Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  And then Candlemas was come. Roger had made his plans with care, and two bands of men rode armed through the dark that night while Roger and Margery waited at Read, their boots by the hearth and their cloaks ready on the ingle-shelves. They waited for six long hours, and they waited in vain. Midnight had come and gone before Harry Hargreaves came to report that all had been quiet where he and his men had ridden; and another long hour had ticked away before Richard Baldwin, who had headed the other party, came in with the same tale. Roger nodded with satisfaction; the Devil, he said, must have stayed warm in Hell this night.

  He knew better in the morning. He decided, this cool grey Sunday, that the Newchurch might offer gossip more than Whalley, so to the Newchurch he and Margery went; and one look, as they came to the brow of the hill, was enough. Here was not the quiet and seemly service of God, but uproar, unseemly and confused. The churchyard was thronged with people, and here and there in the bustle a woman was in tears.

  “The Devil!” said Roger, as he saw it.

  “After all,” said Margery dryly, and Roger spared her an appreciative grin. Then his face hardened as Christopher Swyer, white-haired and now white-faced too, came up the path with the curate after him. Farther down, Richard Baldwin was standing in silence with Hargreaves at his side. But Roger ignored them. He saw Swyer, who was a Warden, and that was enough for Roger.

  “Whatever’s chanced, I’ll not watch this,” he snapped. “Here’s the church of God and the day of God. And here’s a bawling and a squalling like so many cats. In God’s name, man, stir yourself as a Warden and bring these folk to the decencies.”

  Swyer turned slowly and looked at the crowd. Then some understanding seemed to come to him.

  “Aye,” he muttered. “Aye. Here’s no behaviour.”

  He went down into the churchyard, and at once his high voice rang among the stones as he called peremptorily for order. The uproar died away and faces were turned to him as folk recognized the authority of a Warden.

  “Profane not the Lord’s Day with your chatter,” he told them. “Get you within His House, and make prayer against what’s been done.”

  He waited, and Harry Hargreaves moved quietly to his side. That decided it, for it joined the authority of the Constable to that of the Warden, and soon there was a trickle of people moving into the church; then it became a stream, and as it ended Swyer and Hargreaves followed them in, as if to make sure. Master Town was left by the gate, and in the deserted churchyard Richard Baldwin stood alone and silent. Slowly he turned, and he seemed to see Roger for the first time; as slowly he walked to the gate, and as he came nearer Margery was shocked. For Richard Baldwin seemed a man out of touch with Earth, and if she had not known him she might have thought he was drunk; the vigour was gone from him, his face was the white of chalk, and his eyes were dazed and vague. But at the gate he seemed to pull himself together, and he turned suddenly to the silent curate.

  “Go you with those folk, Master Town,” he said, “and set them to the Service of the Lord. And look to it that you preach not from the sectaries this day.”

  The curate made no attempt to resist him.

  “I’ll preach ex tempore, and from Exodus twenty-two eighteen,” was all he said as he hurried off after his flock.

  Roger had not dismounted. He was still sitting his horse, rigid as any statue, and Margery was copying his example. But now she leaned across to him, uncertain whether he had grasped the significance of that inflammatory text.

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” she whispered, and a jerk of her head at Master Town’s back completed her meaning. Roger’s eyes narrowed, and a faint nod showed that he had understood. Then he dismounted, and Margery followed him through the gate into the churchyard.

  Roger spoke quietly.

  “You need not tell me that there has been Devil’s work, Richard. That’s plain. Tell me only what’s been done.”

  Richard made no answer, but in silence he turned and led them towards the church. Roger looked at Margery, and then, in the same silence, they followed. They passed the church door, and as they did so, Hargreaves and Swyer came out and fell into step behind them. Richard Baldwin led down into the lower part of the churchyard, and at a grave he stopped.

  They looked in silence. The turf had been flung back, and the shallow earth disturbed. The body within was in part uncovered; bones showed in the earth, and above ground, by the side of the grave, was a skull, dry and bleached. It was Swyer who pointed, and Margery shivered as she saw what he meant; teeth had been wrenched from their sockets, and chips of white bone lay on the ground to show the force that had been used.

  “Teeth for Devil’s charms,” said Swyer curtly.

  Richard Baldwin led to another grave, and to another. At each the same desecration was to be seen. But the fourth grave he led them to was newer than the others; the body it held had not yet rotted to the bones, and the mouldering flesh was hideously exposed. And here there was no skull to be seen. It had gone completely, and a knife had been used on the blackened neck.

  “Not rotted to their purpose yet,” said Swyer, and his short words were enough.

  Again Richard moved on. In the same silence Roger went with him, and Margery after. And then Harry Hargreaves suddenly intervened. He slipped past Roger and laid a hand on Richard’s shoulder.

  “Richard,” he said urgently. “Let be, man. You’ve no call to look on that again.”

  Richard turned, and for a moment the two men were eye to eye. Roger stood impassive, and Margery was in wonder; for Hargreaves’ voice had been soft and kindly, and there was something of gratitude in Richard’s face. Yet the puritan Warden and the papist Constable were at odds on most things.

  Richard’s eyes dropped, and Margery felt a rush of sympathy as she saw the suffering in his face; for once, only for once since she had known him, Richard Baldwin seemed to find a load too great to bear.

  He stood aside, and Swyer stayed with him. Harry Hargreaves, white-faced and unhappy, led Roger on, and again Margery followed. Another grave, also a recent one, had been disturbed, and again the torn flesh showed where the head had been hacked away.

  “It’s the same as the last?” said Roger, and looked inquiringly at the Constable.

  “Aye, it’s the same,” was the answer. “But the last wasn’t his.”

  “His?” Even Roger looked startled. “Grace of God, Harry! Are you saying---”

  “I am.” The white-faced Constable spoke grimly. “Here’s his own girl. His Margaret that was.”

  “Grace of God!” said Roger again, and Margery gasped with horror. This torn and blackened thing had once been Grace’s sister --had played and romped with her, had perhaps swum in the mill pool with her, had roamed in the summer wind with her, had laughed and loved with her. Margery looked again at what showed in the crumbling earth. Then she turned away, sick and white, and walked unsteadily up the path. One more look at That, and she would vomit.

  Roger came slowly after her.

  “Richard,” he said quietly, “where’s your wife?”

  “I thank God she’s in Colne--with Grace.”

  “Thank God indeed. And get you to Colne and be with her.”

  “To Colne?” Richard Baldwin spoke like a dazed man.

  “Aye, Richard. To your wife.” Roger was insistent. “There are times when a man should not be alone to brood. Get you to Colne, and swiftly.”

  “I’ll ride with you, Richard,” said Swyer suddenly, and Roger nodded approvingly.

  They went off together, Swyer holding him by the arm and almost seeming to lead him. Roger turned briskly to the Constable.

  “How many graves in all?”

  “Nine that we’ve counted.”

  “They’ll need to be made decent. We’ve still two Wardens left. You may find them and bid them to that. Meantime---”

  He turned sharply to Margery.

  “Go into the church,” he said curtly, “and see what that fool’s ranting at.”r />
  She obeyed without a word, leaving him in talk with Hargreaves. She went in on tip-toe and stood quietly at the back for long enough to make sure that the curate was keeping to his promise; he had preached himself into a fury, and he was leaning over the front of his pulpit, Waving his arms and shouting that the death of a witch was sweet in the understanding of the Lord. And in a congregation that had needed little rousing there was already an ominous buzz and stir; none heeded Margery; they were too intent for that.

  She tip-toed out and went in haste to tell Roger.

  “That’s dangerous,” he said shortly, and Margery nodded. She had thought the same herself.

  Roger turned decisively and walked to the church door. Hargreaves and Margery exchanged glances. Then, side by side, they followed him.

  He swung the door and walked in. He did not go on tip-toe, and from everywhere folk turned as they heard his firm tread and jingling spurs. He walked half way down the little church, while Margery stayed by the door with Hargreaves. At half way Roger halted, and stared the preacher into silence; the buzz in the church died down, and every eye was on Roger. Then he spoke resonantly.

  “Master Town, my regrets that I halt your sermon.” His eyes swept round the church and came back to the preacher. “The killing of a witch may be as you say--in the understanding of the Lord. If that be Divinity, I’ll not dispute it with you. But in the understanding of the King’s judges, the killing of a witch is murder--plain murder and no else. Therefore hearken---” His eyes swept round the church again. “He who kills a witch, or heads the rabble that kills a witch, is for Lancaster--and Assize of Oyer and Terminer. And the divine who has preached him to that work shall have Gaol Delivery also. Urging to murder is a hanging crime.”

  There was a sigh and a scrape of feet in the silent church. For a trembling curate, Roger had a word more.

  “Bring a proven witch before me, and I’ll commit her to Assize. Do more, and I’ll commit you.”

  The silence was deadly. Roger turned on his heel.

  Chapter 32: COLD COMFORTS

  Margery waited most of the week for heads to cool and the Baldwins to return from Colne. Then, on a cold sunlight morning, she rode to Wheathead in a boisterous northerly wind which set her ears tingling and blew her hair into disorder. Black ripples were chasing over the shivering pool as she came round the bend, and the cold spray from the wheel was wetting her face as Richard Baldwin leaned out of the millhouse and waved to her. Grace, he said, was in the house, and he himself would be in it shortly. Margery went in without ceremony, and found Grace at the great scrubbed table, busy with smoothing irons and a pile of linen. She was newly back from Colne, she said, and this was a consequence. She helped Margery from her cloak and set her a chair by the hearth; then she smiled ruefully as she went back to her work.

  “It’s ever so,” she said, “when you’ve been a-visiting.”

  “Need you tell me? Have I not noticed it? But in other ways, how is it since you’re back from Colne?”

  “Not good.” Grace looked down at the petticoat she was folding. “What was the truth of it?”

  “Truth of what?”

  “Of Sunday--at the Newchurch.”

  Grace was engrossed in the petticoat, and Margery was looking into the fire as she held her hands to it.

  “That? It was less than you might suppose. Some graves had been scratched at, but that’s been seen to. They’re decent again now.”

  “Aye. I’ve heard so much. But after--in the church?” Grace dropped the petticoat and twisted round. She sat on the edge of the table and faced Margery squarely. “What did Master Nowell truly say? I’ve heard---”

  “Yes? What have you heard?”

  “My father says---”

  “He wasn’t there. He’d left.”

  “Yes. But there’s neighbours’ talk.”

  “What does it say?”

  Grace seemed to steady her breath. Then she spoke firmly.

  “It says that Master Nowell gave protection to witches, threatening any who’d move against them.”

  Margery sat in thought. She had feared exactly this, and it needed proper answer.

  “It’s not my cousin that gives protection to witches,” she said carefully. “It’s the law that does that, and my cousin does but insist on the law. What else should a Justice do?”

  “Yes. But---”

  “It’s plain enough, Grace. The law promises punishment for witches--punishment of some severity. My cousin has no tenderness for any witch, and he’s as eager for their punishment as any. But he does insist that it shall be punishment by the law, and not by a lawless rabble. That’s the whole root of it, and that’s what he said in the Newchurch--that and no more.”

  “I--I think I see it.” Grace seemed hesitant. “I’ll not give you the lie on it, Margery. Never think that. And yet---”

  “Yet what?”

  Grace hesitated again, and then plunged at it.

  “My father says the law does no more than promise. In Master Nowell’s hands it does not perform. Is there no truth in that?”

  And before Margery had found an answer the door had opened, and both the girls turned as Richard Baldwin came in.

  “What’s this?” he asked quietly. Then he explained himself as he saw them-puzzled. “Mostly you talk of fripperies, as girls will. But today you’re solemn.”

  “We talk of the law,” said Margery slowly, “and its way with witches.”

  His face hardened at once.

  “Has the law a way with witches?” he asked. “It seems not to have--in Pendle.”

  Margery did her best. She told him what she had told Grace. She embroidered it a little, and she added her own earnest assurance that Roger stayed only for proof acceptable to law. Richard heard her courteously, but she had made no impression on him.

  “He stays for proof he won’t get,” was his crushing answer. “Proof of the sort he asks may be had only by confession, and that’s to be had only by what he won’t do. Meantime this brood run free to do the work of Hell.”

  “This brood, do you say?” Margery took him up on that. “Meaning the Demdikes?”

  “Aye--that brood. But there’s many another within this Forest, and all vowed to the same work. And yourself, this Sunday past, you saw what work it is.”

  He stopped, and Margery stood silent as she saw the tumult that was in him.

  “I’ve gratitude for Master Nowell,” he went on slowly. “He’d kindness for me that day--aye, and wisdom too, and I’d need of both in that hour. You may tell him as much from me. But for these witches, I care nothing whether they’re sent to account by a judge or a rabble--so only that they are sent. And you may, if it please you, tell him that also.”

  And without staying for an answer he passed through the kitchen and into his own parlour. The latch clicked behind him, and Margery looked helplessly at Grace.

  “For sake of sanity,” she said, “let us speak of some matter else. How is it now with Miles?”

  Grace turned back to the petticoat and carefully completed its folding.

  “It isn’t,” she said quietly, as she began to press a collar, “It isn’t at all.”

  “Grace! What do you mean?”

  “No more than that.” Grace had her eyes on the point of the iron. “He’s still at Lathom--or so I must suppose. I’ve no word.”

  “No letter even? Does he send nothing?”

  “How should he? Who rides here from Lathom?”

  Grace turned to the hearth and exchanged her iron for another. Margery tried to sound cheerful.

  “That’s true,” she said. “He’d hardly get a letter carried. So perhaps he languishes for you. Absence, they say---”

  “They don’t say it when there’s a mother like that.”

  Grace sounded vicious as she took another collar from the pile, and Margery abandoned the attempt to be cheerful. She agreed only too thoroughly with Grace.

  “You think---”

  “
Don’t you?” Grace cut in at once. “I’ve told you before what Alice Nutter thinks of me. And now she’s got him away, and that will be the end of it.”

  “Hardly the end, Grace. She can’t keep him away for ever.”

  “No. But when he’s back she’ll have some other slyness ripe. She’s as crafty as a Jesuit, and as hard as the millstones yonder. I tell you Margery, I know Alice Nutter, even if you don’t.”

  But Margery thought she did know Alice Nutter, perhaps even better than Grace did--and nothing in her knowledge offered any comfort. There was, she thought as she rode home, very little comfort for anybody. Grace was plainly miserable, and Miles was hardly likely to be happy. Roger might expect trouble at any time, and Richard Baldwin might both provoke it and suffer its consequences. And she herself felt some impact from all their troubles. The only person who seemed to have any cause for satisfaction was Alice Nutter.

  She had a brush with Alice the next Sunday as they came out of Whalley church. Roger had been kept in talk by a neighbour, and as Margery waited in the churchyard, Alice Nutter, very elegant and very self-assured, rounded on her.

  “You seem deserted, mistress,” was her greeting, and Margery’s eyes were not friendly as she roused herself for what might follow.

  “For the moment only,” she answered, with a quick glance at Roger.

  Alice nodded affably.

  “And how is Master Hilliard?” she inquired, and thus showed her true meaning. “Have we seen the last of him here?”

  “Who knows, madam?” Margery saw no reason to act as informant to Alice Nutter.

  “He was no doubt wise to leave. This Pendle climate can be dangerous.”

  Margery gasped. This was almost brazen, and there was a gleam of triumph in the dark eyes. Margery set herself to quench