by Robert Neill
“Who were they, Jennet?”
“Witches.”
“You said bitches just now.”
Jennet nodded vigorously, as if to say that either word would do.
“You mean they came to your house?”
Another nod answered that.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“And who were they?”
“Mouldheels.”
“Who?”
“Mouldheels. She’s Hewitt’s wife--from Colne.” “But why Mouldheels?”
“Feet stink.”
And Jennet gave an offhand nod that seemed to dispose of Mistress Mouldheels. Margery thought she had better pass on. “And who was the other?”
“Jennet.”
“Jennet? But Jennet who?’’
“Don’t know.” For once the young voice held doubt. “She came out of Craven, and they called her Jennet.”
“Craven, was it?”
Margery made herself speak steadily. But in her mind was Frank’s quiet voice, telling of a woman who swilled a dairy at Westby--a woman who had carried a poisoned tale, and had the name Jennet Preston.
“And what did she come out of Craven for, Jennet?”
“Don’t know. She’s come before.”
“Has she? But what did she talk about?”
“Don’t know. Got put to bed.”
“Who? Oh, you did, you mean? And who put you to bed, Jennet?”
“Greediguts.”
“Jennet! Who do you mean?”
“Alizon. She is.”
But that seemed to remind Jennet of something, and she began to peer hopefully about the room. Margery laughed, and decided she had better let this wait. The child had probably told all she knew, and clearly her young mind had now gone into her stomach again. Margery accepted it and took Jennet to the kitchen.
Roger was home before dusk, and Margery let things wait till he had thawed. But she told him in the parlour after supper, and he heard her with interest.
“Is it so?” he mused. “Our Demdikes here, and this Preston crone out of Westby. I did not know our coven linked with Craven. I ask myself whether this Preston came here by chance. Or was she sent for?”
“That’s to be guessed.”
“We’ve no doubt guessed alike. Meantime, do you hear any tale of mischief done in Pendle?”
“I’ve heard of none.”
“Nor have I. Nevertheless, I think we’ll show ourselves at the Newchurch on Sunday. It will let folk know we’re back. And there may be some gossip.”
Margery agreed, though when Sunday came she was inclined to regret it. The freezing wind still blew from, the East, and the clouds were low in a sullen sky. Roger tightened his cloak and spoke gloomily of coming snow, and Margery wondered if it would hold off till they were home again. Nor was the Service cheerful that morning. The grey light left the grey church dark, and the cold of the week had settled deep into its stones. Margery shivered as she sat, and even Richard Baldwin had for once made a concession; he had forgone the dignity of his gown and appeared in his weekday cloak and jerkin. But he met them at the door and took them to the front pew, where Grace was sitting huddled against her mother, both of them cloaked and gloved. Nor was Master Town impervious to the cold; he hurried through the Service in a style that set even Roger nodding with brisk approval, and he cut his sermon to less than an hour--and not even the Wardens murmured at the indecent brevity of that.
Then they were out in the churchyard, where the wind was as keen as ever, and the clouds seemed even lower; and there was Grace, waiting while her father cleared the church and her mother chatted with a neighbour. Margery took the chance at once.
“We didn’t know you were back,” said Grace, as Margery went up to her. “How’s it with your Frank?”
“Well enough.”
“Is that true? You’re happy of it?”
“Why yes. But--but why do you put it so?”
“It’s . . .” Grace hesitated. “It’s only that we had heard---“
“Heard what, Grace?”
“It must have been an idle tale. But we had heard that he’d left you and gone altogether from the North Parts.”
Margery stared at her, wondering what lay behind all this.
“He has gone,” she said steadily. “He’s gone to visit his mother, who’s ailing and asks for him. It’s tedious for me while it lasts, but it’s not a thing to be complained of.”
“He’s coming back to you then?”
“To be sure, he is. Why should you think otherwise?”
“There’s no---I’m sorry, Margery.”
“No need for sorrow. I only wonder that you should have thought it.”
“I--I heard the tale so. That is all.” Margery’s eyes were narrowing.
“Who told you that, Grace?”
“It was from Miles.”
“Miles told you Frank was not returning?”
“He did not tell us.” Grace smiled sadly. “I’ve hardly seen him. But my father chanced to meet him, and had the tale from him.”
“Who had it no doubt from his infernal mother. And but for the trifle that he’s coming back, the tale’s exactly true.”
No need to mention that even that trifle had come perilously near to being as true as the rest.
“Will you tell me,” she went on, “how Alice Nutter knows these things?”
“Knows?” Grace sounded bitter. “I never know how Alice Nutter knows anything, but know she does. And for the most part it’s as you say--exactly true.”
“Yes.” Margery seemed to be musing on that. Then her tone changed. “But what’s this of not seeing Miles? I noted that he was not in the church.”
“No. Again I don’t know. But it seems he’s to hear Service at Whalley these days. His mother so commands. For the rest of it --they were festive at the Rough Lee over Christmas, and she was busied in that, and for all of every day.”
“Which his mother commanded also, no doubt.”
“Yes. He ... he contrived a letter.”
“I see. And you? You were not invited?”
“What do you suppose?”
“In these days, Grace, I suppose a good deal. And most of it’s not pleasant.”
But Grace’s comment on that was never heard. Margery caught Roger’s eye and saw that he was ready. It was too bitter in that wind to keep him standing, so she made a hurried farewell and ran to join him.
“I’ve been in talk with Hargreaves,” he said as they rode off. “He’d not heard we were back, but he’s nothing to tell. There seems to be no mischief done--as yet.”
Margery nodded.
“And our Master Baldwin?”
“Scandalized.” Roger laughed shortly. “But it’s not a jest to all. The Rough Lee turned gay, it seems, and held high revel for the Twelve Days--and nights. Half Pendle were there, and they think high of our Alice for it. But not Baldwin. It jars his creed. Besides which, he’d thought Alice to be as prim as himself. Young Miles, by the way, is out of Baldwin’s favour.”
“Why?”
“Too deep in the revels. But your question rang sharp. What’s behind it?”
She told him of her talk with Grace, and he whistled softly.
“Prettily contrived,” was his comment. “No bungler this Alice. She pleases half Pendle. Miles can’t visit Grace. Grace’s father looks askance at Miles. And if Miles should think to turn to you again, he’s assured no rival stays. No bad return, that-- for a pig or two and a few sheep.”
But his laugh had no echo from Margery.
“I feel for Grace,” she said bitterly.
“And for some others too. And I ask myself what’s coming next.”
What came next surprised them both. They got home before the snow, and when they had warmed and dined neither had any inclination to leave the fire. Roger, settled at his ease, was feeling the warmth and growing perceptibly drowsy; Margery was staring gloomily through the glass at the ominous yellow in the s
urly clouds, and pondering darkly on Alice Nutter. Silence seemed to have settled for the afternoon. And then Margery brought Roger to attention with a sharp whistle of surprise. A horseman was riding quickly up to the house, and the horseman, to her keen surprise, was Tony Nutter.
“What the Devil?” said Roger when he had looked. “Here’s no weather for visiting. And if it were, he never visits here. There’ll be a reason, no doubt.”
There was, but it was not a cause for alarm. Tony came to it quickly, and as soon as decent greetings had been said, he produced a packet done in the brown paper that some people had lately taken to using as wrappings. One of his acquaintance, he said, offered this to Master Nowell. Himself, he had just heard of their return, and had been in haste to carry it for friendship’s sake. He put the packet on the table, grew vague as to who his acquaintance was, and evaded further questions.
It was very mysterious, and Margery’s curiosity was at boiling-point. But Roger accepted it coolly, and let the packet lie. He spoke some words of thanks and went on to inquire about Mistress Crook.
Tony looked relieved, and at once he became more talkative. Margaret, he said, was well enough in health, though she felt the cold. She was disturbed, though, about Miles, who seemed less happy than he should be. Then Tony turned to Margery and bluntly asked her how Frank Hilliard did.
“Well enough,” she told him, “though he’s with his mother now.”
“Aye?” His tone was doubtful, and it was suddenly clear to Margery that Tony supposed, as Grace had done, that Frank would not return. She hastened to correct him. His face cleared at once, and he would have said more, but Roger interrupted him sharply. He was peering through the window as he spoke.
“Tony,” he said. “You’re welcome here, and I’d not seem inhospitable. And I’m grateful for your kindness in coming. Nevertheless I commend you to get to your horse this present instant and be gone. You’re not a man who should ride in blizzards.”
One glance through the window told Margery that Roger was right, for the clouds seemed to touch the trees, and the light was livid. Tony looked once and needed no pressing. He called at once for his horse, and both Roger and Margery braved the cold to see him off. Nor was it too soon, for the first thin flakes were powdering down as he went.
“He was a fool to come,” said Roger bluntly as they hurried back to the parlour. “He’s frail of the lungs and should have kept his house these days. What’s he brought?”
That was enough for Margery. She reached for a knife and hastily cut the sealed cord that secured the packet. She parted the paper wrapping and disclosed a book, fat and plump in brown leather with some embossings. She held it for him to see, and then opened its title-page.
“What have we?” asked Roger quietly.
“It’s . . . it’s in French,” she said.
“French?”
“French it is.” She read slowly from the title-page. Discours des Sorcrers was its title, which meant, she supposed, that it was a Discourse about Witches.
“Witches, is it?” Roger came across and looked curiously at the page. “And from papist France. Our Seminary keeps his promises, it seems.”
“Seminary?” Margery gaped at him as the memory came to her of Christopher Southworth sitting in that same chair and regretting that Roger had no work of authority on witches. “You mean he sent it?”
“Who else? Which will be why Tony was fool enough to ride this day.”
He turned away to the window and left Margery to examine the book further. It had been printed, “Privièlge du Roy”, at Lyons nine years ago, and was by one Henri Boguet.
“And who might he be?” asked Roger when she told him.
Margery consulted the book again and then announced that Master Boguet was Chief Judge in the High Court of Burgundy, and might therefore be supposed to write with some authority.
“As the Seminary said,” was Roger’s comment. “Do you read French?”
“I . . . I have some rags of it,” she answered doubtfully, with a memory of the Huguenots who had once been her neighbours.
“Reading that will mend your rags.”
“Read it? All of it?”
“Why not? It will give you employment these coming days--and you’ll have no other. Here’s no passing shower.”
He had his nose to the window again, and his sober words brought Margery to his side. One look was enough to convince her. Trees and sky alike were lost in a flurry of whirling flakes, and already the gravel was smooth and white. Crystals of ice were sliding down the window-glass; and as she looked they ceased to slide and began to stick.
“God save our Tony,” said Roger softly.
Chapter 31: CANDLEMAS
The thought of Tony Nutter stayed with Margery in the stormy days that followed, and from this anxiety she found some distraction in the study of the book he had brought. For the storm lasted a full three days; and as the snow settled and the drifts grew deeper, as the shape of the land was changed and thick white branches came cracking from the trees, she sat by the glowing hearth and sank herself in the writings of this judge from Burgundy. Little by little, with much searching of memory and many consultations with Roger, whose French was even worse than hers, she began to get the sense of it; she never achieved, nor even attempted, a full translation, but the general sense and drift of it came slowly into her mind. Yet it was always in the front of her mind; always behind it was a thought of Tony Nutter struggling homewards in the blizzard that had surely overtaken him. And if such exposure had sent Tony to a sickness, Margery could find nothing in this book to compensate for that. The book, in truth, told little that she and Roger had not already discovered for themselves. It was of interest, to be sure; and even Roger agreed that Master Boguet knew his witches. For the book spoke of poison-powders, and of an ointment made from such a powder blended with baby’s fat; it told of witches who would act as midwives, especially when the coming child was not wanted; it described how witches habitually kept their eyes to the ground and sometimes muttered; and it had an interesting tale of a sharp-eyed girl of eight, who might have been own sister to Jennet Device, and whose evidence had sent a witch to death. But when it came to practical matters, Master Boguet had little to recommend but accusation by rumour, followed by torture to get confession--at which Roger muttered something about Richard Baldwin and flung the book across the room; and again Margery asked herself whether Tony Nutter had not shown more zeal than sense in bringing it that day.
On the fourth day, when the storm had passed and the sky was a pale cold blue, she was still kept to the house by the deep piled drifts, and more than a week had gone before she could wring consent from Roger. Then, in the deep cold slush of the melting snow, breeched and booted, on a horse that slipped and stumbled, she fought her way to Goldshaw. The day before, it would have been impossible, and on this day it was barely possible; but she was determined to attempt it; news of Tony Nutter had become urgent to her, and she meant to get it.
She won to the house in the end, and she found it ominous that it was the old servitor who came out to her and Margaret Crook who called her in; and Margaret lost no time in confirming what Margery had guessed. Tony, she said, had won his way home with difficulty that Sunday afternoon. He had been thick with ice when he was helped from his horse, and though he had at once been put to bed, and had since had all he could need of warmth and comfort, the damage had been done. A distemper of the lungs had set in, and he was even now most grievously sick.
Margaret spoke quickly and in a rushing whisper, lest she should disturb the sufferer in his bedchamber above. At once Margery was fervently offering help, and she took it upon herself to pledge Roger’s too; but Margaret shook her head regretfully; she was grateful, but what help could be given? She had help enough in the house, and she had food and fuel in plenty; and for the rest, who could help but God?
That was hardly to be disputed, and Margery took a sorrowful leave. She hated the thought of the quiet and frie
ndly Tony lying stricken there, perhaps in peril of his life, and all because of his haste to do service to her and Roger; but there seemed no more to be done than was being done, and she had to content herself with condolences and promises to call again. She struggled home, depressed by the news and irritated by the raw wind and the antics of her horse in the sliding slush; she could have borne it with more content, she told herself, if the book had been worth it.
She told Roger all about it as soon as she was in, and Roger nodded absently and agreed that there was no more to be done. Margery stared at him, decided that he must have something on his mind, and promptly set herself to learn what it was. The task was not difficult. Roger admitted frankly that he was becoming uneasy about Candlemas. He explained that Candlemas, like All Hallows, seemed to be in the Witches’ Calendar; the Church, to be sure, no longer celebrated the second day of February, but the witches did, and some disturbance was therefore to be expected on the eve of that ancient Feast. Roger had not forgotten All Hallows, and now, concerned at the thought of what might come, he had it in mind to ride through the Forest on the eve of Candlemas. Then, after talk with Margery, he decided against it; he would let others ride the Forest while he stayed at Read in instant readiness to ride if he should be called.
Margery agreed, but she found it tedious waiting. There was more than a week yet to pass before Candlemas, and Margery had little to do. Roger was in Preston for the Quarter Sessions, held late on account of the snow. Frank was still in Warwickshire. Grace Baldwin was in Colne with her mother, Richard having prudently packed them both off to lodge with his brother there till Candlemas should be safely past. So Margery had neither work nor company, and she found the time hang heavily; it was not wholly from a sense of duty that she went three times that week to inquire about Tony Nutter. She was beginning to like Margaret Crook, for all her exasperating chatter, and she found her, moreover, a useful well of local gossip. Margaret had plenty to say, and most of it, as usual, was about Miles. Miles was out of Pendle just now; he was at Lathom, staying with his cousin Matthew and hoping to be presented to milord; and Margaret was away in full tongue to the praise of Master Matthew Potter--until something disconcerted her, and she stopped abruptly; it did seem to her that an odd glitter had come into her young guest’s eyes. At once she was away about Tony. Tony did very well; the fever had abated, and if all went well she hoped to have him in his elbow-chair before the week was out. Margery heard it with relief which she did not try to conceal.
