As the wagon trundled past Roughlee Hall, I gazed at the arched mullioned windows and imagined Alice Nutter watching our sad progress. At least they had arrested us on the road and not waited till we had arrived at the Hall. A nasty thing, that would have been, to have Hargreaves and Baldwin bursting into the lady's home in search of us—they might have taken it upon themselves to search for other things as well. With all my soul, I prayed that Mistress Alice could keep her secrets safe.
The driver lashed the stumbling horses as we passed beneath the shadow of the New Church. My eyes caught a leaping shape that I took to be the black bitch. Drawing on the powers Gran thought I had, I sent my inner voice reeling out, begging her to flee far and away from the reach of Baldwin's whip.
When we passed by Bull Hole Farm, where the men were busy sowing this year's barley and oats, I tried not to give Baldwin the satisfaction of seeing me cry, though it seared me to think of Matthew Holden seeing me brought down so low. To humiliate us all the more, Baldwin drove the wagon through Higham, only a stone's throw from West Close. Chattox, I wagered, would be right chuffed they'd come for me instead of her.
We turned on to the shady road leading past the vast Huntroyde estate, where Nowell's relations, the Starkie family, dwelt, and then on to Read Hall itself.
A grand manse was Read Hall, every diamond-shaped window pane polished to shine. Girding the house was a garden full of shrubs cut to take the shape of birds and beasts, lords and ladies. The lawns were awash in crocus, primroses, and daffodils. Such a splendid sight, this was, I near forgot the reason we were here.
The wagon came to a halt at the back of the house. Baldwin and Hargreaves marched us through a rear door into the kitchen, where a roaring fire blazed in the huge hearth. The smell of baking bread maddled me as I'd eaten nothing that day, but there was no lingering in the warm kitchen, for the men herded us into a chilly little chamber with whitewashed walls, a hard wooden bench to sit on, and nowt else. The bench was worn shiny by the many bodies who'd been sat there before us, awaiting their interrogation. At the far end of that little room was a stout oak door, through which Hargreaves dragged Mam, leaving Jamie and me behind to bide our time till it was our turn to speak to the Magistrate.
Sat on the bench beside Jamie, I took his hand and put my lips to his ear. "Have a care what you tell them. Don't betray us, love."
Baldwin, stood there guarding the door, spoke up, cold and callous. "No whispering, you two, or I'll have you put in separate chambers."
Lifting my head, I strove to see him with clear eyes: Richard Baldwin, Church Warden and the Constable's right hand. I sought to look past my own hate for the man. If the worst were to happen, if Mam, Jamie, and I were never to walk free, what would happen to Gran and Jennet? Would Baldwin take it on himself to look after my sister, his natural daughter? Feeling my eyes on him, Baldwin twitched and pressed his lips down in a brittle line. Mother of God, what had Mam ever seen in the man?
My hand still holding Jamie's, I pricked my ears to make out what was being said on the other side of that oaken door, but I heard only the kitchen maids shouting back and forth. By all rights, their task should have been mine. This very moment I should have been in the kitchen at Roughlee Hall, chopping onions for Mistress Alice's soup or learning how to dress a capon just the way she liked it. I should have been wearing the new kirtle with a clean apron tied over it and pattens on my feet. I should have been there, in her circle of protection, instead of sat upon this bench, half-sick with trepidation.
An hour seemed to crawl by. My brother was so nervous he clutched himself and jigged back and forth till Hargreaves delivered Mam back into our chamber. Then it was Jamie's turn to be questioned. Wild-eyed, Jamie whirled in panic whilst Mam and I threw him pleading glances, praying he'd not say some fool thing that could get us hanged. Before I could blink, Hargreaves had shoved my brother through the door and shut it behind him. Mam sank on the bench beside me and gripped my hand so tight that I could feel each of her bones. Together we bore the looks Baldwin threw us.
His face bleached white, Jamie stumbled back in, looking fit to collapse. When Mam jumped up to guide him to the bench, Hargreaves began to speak, fair bursting with his own importance.
"Elizabeth and James Device, you are free to go. Roger Nowell will now examine Alizon Device."
I gave Mam and Jamie the bravest smile I could muster. Regardless of what might happen to me, they, at least, had their liberty and were not to be punished for my deeds. But my legs wobbled as Hargreaves tugged me down the corridor and into that far chamber.
The grandeur of the room left me dizzy. Oak panelled walls rose to the ceiling, its beams carved with acorns and leaves. Sunlight poured through the great windows to shine upon a tapestry of a woodland scene with leaping stags and hinds. I almost fancied I was stood in that forest. A fire of apple and cherrywood logs crackled fragrant and sweet in the hearth. The mantelpiece was laden with heavy silver candlesticks and painted crockery such as I'd never seen before, and the walls were hung with portraits of gentlemen with ruffs about their necks. Most curious was an oval picture of a girl out of Gran's tales, lovely as the Queen of Elfhame's daughter, her starry eyes wide with wonderment, her face flushed pink, coppery curls escaping her coif. And—what enchantment was this?—the picture moved. I let out a gasp when the girl in the picture blinked as I did.
"That's your own sorry face in the mirror," Hargreaves told me.
Before I could gawp another second at that awe-struck girl who was my own self, he took me by the shoulders and swung me round so that I faced the three men sat at a long elm table. In the middle was Nowell in his velvet doublet with whitest lace at his throat and cuffs. Jewelled rings flashed upon his fingers. At his right, Abraham Law glowered at me as though I were Satan's own daughter. At Nowell's left was his sallow-skinned scribe.
Each man had a goblet of wine at his elbow and, at the centre of that table, lay a great platter of sweetmeats, the sight of which made my stomach groan, for I was ready to faint away from my hunger and I was aching-thirsty besides. No one had so much as offered me a cup of water. But I'd no time to think of food or drink or even of the beautiful things round me. Abraham Law narrowed his eyes whilst Nowell spoke of witchcraft and the scribe scribbled everything down.
"These are very serious charges, Alizon Device," the Magistrate told me as though he were concerned for my welfare rather than scandalised by what I'd done.
At Nowell's bidding, Abraham Law described in his thick-burred Yorkshire drawl how the letter informing him of his father's affliction had reached him in Halifax only four days after my encounter with the pedlar. Abraham Law had then journeyed straightaway to Colne to find his father paralysed down his left side, but he'd recovered his power of speech and was able to describe how I'd bewitched him and struck him lame—I and the black dog.
When Nowell asked me what I had to say, I could only shake my head, for I feared that whatever I said would be twisted by Hargreaves and Abraham Law into proof of my guilt. A grey fog of hunger and fear sent me stumbling to my knees. Though Hargreaves dragged me to my feet, I was too weak to stand and could only weep and not speak at all. Finally Nowell said in his voice that reminded me of my own father that it would be better if he spoke to me in private. He sent Hargreaves to give word to the servants that I was to be brought food and drink.
"There's no sense to be had from a half-starved girl," Nowell told his constable.
After the others had left the room, Nowell himself drew up a chair for me and not just any chair, but one with a broad carved back and a deep-cushioned seat. He sat me by the fire and still I could only weep, for the strain and worry of the last days had left me shattered. Then a maid bustled in with a tray of lamb pie and buttered bread. Nowell poured me a goblet of wine that steadied my nerves.
"All will be well," Nowell promised. "So long as you help me untangle this abominable business of witchcraft. You're just a young girl, I know, and a tender soul, but this lega
cy stretches far back before you were born."
His words were so fine-spoken that they fair swept me along.
"Will you help me, Alizon?" he asked, his eyes earnest. There was no snobbery in his manner, and I was well flattered that one such as him would appeal to me.
"Yes, sir. I'll help you however I can."
First he bade me to eat and drink my fill, and only then did he carry on with his questions. Just the two of us remained in that beautiful chamber full of dazzling sunlight. Even his scribe had left.
"For the time being, I want you to forget about this Yorkshire chapman," he said, drawing his chair to mine so that he could look into my face. "I'm far more worried about what has troubled people in these parts for years on end. You know something, don't you?" His fine blue eyes plumbed mine. "There's darkest witchcraft going on in Pendle Forest. No one knows that better than you, as your poor father was Chattox's victim. It was murder in cold blood, what she did to him. Will you help me, Alizon? Help me get to the bottom of this evil?"
"That Chattox is a vicious creature," I told him. Yet my tongue was tied, for hadn't I promised Gran that I wouldn't accuse Chattox or ever cry witch? Was I still bound to that vow if Roger Nowell, with all his might and authority, demanded an answer of me? Torn, I was, for Nowell had awoken my grief and bitterness at having lost my father so young and never being able to seek retribution for him. Hadn't I prayed for this chance to avenge him? When I looked at Nowell, I saw Gran's face. Mad as it seemed, Gran and Nowell might have been blood kin, for they shared the same strong chins, the same piercing eyes.
"We have more in common than you think, you and I," Nowell said as if he were gifted with powers as potent as Gran's and could read my thoughts. "My family has also suffered at the hands of one just as menacing as Chattox."
I shook my head in mafflement, for I'd never heard such a thing. Nowell was married to a plump, cheerful lady, and they'd ten children and grandchildren besides who seemed healthy and right, by all accounts, not afflicted by sorcery.
"Have you heard of my nephew, Nicholas Starkie?" Nowell asked me.
"He lives at Huntroyde, does he not?" I asked, proud to show off my knowledge. "We passed it in the wagon on the way here, sir."
"Right you are, my girl. Now he lives at Huntroyde, but seventeen years ago, around the time you were born, Alizon, he lived at Cleworth, many miles away. Back then my nephew's young son and daughter began to suffer fits and convulsions, and, like any father, he was sore concerned. First he hired physicians, one after the other, spending £200, and still the children were not cured."
Near choked on my wine, I did, to hear of such a vast sum. I couldn't imagine having such a fortune in the first place, much less throwing it away on some piss-prophet physician when you could get someone like Gran to do the job for a peck of oats.
"My nephew resorted to a thing that many would consider treasonous." Nowell leaned forward as if he were revealing his deepest secret. "They sought to engage a popish priest to perform an exorcism that would drive out the demons tormenting those unfortunate children. But the priest refused. So finally my nephew found a wiseman named Edmund Hartley to join his household and work to cure his children, and this man employed certain popish charms and herbs. For about a year and a half he seemed to succeed and the children appeared to recover."
I nodded my approval—far more sensible to engage a cunning man.
"But soon enough the wizard showed his true colours. Though my nephew paid him handsomely, Hartley complained that his wages were too paltry, and then an evil influence spread through my nephew's house. Not only did the two children's fits return, furious as ever, but three girls being fostered in his household began to suffer as well, as did a maidservant and a spinster relation.
"A horror, it was." Nowell's eyes went round and wide. "Alizon, picture this: five children and two grown women shrieking, howling, and holding their breath until they went blue, and they delighted in filthy and unsavoury speeches—during church sermons no less—so that they were scarcely fit to enter the House of God for two years. At home, when my nephew read to them from the scriptures, they fell into convulsions and screamed awful depravities.
"My nephew had no doubt that Hartley himself had bewitched these seven souls. But he couldn't condemn Hartley without proof, could he?"
"No, sir." I gripped the carved armrests of my chair, eager to hear how the tale would end. Nowell had made Hartley sound like a slippery character indeed, a world apart from Gran.
"One day, in a woodland, my nephew tricked Hartley into demonstrating his powers in the casting of a magic circle." Nowell looked at me. "Did your grandmother ever speak to you of casting circles, Alizon?"
"Oh, no, sir! Never heard of such a thing in all my life," I told him, plain and honest. "My gran is a righteous woman who prays to God that others will be healed." I folded my hands in my lap. "What happened to Master Hartley then, sir?"
"When my nephew told the judge at the Assizes that he had witnessed Hartley casting a magic circle, the man was declared guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to hang. Still Hartley had the belligerence to protest his innocence. Then, when they hanged him, the rope broke."
"Some luck, that," I said, my tongue loosened by the wine.
"When he fell on the platform, still alive, the wretch at last came to his senses and penitently confessed his crime. Then he was hanged again, this time properly."
I wanted to cross myself to ward off Hartley's sorry fate from befalling any of my kin, but instead I clasped my hands. "What happened afterward to the bewitched children and the maid and spinster, sir?"
Nowell gazed out the window whilst he spoke. "Two godly ministers came to my nephew's house and read from the scriptures whilst the seven possessed souls bellowed, blasphemed, and convulsed, but the ministers never wavered. Eventually each of the afflicted fell into a deep swoon until one after the other awakened, freed of their possession."
That was some tale all right. Left me speechless.
"Let me show you something, Alizon."
Nowell went to a shelf built into a recess in his panelled wall and pulled out a book with golden letters stamped on calfskin. Full reverent, he laid it out upon the table and bade me look at it. How I marvelled. The only book I'd set eyes on before was the Bible in the New Church, but I knew first off that this was no Bible, for it wasn't as massive. A glance at the other books lined up on the shelf told me that Nowell must be a learned man. I tried to imagine what it would be like to read and unlock the secrets hidden inside each and every tome.
"This book," said Nowell, "was written by our King. Did you know our King James was a man of letters?"
"No, sir."
In truth, all I knew of Scotch Jimmy was that he was said to be fat, ill-tempered, and vain, and that he hated Papists even worse than Queen Bess before him had done. Uneasy, I remembered the day I'd eavesdropped on Alice Nutter and Mistress Towneley at Carr Hall and how Mistress Towneley had said, May God rid us of this cursed King. He won't be satisfied until he's murdered us all! But if I went pale at the memory, Nowell never noticed, so intent he was on turning the pages of his book.
"It's called Daemonologie, the science of demons. The King believes there is a vast conspiracy and veritable army of those such as Edmund Hartley and Chattox and their many cohorts who seek to bring down our Christian nation."
What he said sent my head spinning. Chattox was vile, to be sure, but she was a lonely old woman in her cottage, not part of some devilish army.
"Book learning is all very well," he said with a sigh. "But it's quite another matter to have firsthand knowledge of a thing. In truth, I don't know nearly enough of the ways of witchcraft. I would learn from you, Alizon." He smiled. "Not an hour ago, you promised you would help me. Now that you've heard my story of how black magic nearly destroyed my nephew's family, could you not tell me how Chattox oppressed your family at Malkin Tower?"
He poured more wine into my goblet and pushed the platter of
sweetmeats toward me. So warm and comfortable, I was, for I'd never been received in a finer room, and Nowell treated me with such regard that I took it as a sign from God that it was time someone spoke out about Chattox. I was doing it for a higher purpose, after all, not out of spite, and this, I prayed, re-leased me from the promise I'd made to Gran.
So I spilled out the whole story. First, how Chattox's daughter Betty had stolen our oatmeal and our good linen coifs and bands when I was only a small child. Then how my father had tried to make his peace with Chattox by offering her a dole of oats every year, but when he'd stopped the payments in the year of famine when we'd barely enough to feed ourselves, Chattox bewitched him so that he died in agony. Then I told how my dearest friend had died after Chattox accused us of laughing at her.
"It's on account of Chattox that I lost my father and my best friend," I told him, sincere as I'd ever spoken.
Quite something, it was, to have a man as distinguished as Roger Nowell hanging upon my every word, all the while scribbling upon his parchment. Finally I stopped speaking to gaze, full entranced, at the fancy ink shapes he was making that were meant to be my very words.
"Go on, Alizon," he said, lifting his quill. "Have you anything else to say regarding Chattox?"
My speech emboldened by the wine, I told him how Betty Whittle had once begged a dish of milk off the Holdens at Bull Hole Farm only to have Chattox pour it into a can, cross two sticks over it, and begin an incantation till Matthew Holden came charging out and kicked the milk over to break the spell. But the next morning one of his father's cows fell sick, lay for four days, and then died.
Nowell scribbled away with such excitement I thought his inkpot would run dry. After a spell he'd no choice but to rest his hand. He arose then and leafed through the book written by the King.
"Let me read a passage for you."
This seemed a wondrous thing as I'd never heard anybody read from a book just for me.
Daughters of the Witching Hill Page 25
