by Robert Neill
“Riding,” he observed, as she seated herself delicately, “is apt to work such mischief. You’ll forget it when you’re warm. Could you sit a horse again today?”
She grimaced at him and wriggled in her chair, but she nodded assent.
“That’s well,” he said. “There’s some trouble up the Forest and I must look to it. So you may ride with me, if you’re of that mind, and see people and places, and perhaps the trouble too.”
“Aye, sir.” She was already helping herself to bacon and feeling appreciative of this easy household. “May I know what the trouble is?”
“That’s what we’re to learn.” He pushed back his chair and filled his ale-mug afresh. “All I know is that Wilsey--he’s our Constable--sent word, a half-hour gone, of a man dead at a place called the Rough Lee. And some people, it seems, are asking why. Which is a nuisance. I was due at Altham today. Are you finished?”
“I ... I think so.”
He looked her in the eye, and burst out laughing.
“That’s an answer more of manners than of stomach. I’d forgotten, your youth. Get you to it! Mitton won’t mind waiting.”
He began to charge his tobacco pipe while Margery, nothing loath, attacked the bacon again and helped herself to more ale. The frugality of her mother’s housekeeping had taught her to take chances when they came.
“This ale,” she said happily. “Do you call it small ale here?”
“Mostly.” Roger’s eyebrows had taken a sardonic lift. “You find it none so small?”
“It’s better than our best. As for our small....“
“I know it. I know your London ale--and a poor-weak-sinner’s brew it is! You must try our October----”
He put fire to his pipe while Margery cut at the bacon for a third time. She ate steadily until curiosity woke in her. Then she looked up at Roger.
“This Mitton, sir, who won’t mind waiting. May I know who he is?”
“He isn’t. He’s dead. That’s why he won’t mind waiting.”
“Oh!”
And Margery, who had been contemplating a fourth attack on the bacon, suddenly decided not to. Instead she told Roger she had finished.
“You’re sure?” He looked hard at her. “To horse then in ten minutes’ time.”
She was out of the house in less than that, and on the gravel by the great door she found the horses, held by the man who had led the pack-horse yesterday. He handed her a packet done in white cloth.
“Bread and cheese,” he explained. “Master Nowell said it should be in your saddle-bag.”
She took it with a surprise which he must have noticed.
“Said you’d not had much breakfast,” he added, “and maybe you’d be sharp set before we’re back.”
Margery saw no sense in contradicting this, so she took the packet and stuffed it into her saddle-bag. Then she turned to look at him more carefully. She saw a small stocky fellow, thick-set and strong, with fair hair, unwavering blue eyes, and a nose that looked as if it had once been broken. She found herself smiling at him, and he smiled back with a display of startlingly white teeth in a face so brown and creased that she wondered where, and under what suns, he had been. Margery’s smile broadened’. She thought she liked this man.
Then Roger came out of the house to join them, pulling on his gloves as he walked.
“So you’ve met,” he said. “That’s well. You should know Tom Peyton, little cousin. We’ve been together many a year, and he’s my old and trusty friend.”
And Margery knew from his tone that he meant it. She turned to Tom Peyton again.
“I hope you’ll be in some sort my friend too,” she told him. “I’m a stranger here and have need of friends.”
His smile broadened into a grin.
“Do my best ma’am. Command me.”
Roger nodded approval and then swung lightly into his saddle. Tom Peyton held Margery’s stirrup.
They went away at a brisk trot, and soon Margery was staring at the contrast between this country and the Kentish fields she had known. She could not, indeed, see it as fully as she could have wished, for much of the road lay between banks that cut the view; but she was soon aware that they were climbing to a bleak and undulating moorland, a place of rock and bracken, of tufted grass and scattered trees.
Roger waved his gloved hand to the left.
“The great hill’s yonder,” he explained, “and it runs, as I told you, to the nor’east. This side, there’s a great broad face of it that dips to the valley where runs the Sabden brook....“
“Which we crossed last night?”
“That one. And this side of the brook the ground sweeps up again to this ridge, which marches with the hill. We’re on the outer face of the ridge just now, which is why there’s no good view of the hill. But look to your right!”
He waved at the broad prospect that had opened below them. For a couple of miles the ground fell smoothly to where a sunlit river shone silver. Beyond it the hills rose again.
“That’s the Calder,” he said. “And those few dwellings beyond it make Burnley.”
Margery considered it observantly. This, she thought, was farmland, but not the farmland she had known in Kent. This was a rougher land, with the cattle lean and the trees in scattered clumps. Stubble fields seen here and there suggested lighter crops than the Kentish farmers cut. Roger saw her thought.
“These are no wheat lands,” he said. “We contrive a little of it for our own tables, but the most of our folk must needs make shift with barley--and little enough of that.”
“And is barley all your people’s living?”
“No. There’s pasture too, as you may see, and it’s better than you’d suppose. Even in the Lacys’ time there were vaccaries here.”
“Vaccaries?”
“Cow pastures. What else? But here’s the open ground. Now see!”
They had ended the climb at last, and now to their left the ground fell steeply to a silver thread which she guessed to be the Sabden brook. Beyond it was the great hill, bare and stark in the sunlight.
“What’s on the hill?” he asked.
Margery looked keenly, and at once she saw what he meant. The hill was in full light, and from the one end to the other its great flank was dotted with white specks which could only be grazing sheep.
“There’s our true living,” said Roger. “There they graze. There’s wool to be clipped and carded and spun, and cloth to be wove and dyed. And beyond all that, there’s flesh to be roasted and boiled, and there’s milk and cheese for some. God’s chosen animal, the sheep.”
Margery gurgled with amusement. This, as a theological pronouncement, was new to her.
“And is it a good living, sir, that this chosen animal gives?”
Roger frowned at that.
“No,” he answered shortly, “not for all. It’s very well for us who are the owners. It’s well enough for the yeomen, who in their way are owners too. But for the common sort it’s not nearly so well. Sheep give less work than wheat, and there are folk in plenty here who eke out their barley bread with stolen mutton. How say you, Tom?”
“I’d say less, sir, if they’d let their thieving stop at mutton.”
“I’ll not gainsay you. That place yonder is Fence.”
They had dropped from the crest of the ridge now, and were riding along its outer face with a grey stone hamlet in view below them.
“Fence? That’s an odd name sir?”
“There was store of deer there once, kept safe behind a fence.”
Margery nodded. She was admiring the sweep of this sunlit valley, with its green and silver set against the blue and white of the sky.
“And those are the Hoarstones,” said Tom Peyton.
He was pointing at some tall stones rising out of the ground to their right, and Margery grew curious; but for once, Roger did not know the answer.
“Ask me not,” he said. “We call them so, and none knows how they came, nor whence.”
&
nbsp; “The country folk,” said Tom Peyton, “have a tale that the Devil sits among the stones on certain nights, and the fairies on the other nights.”
“Fairies?” Margery smiled. “You keep fairies here?”
Roger grunted.
“I’ll not vouch for the fairies,” he said, “but we’ve certainly got the Devil.”
They had a minute’s silence, and then Margery was at it again.
“This Rough Lee to which we go,” she said. “Is that where this Mitton lived?”
“Aye indeed, and as house steward!” Roger laughed aloud. “God’s Grace! House steward in a yeoman’s home, as though Dick Nutter were a belted earl! It’s a woman’s madness!”
Margery looked at him inquiringly, and he explained it patiently.
“I mean Mistress Nutter,” he said. “Mistress Nutter of the Rough Lee--known through the Forest as Our Alice. She came here out of Trawden some twenty years agone, and she came as the wife of plain Dick Nutter. Then she took airs, and would have herself the wife of Master Richard Nutter--though he’s Dick to all Pendle. And of late she’s so puffed that none doubts she means to end as the wife of Richard Nutter of the Rough Lee, Esquire--if God do but give her land enough.”
“God, is it?”
Tom Peyton flung the question quickly, and Roger turned sharply at it. For a moment Margery expected trouble, thinking her cousin might resent this as an impertinence. Then she saw that she was wrong, and at once she guessed why. These two had been many a year together, and no doubt Tom Peyton was privileged to speak his mind. Roger, she saw, was smiling.
“Again I’ll not gainsay you, Tom. We’ll say, if the Devil should find for his own.”
Then he seemed to remember Margery again.
“But of your question, this Mitton was her house steward in these last years--him that used to be the pig man! And now he’s dead. And I don’t yet know what’s thought odd in that.”
They had crossed to the inner face of the ridge again, and soon the great hill was in full view to the left. Another mile brought them to a turning, and the road dipped steeply down to the inner valley. At the bottom were crossroads, and Roger stooped and pointed.
“You see the four roads meet? Opposite, the road comes from Barley, which is a mile or two beyond in a cleft of the hill. To the right of the Barley road, the high ground is called Wheathead. What’s to the left we call Goldshaw. And in Goldshaw....“
He pointed away to his left, where the ground rose steeply, and Margery, following that, saw a cluster of buildings, all in the grey stone and perched high on the naked hill.
“I told you we’d a church within the Forest,” he went on. “There it is, and we call it the Newchurch, though it’s been there many a year. Do you see it there, below the road?”
“Aye sir. With the road running past it?”
“Just so. Past it and above it. Had we been for Barley or for Wheathead, we might have used that road.”
He pointed down to the crossroads far below them.
“Do you mark the water there?”
Margery had already seen it, a shining stream that ran by the Barley road and seemed to come from the great hill behind. At the crossroads it turned sharply and then followed the road that ran to the right.
“It’s the Pendle Water,” said Roger. “We must drop to the crossroads and thence follow the Water to the right there. A mile downstream from that, and we shall be at the Rough Lee.”
“Being a house, sir?”
“Being mainly a house, but with a cottage or two lying near. That’s to be expected, since these Nutters are folk of substance. As yeomen go, Dick Nutter is the wealthiest in Pendle.”
Pie put his horse to a cautious walk down the hill to the crossroads. The others followed.
“I’m told,” he went on, “that we shall not see Alice this day. She’s away at Lathom, she and her precious son.”
“Lathom sir?”
“Aye, Lathom House--by Ormskirk, to the west beyond Preston. Where lives the Earl of Derby, the Lieutenant of this County. Alice has a kinsman who’s some secretary or clerk in milord’s Household, and it’s this fellow she visits--she and Miles.”
“Miles?”
“That’s her son--a slender reed of some twenty summers. The fellow at Lathom’s not much more than that. What’s his plaguey name? I can never hold it. How’s he named, Tom?”
“Potter sir. Matthew Potter.”
“Aye, Potter it is. And what’s the kinship? Is he cousin to Alice, or what is he?”
“Depends where you ask it sir.” Tom Peyton had a broad grin.
“How?”
“At the Rough Lee they says nephew. At the alehouse they says bastard. You take your choice.”
“Thanks. I’ve made mine and I’ll not ask yours.”
They were down the steep slope at last, and there, by the side of the clear and bubbling stream, a horseman waited. Roger waved an arm in greeting, and the man returned it with a cheerful flourish of his hat. Margery scanned him with interest as they came to the water and let the horses pick their careful way across. She saw a tall ungainly fellow, with big hands and feet and unruly hair; his cheerful grin and happy untidiness gave him a friendly look as he pulled his hat at Roger.
“Glad to see you Jim.” Roger sounded as though he liked the man.
“Thank you sir.” Wilsey’s voice was as cheerful as the rest of him. “Sorry there’s this trouble, but I thought I’d best call you.”
“It’s no fault of yours. But what is the trouble?”
“It’s Baldwin sir.”
“Baldwin?” Roger did not sound pleased. “I thought it was Mitton.”
“Oh aye sir. It’s Mitton that’s dead, but it’s Baldwin that’s the trouble, if you take me.”
“Baldwin usually is the trouble I’ve noticed. What is it this time?”
“What you might guess, sir. Thinks the Devil’s had Harry.” Roger’s eyebrows lifted sardonically.
“The Devil, is it? That’s what Baldwin would think. And who’s His Hellship’s agent this time?” Wilsey had a grin that split his face. “The Demdike sir.”
“Again what I might guess. If we’re to believe Baldwin, that woman’s the Devil’s agent-general for these parts.”
The sunlight came dappling through the trees as they rode down the wooded banks of the stream. Roger had lapsed into a thoughtful silence, and Margery had a chance to consider what she had heard. Its general meaning was plain enough. Somebody called Baldwin thought that somebody called Demdike had bewitched this Mitton, and Margery found no cause for surprise in that. She had heard talk enough at home about witchcraft, about the tales that ran, and the books and pamphlets that tumbled from the presses. Roger too, she noted, had shown no surprise; and with that there came to her a sudden memory of her brother Richard asking why a country gentleman should wish to buy the King’s great book about the witches. Then, while she asked herself what this portended, Roger’s voice disturbed her thoughts.
“Here’s the Rough Lee,” he said suddenly.
They had come to a substantial stone house, large and well proportioned, and set back from the road in a proper dignity. As they dismounted, a slight and sandy-haired man with a shuffling walk and an unhappy look came to greet them; in a yeoman’s jerkin he might have looked at ease, but he had a laced- doublet of green which somehow gave him the air of a lackey flaunting it in his master’s second-best. Roger, however, greeted him heartily.
“Good day to you Dick!” he called, and Margery guessed that this must be the Dick Nutter he had spoken of.
“Good day to you Master Nowell!” It sounded like a forced imitation of Roger’s heartiness. “Though it’s no very good day for us here.”
“So I’m told. What’s this of Harry Mitton?”
“He’s dead this morning.” The man shuffled awkwardly. “And the Demdike woman’s been here, and her infernal granddaughter with her. But Baldwin can tell you more of that.”
“Baldwin? I
s he here now?”
“Aye--and waiting for you.”
“The Devil he is!” Roger handed his horse to a fellow who had come out for it. “Then we’ll go in. But I’m forgetting--here’s Mistress Whitaker, who’s my cousin and guest. Cousin this is Master Richard Nutter--though he’s Dick to all Pendle.”
Dick Nutter made a leg at her, shyly and awkwardly, and Margery acknowledged it with a friendly smile. She thought there was something to like in Dick Nutter, and perhaps something to pity too. She wondered what his wife was really like, and whether the green doublet had been her choice rather than his.
He took them in and led them to what Margery judged to be the Steward’s room, a simple place which was part parlour and part pantry; and Roger, who had remained covered, swept off his hat to the dead man stretched on the table there.
Margery looked without emotion. Death, after all, was a common sight, and she had seen it many times. Harry Mitton, when all was said, had merely gone the way so many had gone; and it was no great matter.
She looked at him observantly. He had been a big man, and older than most. She thought he might have been something past sixty, so he had had more than his share of life. She could imagine him, portly, pompous, and red of face, working to impress the stranger with his own importance; even in death he looked that kind of man. But if death had not changed him in that, it had changed him in something else. There was an odd look about him as he lay there, still and quiet on the long oak table; and as Margery considered him, asking herself what it was, there came to her the memory of another death like this. There had been an innkeeper at Lambeth, just such a red and portly man, who had worked himself into a heat, moving wine casks under an August sun, until he had collapsed among them with arm and leg drawn tight and his face pulled awry. He had muttered thickly and had died within the hour; and in death he had looked as Harry Mitton now looked.
There was a stir behind the door, and a man who had been sitting there rose quietly to his feet, slipping under his arm the book he had been reading. He was a sturdy and finely made man of some fifty years, wiry and strong, and with a brown and sunburned face which in repose might have been friendly but now looked tense and strained. Margery, curious as ever, looked at the book he had been reading and saw it was a Psalter. She looked from that to his brown leather jerkin and plain falling band, to his close-cropped hair and burning eyes, to the hard lines of his brow and jaw. Then she stiffened warily; she had learned to know a puritan when she saw one.
