Gran's physick.
I heard a dog howl from far away as if it were baying at the moon, though it was midday. Always made me tremble and cross myself, that dog's yowling did, for what could it be but Gran's familiar, the font of her magic. Even Jane Bulcock heard it and went a shade whiter as if she were close to fainting, so I took her arm and led her to a stool.
"Peace," I whispered. "Gran's mending your lass."
What would any of us do, I wondered, when Gran died, as she surely must, being nearly four-score years. For all Jamie's boasting the evening before, it was plain to see he'd no grand future as a cunning man. As for our Jennet, she seemed to turn up her nose at any dealings with the cunning craft. True Puritan's daughter, she was.
I remembered the dream I'd had of Gran fitting the garland upon my head. Her hopes of carrying on the family business fell upon me, but I could only disappoint, for I was unworthy of such a calling. I'd not felt so much as a flimmer of magic stirring inside me, no promise of the wondrous force Gran wielded. Most I could do was guide her on her errands now that she was blind and defend her good name with my fists if need be, should any dare speak ill of her. As for my own prospects, I'd be content enough to find regular work to keep us fed, and one day I'd love to marry and have little ones of my own, but ones less bothersome than Jennet, God willing. To be honest, none of the lads round these parts ever tu
rned my head. Still the world was a big enough place, or so I'd been told, and one day I hoped to meet my true love, the one who would set my heart a-light. When I passed the time with Nancy, the two of us bent over our carding or mending, we'd put our heads close and whisper of the sweethearts we'd yet to meet.
Right then, as if harking to my own privy thoughts, Gran hooked me with her filmy eyes and cracked a grin as if to tell me she'd something well different in store for me. "Come, Alizon, love, bring that brew."
My hands were steadier than hers, so it was I who stirred the cup till it was lukewarm, then tipped it gentle into Issy's mouth. God knew I was no wisewoman like Gran, but this at least I could do.
***
Hours later Gran and I made our cumbersome way homeward, clambering up the breast of a hill. Her breath was ragged and raw. Every sixth step, we stopped and bided a spell, and I did my best to bear up her weight. Any other woman of her years would have stayed home, but folk had need of Gran so to them she would go for as long as she still had strength to set one foot in front of the other. At least our bellies were bursting-full, for Jane Bulcock had the mind to feed us on fricassee chicken, oatbread, and apple fritters. My head was fair floating from her strong beer, which left me light on my feet and made me wish I'd the powers to spirit Gran through the air so that her toes never touched the earth. The thoughts running through my head sounded mad as Jamie's talk. How he loved to go on about foals that sailed through the sky and carried folk on their backs.
Whilst I helped Gran up the rough track, she leaned close. "Alizon, love, when you're next on your own—say you're cutting across the hills to Nancy's tomorrow. Well, it may happen that an animal crosses your path."
My skin went fevered hot when she turned to me with those milky eyes. I wanted to clap my hands over my ears.
"A cat," she said, "or a spotted bitch, or a hare might appear. Even a young man might show himself to you."
Daughters of the Witching Hill Page 16
