Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Yet in the end she missed his coming. For chancing to look into the room she saw with sudden alarm that the sunlight had moved from the wisp of thread. She was at first angry, and then amused that she should have thought the sun stayed still. But she had to try the curtsey again, three separate times, before she was satisfied; and as she rose after placing the thread again, there was a clatter of horses in the arch below, a shouting and a running of feet, and the landlord’s voice raised in a greeting to Master Nowell.

  She felt her heart pounding as she hurried to her place and stood to face the door. She made swiftly sure that she stood correctly, feet together, back hollowed, head erect and hands clasped. Then, with her face a little pale and her breath a little fast, she waited, very straight and still, and heard the ring of boots on the stair and in the passage--a brisk confident tread, with a firm drop of heel and a pleasant jingle of spurs. Then the hinges creaked, and there was a man in the doorway.

  He halted, stiff and impassive, and considered her gravely; a big man, full six feet of him, broad of shoulder and slim of hip, with an alert vigour that belied the flecks of grey in his beard. There was something sombre in this sun-browned face with the thick eyebrows and the big jutting nose; yet it seemed to Margery that here too was something friendly, something even of humour in the lines of his forehead. Then, while she looked, he swept his beaver off; and the breath caught in her throat as she saw the glint of red in his brown hair.

  She steadied herself, and as he came towards her she gave him her best curtsey. It was deftly done, and as she had planned. And as her head sank into the shaft of sunlight, his advance stopped abruptly, and he stood staring.

  “God’s Grace!” he said softly. “God’s Grace!”

  Deliberately she did not rise. She knew she was set to advantage; there would be nothing lost by waiting. So, for a moment, they stayed, he looking down at her and she looking up at him. Then he flung hat and whip to the window-seat and began peeling off his gloves.

  “Get up, little cousin.”

  His voice was bantering, and of a sudden he broke into a smile that lit his face and changed his whole aspect; and it was Margery’s turn to stare as she saw the odd crinkle of the forehead that came with the smile.

  “You are little cousin, not a doubt of it. How do they call you?”

  “Margery Whitaker, by your leave sir.” He flung his gloves after his hat.

  “If you’d said Margery Nowell, you’d still have had my leave--or any man’s. None would deny it you while you look so. However....“

  His smile came again, and it was infectious. It called hers out m response, and she felt her forehead crinkle. He stopped short in the act of loosening his cloak.

  “God’s Grace!” he said again. “None indeed! And I had thought to see....“

  He broke off, and his face grew thoughtful as he walked to the window.

  Margery, watching in silence, asked herself why this man stood so far apart from other men. That he did stand apart was clear; why, was not so clear. Certainly it was not his clothes. His leather jerkin, serge breeches, and cloak of russet frieze were homely enough, and his beaver was almost shabby. There was nothing to distinguish him from the yeomen she had seen in the street except the bright steel sword-hilt in the folds of his cloak--that, and his eyes. And then she understood. For in this man’s eyes, unmistakably and in full measure, was that nameless force which in all times and places has been authority; and Margery, who had never seen it before, knew it on the instant for what it was.

  He was smiling again now, and curiosity was raging in Margery. She decided to risk it.

  “Pray sir,” she said, “what was it that you thought to see? Or whom?”

  “That? Why, nothing at all....“ But his smile was broadening, and something impish was creeping into it. “Nay, if you will have it, I thought to see some pudding-faced wench, with hair free from curl, and flanks like a Flemish mare.”

  Margery nearly choked. She was not used to this sort of thing. It flouted all she had been taught; and because it delighted her, it lured her. into archness. She made her curtsey again, most formally and deliberately, and she looked up at her cousin with lifting eyebrows and a smile that had an inviting touch of impudence.

  “Must I then regret it, sir, that I do not match your expectations?”

  She was still sunk in her curtsey, poised gracefully and delicately; she was pleased with that riposte, and her eyes showed it as she waited for his answer. It came instantly, and it was not what she had expected. He had slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and it was hanging loosely from his arm; now, with a speed that gave no warning, he swung it by the collar, and its fast-moving folds, sweeping low across the floor, took her by the ankles; her delicate balance broke at once, and she went down with an undignified thump.

  “Here’s impudence!” said Roger Nowell. And Margery, sitting on the floor and looking ruefully up at him, saw his grin and went helplessly into laughter.

  Chapter 3: THE BROODING HILL

  Half an hour later, after he had shown what a sharp-set man can do to beef and ale, and Margery had shown what a healthy girl can do in emulation, they were in the saddle. He had mounted her on a lively grey mare and was beside her on a big chestnut. Her bags followed on a pack-horse led by a mounted servant.

  It was high noon when they came from the inn yard into the Friargate, and Margery gave thanks to Fortune as they trotted the length of the street. She had waited for this moment since she had first set eyes on the orange-tawny, and here she was in the glittering sunlight, mounted as she had never thought to be mounted, and squired by a cousin who had already made himself a lodestone for her thoughts. The grey mare seemed happy to be away, and Margery was happy with her.

  But soon, when they had cleared the town and put its cobbled streets a mile or two behind them, she began to have some different thoughts. They were descending a long steep slope to an arm of the Ribble which flowed southward at its foot. The track was rough and getting rougher; the mare was lively and getting livelier, and was not at all like the placid palfrey she had once ridden with her Huguenot instructor. Soon she was asking herself whether a side-saddle was a safe seat on such a mount and on such a track; nor did the heavy and extravagantly pleated safeguard seem quite so desirable now as it had done in the Angel an hour before. She became anxious, and from being anxious she became acutely fearful lest at any moment she leave the saddle altogether. She was grateful when the watchful Roger saw her troubles and leaned over to reduce both horses to a walk. So they came without mishap to the river, crossed it, and began to climb the opposite slope, Margery’s confidence was returning, and soon she was able to look about her with interest.

  “Salmesbury,” said Roger suddenly, waving to his left. “Home of Southworth, the recusant.”

  “Recusant?”

  “Aye. Old Sir John, I mean, though he’s dead now. The recusant of all recusants. Do you have papists in your ken at home?”

  “Papists!” Margery was startled, for papists, as she had always heard, were vile treacherous rogues, false to God and King alike; and recusants were the worst and stiffest-necked of papists.

  “Aye, papists,” said Roger again. “Do you have none at your home?”

  “Why no, sir. Not within my knowing.”

  “They’ll be within your knowing here. We’ve good store of them in this County.” He spoke casually, as if this were no great matter, and Margery stared in astonishment.

  “But surely, sir, the Justices....“

  Her cousin laughed heartily.

  “The Justices? Not they! And I speak with knowledge, for I’m one myself.”

  “You!” She almost lost her saddle in the shock of that. “You sir? A papist?”

  “God’s Grace no!” He was shaking with laughter. “Not a papist, little cousin. Merely one of the King’s Justices within this County.” Then suddenly his laughter died and he spoke more gravely. “From whom did you learn of papists?”

  �
��Why sir, from my brothers, and my mother. And from some others too.”

  “Aye.” He nodded as though understanding had come to him. “I’d some letters from your brothers....“

  He lapsed into silence as the horses went slowly up the long ascent, and Margery was glad enough to be silent while she gave her mind to this. . She had not known that he was a Justice, but she did know that that was a dignity coveted by many country gentlemen and achieved by very few; there must be some, and in high places, who held him in esteem if he were in the Commission. And then she came back to what perplexed her.

  “Touching these papists sir....“

  “Oh, the papists?” His light humour returned instantly. “Touching these papists, little cousin, they’re men and women like the rest of us, and are therefore good, bad and indifferent--mostly indifferent. And for us Justices, we have duties enough without scenting a Jesuit behind every chimney-breast. If we truly scented treason, we’d truly serve the King--even Scotch Jimmy. But as it is....“

  He broke off with a shrug of his shoulders. But Margery was not satisfied.

  “Aye sir,” she answered. “As it is. But how is it?”

  She was at a loss, and she genuinely wanted to know. Roger seemed to sense this, for he answered her soberly.

  “If my neighbour be an honest gentleman,” he said, “then, papist or no papist, I’m not the man to harry him for the sport of it. There are houses here where a priest or two may verily be behind a chimney. But what of it? Who’s harmed?”

  Margery brooded. These were not at all the views that her brothers had held. Soon she came to it again.

  “But--six years ago sir, when the powder was placed....“

  “Oh that? Catesby and his crew? The man was mad. But our papists here are not such as he. They’re country gentlemen, concerned with their pigs and their corn and the worth of their October.”

  “October?”

  “Ale, little cousin--the gift of God.”

  He seemed to dismiss the matter, and while Margery groped for an answer, it happened. She had foreseen it and she had forgotten it; and now it happened. The grey mare slipped and recovered. Margery slipped and did not recover. She slipped wholly from the saddle, down the mare’s flanks, and into the long dry grass that fringed the track. And for the second time that day she sat looking ruefully upwards at a laughing cousin.

  Then he dismounted in one unbroken movement. Gloved hands came behind her shoulders and pulled her easily to her feet. He brushed dry grass from her back, and helped her to mount. Thereafter they went at a cautious walk.

  They came to a fork of the road and he bore to the left, remarking that this was their road for Whalley. It seemed to rouse him from his thoughts, and there was a suspicious crinkle in his forehead as he looked across at Margery.

  “Little cousin!”

  His tone warned her that the impish mood had him again, and she watched him warily. But he was stroking his horse’s neck and seemed in no hurrry.

  “In the days of my youth,” he said at length, “when I was young and lewd, a wench had two legs like the rest of us. No doubt she still has?”

  Margery gasped. She had not learned to answer men who talked like this.

  “Why yes, sir.” There seemed nothing else to say.

  “Then why,” asked Roger airily, “why the Devil can’t she put them one each side a horse like the rest of us?”

  Margery crushed surprise and sought for an answer. Something warned her that this, or at least the manner of it, was meant to test her. If so, it would be proper to show a seemly confusion. But then, as she groped for words, some deep instinct warned her against dissembling. For this man, only the truth was fitting. So she decided on truth, but truth clothed in his own short phrases.

  “As to wenches in general,” she said, “they fear to be unseemly. As to this wench in particular, she at least fears to be thought unseemly.”

  He looked sharply at her.

  “You distinguish nicely. But why?”

  His tone was not unfriendly, and Margery decided to stick to the truth.

  “It’s the girl who’s thought unseemly who’s punished.”

  “Rather than the one who truly is? You see sharply for your youth. It is even so.” He looked her in the eyes, and then he nodded thoughtfully. “It’s as I suppose, little cousin. You’ve been bred a puritan.”

  “Why--why yes sir. I think I have.”

  Again he was silent as the horses ambled on; and now, as they traversed the ups and downs of the undulating road, something new caught her eye. She began to see, from each rise of the road, a great broad-backed hill which ran across the sky before them, a sweep of green set against the blue. She looked at it idly, then with interest, and at last searchingly; she began to feel under a compulsion to look at it--almost its compulsion. There was something odd about this hill, something not to be defined, something she could almost fancy to be disturbing. Disturbing or not, this hill compelled attention.

  “Little cousin....“

  Margery’s mind left the hill at once; she was learning that this form of address usually presaged something that needed full attention. He was looking directly at her.

  “Were you bred a puritan, or bred among puritans? Which?”

  She stared back, puzzled, and he explained himself.

  “Are you in truth and heart a puritan? Or did they fail in that?”

  “Why sir, I....“ She hesitated, and then decided for the truth again. “Indeed sir, I fear they found me an exceeding disappointment.”

  “Well answered, little cousin. It runs not with the blood of Nowell.”

  He went back into his thoughts, and the hill came back into hers. It was looming larger now, and she could see brown patches in the green of it, patches, no doubt, where Autumn had turned the bracken. Here and there white dots suggested sheep. Margery’s forehead puckered as she stared. This hill fascinated her. If a hill could have an indwelling Spirit, then surely this one had--and it might not be the most friendly of Spirits. There was some brooding quality about this hill, as though it were sentient and knew more than it chose to tell. She told herself not to be foolish, but the fancy persisted. This hill seemed different from other hills, as though it possessed something--or even, perhaps, as though something possessed it. Margery became almost uneasy, and she was glad to hear Roger’s voice when he spoke again. He had turned in his saddle to face her, and she could see that he was in earnest.

  “Since you’ve come into this County,” he said, “you’d best know how the wind sets. We’ve papists here, as I’ve said. That’s no matter. They run a decent course and make civil neighbours. But here also we’ve puritans, a noisy crew of them, hot against the Devil and a deal hotter against the papists. Wherefore they give much time to urging it on Nick Banister and me that we bestir ourselves in the harrying of papists--which Nick and I, who have to hold the peace, are by no means disposed to do. We are therefore much murmured against and looked at sideways, and we have at times given answers that have not mended tempers--and puritans, as I’ve noted, have commonly very sour tempers.”

  “Aye sir.” Margery knew all about the tempers of puritans, and she was by no means sorry to hear her cousin speak in such terms. “But may I know who this Master Banister is, whom you speak of?”

  “He’s from Altham, to the sou’west there. He and I are the Justices in these parts. Nick’s of the Quorum too.”

  “The Quorum, sir?”

  “Those Justices who are set apart as knowing more of law than the rest of us. Quorum unum esse volumus, as the statutes say.”

  Margery nodded; she was scholar enough to follow that. And then he had more to say.

  “In short, little cousin, the set of the wind is that your cousin here is on mighty poor terms with some. And that’s a wind that may cool you also.”

  “I’ll not he disturbed by that,” she retorted. “It’s been so with me since I can remember.”

  “You also? Graceless girl!”
>
  But there was pleasure in his brown face, and Margery thought she might risk another question.

  “You speak of papists sir, and puritans. But do all your folk lean those ways?”

  “The most of our folk lean to the ale-bench only. They attend church as the law commands, and they backslide when they can. And those few that are earnest lean, as you put it, the one way or the other--Rome or Geneva.”

  He lapsed into silence again, and it occurred to Margery that she might do well to take warning. This man put things crisply. He had wits sharp as her own, and she thought it might be prudent to remember that. She had been accustomed of late to hatch her schemes on the supposition that her brothers were slow-witted--that they would perceive none of her sharper subtleties. That, she now thought, might have its dangers if practised on cousin Roger.

  They dropped steeply to a clear and gurgling river, and turned across a low stone bridge into Whalley town. Roger made no halt. In the town’s centre he turned away up another steep ascent, and as he did so he gestured over his shoulder at the grey stone church that stood by the parting of the roads.

  “Touching the way a girl should sit a horse,’’ he said suddenly, “I did not speak wholly in jest. I would not indeed have you ride this road otherwise than aside. The wives of Whalley can clack their tongues as loudly as other wives, and that’s their sport of Sundays at the church yonder. But it’s another matter in the Forest, where tracks are rough and there’s none of consequence to note how you ride nor where. On those tracks a fallen rider may linger long, and you’ll be wise to consider what’s safe not what’s thought seemly.”

  “Aye sir.” She was doubtful of his meaning. “But pray, what do others do in this Forest?”

  “Meaning the women? For the most part they go not in the Forest, or if they do, they ride pillion behind husband or brother.”