Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  “And what happened?”

  Margery spoke at last, and her own voice sounded strange to her.

  “A girl died,” said Jennet briefly. “At Baldwin’s.”

  She twisted suddenly round, and pushed her fair hair back from her forehead to show a dry white scar.

  “Alizon!” she said. “When she was buried.”

  “When who was buried, Jennet?”

  “Margaret. Alizon was drunk. She threw a pot at me. That’s why---“

  Jennet stopped abruptly and crouched tensely. Then she was away up the grassy bank, wobbling like an excited rabbit. There was a flutter of leaves, and she was gone.

  Margery jumped to her feet. Faintly, up the track, she heard voices, and she knew at once that this must be Demdike and her Alizon. And at that she realized that she, like Jennet, had no wish to be seen by them, by this Alizon who threw pots, and this Demdike who prayed so still and loud. Before they had rounded the bend, Margery was at horse again, riding through the woodland to the road, to home, and sanity.

  Chapter 14: THE FATES ARE THREE

  With Michaelmas upon them, Roger grew concerned over the matter of a Constable.

  Churchwardens and Overseers, he explained, were elected at Easter, but the Constable at Michaelmas. The election lay with the Vestry, and the Vestry, said Roger, were as laggard as so many slugs; for here was Michaelmas upon them, and no man yet named to succeed Jim Wilsey in his distasteful office. Roger grew perturbed. It was not proper, he said, for the Forest hamlets to be without a Constable; and moreover the Quarter Sessions were at hand, and the Bench would have a sharp word to say if they heard of such neglect. As usual, it was Roger who had to see to it, and he took such a tone with the Twelve who made the Vestry that they hastily met and as hastily elected one Hargreaves of Goldshaw to be Constable for the forthcoming year. Once the election had been done, the office could not be refused, and the Twelve spared no time on Hargreaves’ anguished protests; they went to their homes and left him to it.

  Roger was not pleased. The Twelve, he said, had not between them wit enough to furnish out a maggot. Did not all men know that this Hargreaves was a rank papist, only just this side recusancy? And was that a judicious choice? But there was nothing to be done now that the election had been lawfully made. Roger had to accept it, and Margery attended him as Clerk when Henry Hargreaves, Yeoman, of Goldshaw Booth, was sworn before the Justice in the ancient forms.

  She eyed this Hargreaves with interest as he took the oath He was all brown. He had jerkin and breeches of brown. He had a brown and sunburned face, big and smiling. He had twinkling brown eyes and a crop of brown hair; a big fellow, plump, well fed, and sure of himself. He had a big jovial voice, and he said cheerily that he knew nothing of Constable’s work but would see what he could make of it. He would need, he said, some instruction; and Roger tersely told him that he would get it.

  Then Hargreaves turned to Margery and told her, to her surprise, that he had a message for her.

  “It’s from Tony Nutter,” he explained. “He and I are neighbours up in Goldshaw, and he’d have you know that you’ll be welcome at his house when next you please to ride that way.”

  She found that heartening. She was pleased that Tony had remembered her, and she was pleased to have a reason for calling on him again; she wanted to learn more about his daughter who had died, so she thanked this Hargreaves politely, and considered him anew. Apparently he was on good terms with Tony Nutter, and because of that, and because they were both papists, she supposed they might have the same outlook on affairs and people. Margery had not forgotten Tony’s warm words about Roger, and if this Hargreaves shared that sentiment he might make a more helpful Constable than Roger seemed disposed to expect.

  On that she left him, perceiving that he and Roger had much to discuss. But two days later she acted on the invitation Hargreaves had brought, and she rode unheralded into Goldshaw. Tony Nutter came out himself to help her unhorse, while the old servitor hovered behind him to lead the beast away.

  Anthony led her in at once and took her to his sister, who received her smilingly and cut short her polite apologies.

  “We’re glad to see you,” she said. “We wished you to come. That’s why Tony sent the message.”

  She went to see to the cake and ale, leaving Tony to help Margery from her cloak.

  “We expected you,” he said. “Harry brought your answer.”

  “Harry?”---

  “Neighbour Hargreaves, should I say? Our new Constable. And what does Roger Nowell say to that?”

  Margery hesitated. It might not be tactful to repeat Roger’s comments to a fellow-papist. Fortunately Margaret Crook’s return provided a diversion.

  “What’s this about neighbour Hargreaves?” she asked.

  Tony took his ale to the hearth and leaned comfortably against the chimney-shelf.

  “I was asking what Roger Nowell thinks of him as Constable,” he replied.

  “He should be pleased.” Mistress Crook nodded vigorously. “Harry’s a good fellow, and he’s an honest man too, which is more than can be said of some we’ve had as Constables. He’ll be a very proper Constable. Everybody knows that. They wouldn’t have made him Constable if they hadn’t. This cake’s not what it should be, is it? It’s sad as Lent. It’s those elm logs, Tony. I’ve told you before, you can’t keep a proper heat with elm.”

  “Then we’ll have more of the ash.” Tony was smiling at his sister’s chatter. “But of Harry as Constable, proper’s not the word that all would use.” He looked whimsically at Margery. “I hear you’ve been at Wheathead?”

  “Why yes. But some days ago.”

  She was asking herself how he knew. There was a warning in that, she thought. Everybody seemed to know everything in Pendle, and that might be worth remembering.

  “Richard Baldwin might say improper,” he went on quietly. “A stout heretic, our Richard--which Harry is not. You knew that?”

  His question was to Margery, and it embarrassed her. She had no tactful answer ready. Fortunately he did not wait for one.

  “Harry Hargreaves holds to the Faith of his fathers,” he went on, looking very straightly at her. “So does his wife, and so do I, and .Margaret here. And that’s the core of the matter. He’s an odd choice for Constable.”

  His sister’s chatter filled the silence as he ended.

  “I think he’ll be a very proper Constable,” she insisted. “And I’m sure everybody else will think so too, except a few sourfaces.”

  “What about our Alice? She’s heretic enough, and a sourface too.”

  “Oh--Alice?” Mistress Crook seemed disconcerted. “I’m sure Alice will give credit where credit’s due. Alice speaks fair of everyone.”

  “Aye, so she--speaks. And talk of the Devil! Who’s this?”

  They all looked to the window as a horseman rode up. Margaret Crook came to her feet delightedly.

  “It’s Miles,” she said. “I’m so pleased. He could not have come better, bless him!”

  She hurried out, and Tony, with an amused glance at Margery, strolled after her. Margery sat stiffly, her lips tight with annoyance. In her opinion, Miles could not have come worse. She had thought herself in a fair way to learning what she wanted to know, and now there would be no more of it. And here, in this house, she could not deal with Miles Nutter as she wished to. She thought his coming most inopportune.

  What he thought of it himself, she could not decide. He came in with his aunt, and greeted Margery civilly and without apparent embarrassment. She followed his lead and the proper civilities were exchanged. But thereafter it was Mistress Crook who led the idle talk, and Miles and Margery did no more than follow politely. Tony stayed by the hearth in a silence prolonged enough to set Margery wondering what thoughts were stirring in his shrewd, observant head.

  She rose and took her leave as soon as she decently could, and at once Miles was on his feet to do the same. It was plain that he meant to ride with her, and it
would look odd if she were to raise objections; so she let him have his way, and they rode off together down the steep track to the Sabden brook.

  She put it to his credit that he lost no time then in coming to the point.

  “I owe you apology madam. I’m very conscious of it, and most regretful.”

  Margery made no comment, and when he glanced almost appealingly at her he found her wrapped in a frosty dignity that chilled him as much as it surprised him. He did not know that it also surprised Margery, who had not known she had it until she suddenly assumed it. Then she spoke crisply.

  “If you had good reason not to ride to Wheathead, sir, you might have said so with more frankness--and certainly with a deal more courtesy.”

  His head reared at that, and she knew it had stung. He had no good answer, but he did his best.

  “I certainly erred,” he said. “The circumstances were very---“ He stopped, plainly distressed. “Oh I’m sorry. I’d no wish to---“

  He did not finish that, but took to staring at his horse’s neck. Margery kept her frosty air, but under it she was feeling warmer towards him. His sudden descent from formal speech to that simplicity had pleased her, and had revived her belief that he had decent notions behind his foolishness. But she would not let him know that yet. A spell of banishment would do him no harm. Besides, Margery was pleased with this new-found dignity; it promised to be useful, and she wanted to practise it. So she drew rein and then faced him squarely when he stopped beside her’.

  “Master Nutter,” she said. “It’s ill talking when there are resentments to cloud it. And that’s our present case, as you well know.” She waved him into silence when he tried to speak. “The moon was young last night, as I chanced to see. When it’s come to full you may seek me again if you’re so minded. And by that time I’ll no doubt know my answer.”

  And before he had found a word she was trotting away in unbroken dignity. That, she thought, had been excellently done. She had shown him as much kindness as he had deserved, and perhaps more; and she had left herself free to decide as she chose. Best of all, she had discovered this new dignity, which she must certainly cherish and preserve against a day of greater need. It was very well.

  But she had been so concerned for that dignity that she had ridden from him without any thought of where she was going; and when she came to earth again, and began to give heed to her whereabouts, she discovered to her annoyance that she had been making towards the Rough Lee and was, indeed, close upon it. Certainly that would not do this day, and she made her escape, as she had done before, by turning up the steep lane that led to the wooded ridge. But this time she continued up the lane beyond the ridge, and soon she was on the shoulder of a hill from which, a mile away across the valley, she could see what looked like the Barley road. That tempted her, and she turned from the lane to the grassy slope. But by this time she was feeling more than hungry. She thought of the bread and cheese in her bags, and cast about for a halting place. She had not far to seek. Below her in the valley, not ten minutes’ ride away, a coppice of fresh young trees broke the smooth green of the grass and promised a welcome shade. Margery left the track and made directly for the coppice.

  She stretched herself lazily on the tufted grass, flinging off her hat to let the wind through her hair. She ate at leisure, lying on her back and watching the white clouds chasing in the blue above. A mood of content, was on her, and she was disposed to be grateful to God and Roger Nowell, who had between them given her all this in place of the sweating kitchen in the house at Holborn. She wondered idly what Prudence was doing this day; whatever she was doing, she would not have this sun and wind and grass to grace it. Margery looked round happily to savour them to the full, and her eyes took in the trees behind her. Something struck her as odd and in another moment she was sitting erect and looking keenly.

  Unquestionably it was odd. These were the outer trees of the coppice she had seen from the track; all were young and much of a size; but between them, filling the spaces between their trunks, were cut boughs and sprays of brushwood.

  Margery considered it thoughtfully, asking herself who had done it and why. Then, with her curiosity rising, she got to her feet and walked across to see more closely. That satisfied her that this was no accident of wind or weather. The boughs and brushwood had certainly been put there by human hands, and put there to make a barrier; it was not a stout barrier, but it would suffice to persuade a wandering sheep to go elsewhere. And again Margery asked herself why.

  She walked slowly round the coppice, and soon she found what looked like an entrance, for here there was only a single bough joining a pair of trees. She dipped under it and made her way cautiously along a trodden track. Thirty paces brought her to a clearing in the trees, and here she stopped and stood staring.

  It was an odd sight. The clearing was of some size, and large enough for its centre to be full in sunlight, clear of all shadow from the trees; and here, in this sunlit centre, tall plants grew thickly. Margery moved slowly among them, peering at them and asking herself what they were. Certainly she had not seen such plants before. And as she looked, she noted also that the soil between them was looser and less choked with grass than it was elsewhere; almost, it had an air of cultivation.

  She gave her attention to the plants again. Most of them rose above her waist. They had large dull-green leaves, paired with surprisingly small ones, and carried on stout and branching stems. The plants had borne flowers earlier in the summer, and most of the flowers had fruited; but here and there a late flower remained, and very odd flowers they were--big, bell-shaped, and of a curious pale purple. A few late fruits remained too, and these were as odd as the flowers; they looked like small black plums, smooth and shining, and still wrapped in the green leaflets that had once cupped the purple flowers.

  Margery’s mind was alert by now. Only a few late fruits remained; then where had the others gone? Birds? There seemed to be no birds about these plants. Children? Children would hardly roam to this lonely coppice, and they might not be tempted if they did; there was something repellent about these purple flowers. Then she remembered the boughs and the brushwood and the air of cultivation. Had the missing fruits been picked? Margery stood puzzled and thoughtful.

  She bent down and picked one of the shining fruits. The overripe pulp squashed easily, and the juice spurted over her fingers. She threw it away in disgust, and stood contemplating the scene. Her fingers felt sticky from the juice, and she put them thoughtlessly into her mouth to lick them clean. Then she spat viciously as an acrid bitterness assailed her tongue. She spat again, and her tongue was dry and numbed.

  At that she left it. She had had enough of this place, and as soon as she could come up with her horse she was away, riding down the hillside, grateful for the sunlight and watchful for the Barley road. Yet she did not ride at ease. Her mouth had dried as though she had thirsted for hours, and the fingers that had held the fruit felt dry and taut and strangely numbed.

  She was in thoughtful mood when she got home, and the mood lasted while she drank ale to allay that strange thirst, while she washed, and changed her clothes, and made ready for supper. It persisted after supper, even though she was at last able to assure herself that her mouth and fingers had returned to normal.

  It grew quiet then, in the parlour, as they sipped their wine and felt the warmth of the fire. Roger was tired after his day at Altham, and he turned sleepy in the comfort of his elbow-chair. Margery sat silent and thoughtful. Then she remembered the book called a Herbal which he had shown her on a night so long ago, and as he dozed she got quietly from her chair and took it from the ingle-shelf. And while the fire crackled, and the chill of night crept down from the Hill, through the Forest and over the house, she sat with a candle beside her and the book on her lap, steadily turning the thick, soft pages.

  It was sleepy work. She was tired from the saddle, and soothed by sun and wind; and her eyes grew heavy in the glow from the fire. But she persisted, turning
page after page while the logs burned white and Roger dozed by his forgotten wine. Twice she tip-toed to the hearth and mended the fire, and it was burning low for the third time when she found what she sought. Then sleepiness left her abruptly.

  This plant with the purple flowers, she read, was known to some as Atropos; and that startled her, as well it might. For she had learning enough to know that the Fates are Three. The first is Clotho, who spins the thread of life; the second is Lachesis, who measures the length that each shall have; and the third is Atropos --who cuts the thread of life.

  She gave attention to the Herbal again. This plant, it seemed, was known best to the Italians, a people famed for their subtle skill with poisons. It was as a poison that they held it in most regard, and a man who drank this juice would surely die, crazed and raving. But the Itahans had another use for this plant, and a strange one. Their ladies would squeeze these shining fruits, and run drops of the juice into their eyes; which would then open wide, and become big, dark and staring; and the Italians, who seemed to think that this enhanced the beauty of their ladies, had therefore named this plant, in their own tongue, La Bella Donna.

  The dying fire fell together and spluttered into sudden flame. It roused Roger and he sat up, blinking in the rush of light.

  “What’s this?” he said, and stared at her. “Do you see ghosts?”

  “I ... I think I do,” she answered slowly.

  “God’s Grace! You’ve an edge to your voice tonight.” He was fully awake now. “What’s the tale?”

  She told him, fully and completely; and he listened without comment, sitting quietly in his chair and never taking his eyes off her face. When she had ended he rose, still without speaking, and drained his wine. He threw more logs on the fire, and propped his shoulders against the chimney-shelf. In the same silence she lifted her face, and her eyes met his. She shut the Herbal and let it lie on her lap unheeded.