Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  He ended on a note of fine fervour, and at once he plunged into an exultant recitation of the thirty-fifth Psalm. He had got as far as the seventh verse before Roger’s icy voice cut in and stopped him.

  ‘Enough!” he snapped. “This is not a Meeting House. Set that down.”

  And Margery was so far gone in consternation that he had to slap the table angrily before she realized that his last command was for her. She was in haste then to obey, and her pen scratched noisily as she set the new charge down. She was in no doubt about its gravity. Begging and trespass, as Baldwin had truly said, were trivial matters, punishable at worst by a whipping from the Constable and a few hours in the stocks; but this new charge was capital. King James had never forgotten the North Berwick witches of twenty years ago; they had confessed to raising the storm that had all but drowned him as he brought his Queen from Denmark; and a dozen years later, when he came to reign in England, he had quickly been urgent with his Parliament to enact that the conjuring of spirits, for any intent whatever, should be punished with death. Margery knew all about this Statute; she had learned enough of law for that in her weeks as Clerk, and Roger’s frigid displeasure gave her no surprise; this was a charge that no Justice could take lightly.

  Then Richard Baldwin was on his feet again to give his sworn evidence, and this, as Margery knew it must be, was slender. It came to no more than a recital of last Saturday’s quarrel with heavy stress laid on Demdike’s threat to pray for him and his. That, he declared, could mean nothing less than the conjuring of spirits to do him harm.

  “That’s to be considered,” said Roger calmly. “But you’ve not only charged the woman. You’ve charged the granddaughter too. What threat did the girl make?”

  She had of course made none, and Baldwin had to admit it. Roger promptly dismissed the charge against Alizon, and Margery, glancing at Baldwin as she duly recorded this, saw his face stiff and white with fury. Nervously, she wondered what was coming next.

  “Now the Demdike,” said Roger. “What has she to say?”

  The stick tapped aggressively as the old woman made her slow way to the table. And what she had to say was simple; she coolly swore that she had never said anything of the sort; and then, at her request, Alizon was heard, and fervently swore the same.

  Again Margery glanced nervously at Richard Baldwin. But he had mastered himself now, and his hard face had no more expression than Roger’s. He received Roger’s inquiring look with a calm nod.

  “I’ve sworn to it,” he said, “and there’s two, of a certain sort sworn against me. Now let my daughter be heard. The Lord forewarned me of the need, and I’ve been at pains to bring her here.”

  Margery had not suspected this, and she sat still, restraining surprise, as Grace rose from an unobtrusive seat at the back and came to the table. There she spoke quietly, and Margery thought she was embarrassed and reluctant; but her words were clear as she told of the quarrel and of hearing Demdike’s threat. She ended, and would have gone back to her seat, but Margery intervened and pulled her into a chair at the table, next to her own.

  “You’ll stay by me now I’ve found you,” she whispered. Then she gave heed again as Baldwin spoke once more.

  “That’s two sworn against two,” he announced. “There’s yet a third to swear to it.”

  Roger nodded patiently.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Mistress Whitaker.”

  Margery jerked up in surprise. She had not thought of this; it was obvious enough, but it had somehow not occurred to her. But she saw Roger’s nod of assent, and she knew she could make no objection. So she went to the front of the table, and in the simplest words she could muster she corroborated what Grace had said.

  “That’s three to two,” said Richard Baldwin quietly.

  Roger nodded, and then, as he stood in thoughtful silence, Nick Banister intervened. He leaned forward in his elbow-chair.

  “Master Baldwin, has harm of any sort come to you or yours since these threats were made?”

  That was unexpected, and for a moment it had Richard Baldwin at a loss. Then he spoke of great Unease of spirit that had lain upon him since the Saturday. Nick Banister nodded. Then Roger pushed his chair back and seated himself; a moment later the two Justices were together in whispered talk.

  Margery looked across to Richard Baldwin and ventured the ghost of a smile, which he acknowledged with a barely perceptible nod. Then she turned to Grace at her side.

  “I wish this had not come,” she whispered.

  Grace smiled ruefully.

  “I know,” she whispered back.

  “It was that word of praying for him that did it. You heard what he said at the time. It set him in mind of how Margaret died, and he’s been speaking of the Lord’s Just Vengeance ever since. Mother and I worked on him that he should make it no more than trespass, and we thought we’d prevailed. But you see how it is?”

  Margery nodded. She did see, and she saw also what Grace perhaps did not see: that if Richard Baldwin did not get his Just Vengeance he might well develop a festering resentment against Roger; and Roger, she thought, had trouble enough on his hands without that.

  Grace was whispering again.

  “If the Demdikes can indeed do us harm, they’ll surely do it--after this.”

  Margery looked up quickly, and one glance at Demdike -was enough. The old crone was still standing there beyond the table, and her dark little eyes, seemingly none so blind now, were nickering from Grace to Margery and back again, as though there were two others she would now pray for still and loud. Margery looked, and shivered as she caught that evil glance; here was that Pendle cold again.

  A chair scraped behind her, and the Justices had ended their colloquy. Roger came to his feet again. He considered the Demdike sombrely, and then he spoke decisively.

  “We accept it that Elizabeth Demdike and Alizon Device did enter upon the land of Richard Baldwin at Wheathead, and did not depart peacefully when ordered so to do. This we find to be trespass. We accept it also that Elizabeth Demdike did use words meaning that she did intend to invoke spirits to the harm of Richard Baldwin.”

  Roger paused, and when he resumed he spoke more to Baldwin than to Demdike.

  “There is testimony that this Demdike intended to invoke spirits, but none that she did in fact do so. And certainly there’s no tale of such harm done as might flow from spirit’s work.” He paused again, and he was looking very steadily at the man before him. “What needs to be proved under the Statute is that she did actually invoke; and that has not been proved. There has not even been an attempt to prove it. And proof that she merely intended to do so, which is what we’ve had, is not enough. We do not, therefore, think proper to commit to Assize on this.”

  He stopped; and suddenly the goose-quills shivered in their jar as Richard Baldwin smote the table with clenched fist. But before he could speak Nick Banister had leaned forward and was interposing in Roger’s support.

  “In short, Master Baldwin, there’s proof of intent to invoke, but none of invoking with intent--which is what any Judge at Lancaster would require. And to be plain with you, if we let this go to Lancaster it will not get past the Grand Jury.”

  Richard Baldwin, white-faced and silent, turned from the silent Justices to his own daughter; and Margery, intercepting that look, had a rush of sympathy for him. It was the look he had had two days ago when Demdike’s evil word had wrung from him his Margaret’s name; and as he now stood rigid, looking at his girl who lived, he was as surely thinking of the other who had died--died, as he was sure, from a Demdike charm. And suddenly, from Margery’s side, Grace rose and ran to him.

  He put a protecting arm round her. Then, standing so, he turned to the magistrates beyond the table and spoke in a voice that was not quite steady.

  “I am answered,” he said. “And in the days to come, I’ll put my trust in the Lord of Hosts, and in Him only.”

  Demdike’s stick began to tap the floor, almost as
though she were applauding; and at that he turned on her and Alizon with a white-faced fury that set them shrinking quickly back.

  “And as for them,” he quoted, “Thou, 0 God, shalt bring them into the pit of destruction.”

  He turned his back on the standing Justices, who had yet some words to speak; and with no leave asked, and no farewell said, he left them. His arm was still round Grace as he went quickly out.

  Chapter 25: AFTERMATH

  Margery turned in alarm as Roger’s chair went clattering back. He was on his feet, strained and erect, his nostrils dilating and his brows drawn down in anger. But before he could speak, Nick Banister stretched out a long arm and plucked his sleeve. Roger spun round, and for a moment the two old friends were eye to eye. Then the older man prevailed, and slowly and a shade sullenly Roger sank back into his chair. He shrugged, as though to say that another might now manage this affair, and as if in acceptance of that, Nick Banister came to his feet, speaking crisply.

  “Master Nowell has announced,” he said, “that we find Elizabeth Demdike guilty of a trespass. For that she shall sit in the stocks the space of six hours.” He looked sternly across at her. “Take note that only your age spares you a whipping before the stocks. Quiet!”

  He waved her into awed silence when she would have spoken, and Margery sat wondering; she had not suspected this steely dignity in friendly Nick.

  “Alizon Device---“ The ring in his voice brought Alizon to her properest manners. “You too have trespassed, and you too shall sit the six hours out. You too shall note that you should have been whipped but for the need to spare your grandmother.” He turned quickly to Hargreaves. “Constable, you shall set above the stocks a paper having in great letters ‘Evil Tongues Makes Evil Lives’. Enough!”

  He beckoned to Roger, and the two men went quietly out. Margery clutched at her papers, and without waiting to gather her quills and ink-horn, she ran after them. Sitting through such a scene as an impassive clerk had been a heavy trial, and now she felt desperate to talk of it. Yet at once she was thwarted, for Anne Sowerbutts pounced upon her with a tale of a poor pedlar who had been waiting these two hours to lay his cloth-of-gold before her; and soon it would be too late for the poor man to reach another house this day. Margery bit her lip with annoyance, but as she had undoubtedly been urgent with him to bring the cloth-of-gold she could hardly refuse to receive it now. So Fat Jack was produced, slightly the worse for the ale that had beguiled the tedium of his wait, and the cloth-of-gold was duly bought. But it took a full ten minutes, and Margery had barely escaped from him, and was running to the parlour, when Frank Hilliard intercepted her. Again she bit her lip as she remembered that she had promised to ride with him in the hour before dinner; and for once she failed in a promise. She swept him and his importunities aside, telling him shortly that she must be with Roger; and then she brushed past him and ran. The quarrel that had flared so openly between Richard Baldwin and her Roger was nagging at her mind; and she did not pause to reflect that this might not be a prudent way of dealing with Frank Hilliard.

  She burst into the parlour and came upon them much as she had expected, Roger with his shoulders to the shelf above the hearth, and Nick Banister at ease in the elbow-chair. Roger, ale-mug in one hand and tobacco-pipe in the other, was speaking his mind about Richard Baldwin, and to Margery’s huge relief he was speaking it calmly.

  “He has a head stuffed with witches,” he was saying, “and the moon crammed in on top to addle all. God’s Grace, Nick! Here’s no uncommon tale. She that squints went first, and I don’t doubt she went with a plan of thieving. That’s her trade. So Baldwin whipped her, and he showed some sense in that, I grant. Then the old beldame creaked along to see what could be got---“

  “More fool her! He’s not the man for that.”

  “Nor for any crooked thing. So they quarrel, and what’s odd in that? At which the Demdike curses--and is there anything at all odd in that?”

  “Baldwin did not say it was odd. He said it was a threat to bewitch him. And in that, Roger, I’m at one with Baldwin.”

  Roger’s eyebrows lifted; but Nick nodded calmly, as though to confirm what he had said.

  “I’ve told you before, Roger, that these women are evil and dangerous, a sisterhood of Hell. And I’ve told you that I do not put it beyond them to kill in deed, as well as in wish. And hard on that came Margery here, with her foul tale of plants fruiting in a coppice. That showed how it might be done. Yet for all of it, Roger, I fear you still do not give weight to these women and their threats. Baldwin does--more indeed than I do. But I tell you, Roger: if he errs in that, his error’s not wider than yours.”

  “Yet you agreed with me not to commit to Assize?”

  “Under the Statute we could do no other. She threatened to work evil, and I don’t doubt she’s tried. So far she’s not succeeded, and till she does we can’t commit. That’s how I see it. But Roger---“

  His tone was warning of earnestness, and both his listeners felt it.

  “Yes?” said Roger quietly.

  “Baldwin will no doubt look to his daughter. Look you to Margery.”

  “Margery?”

  “Aye, Margery. She and the Baldwin girl swore Demdike to the stocks, and that’s a thing the beldame may remember.”

  “God’s Grace, Nick!” There was a note in Roger’s voice that Margery had not heard before. “If she tries that--if harm comes to Margery---“

  “Just so! You begin to understand.”

  ‘‘Understand? Understand what?’’

  “How Baldwin feels. And he has a daughter dead, remember.”

  Roger stood staring, and his ale-mug came slowly down as his arm dropped. Margery stood tense, half frightened and half bewildered. And then Roger spoke slowly.

  “Nick,” he said. “You’ve the subtlety of the first serpent, and I make you my thanks. I ... I’ll find it in me to forgive our Baldwin. I’ll even forgive him the way of his departing this day. Nevertheless, I fear the harm’s done.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That I may forgive Baldwin, but it’s less likely that Baldwin will forgive me--or you. It’s not in his nature.”

  “I

  fear you talk sense there, Roger. More of it than I’ve liking for. These puritans are as you say.”

  He sipped his ale thoughtfully, and Margery, alert and watchful, saw how grave his face had become; and suddenly, as she watched him, he turned directly to her.

  “You’ve puritan connections, have you not?”

  It was unexpected, and she was a little flustered. Her answer came nervously.

  “I ... I used to have, sir.”

  “You could no doubt have them still--for Baldwin--if you so desired?”

  “For him? Why, yes sir, I think I could.” He nodded, as if well pleased.

  “It’s said that the peacemakers are blessed. It’s your chance to lay treasure in Heaven. Make what peace you can--for the sake of many.”

  He took horse soon after that, and was away. But his words lingered, for his earnestness had been impressive; and Margery was soon sure that here was charge laid upon her which she might neglect only at peril of soul. Nor would she delay, and the next morning, under a grey December sky, she rode to Wheathead, Frank Hilliard at her side.

  She was not glad of his company, and that, she reflected grimly, showed the degree to which her thoughts were occupied. On another morning she would have found him the best of company for such a ride, but this day her thoughts were elsewhere, and she found it hard to show him a proper interest. The task Nick Banister had imposed on her needed all her thoughts, for Richard Baldwin would be in no forgiving humour. Margery was sure of that. She knew these puritans only too well, and she was perfectly aware that their God was a Lord of Hosts, much more given to smiting the adversary than to forgiving him. Her task would not be easy, and she was finding Frank a distraction from her attempts to plan an approach.

  Nor was Frank himself in the best of humours, an
d when Margery finally gave up her attempts to think, she became uneasily aware that his usual good spirits were not with him: once or twice she caught a glance that seemed to carry a positive displeasure, and she found herself wondering if this flowed from her brusque handling of him yesterday. That, she thought, might be better than to have him suspicious of her dealings in the Southworth affair, but it was certainly unpleasant; and between that and Roger’s hints of his possible motive in riding with her at all, she found herself all but out of patience, and hard put to it to keep courtesy in their talk.

  They came to Wheathead at last, and certainly they could not complain of their reception. Grace was clearly delighted, and in no time she had them in the arch of the great hearth, where the glowing warmth brought a pleasing tingle to ears and fingers numb from the ride. Frank seemed to thaw in mind as well as body, and he returned cheerful answers to Grace’s talk.

  “You’re well come, both of you,” she said. “We’re so lonely here we’d say that to most, but when it’s a friend of Margery’s we say it and mean it. I’m told you’re new to this Hill of ours?”

  He grinned cheerfully and said he was learning.

  “Learning what?” This was Margery, alert for possible double meanings, but he only laughed.

  “At least I learn that it’s a plaguey cold hill for a winter ride.”

  “Yes, it has a chill at times.”

  Grace had answered him gravely, and again Margery looked up sharply. She knew two kinds of cold on Pendle Hill.

  “How is it--since yesterday?” she asked suddenly, and for a moment Grace sat silent.

  “It’s been dreadful,” she said at last. “I spoke the truth when I said I’d have welcomed almost any visitor this morning.”