Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  She had not long to wait. There were two cool November days in which all was peace, days in which Margery rode with Frank Hilliard and made pretence of searching for a papist priest. She saw to it, indeed, that he did not ride to a grey house in Goldshaw, nor to any other place where a priest might be thought to lurk; but apart from that she was content to ride at large with him, chattering about everything and coming to grips about nothing. On the second day she rode with him to Wheathead and presented him to Grace; and when they were home again, and before even they were out of their riding-clothes, a horseman rode in, haggard and dusty. He bore the Derby colours, and he carried a written order from the Earl that Master Francis Hilliard was to return forthwith to Lathom--no delay permitted. It gave no reason and it showed no courtesy.

  He broke the seal and read; then, without speaking, he showed it to Margery, and as soon as she had read she was apprehensive. The thing, she thought, was redolent of trouble, and her conscience was uneasy as she thought of a priest escaped, and the part she had played in that.

  Roger was lazing in his parlour when they burst in on him and thrust the paper beneath his nose. He read it in silence, and then he handed it back.

  “You ride at dawn,” he said.

  “Dawn?” Margery was aghast.

  “Dawn, I said. That’s meant to be obeyed.”

  “Aye sir.” This was Frank Hilliard, and there was a note of resentment in his voice. “But do you mark the tone of it? Why that? It’s not His Lordship’s way.”

  “It’s his way when he’s angered. You’d best obey orders.”

  “Aye sir. But--what’s so angered him?”

  “That’s to be learned at Lathom. But the order’s plain that you’re to ride forthwith--which does not mean at your leisure.” The half smile was on Roger as he scanned the rueful faces before him. “Other things apart,” he added quietly, “to obey orders is commonly the path of wisdom.”

  Chapter 22: THE DARK HOUSE OF NUTTER

  Frank Hilliard obeyed orders. He breakfasted by candles and rode at first light. Margery hauled herself out of bed and came sleepily down the stair to see him off; she detested dressing in the dark, but this time she felt she could do no less; there was something on her conscience here.

  Mist hung over the gravel as he mounted, and Margery stood, shivering in the cold grey light, her gown pulled tightly round her

  “I want to know what befalls,” she told him.

  “You shall,” he assured her. “Whatever it is, you shall know. Meantime, have some care for yourself. I’ve no wish to hear of you with a broken neck.”

  At another time there would have been a retort to that, but now, in this sleepy hour, her mind felt numbed; and she was still standing by his stirrup, looking up at him, when Roger walked quietly out of the door. He surprised them both, for neither had guessed that he was astir.

  “Just one word,” he said. “When you’ve leisure and can leave Lathom, you make yourself our guest again, if it so please you.”

  “It pleases me mightily.” Frank Hilliard was prompt in his answer. But then he seemed to have a second thought, and he looked almost doubtingly at Margery. “That is,” he went on, “if Margery’s of that mind too?”

  “I’ve no mind but my cousin’s,” said Margery, trying to blend manners with equivocation, and he laughed.

  “That suffices,” he said. “I’m your promised guest then.”

  “It’s something past dawn,” said Roger quietly.

  “Aye sir. Then I’ll be off. God keep you--both!”

  He went boisterously away, his two servants clattering behind him. Margery watched them go, and then she walked slowly to the door, and for all her bickerings with him she felt cold and lonely now that he had gone. Roger stood in silence on the gravel, and she turned to him impulsively. She had just realized that he had roused and dressed in the dawn to give that invitation and that he had done it for her sake. Whether she wanted it given or not she had a very warm feeling for this thoughtful cousin.

  “In with you,” he said suddenly. “It’s cold out here.” He slipped his arm round her and urged her through the doorway. Then he paused to look her over.

  “You’re early from bed,” he told her.

  Margery spun round, wide awake and alert for anything. She knew that tone of old, and she wondered what sly thrust was coming. But he had no more to say. He merely passed his fingers lightly over her hair--and something rustled. Margery gasped with annoyance as she clapped her hand on a stray curling-paper she had overlooked and left in.

  “Lord of Hell!” she said, echoing the words of the man her thoughts had flown to. Then she looked ruefully at Roger, caught his grin, and gave herself to reluctant laughter.

  “Now go furbish yourself,” he told her. “It’s cold for empty stomachs, and we’ll be better for breakfast.”

  She took her time at it, and when she at last came down Roger was ending his breakfast. By the time she had ended hers a red sun was lifting over the leafless trees, and Roger walked to the window to watch the thinning mist.

  “It improves,” he said. “I think we’ll go a-riding.”

  “As you will.” Margery thought she might as well ride as mope. “And whither?”

  “Goldshaw.” Roger spoke decisively. “We’ll call on Harry Hargreaves.”

  “The Constable?”

  “Why not? It’s time he was asked for news of a Massing priest. He was told to inquire.”

  “Oh!” Margery was nervous of this. “Do you think he’ll have news?”

  “Since he’s a papist I’m quite sure he won’t. So a zealous magistrate may safely ask him.”

  Margery was amused. She had a continuing interest in Roger’s subtleties.

  “Then why be at such trouble?”

  “It proves my zeal. And a visit to Hargreaves will make it natural for us to pay respects to his neighbour.”

  Margery stared blankly. She was beginning to understand why some were not at ease with Roger Nowell.

  “Tony Nutter?” she asked at length.

  “You may chat with him. My own trust is in his sister.”

  That made it no clearer, but she had to be content with it. Getting information from Roger when he did not mean to give it was not a hopeful undertaking, as she well knew. Margery gave it up and went off to make ready.

  The interview with Hargreaves went as Roger had foretold. The Constable was apologetic. He had made all possible inquiry and had learned nothing; he was very sorry, but it was not to be mended. All of which drew no more than a nonchalant nod from Roger. He thanked the zealous Constable, drained his mug of October, and took a friendly leave.

  The next short journey was quickly made, and soon the old servitor was leading away their horses while Tony Nutter greeted them heartily.

  “You’re guests we’ve wanted,” he said. “Come within.”

  “You’re cordial this day, Tony. You’re sure we’re no burden?”

  “Very sure. You’re never a burden, either of you.”

  “Never?” Margery saw Roger’s forehead crinkle as he spoke. “That should mean you’ve never guests I shouldn’t meet. However----”

  They went into the little parlour, cosy with a fire on this grey morning, and then Tony had a word for Margery.

  “You of all,” he told her, “will never be a burden here. Be sure of that. We’ve been hearing lately of your doings.”

  “You’re gracious, sir.”

  Margery was being cautious. She had the thought that something of this warmth had to do with an escaping priest, and if that were so she might do well to pick her words with care. Apparently Roger thought the same, and he went at it boldly.

  “Here’s fine talk, Tony! First you accuse her of a treason, and then you all but thank her for it. Let be, man!”

  “As you will.” Tony Nutter was unabashed. “I did but strive to be plain.”

  Then Mistress Crook came bustling in, and she left them in no doubt of her feelings. She was profu
se in her hospitality; there were the cheese-cakes and the famous apple-tart; there were plums, dried and set in sugar; there were nuts, all the way from the Spice Islands; and there were little strips of salted fish to raise a thirst for the prime October which her brother was spicing by the fire. And with it all was her babbling chatter, profuse, eager and indiscreet.

  “We’re in your debt for ever,” she told Margery. “I do hope you were not hurt. Horses are such dreadful things to fall from.”

  “Madam, I . . .” Margery felt baffled. This was too blatant. However much these people knew or guessed, there was surely a limit to what should be said aloud. But Roger came skilfully to her help.

  “How is Master Miles?” he asked, as he had once done before; and, as before, it was bait enough for Mistress Crook. Miles was charming. She did so hope affairs would turn out well for Miles. He surely deserved it. And then indiscretion had his aunt by the ear again.

  “I hope you’ll think so too,” she told Margery. “I hear he has been much in your company of late, and I was so glad you went with him to the Rough Lee. You’ll be there again soon, let us hope?”

  Once again it was Roger who answered for her.

  “I doubt that,” he said dryly. “Margery is no doubt shy to speak of it, but she’s avoiding those parts for a while.”

  Mistress Crook reared, and Margery became tense and alert. This was not an answer she would have expected. It had an air of indiscretion, and that was not Roger’s way. But his tone had not been idle, and again Margery asked herself what the purpose was that had brought him to this house this day. And had he not said that he would put his trust in Mistress Crook? But now he was speaking again.

  “The truth is,” he was saying, “that Margery is presently shy of the Rough Lee. She had some encounter there with the Redfern woman.”

  “That creature!” Mistress Crook began to bristle. “What has she done now? Pray tell me of it.”

  Roger sat at ease and answered lightly.

  “Done? She can scarce be said to have done anything. She presumed to a resentment that Margery should be on that land. That’s all.”

  “Brother Dick’s land?”

  “So I’d have said. But from what Margery says, the Redfern fancies it as her own land.”

  Margery sat in silence and left him to it. This, of course, was not at all what she had said, but Roger evidently knew what he was about. Mistress Crook was becoming angry.

  “Her own!” she snapped. “Her own indeed! I never could understand why Dick allows that family on the land at all.”

  “He doesn’t,” said Tony quietly. “It’s Alice who does that, as we all know.”

  “Alice, then. It’s the same thing.”

  “Not quite--thank Heaven!”

  “Don’t say that, Tony. But to allow these Chattox there after what Robert said---“

  Tony looked at her indulgently.

  “That was a long time agone,” he said slowly.

  “And what of that? He said it, just the same. And then he died--all alone there, and away from us all.”

  “Not quite alone.”

  Tony’s quiet answer struck coldly, and Margery sat very still, her thoughts flying back to what Roger had told her of the Robert Nutter who had died at Chester. Tony’s meaning had been plain, for Robert had not been alone; there had been a servant with him.

  “No. Not alone.” There was a smouldering anger in her voice now. “And I still tell you, Tony, you know what Robert said.”

  Roger came quietly into the talk.

  “You speak in mysteries,” he complained. “What did your brother say?”

  Tony gave him the short answer.

  “Robert? He said he was bewitched--by the Chattox.”

  Roger turned slowly to Margaret Crook.

  “You think, then, that your brother was indeed bewitched?”

  “Of course he was.” Margaret was indignant. “What else could it be--with such women and after such a quarrel?”

  “I can’t judge that,” said Roger. “I know something of the women, but nothing of a quarrel.”

  “Then never mind about that. But there was a quarrel, a dreadful quarrel, and Robert wanted the women put off the land and our father wouldn’t. He said he didn’t believe it, but of course it was our grandfather that wouldn’t when you come down to the truth of it.”

  She was growing incoherent, and Roger lifted a protesting hand.

  “Please,” he said. “I get lost. Tell me, when was this?” “Just before Robert died--the summer before.”

  “And Robert died when?”

  “Twenty years come Candlemas.” Roger nodded.

  “So there was a quarrel, and your brother asked your father to turn these people off the land? Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they were not turned off?”

  “No. And that’s what I’ve been telling you. It would have been our grandfather.”

  “How?”

  Margaret looked pitying at Roger, as though surprised at his stupidity. The understanding Tony intervened to make it plain.

  “Margaret means,” he said, “that our mother had died, and our father had therefore taken us to live for a time with his own parents--our grandparents. So the fact was our father did not at that time own the land. He’d not yet inherited, and he could not have turned these people off it. It would have needed our grandfather to do that.”

  “That’s plainer.” Roger spoke thoughtfully. “And your grandfather, being asked, would not? Is that it?”

  “That was his wife.”

  “His wife? You mean that your grandfather might have turned these people off, but that his wife, being your grandmother, hindered him in that?”

  “I take it so. But it’s an old tale and best let die.”

  Tony Nutter spoke as though he would gladly change the topic, but Roger would have none of it.

  “Why,” he asked gently, “should your grandmother protect a witch-brood against her own grandson?”

  “Because she was a witch herself.”

  Margaret had snapped the answer before her brother could speak. When he did speak, he was almost chiding.

  “Margaret, my dear!” was all he said.

  “But it’s true,” she insisted. “You know very well it’s true. Why else did she stop him? And why else did she make Robert have that dreadful Tom Redfern as his servant? And if it come to that, why else did she bring Alice here and marry her to Dick?”

  She ended in a silence that chilled. Roger sat impassive, and Margery, catching his eye, read in it a warning which she did not need; she had no intention of intruding herself while the Nutter secrets were tumbling out.

  Tony Nutter turned to face Roger squarely. There was a flush in his cheeks and he was plainly embarrassed, but he spoke calmly.

  “Since it’s gone so far, you’d best have the rest of it,” he said slowly.

  “I’d be grateful.” Tony smiled wistfully.

  “Near twenty years agone, remember. Anne Redfern was sweet seventeen then, and sweet she was to look on. She was newly wed to this Thomas Redfern, and brother Robert--here’s nothing of credit, but it’s the truth--brother Robert tried to have his pleasure of her. Which she would have none of---“

  “That being the quarrel?”

  “Just that. Even then, she’d a tongue like a sewer, and Robert had the reek of it. That angered him and he threatened.”

  “Threatened what?”

  “Anything and everything, though I never learned the rights of it. He was taken of a fever, you see, and for a week he retched and vomited--till Margaret here took him in charge, and he thrived on a broth she made. But in all his ravings he cursed the Chattox, vowing it was their foul arts had struck him.”

  Margery stole a glance at Roger and saw him staring at the floor. And Tony went on quietly.

  “That was when our grandmother came nosing into the thing --she and Alice.”

  “Alice?” Roger looked up at that.
>
  “No other.” Tony was speaking deliberately now. “Alice had come out of Trawden a month before. Grandmother said she was kin, and called her cousin. And already she’d been pressing Robert to marry her.”

  “Robert, was it? Not Dick?”

  “Robert it was--at first. But he liked her as little as the rest of us did, and he was man enough to say so. Maybe it was that. Or maybe Alice turned cool of him when he was taken with the Redfern. Or maybe it was because he fell sick just then. We’ll never know. But at least there was no more heard of his marrying Alice. But they pressed him to another thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Grandmother, with virtuous Alice at her side, must needs have it that he owed amends to these Redferns for wrongs done-- though in truth it hadn’t gone so far. But that’s how it was, and by what acts they pressed him, none of us ever knew. All that’s certain is that when he went into Wales with Shuttleworth, he took Tom Redfern with him as body-servant--and I mind the fellow’s leer as they rode off.”

  “Don’t speak of it, Tony. It was dreadful.”

  Margaret’s voice was shaking, and her brother went over to her, standing by her side and stroking her shoulder softly as she turned away from them. Margery, glancing again at Roger, saw him with a face of stone, and she knew he was probing because he felt he must.

  “I take it then,” he said quietly, “that your brother took this fellow only because he had to. He had not come to love the Chattox brood?”

  Tony smiled wanly.

  “I mind his saying, before he took horse, that whenever he should be home again he’d clap the whole brood where they’d be glad to chew their own lice.”

  And Tony Nutter turned to the fire, his face white and wretched. His sister’s face was buried in her cupped hands.

  “And Alice?” said Roger softly.

  “She turned on Dick and married him out of hand.” Tony was speaking with his back to them, his face still to the fire. “Dick’s softer than Robert ever was, and he could not stand against them. He was wed at Christmas that year. And the next we knew was Tom Redfern back among us, to tell of Robert dead at Chester.”