Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Tony’s foot stirred the fire viciously. Then he turned quickly to face them.

  “The one satisfaction I had,” he said grimly, “was the end of Tom Redfern.”

  “Don’t, Tony. Don’t,” whispered Margaret miserably.

  “Of Tom Redfern?” Roger was quietly insistent.

  “Aye. He swaggered it for a week, as one knowing more than his betters. Then the sickness had him, and he retched his way to Hell.”

  He ended, and the strained silence wrapped the room. Margery stirred uneasily, and Roger drew deep breath.

  “An odd sickness, that,” he remarked dryly.

  “Yes.” Tony looked him squarely in the eye. “In the summer it took my father, and he was dead by Michaelmas. And before the year was out, my grandfather was gone. And brother Dick ruled at the Rough Lee.”

  “Ruled, do you say?”

  Tony smiled sourly.

  “Owned might be the better word,” he agreed. Roger nodded and seemed to consider. Then he spoke deliberately.

  “These sicknesses, Tony--did no thought ever come to you about them?”

  But Tony Nutter would not answer that. He looked at the fire, and evaded.

  “Some things are with God,” he said quietly. “And best left with Him.”

  But Roger thought, and then slowly shook his head.

  “All things are with God, Tony, and the more so when they’re left undone by men. But have we therefore a duty to leave all things undone?”

  He came quietly to his feet.

  “I had meant to make pretence,” he said, “that we’d come on you by chance. I’ll not tell that tale now. You see which way I drift.” Tony nodded.

  “I’ll pray that God be with you,” he answered. “May He keep us all!”

  “Amen to that! And now we’ll take our leave. I’m grateful for your tale.”

  Margery was on her feet at once. This room was oppressive to her now, and she was glad of the cool fresh air as they rode down to the brook.

  Roger had only one comment to make.

  “lf I take to retching,” he said tersely, “cook my broth yourself.”

  Chapter 23: CLOUDS OVER WHEATHEAD

  Tony Nutter’s tale did what few things could do; it spoiled Margery’s sleep.

  Neither she nor Roger had much to say of it that evening; they seemed to agree that it was best left in a decent quiet. But their minds were on it, as they both knew, and Margery brooded unhappily. She had had a glimpse into a home that must have been horrible; for the Rough Lee, twenty years before, could have been nothing less than that. Margery’s thoughts were on the motherless children in that fear-drenched house: the doomed Robert, linked by hate to a gloating servant; the soft and friendly Dick, forced to a marriage he must have loathed; the sensitive keen-eyed Tony, seeing all and hating all; the kindly talkative Margaret, clinging perhaps to Tony as the shadows deepened round her; and all of them young, eager and helpless. They must have been near Margery’s present age when a prim, dark Alice had come into their home from Trawden, come to stay, and wed, and rule. And that dreadful grandmother who had called this Alice kin: what of her? Margery shivered as the picture came alive in her mind.

  She was not eager to blow her candles that night, and when at last she did blow them, she slept badly; and as she passed fitfully from sleep to waking, and from waking to sleep, and most of all when she was in the twilight, that is neither, scenes and figures began to float before her in a strange mad medley. There was Alice Nutter, sitting like a frozen rock in a cold that spread and numbed; there was a slim young Nutter, riding into Wales with a monstrous black-cloaked servant leering at his back; there was a grandmother, vague and misty, who chuckled spitefully and lifted a finger to bring dark Alice running; there was Tony, always with his face twisted in misery; and Margaret, sometimes as a young girl slim and cowering, and sometimes as she had been yesterday, hunched by a fire with her head buried in her hands. And between them all, with them and yet not of them, was Frank Hilliard, flitting strangely from one picture to another, and always in danger from the chuckle or the cold.

  The darkness of exhaustion dimmed the pictures in the end, and Margery slept heavily. When she came down to breakfast heavy-eyed and late, Roger took one look at her and then jerked her thoughts to other matters.

  “Tom Peyton had a word for me while you were still abed,” he told her. “There’s some trouble, it seems, at Wheathead, though I don’t yet know the rights of it. The Device woman’s been here with some complaint. Apparently Baldwin’s whip caressed her shoulders--though why she thinks that’s matter for complaint the Devil knows best.”

  Margery nodded.

  “Which Device would that be, sir?”

  “Elizabeth--the one that squints. So I’d have you ride to Wheathead and get the truth of it for me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “If you can’t, who can?” Roger’s eyebrows lifted in the familiar style. “Baldwin has a softness for his sister-puritan.”

  Margery laughed, not at ah displeased, and went off for her riding-clothes. A ride to Wheathead might cool her head this day.

  She found the millpool smooth and black under a cold grey sky. There was no sign of Grace, but Richard Baldwin received her amiably and took her through the stone-flagged kitchen to his own austere room, where the account-books nestled against the Bible. Margery came to the point at once, and two steely eyes under a lowering brow met hers as she ended.

  “She complains, does she?” he said coldly. “I dealt lightly, and if Master Nowell wants my counsel it is that he has the Constable bestow what I spared.”

  Elizabeth Device, he explained, had come a-begging yesterday, and when she had been refused she had not gone; instead, she had hung about through the morning, pestering the apprentices and frightening the serving maids with the roll of her hideous eyes. At last, in an unguarded moment, she had been allowed to slip into an empty kitchen; and Richard himself, coming at that moment from his small room, had seen her trying the larder door.

  “By God’s providing,” he said, “I’d a whip handy, and I drove her off. But lightly, let it be known. She had less than a poor dozen, and she ran howling. That’s all of it.”

  He evidently considered that the matter was at an end, for his expression changed. He was positively benevolent as he told Margery that he had now ended the admirable Homily she had so kindly lent him. She must credit him with gratitude for the loan--and she must certainly stay for dinner.

  A hungry Margery accepted promptly. She had a high opinion of the Baldwin dinners. But where, she asked, was Grace?

  A cold shadow came across his face.

  “She’s in her chamber,” he said shortly. “However, you may visit her there and talk with her. I give leave for that.”

  Margery bit her lip in time to restrain comment. She knew at once what this meant. Grace was confined to her room for some offence, and could have no talk without special leave. Margery knew all about the discipline of puritan homes.

  She thanked him quietly, glad that leave had been given, and with no more said she went back through the kitchen and made her way to Grace’s room. The click of the spinning-wheel greeted her as she raised the latch and entered.

  The little room was cold and bleak. Grace sat on a stool in the wan grey light from the low window, her foot pressing the treadle while her fingers guided the skeins. She looked cold. Her face looked pinched and her fingers blue, and there was a shawl draped about her shoulders; but warmth shot into her eyes as Margery entered.

  “Margery!” She jumped up from the wheel. “I heard your coming, but I tried not to hope you’d be let in here.” Margery sat herself in the single chair.

  “Hope or no hope, I’m in--and with leave duly given. What’s your offence?”

  “Offence!” Grace pouted at it. “Did my father not tell you?”

  “Not a word, except that I might enter. Which was enough to tell me there’s been offence.”

  “You seem to
know of these things.”

  “I’ve some cause to. But what was it?”

  Grace pulled a wry mouth at that.

  “It came from the kirtle you’re making. I’d a word with Fat Jack, and he told me you’d had your laces. That set me thinking of it, and I ... I wanted its like. And in short, I got a sermon on pomps and vanities---“

  “In short, do you say? Not if I know that sermon.”

  Grace smiled ruefully.

  “No, not in short. But I was foolish. I disputed against it---“

  “Oh dear!”

  “So I said--later. And here I’ve been, these three days.”

  “Three?” Margery considered that, and then went to what she thought was the root of the matter. “What have you had to eat?” Grace looked disgusted.

  “Some bread--and all the water I want. I’m getting dreadfully hungry.”

  Margery nodded sympathetically.

  “I know. One does. Though why any should suppose that makes you want a kirtle less, I can’t think.”

  “It seems they do suppose it.” Grace went back to her spinning-wheel. “I’d best be at work again. I’ve a task set.”

  “Then you’ll be wise to achieve it.”

  The wheel went clicking, and Margery watched with understanding. She had had all this herself too often not to understand.

  “One thing these weeks in Pendle have taught me,” she said slowly.

  “Yes?”

  “Such discipline afflicts us all. They’re the common lot. But there’s one thing that can end them.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Leaving the house you’re reared in. Journey to Pendle did that for me. And for you, Grace, there’ll be an end when you’re wed.”

  The skeins dropped from Grace’s fingers. “What counsel’s that?” she asked brusquely. “What chance have I? You know how it is.”

  Margery tried to speak hopefully.

  “Could it not be contrived? Miles is certainly willing, and your father could be persuaded.”

  “Oh, my father? Oh yes, my father--he’d consent. But what of Alice Nutter? She never will.”

  “It’s as bad as that? Never?”

  “Never.” The wheel clicked viciously as Grace stamped on the treadle. “You’re teasing me, Margery!”

  “Grace! I never---“

  “Never’s the word, and never it will be. And that’s my choice. I can wed where I don’t wish; or I can sit till I’m grey, waiting for consent that won’t be given. I’m plainly a miller’s girl, and below her high notice. There’ll be nothing of consent while Alice Nutter lives.”

  Margery made no answer. She had not seen this anger in the friendly Grace before, and she was telling herself that she should have foreseen it. Grace, after all, was her father’s daughter, and at this moment she looked it. And then as Margery sat silent, a new and ugly thought crept into her mind. How many people were there in Pendle whose lives would be sweeter if Alice Nutter ceased to live? It startled her, and she tried hastily to put it behind her; it would not do, she thought, to let such broodings slip out to be heard by the kindly Grace.

  The clicking slowed and stopped. Grace dropped the skeins to her lap and looked deliberately at Margery.

  “If Alice Nutter were to die,” she said slowly, while Margery sat aghast, “I ask myself who’d mourn for her. I should not. I could not. And--this is horrible, Margery--I don’t think Miles could either, even though she’s his mother.”

  Margery sat breathless with a chilling shiver in her back. These, from Grace, were words from a pit of misery.

  And then, to her unspeakable relief, Richard Baldwin looked in, smiling.

  “Come to dinner,” he said pleasantly. “Both of you.”

  Grace jumped happily to her feet at words that meant she was forgiven, but the door had shut before she could speak. But the tension had broken, and they looked at each other easily.

  “That,” said Margery, “was a most timely coming.”

  “In more ways than one. How’s my hair?”

  They went to dinner as though they had chatted of no more than trifles, and to Margery’s surprise it was a happy hour. Richard Baldwin could be hard and he could be narrow, but he could not be petty; and having called Grace from her room he quickly made it plain that she was restored in full. He greeted her pleasantly and carved generously for her; soon he was at pains to bring her into the talk, and under this treatment Grace revived rapidly. The food and friendship dissipated her ill humours, and Margery was exerting herself in light talk that might help; by the time the meal was done and Thanks had been given, Grace was again her own placid and contented self.

  But afterwards, when they had left the table, they had an echo of their earlier talk. Richard was back in the mill, the serving-maids were busy, and Grace, who had had quite enough of her own room, drew Margery into a corner of the warm kitchen.

  “What was said before would be best forgotten,” she said. “It was foolish talk, and wicked--some of it.”

  Margery looked her in the eye.

  “Forgetting what’s been said is easier willed than done,” she answered. “We shall not forget it, either of us, as you well know.”

  Grace looked uneasy.

  “You see too clearly for your talk to be always comfortable,” she said. “But at least it need not be spoken of. That’s a thing we can---“

  Grace stopped short, an ear lifted to the door. A babble of shouting had broken out by the pool, a woman’s voice, high pitched and shrill, vying with angry tones from Richard Baldwin. Grace took one startled look at Margery and then darted to the door. Margery followed in the same alarm, harbouring a vague thought that this must be Elizabeth Device again.

  She was nearly right in her guess. It was not Elizabeth but it was the young Alizon; and with her, wheezing and snarling, was the aged Demdike. They were standing together by the smooth, black pool, and in front of them, his voice raised high in anger, was Richard Baldwin.

  “Payment?” he was saying savagely. “Payment, and to Satan’s brood? What madness has you?”

  Demdike, bent and wizened, faced him coolly, her little eyes blinking in the grey light.

  “You’d my daughter’s help, and- you’d best pay what’s due for it,” she croaked; and a panting Alizon dared a laugh.

  Richard Baldwin turned slightly as he became aware of Grace and Margery; without turning fully, he addressed his daughter.

  “Grace, be into the house and fetch my whip. Hasten!”

  Grace went off at a run. She knew better than to disobey that. Her father turned deliberately to Alizon Device.

  “You shall be paid your due,” he said grimly. “And in the coin that paid your mother.”

  Alizon turned white. The threat was not idle, as she well knew. She took one glance at his granite face and another at the open door. Then Grace came running, whip in hand, and a quaking Alizon turned and ran.

  Richard took the whip from Grace and faced the aged Demdike. The woman made no move to go, and the watchful Margery thought her foolish; if she supposed her age would be a sure protection, she did not know the puritans; compassion for witches, young or old, had no place in the puritan creed.

  “Get from off my ground.” said Richard slowly; and his tone had a cold fury that made Margery hold her breath. “Get from off my ground,” he repeated. “From my ground and from my sight.”

  He paused, and his steely eyes passed from the Demdike to Alizon, standing defiant a safe fifty yards away. He spoke again to the woman in front of him.

  “Assure the whelp,” he said softly, “that she shall have her payment.” Then his voice swelled in anger. “Payment? Payment to a witch and a whore? Aye--and if God shows me His favour I’d get you your payment. And that’s to hang the one and brand the other. And now be off--clear from my ground.”

  Demdike turned slowly, feeling blindly with her stick for the low grey wall by the pool.

  “Hang yourself,” she muttered as she went.r />
  She shuffled along, tapping at the wall with her stick. Then she stopped and looked back malignantly.

  “I’d pray for you,” she said over her shoulder. “For you and yours.”

  A hateful chill struck Margery. How was it that this woman prayed? Still and loud, young Jennet had said.

  The tapping stick moved along the wall, and a venomous chuckle came faintly on the wind. Richard Baldwin stood rigid, and there was sweat on his face as he fought for control. Then, with a gentleness that was strange in him, his arm was round Grace! “Margaret!” he whispered. He whispered it almost to himself, and Grace looked up in agitation as she heard her sister’s name. Margery stood frozen. Margaret Baldwin’s death had followed a Demdike prayer. Richard looked steadily at Grace.

  “If you’d not been here to see,” he said, “I’d have killed her then.”

  His arm dropped, and without another word he turned and went quietly into the house. The door-latch clicked, and the girls were alone in the fading afternoon. From a heavy sky, cold raindrops pattered suddenly.

  Margery rode home blindly, and let her horse find the way. Yet her crowding thoughts were not so much with Richard as with Grace. Richard’s quarrel with the Demdike was his own affair, but Grace’s troubles came nearer to Margery. Here was something she could feel more vividly; and here, too, was something that turned on Alice Nutter, and Alice Nutter was growing very large in Margery’s thoughts. Her imagination was still lit by Tony’s tale, and the half-dreams it had brought in the night. She was beginning to see Alice Nutter as the spider who spun these Pendle webs, and suddenly she shivered at the image of that; webs made her think of the thread of life, which is spun, and measured--and cut.

  She went straight to Roger in his parlour and told him the whole tale. He nodded calmly.

  “Begging with a threat,” was his comment. “They send Elizabeth here to complain, and the other two go there. If she’s paid for help she didn’t give, they’ll withdraw complaint. That would be the pattern of it. Which shows they don’t know our Baldwin.”

  “Or didn’t. I think they’ve learnt. I’ve told you what he called them. And witch is no doubt true of Demdike. But what of the other?”