Those last words of hers made me hoot in spite of myself. "A young man showing himself to me! Gran, listen to yourself." I'd make any silly jest to turn our talk to other things.
But Gran's eyes still pinned me so I could scarce look away.
"He might take the form of a lad," she went on, ever patient, "but be no lad of flesh and blood. Or he might first appear as a lad, then change into a dog or a cat." She squeezed my hand. "Don't fear it, love. Let it come to you. Never dread such things, for there's power to be found there."
"Familiar spirits aren't for the likes of me," I told her.
How I wished I was Anthony Holden's daughter—just a girl, of whom only ordinary things could be expected. Not one who carried the witchblood inside her. But even my inmost thoughts weren't secret as far as Gran was concerned.
"You'll never be ordinary, our Alizon." The love and the pride blazing on her face were enough to undo me. "I saw you praying for that Bulcock child and a rare light was shining all about you."
Anybody could pray, I wanted to tell her. Didn't mean I was anything special. But then she cradled my cheek with one roughened hand, silencing my protest.
"You've the powers inside you. They lie still for the time being, but one day they'll awaken." She smiled.
I walked on, my arm entwined with hers, only now I felt like the feeble one, her firmness supporting me. We'd reached the crest of the hill when she came to a halt and raised one palm as if to feel which way the wind was blowing.
"Listen," she murmured.
What I'd taken for the pounding of my own heart proved to be hoofbeats striking the earth, raising a cloud of dust. Coming back to my senses, I drew Gran off the track. Who would come riding this lonely way so late?
Up the hill swept four horsemen, but my eyes lighted upon the lead rider astride his blood bay stallion. Well younger than Gran, that gentleman was, but older than my mam I reckoned. Nevertheless, he was a spectacle to behold, his face still handsome with a neat beard coming to a point over his strong chin, which was the sign of an unwavering character. He'd high leather boots with flashing spurs, lace at his cuffs and collar, and a fine tall hat. A marvel that the hat had stuck fast to his head with the galloping over uneven ground. When he saw me and Gran, he reined in his stallion, slowing to a walk. Even then, his horse lifted each hoof high and proud.
There we were, Gran and I, stood before this gentleman. Right civil, he nodded his head and looked me full in the face.
Gran grasped my elbow. "Who is it?"
With her powers, how could she not know? "The Magistrate," I whispered. Course I'd seen him before at Colne Market, but never up close like this.
"Where are the pair of you heading?" he asked. Sat there upon his great stallion, it was as though he spoke from the top of Pendle Hill. "Rather late for two females to be out and about."
Gran's hand on my arm went slick and cold, leaving me to wonder why she should be so nervous. He was the Magistrate, not some ruffian come to worry us. What's more, he was now High Sheriff of all the county, or so I'd heard.
"We were visiting our friends, sir. The Bulcocks of Moss End." I shaped each word careful as I could so that he might understand my speech, coarse as gravel compared to his. Our own Curate didn't speak with such grace as this man. "We live only a mile from here, sir." At the last second I remembered to curtsey to show him the proper respect.
"Where do you live then? Slipper Hill?" It became plain that he'd no clue who we were. I'd have thought he'd recognise Gran, for her fame stretched wide, but she was stood behind me, her face fair hidden from him.
She pinched me but it was too late.
"Malkin Tower," I blurted.
"Malkin Tower, you say? You must be John Device's daughter."
"I am, sir." I stood tall at the sound of my father's name.
"What happened to that good man was a sorry affair indeed."
"It was, sir."
"Nigh on nine years ago."
I was well surprised that a man like him had such sharp memory of my father's passing. It wasn't as though the Magistrate had been present at the funeral.
"A pity," he said, "that nobody came to me then, when I might have been able to do something to seek justice for the man."
So Master Nowell knew the rumours that Chattox was the cause of my poor father's death. I drew a deep breath, prepared to condemn her to Roger Nowell, Magistrate and High Sheriff, only Gran near wrenched my arm from its socket. But she didn't straighten herself to face him. She said not a word, only made like a bent and witless crone. That made my mouth go dry, for I'd never once seen her cower.
"A pity," he said again, looking so deep into my eyes that I near forgot I was just a grubby girl on the wayside. "Unless people come to me with their complaints, I am powerless to act on their behalf."
Whilst I stared up at him, dumbstruck by the might of his words, he seemed to glance behind me to make out Gran, who was unmoving as any tree stump.
"Best get the old beldame home before dark," he said.
With a flash of his spurs, he and the other men rode on. Soon all that remained of Roger Nowell and his retinue were the hoof prints their horses left behind.
Gran gripped my arm till it ached. "You fool. Never let yourself be dazzled by the likes of Nowell. And don't you dare speak a word to him about Anne Whittle."
I shook at the force of her fury, then asked myself, for the very first time, if she were not misguided. As much as I loved her, I'd loved Father, too, and what kind of daughter would I be if I didn't cry out against the one who had murdered him? Did no one in Pendle Forest have the gumption to rid us of that witch? Ah, but folk were too frightened of Chattox's wrath to speak against her. Still it maddened me that even Gran lacked the courage to take a stand.
"She's an evil soul, Gran. Why should she go unpunished?"
"Our Alizon, I thought you'd more sense in your head than our Jamie, but now I wonder!"
Her words pierced me like arrows and I feared I would burst into tears. How could she speak so, as though Chattox were the wronged one and I the mischief-maker?
"She's an old woman." Gran herself sounded older than the sky as she spoke these words. "She'll die soon enough by God's own hand, then she'll suffer God's judgement, as will we all when our time comes."
"You pity her. But will you spare any pity for her victims?"
Gran softened. "Darling, even if Nowell hanged Anne Whittle tomorrow, it wouldn't bring back your daddy." She stroked my hair as though I were still that little girl bawling over my father's coffin. "You don't want to go round accusing folk, our Alizon. What if Henry Bulcock had run to the Constable and accused you?"
"But I never harmed anybody!"
"And if the Magistrate thought you were lying?"
He wouldn't, I wanted to say. One look into the depths of his eyes proved to me that he was a man of justice, as well he should be. Wasn't he the law in Pendle Forest?
"What if somebody made a complaint about your brother?" Gran asked.
"Jamie? Everybody knows he's a simpleton. No crime in that."
"He's a poacher, love, and for that he could hang."
Her words left me numb. I'd lost my father—that was enough for anybody to bear. I prayed that no one would be cruel enough to hang Jamie. He was touched by God, as blameless a soul as any.
"Promise me, Alizon." Gran was telling me, not asking. "Promise you won't go running to the law. Nowell has his circle and we've ours. He can't begin to understand what we do or what we're about."
"I promise," I said, for she'd left me no other choice, and I knew well enough to keep my word, for it did no good to cross a cunning woman.
"Good lass." She took my arm again as though she were fonder of me than anything on this earth, and I felt ashamed that I'd ever quarrelled with her. Homeward we walked as daylight gate faded into night. In the gloaming bats took to wing, and moths fluttered like tiny stars whilst the swelling moon rode the sky.
That night I kn
elt beside the pallet I shared with Jennet and prayed long and hard, trying not to mind that Jennet had wrapped our blanket thrice round herself and I would have to go without and shiver the whole night through. I murmured the Latin words Gran had taught me, beautiful and full mysterious, and that rare light of which she'd spoken seemed to enclose me in a golden cloud. What need had I of a blanket when I had this?
Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae,
Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
I prayed that I might be a vessel of goodness, patient and kind to Jennet. Prayed that I might learn to hold my tongue and mind my words. And then I prayed, tears in my eyes, for my father's soul and that I might find a way of seeking retribution for him without breaking my promise to Gran.
Next morning I rose early, bound for Nancy's. If I sat a spell with her and poured out my troubles, she would find a way to put it right. She always did. Soon enough my Nancy would have me laughing.
Silent and quick, I slipped out before Jennet could awaken and say or do anything to spoil my mood. Soon as I shot out the door, I hitched up my skirts and legged it over hill and stile, the blood inside me singing. Only stopped to catch my breath when I'd reached the gates of Bull Hole Farm. After she had served us all a hearty breakfast, Mistress Holden doled out the chores. That day the little nieces and nephews would card wool and Mistress Holden herself would do the spinning. Nancy and I were to do the laundry.
My friend and I hoisted the baskets of dirtied clothes and linens out to the beck that ran close by the front gate. Catching Nancy's eye, I thought that now would be the time to tell her of my sorrows, yet I found I couldn't bring myself to speak of the Magistrate, Chattox, or witchcraft in this happy place. So instead I started singing a naughty song I'd learned when working at Mouldheels's house in Colne. Nancy joined in, then taught me another song, even bawdier. And so we sang, loud and merry, as we were knelt beside the beck, beating each garment against the rocks. Singing, we spread each wrung-out shirt, kirtle, jerkin, and pair of breeches and hose over the thorn hedge that divided the Holdens' ground from the road.
Merry mischief in her eyes, Nancy leaned close and sang in a low voice the rudest song I'd ever heard, one she'd learned from eavesdropping on the hired men when they'd drunk too much ale. Each verse was more outrageous than the next. When she'd finished, we shook with laughter, our cheeks a-flame. Fair helpless, we hugged each other and laughed till our eyes streamed.
At the sight of a stooped figure staring at us, our mirth turned to terror. There she was stood, that hunched hag. That witch. Come a-begging, so Chattox had, her basket slung over one bony arm. Her glare made my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. Like a nightmare, it was, seeing Chattox's hateful face, her baleful eyes stabbing us.
"Were you laughing at me?" she demanded.
Neither Nancy nor I could speak, only gawp back at her as though we were a pair of planet-struck mutes. With a grimace, Chattox plucked at the rag that covered her basket, revealing a glimpse of red river clay. Just as quick she hid it again. Nancy made a fearful noise, deep in her throat.
"Nancy Holden! Alizon Device!" She spat out our names like curses. "I asked you: Were you laughing at me?"
Tears in her eyes, Nancy shook her head. She snatched her father's damp shirt off the hedge and held it in front of herself as though it were a shield. But I raised my chin to show Chattox I wasn't cowed. The power was mine. One word to Roger Nowell and she'd swing from the gallows. So great was my need to protect Nancy, I fair forgot my promise to Gran. Slow but steady I strode to the gate and met her stare full on when out of nowhere shot a pitch-black dog, the fur on its scruff raised. That witch had set her familiar on us. But I threw back my shoulders, for my rage was greater than my fear.
"Is that a clay figure you have in your basket?" I bellowed to be heard over the snarling hound. "You'll hang for this, Chattox."
Swayed on her feet did Chattox. She looked at me as though I'd run a knife through her.
"You heartless child. I'm a clemmed old woman without oats or bread. It's clay I eat to fill my belly." She looked fit to weep.
But why should I show a shred of mercy when gazing into the eyes of my father's murderer?
"Get away from here, Chattox. Get away, never to show your face again."
Quivering, the hag looked from me to the dog that now bared its teeth and lunged at her. Her own familiar had turned on her. Well, such was the price the witch would have to pay for doing the Devil's bidding. Away she scuttled, fast as her gimping old legs could carry her.
I smarted in shame, for I almost fancied Gran was stood there, sore disappointed in me. How could you be so cruel, our Alizon? I wondered if I should go running after Chattox, offer her some bread. But that was not my place: I was but a guest here.
Turning to Nancy, I saw my own father's face hanging in the air before hers, saw him thrashing in his bed, never to rise again after Chattox had bewitched him. I saw the yellow skull Betty had dumped before our hearth. My heart thumped with enough force to knock me down. Had to wet my lips before I could speak.
"She's well gone, our Nancy." I eased her father's linen shirt free of her fingers and hung it back up to dry. "She'll trouble you no more, I promise."
The horror on my friend's face slit me in half. With a shaking finger, she pointed.
"Her dog."
The pitch-black beast was coming right at us. Before I could grab a stone to hurl between its eyes, the creature began to fawn over me, its pink tongue snaking out to slather my arm from wrist to elbow.
A yelp tore out of me. Grabbing Nancy by the arm, I bolted for the house, pulling her along so fast that she near tripped over her skirts. When we reached the Holden kitchen, I slammed the door behind us before sinking to the floor. In the warmth of that summer day, my skin twitched, stone cold where the dog had licked me.
The little nieces and nephews circled round. Nancy's mother rushed over, her face pink from the heat. Since I was struck speechless, Nancy explained what had happened.
"Alizon was well brave and sent her on her way. But Chattox's dog stayed behind to worry us. Mam, I was never so scared in my life."
My friend and her mother raised me to my feet. Nancy took my hands in hers to still my trembling, yet I couldn't bring myself to meet her trusting brown eyes. Our Jamie had foretold what would happen this day. Alizon will get her powers by and by. She'll meet her black dog.
My friend had thought that the beast was Chattox's familiar, as had I first off. But no. That creature was mine.
Later, when the men came in for the midday meal, Mistress Holden told her husband about Chattox's visit.
At once Master Holden spoke up. "If ever that witch should dare show her face round here again, bar the gate to her. She'll not have so much as a cup of blue milk off us after this."
I flinched as I went round the table filling the men's mugs with ale. In future they'd drive Chattox away, crying witch, just as Baldwin had done to Gran and Mam and me. Send her away famished.
Master Holden folded his hands in prayer and bade God to ward every soul in this house and every animal in the shippon from witchcraft. During the rest of the meal, no one said a word. The little children could hardly eat, they were so rattled. With each bite of tender stewed lamb, I thought of the clay in Chattox's basket, imagined her gnawing on the stuff to ease her hunger pangs. Had I done wrong? How would God—or Gran—judge my deeds?
After the meal, Nancy and her mother scrubbed the trenchers and pots whilst I alone ventured outside to fetch the dry laundry off the hedge. My heart juddering, I looked round, but saw no trace of any dog.
Walking the dusty road home, I tried my best not to step in the tracks left by Chattox's bare feet. Though I tried to make my mind a blank, Gran's voice was everywhere. It may happen that an animal crosses your path. Don't fear it, love. Let it come to you. Never dread such things, for there's power to be found there. The mere thought of that slavering beast with its hot tongue on my skin made me want
to dash out my brains on the dry stone wall. Issy Bulcock's words rang out. Witchblood! You've the witchblood! The child had vexed me, I'd told her off, then a fever struck her down and only Gran could raise her again. Did that make me a witch, no better than Chattox?
Gran was a cunning woman. She worked for good and her every charm was a prayer of the old religion. Yet her many hardships went to show that there was no way you could win at this game. Once you let folk know you'd the powers to bend and twist, you became a witch in their eyes, even if you sought only to help others. Neighbours would turn to you, all right, call on you if they'd need of you, except you'd never be one of them again, but forever on the outside looking in. A lonely path Gran had chosen. She had us, of course, and I loved her more than anyone, but she'd not a single friend to confide in the way I could confide in Nancy. What kind of life was that? Only a woman as strong as Gran could bear it.
Even my mam, who had renounced the cunning craft, couldn't rid herself of the taint that clung to her like a mantle she could never shake off. Overwhelmed me, it did, to consider what Mam had suffered, throwing herself at Baldwin of all men to purify herself, but the stain remained. If we had been ordinary people and not a family of cunning folk, would Chattox have cursed us with such force? If we had been regular folk, my father might have lived.
With my every step homeward, I prayed to the Mother of God to deliver me from this. May I never again set eyes on that black dog.
When I reached Malkin Tower and unpacked the heavy bundle of bread and honeycake that Mistress Holden had given me, Jennet danced in a circle.
"Cake!" she cried.
But there was no hiding my distress from Mam.
"What's the matter, love? You look ill-done-to."
Up spoke Jamie before I could even open my mouth. "She'd words with Chattox."
Mam bristled to hear that name. From her stool by the hearth, Gran stared with her clouded eyes. She would not let it rest till I'd spilled the story.
Daughters of the Witching Hill Page 17
