Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  She made the effort and found him heartily at table, seemingly no whit the worse for his late hours. The rain had passed now; there were wisps of white driving across a blue sky, and a pale sunlight was flooding over the breakfast table.

  “I’ve spoiled your sleep,” he told her smilingly as she sank into her sunlit chair. “Spare your denials. You’re still blinking like a noontide owl. But a ride to Goldshaw will blow that away. I think we’ll rouse Hargreaves.”

  A lifted eyebrow was all the answer he got to that. Margery had her mouth full.

  “Hargreaves,” he went on affably, “was little use enough last night, so we’ll let him be busied this fine morning. He shall stir his great hulk and seek for parents who mourn a child.”

  Margery checked in her eating and called herself callous. In this pleasant sunlight she had forgotten that little helpless body. But Roger was speaking again, and now more gravely.

  “That we found a dead child last night,” he was saying, “will soon be known to all. That’s for the common ear. That a man was taken and contrived an escape could be given out also if it had to be. It’s a thing that could be explained, though if we don’t brag of it there’ll be few to ask of it. But that the man who escaped was more than a nameless rogue--that is for you and me alone. Is that understood?”

  “Aye, sir. And secure.”

  “It had best be. That same Statute has severities for those who comfort a Massing Priest. And one thing more---“

  He paused, and his gaze was steady on the brown leather jerkin she was wearing with her russets. Then she understood, and her face coloured. Bright against the brown leather, she had the silver Cross.

  He smiled as he saw that she had understood.

  “Our papist had a discretion,” he told her. “He wore it, but within. Do you the same. A Cross, to be sure, is not in itself a papist thing. It’s not like a Crucifix or an Agnus Dei. A loyal subject may wear one. But you’d best not let that one be seen. It’s not of common work--and it may be known in Pendle.”

  That was not to be disputed. Margery had already noted that folk in Pendle had a trick of knowing the affairs of others, and when she rode out with Roger into the sunlight the silver Cross was safely masked within her jerkin. They had fresh horses this morning, restless and eager beasts who made little of the road to Goldshaw; it was the road that led to Tony Nutter’s, but a little short of that, a lane branched off and brought them to a squat and firm-built farmstead. Harry Hargreaves pushed his cheerful face out of a byre as they rode up.

  If Roger supposed that his visit would disconcert a none too zealous Constable, he was wrong. Hargreaves’ face lit with pleasure when he saw them.-He welcomed them warmly and insisted on taking them to his parlour, where his wife, a tiny and bird-like woman, almost laughably small against her great husband, joined in his welcome and gave them hospitality that was ahead of the hour. For a moment Margery suspected that here was effusiveness meant to allay wrath, but she was soon sure that it was not; these Hargreaves were not of that breed.

  Roger related briefly what could safely be told of the night’s doings, and Hargreaves listened stolidly. He ran his fingers through his brown curls, and his brown face slipped into a twinkling smile that went oddly with his grave words.

  “It’s bad, sir,” he said. “It’s worse than bad. I think the Devil stalks in old Pendle these days, and there’s none of us that’s safe--not us, nor our children either. Whose child was it, sir?”

  “That’s for the Constable to discover. I’m here to bid you begin.”

  “I’ll look to that, sir. I’ll not spare trouble if we can lay these limbs of Hell in gaol. They’re beyond fitness to live. They should be burned from the body of us, sir, burned out root and branch.”

  The man’s earnestness was plain, and Margery observed it with interest; it gave her the thought that if the Constable and the Churchwarden were at odds on all else, they were seemingly at one in this; it might have been Richard Baldwin speaking.

  But Roger remained cool.

  “Burned, do you say?” he answered. “It’s hanging, not burning, that’s provided, and not that till there’s proof. And proof’s what we lack. Why do you say it’s these limbs of Hell?”

  “Does a soul doubt it, sir?”

  “Maybe not--in Pendle. But a Judge at Lancaster might. Some proof is needed. If you can furnish it, or even the shade of it, I’ll commit.”

  “Aye, sir. The whole damned coven. But more of the ale, sir? And you, mistress?”

  But Roger was not to be tempted. He had overmuch to do, he said, and at that he took a cordial leave and went trotting down the lane, Margery beside him.

  “It’s plaguey odd,” he said suddenly, as they came out of the lane. “That fellow was positively joyed to see us. I’ll swear he was. I’d thought he’d be shy of us this morning after what he didn’t do last night. But not a whit! He was joyed to see us, and I’m asking why.”

  He halted to consider it, and Margery countered his question with another.

  “Did you mark, sir, that when you spoke of that poor child he showed no surprise?”

  Roger’s head jerked up.

  “Where do you steer?” he asked sharply. Then his eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly. “You’ve wits like a whetted razor. And you see truly. It was even so. No surprise at all. But you’ll have some thought behind this?”

  “I asked myself if it was indeed news to him.”

  “God’s Grace, girl! You go deeper than makes for comfort. But it could be so. Then who’s been talking?” ‘

  Margery studied her horse’s head intently.

  “Not you, sir. Nor I. And I think your servants may be trusted. There remains Master Southworth.”

  “Ha! Our Seminary, is it?” Roger looked round him shrewdly. “That’s well said. And I see we’re well placed for a visit to papist Nutter. A word with Tony might be of interest. He’s thick with Hargreaves.”

  A short three minutes brought them to the house in the pines, and once again they had gracious and friendly welcome.

  “It warms me to see you here--both of you,” said Anthony as he led them in. “I hope to see you many times again.”

  “Handsomely spoken, Tony.” But Roger’s tone was dry. “To what do I owe this warmth?”

  “To yourself.” Tony Nutter was not flinching from it. “Yourself, you kindle it.”

  “My neighbours, I fear, seem agreed to take another view. What’s this of a dead child?”

  Margery, just settling herself on the window-seat, held her breath. She had hardly expected such speed, but she saw at once the trap it concealed. Tony Nutter did not.

  “Child?” he said. “Have you not heard---“

  “Have you?”

  The question came with a snap, and Tony stopped short as he saw what was implied. But he did not lose his poise. He stayed collected, and the dignity that was inherent in him broadened and grew plain to see.

  “Master Nowell,” he said calmly. “You know as well as any man that we who are of the old Faith must needs keep an ear to the ground. Hearing’s keenest so.”

  Roger nodded.

  “Thus distant hooves are heard, I’m told--especially flying hooves. But let be! I’m not here to search your garrets. But of this child, Tony. Who can tell me its parents?”

  “I cannot. I’ve heard it suggested---“

  “I’ll not ask by whom. But what?”

  “That . . . that this poor child was some witch woman’s bastard.”

  “It could be.” Roger sounded doubtful. “But why?”

  “It would give two reasons for . . . for what was done.”

  “The other being to be rid of it?”

  “Just that.”

  Roger sipped his ale in silent thought. Tony Nutter stood watchful; and his sister, coming in to place cake on the table, caught his eye and for once held silence too.

  “Death has some queer shapes in Pendle,” said Roger at last.

  “Need you tell me
that?” was the quiet answer.

  “I’m sorry. You meant your daughter. I had not meant to remind you.”

  Tony Nutter would have answered that, but his sister would have none of it. She had sat silent for long enough, and now she swept into the talk like a whirl of autumn leaves.

  “You’re not to talk of it to him, Master Nowell. It’s bad for him. Any talk of Anne, and he can talk of naught else for the day, and he goes to his bed at night in a humour black as a pall. It’s more than bad for him, and we’ll have more cheerful talk by your leave.”

  “My most willing leave.” Roger looked her over whimsically and put her to her favourite topic. “How is Master Miles these days?”

  That was enough for Mistress Crook, and she was away on it at once. Miles did excellently. He visited her each week, and never once had he let the weather stay him. But that was his way. And then Mistress Crook, among whose talents discernment seemed to have no place, fixed a beaming eye on Margery and hoped to see her and Miles visiting together again. That, she thought, had been very proper. . . .

  There was some more of this, and Margery sat in discomfort. It was not a topic she wished to discuss, least of all with this garrulous lady. But to her relief, Roger was also showing signs of impatience, and they were not lost on the thoughtful Tony. He seized a moment as his sister paused for needed breath.

  “You’re the soul of charity, my dear,” he said. “You give Miles all the virtues. And truly, he has at least some of them.”

  “Some!” Mistress Crook sounded indignant. “Now don’t pretend not to agree with me, Tony, because you know you do. You know quite well you think the world of him. He’s as good as son and heir to you now.”

  “Heir indeed, but not quite son,” said her brother quietly. “But I think we detain our guests.”

  Roger had obviously had enough, and he was already on his feet and tying his cloak. They stayed to take courteous leave, and Anthony walked out with them to the horses which the old servitor had in readiness. He stayed by the gate as they rode away, and once again Margery found herself feeling warmly for this kindly, courteous man whose life was bleak and empty. She said so to Roger, and he nodded.

  “I told you once,” he said, “that in this County we do not harry papists for the sport of it. It’s such men as Tony Nutter who put us in that humour.”

  They came to the Sabden brook and Roger led up the hill away from Read.

  “We’re for the Newchurch next,” he said. “Best see Curate Town about that burial. But you’re thoughtful this bright morning. What is it?”

  “That Master Nutter plainly knew of the child--which must surely mean Master Southworth.”

  “Not a doubt of it. Nor need we doubt that when that Seminary left us he knew which house would shelter him. Like enough he’s there now. There’s another trifle too---“

  “Yes?”

  “If he found that house in last night’s storm, he’s no newcomer to Pendle. Though that’s to be expected. He’ll have been bred nearby. Some sprig of the Salmesbury Southworths, no doubt.”

  They came to the Newchurch and found that they had had their pains for nothing; they learned at the curate’s house that there was a Theological Exercise in Burnley church that day, and Master Town was away to bear his part in it; he would not be back till the next night.

  “No matter,” said Roger cheerfully. “The sun’s still high and the horses fresh. We’ll ride to Wheathead and bid the churchwarden take order for that. It’s fairly in his scope. And as he and Town are at odds like dog and bear, there may be sport in it. Turn your horse.”

  Margery was not displeased. She would be glad to see Richard Baldwin, and very glad to see Grace. Moreover she was getting hungry, and the thought occurred to her that if Richard Baldwin pressed them to his table he would have no hard task with her.

  “It’s in my mind,” said Roger thoughtfully, as they went cautiously down the long curving hill, “that these papists may know more of witches than we do. That Seminary, now. Set him against such a one as Ormerod, or for that matter against our Baldwin. The Seminary spoke to the point, and his point was salted. But what’s in Ormerod or Baldwin but rant, and a deal of wind? Moreover---Hell and the Devil!”

  Margery saw it at once. Fifty yards in front of them a squalid tumble-down cottage stood by the roadside in an unkempt garden, and walking out of that garden to a fine horse tethered by the road was a woman Margery knew at once. Beyond all doubt it was Alice Nutter.

  There was no avoiding the encounter, and Margery, glancing sideways, saw Roger brace himself for it. He swept off his hat with a courteous flourish.

  “Good day to you, ma’am!”

  “Good day, sir! And to you, mistress.”

  Mistress Nutter had already mounted, and her way seemed to lie with theirs. The three horses went down the hill together.

  “You find me busy, Master Nowell.” Mistress Nutter’s voice was bright and cheerful. “You’ll guess the cause of it.”

  “Not so, ma’am. Pray enlighten me?”

  She drew attention to a basket made fast to her saddle, and Margery saw from a quick glance that it was empty save for a white cloth.

  “We have duties of charity, all of us,” said Mistress Nutter vigorously. She was very assured this morning. “We must look to the needy, sir, as our duty is. A cake or two and a little cheese. These things may help in days of grief.”

  But Roger was not impressed.

  “Whose grief?” he asked dryly.

  “Master Nowell!” She was almost arch about it. “You surely know that Eliza Howgate was lately brought to bed? A sin, no doubt, and to be deplored. It’s a backsliding too common in these days. But women are sometimes weak.”

  “Meaning that she’s a mother and should not be?”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “In what sense, if you please?”

  Roger’s dry tone seemed to rankle, and the dark head reared as she answered:

  “The gift of life, sir, was not vouchsafed to that poor child.”

  “Was it not?” Roger’s change of tone was barely perceptible, but Margery’s keen senses had it. “Do you say, ma’am, that there’s a child dead?”

  “Alas, sir! Yes.”

  The horses ambled on, the iron shoes scraping in the grit, while Roger stared silently at Alice Nutter.

  “Was it born dead, or has it--become dead?”

  “Sir!” The voice quivered, but her eyes were as steady as his. “Is it needful, sir, to put that on a woman in her time of trouble?”

  “Put what, if you please, ma’am?” His voice was bland now, and Margery caught a hint of mockery in it. “Of two misfortunes, I do but ask which.”

  “Your pardon, sir. I had mistaken you.” It came quickly, but there was a pause before Mistress Nutter explained herself. “The child, if you please, was born dead and was of need buried directly. That was three days agone, and Eliza Howgate is still abed.”

  “Poor soul!” The sardonic note in Roger’s voice belied his words. “But I’m obliged to you, ma’am. You give me news.”

  “Because you pressed me to it, sir.” She paused again, and then seemed to hurry on. “A stillborn child is not matter to be blazed abroad. Nor is its burial. But we women hear such tales where men do not. You’ll be secret, sir, I trust?”

  “As the grave, ma’am.”

  The dark eyes flickered suddenly, and for a moment a cold shiver struck through Margery. But it was gone in an instant, and then Alice Nutter was turning to her with the most friendly of smiles.

  “We’ve been waiting for you at the Rough Lee, mistress, and you surely know you’ll be welcome. Are we not to be thus honoured?”

  The smile was lighting her face now, and her eyes were almost merry. Margaret sat stiffly and sought desperately for a way of escape.

  “I’ve been so busied, ma’am. I’ve found so much to see and learn in Pendle----”

  “Aye, to be sure. Yet do not be too agog to learn of Pendle, mist
ress---“

  The dark eyes had lost their merriment. They were inscrutable as she changed her tone again.

  “We’ll hope to see you then at our poor house--Miles and I?”

  “I’m honoured, ma’am.” There seemed nothing else to say.

  “Then Miles shall wait upon you and fix a day.” Mistress Nutter nodded as though all that was settled. Then she turned again to Roger as they came at last to the bottom of the hill and the Pendle Water flowing from its clough.

  “Do our roads part, sir?”

  “We’re for Wheathead, ma’am.”

  “And I for the Rough Lee. Then you’ll give me leave, sir. I’ve much to do this day.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  Roger’s beaver swept again, and she left him with a gracious smile as she crossed the Water and went trotting down its tree-fringed road. But Roger made no move towards Wheathead. The hoof-beats died away in the trees, and still he did not move. He sat his horse stiffly by the rippling stream, and the sunlight came from the water to throw a quivering pattern on his grave impassive face: The silence lengthened, and Margery heard the splashing of the stream and the sigh of the wind in the leafless trees behind her. Above her there were white clouds sailing in a pale blue sky, and the sun had warmth enough to tempt her to untie her cloak.

  “Can your wits cut through that?” asked Roger suddenly, and she came out of her reverie and gave him full attention; his tone demanded it.

  “Of the child, sir--at that house yonder?”

  He nodded.

  “Aye. Of this child she called stillborn.”

  Margery collected her thoughts and spoke carefully.

  “It would be an odd chance if it were not the same child.”

  “Odd indeed, at that house. Know you of these Howgates?”

  “Not a whit.”

  “The woman’s a reputed witch. And the man’s Kit Howgate, a bastard of our Demdike, and left-hand brother to that swivel-eyed Elizabeth.”