by Robert Neill
“May we be serious, Master Nowell? Mitton dies something oddly. Some women of an ill sort are seen. Then a magistrate puts them to the question. May I not suppose---?”
“You may suppose, ma’am, that if there’d been anything found against them they’d have been committed.”
Mistress Nutter stood in silence. Then she nodded thoughtfully.
“I understand sir. Then I’ll take my leave.” She turned quickly to Margery. “You bear it in mind, mistress? No long delay!”
Margery’s curtsey was formal. Roger’s bow was solemn. Mistress Nutter outdid them both. Her curtsey was perfect, and her smile was charming as she turned about and went tripping lightly through the churchyard gate.
“What the Devil!”
Roger was staring at her retreating back, and for a moment Margery was startled. But the old sardonic tone was back in his voice, and she felt her forehead crinkle with relief. Here was something she could deal with at her ease. “Sir?”
The lift of her eyebrows said the rest, and Roger asked no more. He explained himself pithily.
“She’s mighty civil,” he said. “And when Alice Nutter’s mighty civil, it commonly means that she wants something. At this moment I don’t perceive what it is. Did you mark that chantry?”
“Aye sir. And the glass in it.”
Black-and-silver went trotting past the gate on a fine black horse with silver lace on a black saddle-cloth. Roger swept his beaver punctiliously. Then he stood in silence.
“Touching this chantry, sir?”
Margery prompted him as the silence lengthened, and at once he was in his light humour again. He moved down the deserted path.
“We’ll go to the inn,” he said. “My throat needs cosseting again. But touching this chantry, little cousin, it’s ours, as you’ll have marked from the glass. For these hundred years it’s been ours, for which we’re at charges each year of six shillings and eightpence. But while I was away from here there were some who took it to themselves, and even when I was back they declared that they should continue in the use of it.”
He stood aside to let her pass through the gate, and again she had to prompt him.
“And you answered?”
“Mildly as a coted dove. Only saying that I’d run a foot of steel through the next that did. Since which time, these gentlemen have not used my chantry.”
“No sir? And yet---“
“Aye little cousin--and yet?” His forehead was crinkling now. “For though they kept themselves from my chantry, they bade their ladies sit therein--whom I could not well call to account.”
“I perceive the difficulty, sir.” Her solemn tone matched his. “And then?”
“The Devil whispered in my ear--and I, in my turn, whispered in the ear of Alice Nutter---“
“To her content, I trust?”
“To her infinite content. For the Nutters, being, when all is said, no more than yeomen, are not graced with a pew in church. They must sit with the common sort--which irked our Alice sorely.
So I gave her leave to sit within my chantry--my chantry, do you see, little cousin?”
“Aye sir. Which she does?”
“Which you saw her do. And one by one the high-born ladies find them seating elsewhere. And I---I found me a little pew within a barn---“
“A barn!” Margery was shaking with laughter.
“Aye, a barn--where it had been these seventy years, some puling monk having stayed it from the church when first our people made it. So I hauled it within and set it where you see, for such comfort as it has.”
The lift of his eyebrows sent Margery into helpless laughter at his oddities; but under the laughter a more serious thought was stirring in her. She was coming to see, more and more clearly, why there might be some who did not love Roger Nowell.
They came to the inn, and suddenly his mood had another shift. He stopped by the door and regarded her gravely.
“I had the thought,” he said, “that you were not at ease with Alice Nutter?”
Margery’s eyes were as steady as his.
“I’ll not deny it, sir. I was most ill at ease.”
He nodded, and at once the banter was back in his voice.
“Little cousin,” he said solemnly, “you’ve a most excellent good nose.”
Chapter 9: THE KING’S JUSTICE
Master Nicholas Banister, Squire of Altham and a Justice of the Peace and Quorum, rode to Read the next morning. He came on the wings of a gusty wind that set grey clouds chasing m a patterned sky, and he swung from his horse in bright sunshine with his cloak black from the rain of the spattering showers.
His coming was expected, and he had the welcome that belongs to an old friend. Roger was out in the wind to greet him. There was a groom to take his horse, and Tom Peyton to see to his servant’s needs. There was hot spiced ale to warm his heart, a chair set ready by a tended fire, and cheesecakes warming before it. Sandals and gown of his own were waiting as change from his boots and cloak, and a long white pipe and leaves of tobacco were ready at His call.
Margery, too was ready. She had, indeed, been ready this past hour, for the bustle of preparation had warned her and roused her curiosity. After her experience with Richard Baldwin she was taking no more risks, least of all with this man who was Roger’s nearest friend; and today she was trim and demure in the black saye kirtle and the flowered sarcenet gown. She had, indeed, given it the white lace collar, but that no more than lightened it; it did not mar its propriety.
She saw through the window Master Banister’s coming, and as he and Roger walked together to the great door, she moved discreetly into the window, thankful that this was between showers and that there was sunlight for her hair; and when Master Banister, cloak swaying and spurs jingling, swept into the room in haste to be at the fire, she was admirably poised for him to see.
He stopped as though he were frozen.
“Lord of Grace, Roger! What’s this?” he burst out. “Is she your own?”
Roger’s crinkling smile showed his pleasure, and Margery, catching sight of it as she made her curtsey, let her face melt into its twin. It was not wasted on Master Banister.
“Roger! Roger!” he said. “Tell me more. Whose is she?”
Roger was laughing now.
“I’ve told you Nick, she’s my cousin only, and distant at that. I could wish she were nearer. But she’s Margery Whitaker, not Nowell.”
“Whitaker is it?” Master Banister untied his cloak and stood considering her. “You bring her here from nowhere and say she’s not yours? I’ll believe you, Roger, but there’ll be those in Pendle who won’t.”
“I nothing doubt it. But we neglect your comfort.” Roger jerked at the bell cord, and at once there was bustle for Master Banister’s needs. Margery took his cloak, Roger saw to his ale, and his own servant came hurrying to tug off his boots and help him into gown and sandals. It gave Margery a chance to consider him. He was a tall spare man, perhaps a few years older than Roger, and not so broad nor so robust; but his lithe figure and browned face told of good health, and there was a hint of hidden reserves in the ease of his movements. His hair and beard were grey now, and it was plain that he had felt the chill of this blustering morning. But his spirits had not been chilled, and his hazel eyes were bright and clear. Just now they were a-twinkle with pleasure; and Margery, sensing the honesty and kindliness that lay in them, knew already that she liked Nick Banister.
“Margery Whitaker,” he repeated. “I would it had been Nowell, as with such a look it should have been. But it’s the less matter since I’ll call her by no more than the Margery. That’s if she’ll give me leave. What say you, lass?”
“Why, gladly sir.” Margery was pleased. This augured friendliness, and she hoped it might be a hint to Roger, who was still calling her little cousin.
“That’s well answered,” he said, and busied himself with a cheesecake in the comfort of an elbow-chair. Roger leaned across to replenish his ale.
“I’ll not have you neglected, Nick. The less so since we’ve work to do.”
“Lord of Grace!” said Master Banister cheerfully. “It’s ever so with you Pendle folk, Roger. What’s for today?”
It was as a Justice of the Peace, the nearest among Roger’s neighbours, that Master Banister had made his visit. It was established between these two that unless some more urgent matter should intervene, Nick Banister should ride to Read each Monday and Roger to Altham each Wednesday. At each house the host conducted the business, and his guest became active only when some matter rose that required the sitting of two Justices together.
Roger propped himself against the chimney-shelf.
“It’s what we’ve had before,” he answered. “There’s matter of a girl to be bound apprentice. There’s a fellow taken begging and presented as a rogue. And there’s the usual calendar from the Newchurch.”
Nick Banister laughed.
“Meaning your Richard Baldwin, I take it--still hot against sinners?”
“Hot as the Devil’s nose. But it’s to -be remembered he’s churchwarden there, and has duties.”
“Which afflict him sorely.” Nick Banister heaved to his feet. “The sooner started, the sooner ended. Let’s be to it.”
The two men moved to the door together, but before they reached it Nick Banister paused.
“What of your Margery?” he said. “Is she banished from this? By her face she’s agog with interest.”
“Is it so?” Roger turned, smiling. “Come in if you’ve a mind to, and choose your own moment.”
Ten minutes later Margery moved quietly through the side door of what Roger, half mockingly, called his Justice Room--by which he meant that he had taken advantage of the present emptiness of his house to set aside a convenient room for this use. A long table of shining oak ran across one end of it, and set against the table, with their backs to the wall behind, were elbow-chairs for the two Justices. Each end of the table had an empty chair, and another half-dozen chairs were set against the walls; in one of these sat an elderly white-haired man whom Margery did not know; in another sat Richard Baldwin.
Nick Banister was at his ease in his chair, his long legs stretched beneath the table and his furred gown pulled comfortably. A smiling lift of his eyebrows welcomed Margery and directed her to a chair by the wall. She tip-toed to it and then gave her attention to Roger.
He had pushed his chair back to the wall and was on his feet, standing with his head a little down and his fingers on the table before him. To his left, and beyond the table, stood Jim Wilsey, cheerful and untidy as ever. In front of the table a burly rough-bearded fellow in rags and tatters stood guarded by four sturdy men who formed the Watch that day.
Apparently Roger had heard as much of this matter as he wanted, for he brought it to a quick end even as Margery found her seat.
“Enough,” he said. “You’re a known noted rogue and you’d best have stayed elsewhere. Here you shall have your deserts.”
He took a quick glance to his left, where Nick Banister sat in silence. A slight nod signified assent, and Roger turned to his front again.
“William Walker,” he said formally, “being presented and convicted as a known and noted -rogue, and for begging and trespass. To be soundly whipped according to law. And to sit in the stocks the space of six hours.”
He waved a hand at Tom Peyton, who seemed to have a status here, and the unfortunate trespasser was hustled out without a chance even to struggle. Roger seated himself, took pen and ink, and wrote laboriously on a paper that lay on the table before him.
Margery turned to look about her, and found Richard Baldwin, in the next chair, viewing her gravely. She suffered it without embarrassment, well knowing that he could not condemn her appearance this day. The black saye was impeccably puritan, as Margery knew; Prudence had seen to that. Evidently it had its effect, for Baldwin looked almost benign as he considered her.
“Next,” said Roger suddenly,, and the white-haired man sitting beyond Baldwin came quickly to his feet. From the back of the room a sturdy middle-aged yeoman stood out.
“Thomas Shaw, yeoman, of Higham,” called Tom Peyton loudly. “Presented by Christopher Swyer of Barley, Overseer of the Poor, for that he did refuse to have bound unto him as apprentice, and to live within his house, one Ellen Hay, being a poor child of eleven years or thereabouts and without known parents.”
Evidently this was not a criminal case, and it soon became a not unfriendly argument. It quickly emerged that Thomas Shaw was not seriously refusing to take the girl. He was merely standing out for better terms; and the white-haired Swyer, acting on behalf of the Overseers who would have to pay for it, was trying to get the indenture accepted cheaply.
The argument, speeded by some comments and suggestions from Roger, was soon at an end, and the details began to be agreed. As each point was settled, Roger had to set it down on paper, and seemingly he found this no light labour. The watchful Margery saw his trouble. Roger had plainly no facile hand with a pen, and Margery remembered with a new understanding the brevity of his letters to her brothers. Now, with these details to set down, and the argument to heed, guide and judge, he was obviously labouring. A sudden impulse of sympathy brought Margery to her feet, and she tip-toed to the end of the table. She took the empty chair at his right hand, and spoke quietly as he stared in surprise.
“I’ll be your clerk, sir,” she said.
Roger’s surprise became evident, and Nick Banister stirred in his chair. Richard Baldwin sat up sharply, and the argument stopped abruptly. Here, it seemed, was a new and astonishing notion, and for a moment Roger held silence. Then he nodded.
“I’ll be in your debt if you can,” he said. And without more ado he pushed to her the papers, the sandshaker, the jar of quills and the ink-horn. Then he left her to it while he gave his attention to Thomas Shaw again.
“You agree, then, to furnish the girl with good and sufficient clothing, of sort proper to her station?”
It was not very difficult. Margery had been well-schooled in writing and she kept pace without undue labour. In half the time that had once seemed likely, Ellen Hay was bound apprentice for the term of seven years, and her indenture, signed by her master, and by Christopher Swyer for the Overseers, had been duly witness by the Justices as the law required.
“Next,” said Roger cheerfully, and Tom Peyton sang it out as before.
“James Hunt, labourer, of Wheathead. Presented by Richard Baldwin of the mill, churchwarden, for that he did fail to present a female child of him and his wife to the Minister of the New-church for lawful Baptism within one month of the birth of the said child according to law.”
This gave no trouble, and within two minutes Margery had it in writing that James Hunt was fined twelvepence for his neglect, and a frown from Richard Baldwin was hinting that he thought this insufficient.
“John Dodgson, labourer, of Fence,” called Peyton. “Presented by Richard Baldwin of the mill, churchwarden, for that he did tipple in an alehouse during the time of Divine Service on the Sunday last agone....”
Again it was easy, and soon Margery had recorded fines of twelvepence against John Dodgson and twenty shillings against the keeper of the alehouse. Then Tom Peyton was calling out again.
“Anne Redfern, widow of Thomas Redfern of the Rough Lee. Presented by Richard Baldwin of the mill, churchwarden, for that she came not to the Newchurch for Divine Service the Sunday last agone, namely the eighth day of September.”
Margery looked up quickly at this mention of the Rough Lee, wondering what manner of woman this might be, and whether she was perhaps a servant in the Nutter household. One glance disposed of that notion. The woman now before the table was clearly no indoor servant. She was too browned, too slovenly, and altogether too dirty for that. She was a woman of between thirty and forty, in the poorest of clothes; and there was that about her which roused Margery’s keenest scrutiny--something which set her suddenly in mind of the Demdike women of
the Malkin Tower. It was not physical likeness. This Anne Redfern with her fair hair and blue eyes must at one time have had pretensions to being a beauty. She was broadening now, and she had evidently taken no care of herself, but there were still signs of what she had been. But for all the physical disparity, there was enough in her slouching stance and drooping head, in the sullen twist of her mouth and the hard glitter of her eyes, to recall to Margery the shifty dark-haired Alizon. And when Roger spoke it seemed that he was of the same mind, for the impersonal tone in which he had dealt with others had changed now to something colder and harder.
“If you were not in the church, where were you?” he demanded.
“At home.” The answer came sullenly.
“Doing what?”
“A-seeing to my mother.”
Roger’s frosty stare indicated his disbelief.
“What ailed her?”
Anne Redfern fidgeted and kept her eyes on the floor.
“You’d best tell what’s asked.” Roger’s voice came sharply now. “What ailed her?”
The woman looked mutinous, and for a moment Margery thought she might spit as Elizabeth Device had done. But she controlled her temper and made shift to answer.
“Her age, like enough,” she said. “She’d a rheum of the eyes, and great warch in her bones.”
Roger nodded slightly as though he accepted this. But his next question seemed to surprise the woman.
“What age has your daughter?”
“My . . .” She stopped, confused and suspicious.
“Your daughter, I said. What’s her age?”
“Fourteen last St. Peter’s day.”
“Where was she, the time of Divine Service?”
Anne Redfern flung her head back and scowled viciously. Evidently she had seen the trap. Roger’s voice came with an edge.
“I wait an answer. Where was she? She was not in the church, I’m told.”
The woman’s lips twisted in malice, but no answer came. Roger ignored her and turned to Margery.
“I find it plain,” he said. “Either she or the girl could have done what was needed. It did not need both. Set it down at the full fine of twelvepence, to be paid by next Wednesday’s noon.”
