Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Roger leaned forward, and his foot hooked a small leather-covered stool from the wall.

  “You’d best be seated,” he told her. “Covell’s here from Westby, and with a word to say that touches you.”

  Margery’s smile faded. Word from Westby must be word of Frank Hilliard, and Roger’s tone had been sober. She took the stool, and without a word she seated herself and sat still and erect, her hands clasped and her kirtle smoothly spread. In silence she looked anxiously at them, and waited for one of them to speak.

  It was Roger who spoke. The Council of the North, he said, had met at York, and Tom Covell, returning from that to Lancaster, had chosen to break his journey at Westby, as he had done the year before. There, also as he had done a year before, he had met Frank Hilliard; and there had been some talk between them.

  “How is he?” Margery put in impulsively.

  “Sad.” Master Covell gave her the answer himself. “Sad as a dripping tree. But that’s no matter. That’s as he should be. I’ve grieved as hard myself in the days when I went a-wenching and was crossed in love. He’ll get past that, and it’s no matter. What’s of weight is that the lad’s sour---“

  “Sour?”

  “As the green crab juice. And there’s an oddity about that.” Tom Covell paused, and nothing of the jester was left in him now. “This sourness is some three days old, no more--though he’s been there these three weeks, as I’m told. I’d some talk with Jane Lister---“

  He went on to explain it at some length. Mistress Lister had been perplexed. She had found Frank something out of humour when he had arrived from Read, but that had not distressed her; it was no more, she said, than was proper after the events he had related; and under it he had been buoyant, making no secret of his intention to visit Marton at Christmas and there put all to rights. And then, all in an hour, he had changed. A bitterness had come into his talk, and there had been no more said of a ride to Marton. He had declared instead that he should go to his home and stay there. He had had enough, he said, of these North Parts and their folk. He would stay out of courtesy till Christmas was in, and then he would be away to his home in Warwickshire, there to stay until some proper employment should offer; he would not return to Lancashire, nor to the service of a nobleman whose words and conduct he resented.

  “And that’s the drift and set of it.” Tom Covell came to an end and looked steadily at Margery with eyes that were now grown very bright and keen. “I tried to learn what scent he was nosing, but he only grumbled that it was not his tale to tell. Then I tried Tom Lister, and he as good as bade me to the Devil.”

  “And Jane?” Roger spoke quietly.

  “As foxed as I.”

  “And you’ve come here to tell us this?” The big man shrugged, and for a moment he seemed almost shy.

  “I like the lad,” he explained slowly. “And knowing you and yours, Roger, I made the guess that the lass might be worth the liking too--as she surely is.” He turned to her with a smile that set her blushing. “What do you say to it all, lass?”

  “I ... I know not what to say. It’s exceeding kind of you, sir, to---“

  “Tom---“ Roger cut in sharply as if he had seen her con- fusion. “Exceeding kind of you it surely is, but there’ll be more to it than that. You did not ride here at this hour, on this night, to do no more than tell a tale. Now what’s in your mind?”

  Tom Covell sat mute, as though he collected his thoughts. Then he spoke gravely.

  “The lad means it,” he said slowly. “He’s the sort that does. He’ll stay through tomorrow--or today, as it is now, and at tomorrow’s dawn he’ll be away. And being away, he’ll remain away. That’s bad. But what’s worse, he’ll take his sourness with him, and it will stay with him while he lives.” His thick shoulders shrugged again. “That’s all I’ve a right to say. It’s for you and your lass here to say if it’s to be permitted.”

  “How’s it to be stopped?”

  “It’s but ten miles to Westby. A letter sent at dawn could have him here by nightfall. There’s time enough.”

  “Only just.” Roger was smiling at him from the hearth. “Time enough, but none to spare. Which is why you rode in rain on Christmas Eve.”

  Another twitch of the shoulders was the only answer to that, and Roger turned to Margery.

  “It’s for you to speak,” he said. “Do we send such a letter?”

  “Not ‘we’, Roger.” Tom Covell was grinning again. “There’s but one voice he’ll heed.”

  “Very like. So it stays with Margery.”

  She wriggled on her stool in acute discomfort, but it was plain that she must say something. She had been taking it for granted that Frank would somehow appear at Marton during Christmas. She had made the white damask kirtle with that foremost in her mind, and now---

  Roger, as usual, came quickly to her help.

  “There’s a need for courtesy in this,” he said. “All being said, you owe him something--more, perhaps, than he owes you. It would be proper to give him thanks of a decent warmth before he departs these shires. Or at least, you could represent it so---“

  The hint was enough, and Margery came quickly to her feet. Roger produced writing needs, and soon her pen was busy. She wrote shortly and quickly:

  I hear from the wind that you purpose to depart from the North Parts. I owe you much thanks for kindness done, and it’s ill work setting thanks on cold paper. But if you will ride this way your welcome shall not lack warmth. Pray bring with you no thought that might cast a chill on

  Margery.

  She passed it invitingly to Roger.

  “Subtle as the serpent,” was his comment. “He may find in it what he pleases, yet nothing that you can’t deny.”

  She wondered if that was censure; but as she folded it and applied the wax, he took his signet from his finger and passed it to her; and that, she thought, was surely the seal of his approval.

  “I’ll take order for sending this,” he told her. “For yourself, get you to bed. It’s well past one, and you’ll have heavy eyes at noon.”

  She had. She slept heavily, tired by the long and arduous evening, and she knew nothing of the lad who rode into the Christmas dawn with the paper that bore the arms of Nowell. But she was astir when Tom Covell called for his horses some two hours short of noon, and she was at his stirrup when he mounted. He grinned ruefully at her and hoped she would enjoy her dinner.

  “I’ll miss mine,” he grumbled. “But there’s no help for that. I’ve wife and family at Lancaster, and a man should sup with his own on this night. Fare you well--and deal softly with the lad.”

  He was away before she could answer him, and he left her with a head of anxious thoughts as she wondered what the day would bring, and what response that letter would evoke. She had six endless hours to fret away before she knew; and then, as the grey dusk closed on the house, a horseman came quickly from the rising mist--a trim figure in cloak of green and gold, who sat erect, and looked eagerly at door and window as if in search of someone.

  Margery was above, in her bedchamber, for it was already time to begin preparing herself for supper. She held her breath as she saw; and then, telling herself that Christmas gave leave for most things, she pushed the lattice open, leaned out, and waved. He saw it on the instant, and she marked his upturned face as his hat gave the answering wave. And then Tom Heber was out of the door in noisy welcome, and Margery left them to it. She called for Anne Sowerbutts and the kirtle of white damask; and with that she grew busy.

  She stood at last before the mirror, peered critically, and was modestly satisfied. The damask took a glint from the candles, as she had hoped it would, and the two bands of silver lace that edged the front body made a frame for the cream satin of the stomacher. The damask flared widely at the hip, where the farthingale held it out, and then fell sheer to the ankles. Here was simplicity and no contrast of colour; to keep the simplicity, Margery had rejected the elaborate patterns of lace that were usual, and had left the w
hole sweep of the damask plain except for some scraps of lace sewn here and there like silver stars.

  She gave her attention to the ruff, thin, delicate, and finely pleated. She had not trusted Anne Sowerbutts to set those pleats. She had done them herself, working till her fingers ached with the pleating pins and Mistress Turner’s starch; but it had been worth it, for the pleats had set admirably, and the yellow starch was vivid against the damask. A slight frown came upon her as she looked again. The set of the ruff was certainly excellent, but was it level? Pinning a ruff to a kirtle was delicate work if the pins were not to show, and Margery was not satisfied that this one lay evenly. Anne Sowerbutts, hovering behind her, was promptly called to order and told to alter those pins. Margery watched critically, and then turned attention to the high collar that swept stiffly upwards behind the ruff. It was of the same white damask as the kirtle, for once Margery had decided that sweet simplicity would suit her, she had carried it out thoroughly and had been very sparing of her colour-contrasts. But Roger had produced from somewhere a few small pearls, and these she had sewn round the top of the collar, where they gave a fine effect of richness without spoiling the scheme. She looked, and nodded with satisfaction. It would do very well. But she hoped Old Ball would not appear again tonight. If he did, she would have to be careful; last night’s kirtle had looked a wreck in the grey light of morning.

  Anne brought her the taffeta gown and helped her into it. Once again she looked and was satisfied. The deep orange of the gown brought a glow of warmth to the kirtle it framed, and Margery let it hang open. Then, after setting the furred collar to her liking, and carefully smoothing the long sleeves, she was ready.

  She stayed for a last look, and then went quietly to the head of the stair. For a moment she lurked in the shadows, listening to the sounds from the lighted hall below. She was intentionally late, and the pluck of viols and the thump of drums told her that the dancing had begun. Her left hand lifted her kirtle the prescribed six inches, to let the damask fall in flutes, and show the silverstars on her satin petticoat. She made sure of her stance, chin up, shoulders back, right arm straight; and for a moment she stood breathless, summoning her forces. Then, brisk and erect, with a crinkling smile and a roving eye, she went marching down the stair to the lilt of that dancing tune.

  At the foot of the stair Roger came from nowhere: Roger in black velvet and arabesques of gold, which made him gay and saturnine together. His eyebrows went up at once.

  “What mischief do you brew?” was his greeting, in the old familiar tone.

  “Mischief, sir?”

  Margery was as innocent as her damask, and Roger nodded affably.

  “When a maid brings such fond exactness to her tiring, it’s seldom to the sole glory of God.”

  He wandered off before she could answer, and left her to pout at his retreating back. Roger invariably knew too much.

  Then Frank swooped upon her, darting through the press so that he was the first of them all to greet her. She gave him her hand, thinking that a warmer greeting than a formal curtsey, but to her surprise he bowed over it and carried it to his lips. That meant the curtsey after all, and she was excited as she made it.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said softly.

  “I could do no other,” was his answer, and before she could decide what meaning to put on that, he had swept her into the dance; and she found him as deft in that as he was in other things. She went at it joyously.

  “You keep your promise,” he said, when it came to an end.

  “Which promise?”

  “Of warm welcome. Why did you send it?”

  “Was that not natural?”

  “I do not know. You bewilder me--aye, and you dazzle me too, as you’d dazzle any man.”

  She chose the easier half to answer. “Do I dazzle?”

  “You know it well. As you look tonight---“ He looked her up and down, and his admiration was obvious. “As you look tonight you’d light the Great Hall at Lathom--as I once told you you could do.”

  She flushed with pleasure.

  “I take some pains,” she answered. “That is all.”

  “Not all.” She waited for the further compliment, but it did not come. “Not all,” he repeated. “You take pains, but you give them too.”

  That was startling, and Margery almost gasped with relief when a surge of people swept them to the wall and the whisper ran that the Mummers were coming. That would at least give her a chance to think, and she felt she needed it. Plainly he had admiration for her; just as plainly, he was not lost in admiration; he had resentments too.

  Then the doors were flung wide, and the Mummers came marching two by two in slow procession: rustic fellows these, gay in their home-made finery, and marching slowly with a tramp of their high boots. Then the tramp became louder as it gave the rhythm to their ancient song:

  “We’ve not come to your house to beg or to borrow,

  But we’ve come to your house to drive away sorrow.

  Though if when we’ve ended, we look as if we’re dry,

  We’d thank you for ale, and a bite of the pie.”

  Round the room they went, stiff and wooden, with their deep-chested voices rolling out. Margery, pressed against the wall by the crowd, found Frank somehow at her side, and her hand was in his as the Mummers came round again.

  “We come with good will, and a story to play,

  To bring you the joy that belongs to this Day.

  And God send you grace to give thanks on the morrow,

  Who sent One to your house to drive away sorrow.”

  The words rang clear, and Margery pressed closely against Frank at her side.

  “Shall I have cause to give those thanks?” she whispered.

  He let that sink in before he made answer. Then his whisper came in her ear:

  “Has God sent grace to you--and me--this night?”

  Then Margery knew that the time had come.

  “We’ll talk of that in private,” she said.

  Chapter 29: THE SECRET COLD

  She led him apart, out of the crowded hall and into the little parlour that was private to Roger Nowell. Margery calmly appropriated it, for Roger was with the Mummers and would scarcely disturb them here.

  She sat herself in the elbow-chair and looked up at him steadily as he stood by the tiny hearth.

  “You seem,” she told him, “to have some complaint of me. Certainly we seem at odds over something. Do you care to be precise?”

  He chose to remain standing, and when he spoke his words came deliberately.

  “When we first met,” he said slowly, “that day when your horse fell, and you lay among the leaves---“

  “Yes?” She was half smiling at the memory of it.

  “I found in you what I’d never known before. Do not ask me what it was. I’m not skilled with words.”

  Margery was avoiding his eye, but the smile was still with her. Memory of her own feeling was helping her to understand his.

  “I forgot that papist.” His tone was hardening now. “I forgot him so that he rode away. I all but forgot him those next three days--till I was reminded, and rode to Lathom. You know why I forgot him?”

  Margery looked up and met his eye again, but she did not speak; it seemed as if he hardly expected her to.

  “I forgot him because of you,” he went on quietly. “I forgot him because my head was full of you, and there was no space left for any other. It was so from the moment I found you in the leaves. It was so when we rode in Pendle Forest. It was so when I rode alone to Lathom.”

  “Yes?” Margery’s voice was hardly a whisper. “And then?”

  “Then there was warmth in you.” His voice was rising a little. “There was warmth that lit everything--for me. I’d some little conceit of myself then, and perhaps something to ground it on. I could account myself come of a good family and placed in the service of a great one. I’d some share of milord’s favour, and some fair hope of rising in the wor
ld. And then came you--and we rode in Pendle. I felt your warmth and I dreamed. Was it too much that I should dream?”

  He paused and seemed to wait for an answer; but no answer came. Margery was looking down, and clinging tightly to the arms of her chair.

  “So it stood,” he went on. “So it stood that day I rode for Lathom. You came in the dawn to see me go, and your coming warmed the mist. Do you remember that mist?”

  She nodded and still said nothing. But the hand kerchief of cambric was crumpled in her hand, and she seemed to be nibbling its corner.

  “You stood in the mist,” he said. “You stood by my stirrup with your hand on mine, and you said it was I that needed to be cared for. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “That was when I rode for Lathom.” A ring was coming into his voice now. “The next day I rode back. I was no longer in milord’s favour. I was scarcely in his service. I was no more than I had always been--a younger son, with neither land nor place. All I had was a worthy name, and a memory of you.”

  He waited, as if to give her the chance to speak. Then he went on again.

  “A memory of you,” he repeated. “I made all haste back to you, and again you gave me welcome. You came running down the stair, all gladness. Do you remember?”

  “Remember?” Margery stirred at last. “How could I not remember?”

  But he ignored that, and followed his own thoughts.

  “There and then, at the foot of the stair, I told you what had passed at Lathom.”

  He stopped short, and waited till Margery lifted her eyes to his. Then he spoke bitterly.

  “From the hour when you learned how I had fallen, your warmth faded. All was ice.”

  “Frank!” The name burst from her in startled protest.