Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  “To die raving?” Roger spoke first. “Meaning to twist and writhe and rant, and see what isn’t there?”

  “I ... I take it so.”

  “It is so. I’ve seen it so.”

  He turned from her and leaned on his elbow, staring at the sizzling logs.

  “And eyes agape, you say? Big and wide?”

  “So the Herbal says.”

  “It says truth. That, too, I’ve seen in Pendle.” He turned to face her again. “What foulness have you unearthed?” he asked her quietly.

  Margery came to her feet and stood by him. He lifted his eyes from the logs to meet hers, his lean aquiline face set and grave.

  “This raving, sir, and these wide eyes. You’ve seen them here--in a dying man?”

  “It was a dying girl I had in mind.”

  “Oh!” The chill that came from nowhere was surging up her back. “You--you mean Margaret Baldwin?” He shook his head slowly.

  “Not for aught that I’ve heard. It was Anne Nutter---“

  “Oh!”

  For a moment the sunlit room in Goldshaw reared before Margery’s eyes--with Miles Nutter eating his aunt’s apple-tart, and the kindly, soft-voiced Anthony standing by the open window telling of his girl who had died. Then, as quickly as that had come, it had gone; and Margery was back with the fire and the candles and the grim-faced Roger.

  “She raved of the Chattox,” he was saying. “And her eyes were even so.”

  He slapped the chimney-shelf as though irritated. Then he went abruptly to the table and poured himself wine. “We needn’t thirst,” he said.

  He held out the crystal jug that held the wine, and after a moment’s hesitation Margery took her glass to be filled. Wine, she thought, might help this moment.

  Roger raised his glass, and there was a faint smile on his face as he viewed her across the wine.

  “You’ve done well,” he told her, “uncommonly well. Nevertheless---“

  She looked up at him, and she had a hint of a smile to match his.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “it would be a decent prudence if we spoke of it to none just. now. Such matters---“

  He broke off and sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

  “That a witch has malice I’ve known these many years. That she has more than malice I’ve held in doubt. That, perhaps, might bear a second thought.”

  Margery nodded assent. And later, when she took her candle and went slowly up the stair to bed, she was still in thought; a witch’s curse, it seemed, might truly cut the thread of life--in Pendle.

  Chapter 15: THE EVE OF ALL HALLOWS

  Now came October, and a vast brewing of ale. Ale of a sort might be, and often was, brewed at any time, but no ale of the year was held to equal the October brew, Other ales were smaller stuff, good enough for a salty thirst or a kitchen revel; but to the honoured guest, to the man of quality, there was nothing to be offered but the four-year-old October.

  Margery soon discovered that everybody was expected to help. To read and write and cast accounts were skills rare in Pendle, and she who had them was made to use them. Soon she was busy from morning till night, checking quantities of grain and firing delivered, riding here and there to inquire for grain and firing not delivered; and when that was done, and the brew in progress, she must record the quantities placed in barrel, and check and pay the wages of the helpers. She was kept so occupied that the full of the moon had come and gone before she remembered that Miles Nutter had not sought her out. She told Roger of this, and he laughed at her. Miles, he said, would be like the rest of Pendle-- busy brewing. Nobody ever visited anybody till the October-brew was done; they were all too busy brewing.

  Then the weather broke. It had lasted beyond its season, and the brew had been done in days that could have been September. Margery, in particular, had been grateful as she rode her busy miles in sunshine. But a morning came at last when she woke to the splash and patter of rain on the windows, and she knew that St. Luke’s summer was gone at last. Grey mists of rain were sweeping up the valley on the wings of the south-west wind, and when she looked for the hills they were not there; all high Pendle was lost in the swirling rain, and when, after breakfast, she peered sulkily through the streaming glass and wondered if she would be able to ride that day, Roger laughed at her. If she were not out of her mind, he said, she would ride nowhere that day, nor the next day; and to her great discontent Roger was right. For three days and nights the streaming flood poured down; and then, in the night, the wind came out of the north-west, and it blew. It blew like no wind she had ever known, and when, she ventured out on foot she was aghast at its force. She came home hatless, wet and muddy, to spend the rest of the day by a fire that kept flaring back at her in maddening waves of smoke; and she learned that night that the rose-red curtains of her bed were not for decoration only; they were all that stood between her head and the vicious draught from the ill-fitting casements.

  In this wind Nick Banister rode across from Altham.

  He came, as usual, to support Roger in the giving of Justice, and Margery plied a busy pen as she recorded the complicated case of William Lee, who complained that he had been harshly refused relief by Christopher Swyer, Overseer of the Poor. To which it was answered that an Overseer could not be expected to leave his brew to bandy words with an idle vagabond whom all men knew to be more in need of a whipping than of pence; and when William Lee grew heated at this, Richard Baldwin intervened to charge the said William Lee with drunkenness, profane swearing, and wilful absence from church. It made a difficult morning, and Margery was heartily glad when William Lee was at last handed over to the Constable to be set forthwith into the stocks; the wind would no doubt cool him when he got there.

  She had a word with Richard Baldwin afterwards, and she gave him her great-uncle’s Homily, which she had been at some pains to make as decent as she could. His thanks were earnest, and Margery was still smiling when she walked into Roger’s parlour to find him deep in talk with Nick Banister. He broke off as she came in.

  “I’ve been telling Nick of your coppice,” he said, “and of the plants within it. You may tell him yourself what the Herbal says.”

  She did her best at that, and Nick Banister, easy in his furred gown, stretched his legs lazily as he looked at her.

  “We’ve all heard of subtle poisons,” he said, “but I did not know we grew them here at home. The land was tilled, you say?”

  “It had some look of tillage, sir.”

  “Very like. By whom, Roger?”

  “Who’s to say?” Roger blew smoke of tobacco and spoke lazily. “It’s a lonely spot. Of our witch brood, the nearest might be the Chattox crew. They live up behind the Rough Lee, on Dick Nutter’s land.”

  “The Chattox, hey? The chattering one, and that Redfern chit of the other day? Poor husbandmen, I’d think. No---“ He laid his pipe aside thoughtfully. “There’s more to it than that, Roger. Who delved and planted matters little. Any groundling might be put to that. But who has learning enough to know of this and order it?”

  “Again, who’s to say? Whoever’s ordered it is of no common breed.”

  “Common enough for the common hangman. But this Anne Nutter--did she speak any name in her ravings?”

  “Chattox,” said Roger tersely.

  “Did she so?” was the dry answer, and at that Nick Banister left it. Ten minutes later he rode away, his hat pulled low, and his cloak jerking and twitching in a wind that was blowing as hard as ever. Margery looked at it gloomily, and wondered if it would blow for ever; and Roger laughed as he told her it could.

  But it went out with the month, and the last day of October was grey and quiet. Margery spent it within doors, for she had word that the chapman was come and had asked speech with her; and there was Fat Jack, mountainous and rubicund, to lay before her the tinsel, the silver lace, the covered buttons and the silken points. She looked at them with delight, and she was deep in consideration of costs when Roger wandered in. He che
cked in his walk as he saw the display, and he stood there, thumbs in girdle, crinkling with amusement while Margery reddened with annoyance. But he chose to say, as he went out, that when she had at length made up her mind what she wanted she might send Fat Jack to him for payment; and Margery promptly forgave him his amusement. He might laugh as much as he pleased on those terms, and she took all the chapman had, which was a good deal; except for some cloth-of-gold to make a girdle there was all she wanted for her new kirtle; and even that, the chapman said, should be brought to her within the month. Grace had evidently given a very proper message to Jack Law.

  It gave Margery a pleasant morning, and through the afternoon she was busy with Anne Sowerbutts and the flame-tint satin. She came from that with no more than time enough to prepare herself for supper, and when she tripped down the stair, trim in saye and sarcenet, she found Roger already in his parlour, leaning against the chimney-shelf and thoughtfully sipping his wine.

  Something struck her as odd, and for the moment it eluded her.

  She stopped short when she saw what it was. Roger had not donned his red velvet; he was still in jerkin and breeches, and if she thought this was an oversight, a quick glance round corrected her. By the door his boots stood ready, and on the ingle-shelf were his hat and cloak; and by his cloak was his sword. It was this that gave her warning, for she had not seen it since Preston; except for the gilded toy he wore on Sundays, Roger never troubled with a sword in Pendle.

  From the cloak and the sword she turned her gaze to Roger. “Is aught wrong, sir?” she asked.

  “No--not yet,” was his curt answer.

  It was not reassuring. Nor was his tone, but she thought she might risk one more question.

  “Is the matter secret?” she asked.

  “In the sense you mean it, no.”

  “Then may I know it?”

  But his answer to that was a question. “What day’s tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Why, the--the first of November.”

  He took the scent of his wine thoughtfully.

  “True,” he said. “But that’s puritan wording. How would Tony Nutter call it?”

  Her forehead puckered at that till she saw his meaning. Tony Nutter would remember the Saints.

  “He’d say All Saints’ Day, surely?”

  Roger nodded.

  “Or in Lancashire, All Hallows. And this, therefore, is the eve of All Hallows. There are certain nights in the year when the Devil stirs our witches and foulness walks abroad. This is such a night, and it’s well to be prepared.”

  Then Margery understood. Roger was expecting trouble in the Forest and was ready to ride at short warning. She looked again at the boots and the sword, and then back to Roger.

  “You’ll take me with you, sir--when you ride?”

  “Is it work for you?”

  “I was at the Malkin Tower--and at the poison coppice. Will you keep me from it now?”

  He looked her over gravely, and his face relaxed.

  “So be it, then. You’ve the blood that fits you for it. And if it gets tangled I may be glad of your wits. But in the dark we put safety first. It’s breeches for you.”

  She made no demur at that, nor wished to. She saw the good sense of it, and she went off in haste to make the change. But she was a little nervous as she struggled hastily into her riding-clothes. She had heard as a child so many tales of the night and its dangers, tales of sprites and goblins, of noxious mists and the vapours of the midnight air, that she was soon confused between belief and unbelief, and clinging to an illogical notion that she would be safe from all these as long as Roger was there.

  Roger, it seemed, was in no hurry. Apparently he meant to wait till he had word of some alarm, and no word came. He explained that every night a Watch of four men, chosen in rotation, patrolled the Forest as a precaution against wandering rogues. This Watch was under the general orders of the Constable, and tonight, at Roger’s insistence, Hargreaves had doubled the Watch and had undertaken to lead it himself. All of them were to be mounted, and at the first serious trouble one of them was to ride to Read. It was for this call that Roger was waiting.

  Supper passed without incident, and then they, were back in the parlour with the wine and the comfits and the mended fire. Their talk lingered and died, and still no call came. Only the heavy ticking of the clock broke the ordered silence of the room. Margery grew drowsy as excitement left her and tedium took its place. She thought of the witches and the Malkin Tower and the death of Anne Nutter; but it was all too complicated, and her thoughts turned to her new kirtle and the exact placing of the lace upon it. Then even that was too much effort, and her thoughts strayed to Grace Baldwin, surely locked within doors tonight by a father who was likely to be grave about goblins. And Richard himself? What would he be doing this night?

  Margery sat up suddenly and became alert. Roger was on his feet, prowling round the room and fidgeting with things. Clearly he was growing uneasy. Margery kept her eyes on him, and he turned suddenly and saw her watching.

  “There’s some vileness stewing now,” he said. “I have the scent of it. But what help’s that without a guide?”

  He began to pace the room again, and something of his restless humour passed to Margery; she, too, was on her feet, her ear cocked for hoof-beats on the gravel outside. But all stayed quiet; and if evil stalked, it stalked in silence.

  A tap at the door brought Tom Peyton into the room, and Roger was agog for news. But Tom had only come to ask if more logs should be brought.

  Roger shook his head impatiently.

  “We’ve logs enough,” he said. “What’s o-clock?”

  “Close on eight, sir.”

  “When decent folk would be abed. There’s no mistake about the double Watch, Tom?”

  “Hargreaves made promise, sir.”

  “Aye.” Roger stared gloomily at the fire and stirred the logs with his foot. “What a Watch to stay for!” he burst out. “A half-dozen ploughboys and a pair of yeomen, with a papist captain! And all melted to their boots from fear of sprites! God’s Grace, what a Watch!”

  He paused for a moment and then turned with decision in his face.

  “We ride,” he said. “Never stay for my boots, man! See to your own--and the horses.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Tom Peyton vanished, and Roger laughed happily. With decision taken, he was himself again. He flung Margery’s boots across the floor to her and began tugging on his own; and when she prudently threw more logs on the fire, he called to her to hurry.

  The horses had not been exercised that day, and someone had been generous with the corn. They went off at a cracking pace, Margery alongside Roger, and Tom a few paces behind with a great burly fellow named Joe Rimmer at his side. The night was fine and dry, with a light breeze out of the south-west and pale stars over their heads. But the rising moon hung over Burnley, red and bloodshot, and away to windward the stars were blotted out. And as Margery pulled her cloak tight, the wind puffed suddenly in her face. She knew these signs. A red moon, and cloud to the south-west on a rising wind, meant rain, and rain in plenty.

  Some two hours later they drew rein near Fence and took thought what to do. They had been to the Newchurch and to Barley, thence down the Pendle Water, and then by the lower road to Fence. They had seen nothing that should not have been seen. They had covered a dozen miles and more, and seen not so much as the Watch. Nothing had met them but silence. All Pendle was snug with bolted doors and shuttered windows.

  Margery shivered as she sat her horse, for the softness had gone from the night and the cold had got through her cloak. Her feet were cold in her boots, and her fingers stiff in her gloves. She looked up at a cheerless sky. The cloud had crept steadily on till the ragged fringes of it were touching the moon; and the first scattered raindrops came pattering down as Roger spoke.

  “The Devil’s folk hide well,” he said. “Tell me not that they’re abed. That’s for honest folk.”

  He
flung his head back as though he were listening, and Margery strained her ears in sympathy. But there was nothing but the sigh of the wind and the patter of the rain. Then the cloud-fringe covered the moon, and the sudden darkness made the rain seem louder.

  Tom Peyton came edging up to Roger.

  “Beg pardon, sir---“

  “You needn’t, Tom. What is it?”

  “There’s a country tale, sir, the Devil sits astride those stones this night.”

  “Stones?” Roger whistled softly. “The Hoarstones, you mean? God’s Grace, Tom! I think you have it.”

  He peered through the gloom at Margery, and she heard his short laugh.

  “The Devil must have lulled my wits,” he said. “I could not have forgot Hoarstones else.”

  The clatter of the horses broke the silence as he led them quickly along the short track to the stones. It gave Margery time to remember the cluster of great old stones that leaned and toppled in what might once have been a circle. If the Devil and his witches chose to be abroad this night, these stones were as likely a spot as any.

  But at the Hoarstones silence met them. They halted on the track, not two score paces from the stones, and they looked and listened. All stayed dark and still. They had outdistanced the rain, and nothing but soft wind broke the silence.

  Roger looked left and right, then at the stones again.

  “All quiet,” he said, “and plaguey cold. But I’ve a feeling about this. We’ll go closer.”

  He moved off the track, letting his horse step carefully on the stony ground. The others followed, the iron-shod hooves ringing noisily.

  “Enough to rouse any Devil,” said Tom Peyton cheerfully “Hell’s Light! What’s that?”

  The blowing cloud had streamed from the moon, and the stones shone silver in a flood of light. Sharp and black against the biggest, a man was crouching, bareheaded and bent. He turned to them, and they saw his face, white above his black cloak. Then, as they stared, he set something carefully to the ground. In another instant he had leapt between the stones and they heard his running feet.