Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Margery stared, and a thought that chilled came creeping through her. The sunlit room struck cold and menacing.

  “What--what did she die of?”

  Grace Baldwin looked away uneasily.

  “That’s in darkness. Who’s to tell?”

  “Please?”

  “You’ve guessed already. She died of witches’ harm. On her twelfth birthday.”

  Chapter 13: THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER

  “O Lord Who hast made all things that are put to our use, we do humbly move Thee for Grace that we may see Thy bounty in that which is set before us now, and that we may eat thereof in thankful heart and lowly mind. Amen.”

  Richard Baldwin, his brown face gleaming in the flood of sunlight, spoke his prayer in a high, clear voice. Then he glanced the length of his table and nodded; and with scrape of feet and creak of chairs, his company seated themselves. He sat himself at the head of his table, his wife to his right and Margery to his left. Grace was next to Margery, and beyond her was the pewter salt-bowl. Below that were the three journeymen, the two apprentices and the two serving-maids; for Richard Baldwin saw himself accountable to God for the well-being, of all whom God had committed to his charge and authority. He would exert the authority as became a Master Miller; but he would also see to his charge as became a man with the Spirit in him. His wife and children were his family in the eyes of men, but all who worked with him were his family in the eyes of God. He saw it so, and he performed it so.

  Now, while the others sat, he stood to carve for his family; and while his wife politely regretted that it was but a poor meal to set before a guest, he grew busy with the four legs of a sheep that lay hot and smoking on the huge pewter dish before him. One of the wenches pattered to his side to spoon out the boiled carrots, while the other came to carry the plates; the apprentices poured and carried ale, and soon the whole sharp-set company had their faces down, with knives and bread-cubes plying busily.

  Mistress Baldwin made small-talk, and for once Margery was glad of it. It helped her to keep her mind from the ugly questions that were seething in it. She forced herself to leave thoughts of the Pendle witches, these dark tales of youthful death, and to give heed only to the sunlit room, the clatter of knives and plates, and the easy talk around her.

  “I hear you’re of Lambeth, mistress?” her hostess was saying, and suddenly Margery realized that the question was meant for her.

  “True,” she answered. “I was bred there.”

  “And you have yourself known the Lord Archbishop? You’re to be envied, mistress.”

  “I--I was no doubt fortunate.”

  “Fortunate indeed. And the Dean? I mean your venerable cousin--is it cousin?”

  “Great-uncle, I think. I fear I was too young to hear him.”

  “That’s a pity. Truly venerable, as I’ve heard.” Mistress Baldwin nodded sagely.

  Her husband approved of that.

  “Much to be respected,” he said. “And of sound doctrine, from what I’m told.”

  A quick thought came to Margery.

  “Have you read any of his works, Master Baldwin?”

  “Alas, no! Such books are rare to come by in Pendle, where there’s none visits but a petty-chapman.”

  “That’s hard indeed.” Margery’s voice was grave. “But touching my great-uncle’s works, I have by me his Homily On The Justice Of God. I had it for reading on my journey here, and it’s most freely at your service if you’d wish to use it.”

  “I’d wish indeed!” There was eagerness in his voice. “That’s if it’s not depriving you---“

  “By no means, and I’ll see you have it. Oh!”

  “But what, mistress?”

  “I--I’d forgot. There are some few pages spoiled. I--I had to take them out. But---“

  “No matter, if there be more that remain. I’ll be right glad of it. But---“ He cocked an ear to the door. “What’s that? Grace, do you hear aught?”

  He struck his knife sharply on the table and the chatter died away. In the silence, a man’s voice came through the half-closed door, a rich and jovial voice that sang lustily.

  “The sailor led the serving-maid

  Right lovingly by hand-oh!

  And she as daintily arrayed

  As any in the land-oh!”

  “It’s Fat Jack!” Mistress Baldwin spoke excitedly. “Aye, the bawling rogue!” said her husband, and in spite of his words his tone held pleasure rather than censure. The song went on, swelling nearer and louder.

  “Her kirtle was of damask rare,

  Her gown of satin fine-oh!

  The ribbons in her golden hair

  With tinsel were a shine-oh!”

  There was a tramp of sturdy feet now, to hammer the rhythm of it. One of the apprentices got a sign from his master’s eye, and moved to the door as the song continued.

  “The sailor’s eye did drop a wink,

  And thereat she did flush-oh!

  Which turned her cheek to softest pink,

  The pink of Maiden’s Blush-oh!”

  The apprentice swung the door fully open and disclosed the singer, poised to knock with a staff of well-worn ash. He sloped it down instead, and stood peering into the room.

  “Good day to ye, master! Good day to ye all!” His rich voice came booming under the rafters. “Who wants pins today?”

  He was a huge man. With his broad shoulders and six feet of height, he must always have been big, but now he was huge. He had bulging arms and legs, a great corpulent middle, and a plump and shining face as round and red as the rising moon. It looked oddly like the moon, thought Margery as she saw the great grin that slashed across it, and the eyes that twinkled so merrily in it.

  “Come you in, Jack. Come you in, and be rid of that pack. You’ll be easier so.”

  Richard Baldwin spoke cheerfully and with welcome in his voice. “Fill a mug for Jack, one of you,” he added, and an apprentice bustled to it.

  The stranger wanted no more invitation. He stepped inside, and his shoulders went through the curious wriggle that rids a man of his pack--a heavy pack, this, and of value, if the care that he gave it was not misplaced.

  Margery turned to Grace at her side and raised an eyebrow in question. Grace answered easily enough under cover of the chatter that had sprung up again.

  “It’s Jack Law,” she explained. “He’s the chapman. He comes every quarter. He’s pins and laces and thread, and little books, and broadsheets, and I know not what besides.”

  Margery nodded.

  “Fat Jack?” she asked.

  “What else? Look at him. Though my father won’t call him that. He says it mocks infirmity. But everyone else does, even my mother.”

  “And you?”

  “And I. You heard his song?”

  “Having ears, I did.” Grace laughed softly.

  “He always sings that. It announces his coming. It has some scores of verses, and I don’t think my father approves of it at all. He says it’s light and lewd, bless him!”

  “I know. But tell me---“

  Margery looked round warily and was reassured. The chapman had his shining face uplifted beneath a quart pot. Richard Baldwin was carving meat for him. The serving girls were seeing to his other needs, and Mistress Baldwin was overseeing that. None was attending to her and Grace.

  “Tell me,” she said. “What kind of laces does he carry?”

  Grace laughed understanding and went into details. Fat Jack, she explained, would have in his pack only the simple, and the cheap and gaudy, but he would soon procure better for those who wanted it. Margery nodded dubiously. She had no objection to telling the chapman what she wanted, but hardly in the hearing of the Baldwins. Then she caught Grace’s eye and saw that the girl had guessed.

  “They’ll be about him like swarming bees,” said Grace, “as soon as he opens his pack, and he’ll be here the afternoon. It’s a great day for us when the chapman comes. So if you’ve need of more than pins, you’d best have
him visit you at Read.”

  “And will he?”

  “I’ll warrant he will. Leave it to me, mistress. Give me a hint of your needs, and I’ll drop a word in his ear before he goes.”

  “I’ll be grateful to you.”

  Margery began to talk about the kirtle, about what she planned and what she would need. She kept it up till Richard’s knife hit the table again to bring them to their feet while he gave thanks to God for their meal. Then the chapman’s pack was opened and Grace’s prophecy was fulfilled. Swarming bees was an apt simile.

  “I’ll have to leave you,” said Margery. “I’m over-spending my time.”

  It was not precisely true, but it would serve. Her welcome had been of the kindest and she would not outstay it. Better to free them now to dote on the chapman’s pack; especially Grace, for it would be Grace who would stand aside from the tempting pack to talk with her. Margery’s liking for Grace was rapidly growing.

  “I’ll get my cloak and then take leave,” she said.

  Grace made no attempt to dissuade her. Perhaps she was too honest for such insincerities. She led back to her bedchamber and helped Margery into her cloak.

  “You’ve been something more than kind,” said Margery, peering at herself in the little steel mirror. “May I come again?”

  “Of course. I was hoping you would.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly indeed, mistress.” Grace paused and then explained herself more fully. “It’s lonely here at Wheathead, where we’ve few visitors, and one who’s welcome is the more welcome for that. Come again when you can, mistress, and whenever you can.”

  Margery spun on her heel to face her.

  “I’ll come,” she said. “Have no doubt of that. But there’s one thing. Be pleased to stop calling me mistress. It’s formal and it’s cold, and there’s not the need for it. My name’s Margery, and I’d have no other. Is that clear?” Grace coloured a little.

  “Clear enough, if you wish it so. I’d no wish to be cold, believe me. But I’ve some schooling in manners, and my father’s not an Esquire.”

  “Nor mine. Did you think it?”

  “At least you’re Master Nowell’s kin.”

  “Distant kin, and poor at that. My father was a divine, and as lean as a pulpit mouse. So let’s have an end to forms. Is it clear now--Grace?”

  Grace looked at her steadily and nodded.

  “Aye, quite clear. And sweetly said. But I see you’re ready. Come to my father.”

  They went through together, and Mistress Baldwin disentangled herself from the press to make a friendly farewell. Her husband sent an apprentice to get Margery’s horse, and then himself walked slowly out into the sunlight with the two girls.

  “Hark to them!” he said smilingly. “Chattering like sparrows, and all for such fripperies! They’d have the afternoon to it if they had their way.” He was almost benign about it. “They shall have their hour, and then there’s work to do. And for you within doors, Grace, as well as for us without.”

  “I know it, Father. Yet have charity. He comes but seldom.”

  “It’s perhaps enough. All being said, his wares are vanities.”

  “True, sir.” This was Margery, coming to Grace’s help. “Yet not vanities of vanities, surely?”

  “Well said! They’re harmless as such things go. And I’ve a liking for Jack Law.”

  “That’s common, it seems. He must be of stout heart. His pack’s not light.”

  “Nor is he. But you say it well. His heart’s of the stoutest, and it carries him many a mile.”

  The horse was being led up, and they stopped by the mill-house to wait for it.

  “He’s from Colne, across the river yonder,” Richard explained. “He left there yesterday, and he was at the Rough Lee last night, where he stayed till morning.”

  “The Rough Lee?” Grace’s voice was suddenly sharp.

  “So he’s just said. Why should he not?”

  “There’s no reason. But I wonder that Miles did not speak of him this morning.”

  Margery caught her breath sharply. Miles of the Rough Lee could only be Miles Nutter. Which meant---

  “No doubt he thought nothing of it.” Richard’s answer broke into her thought, and she made herself pay heed to him.

  “You’ll remember the book you spoke of?” he reminded her.

  “Surely I will.”

  He helped her to mount.

  “Good day to you, mistress. We’ve been glad of your visit. Let it not be your last!”

  “It shall not. I promise that. Good day, and my thanks! You’ll give my message to the chapman, Grace?”

  “I will. And you’ll come soon, Margery?”

  “I will indeed.”

  She trotted off down the bank of the stream, leaving Richard Baldwin to stare in surprise at his daughter’s sudden familiarity. But of this, Margery saw nothing. She was too deeply sunk in thought. She knew now why Miles Nutter had been on that unlikely road. He had been visiting the mill, and Margery could think of no reason why he should not. But why in the world could he not have said so?

  She passed through Barley, found the Pendle Water, and decided to follow it down. She knew she could get home that way, and this grassy track was set about with arching trees whose cool shade looked attractive. Margery wanted to think.

  There could be no doubt that Miles Nutter had been at the mill. Grace had distinctly said that Miles had not spoken of the chapman---

  Margery whistled softly and called herself a fool. It was suddenly so obvious. For Grace had not spoken of Master Nutter, nor even of Miles Nutter. She had simply spoken of Miles. And Grace, as Margery had just learned, was not one to use a plain Christian name without some encouragement.

  Margery dismounted and sat herself on the grassy bank. She wanted to think this out, and she was asking herself where her wits had been this day. If she supposed that something existed between Miles and Grace, that could certainly account for his being unwilling to ride to the mill at Margery’s side. It might account, too, for old Richard’s seeming displeasure when he had met Miles escorting Margery from Goldshaw the other day.

  The shade was cool, for the bank was thick with pine and larch and rowan. Margery stretched herself comfortably as she considered this. It was easy enough to suppose that Miles Nutter had two faces, that he was paying court to her and Grace at the same time; there need be nothing unbelievable in that. But could she think that Miles was paying court to her? Certainly he was showing very little ardour. And if he had little ardour, why should he wantonly lay up trouble for himself?

  Margery sighed with perplexity, and her thoughts turned to that chilling tale of Margaret Baldwin. If this girl had been at all like the cool and friendly Grace, it was no matter for wonder that Richard Baldwin was savage against the witches. He was not a man to doubt a witch’s power to give effect to her malice. Again Margery sighed. She had not this easy certainty. After what she had seen at the Malkin Tower the other day, she did not doubt the malice; but she did doubt the power.

  There was a sudden rustle in the sloping bank above. Leaves swayed and parted, and Jennet Device came slithering down the steep grass, ending on her back at Margery’s feet.

  “ ‘Lo!” said Jennet cheerfully. “I’ve been looking.”

  “Looking at what, Jennet?” Margery was smiling at the child, almost thankful for her interruption.

  “You.” Jennet’s answer was characteristically blunt. “You-- sitting like that.”

  Her eyes strayed to the grazing horse, and it suddenly dawned on Margery that the saddle-bags were the point of interest. She laughed.

  “I’m sorry, Jennet. I don’t think there’s any cheese today. Let’s look, shall we?”

  They explored the bags together and found a pair of apples, which Jennet seemed to think an acceptable substitute. She sank her white teeth into one without delay, while Margery stretched on the grass again.

  “I saw you Sunday,” said Jennet suddenly.
>
  “Did you? Where?”

  “Church.”

  The scene in the churchyard came suddenly to life in Margery’s mind, and she had a quick vision of Alizon Device and Anne Redfern, and of Roger’s drastic quelling of their quarrel.

  “Where were you, Jennet?” she asked.

  “Hid,” said Jennet briefly.

  “Why?”

  “Chattox and that Anne.”

  “Oh, I see.” Margery stopped to consider this queer self-possessed child. Had she cause to fear Anne Redfern?

  Jennet gurgled suddenly, and spat out bits of apple. Margery realized that she was laughing.

  “Did you see?” asked Jennet. “See what?”

  “Alizon and that Anne. And Master Nowell. I did laugh!”

  “Jennet!”

  Margery was a little shocked, but Jennet was laughing merrily.

  “Alizon can’t sit down,” she gurgled.

  “Jennet! You shouldn’t laugh at that.”

  “Why not?”

  This was disconcerting. Margery had no answer ready.

  “I hope Anne’s sore,” said Jennet brightly.

  “Why?”

  “She’s bad. They’re all bad, the Chattox. Even Granny’s feared of them. And they broke our fire-house.”

  “They what?”

  But Jennet was not listening. She was crouching on all fours and giving ear to something else. Then she sank back again as though reassured.

  “I thought it was Alizon,” she explained. “She’s with Granny, begging in Barley.”

  “You don’t seem to like Alizon?”

  “She’s a bitch. I saw you this morning.”

  Margery gasped. She had thought herself quick-witted, but this child’s shifts were bewildering.

  “Going to Baldwin’s,” explained Jennet. “And he doesn’t like Alizon.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t. But why doesn’t he?”

  “He chased her. And Granny too. Off his land. Granny said she’d pray for him.”

  “She’d what?”

  “Pray still and loud, was what she said. She did, too.”

  The chill that lurked in Pendle swept over Margery again. She was getting to know it now, and to hate it. What tale was this that the child was telling? Granny must be old Demdike, the woman of the Malkin Tower. Prayer by Demdike? What sort of prayer, and to Whom? And ‘still’, in Jennet’s usage, would mean ‘unceasingly’. Margery twitched with discomfort, and Jennet munched steadily at the second apple.