Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  He stood grave and impassive under the candle by the stair, and she met his eyes fairly.

  “I’m to suppose there was venom in that bowl?” he said. “And that this sickness was born of it?”

  She nodded.

  “If not born of it, at least nourished of it.” He seemed to accept that easily.

  “Witches?” he asked, and again she nodded. There was no need to tell him more.

  The dying candle flared smokily, and Margery’s irritations flared with it. She blew it viciously and then flung the outer door wide open. She had had enough of shadows and candle-light, and she wanted the bright day and the clean air. But the day was not bright; she had been so engrossed that she had forgotten that, and it was almost a shock to see the dark sky again, and the spattering pools in the rain-soaked gravel. The light was fading now, and the rain was as loud and as steady as ever.

  “Can you do what’s needed?” Christopher Southworth spoke suddenly. “There’s a life to be saved--and you are young.”

  She turned from the door and saw his face grave in the fading light. Behind her a horse clopped on the gravel, and she guessed that the old man had saddled her beast and led it round at last. She tried to speak confidently.

  “As to saving life--if it’s not too late already---”

  “That, as I have told you, is with God.”

  She nodded.

  “I think I hear my horse. We must get him away from here, and I’ll ride at once for help. Which is to say, sir, that you’ll need to be gone when I return. I think your work is done?”

  He made no reply to that. His brooding eyes seemed fixed on the daylight behind her, and suddenly Margery spun round in vague alarm.

  Out on the gravel, standing by his horse and watching them both in silence, was Frank Hilliard; and Margery forgot everything as she ran to him

  “Frank!” she called excitedly. “Where are you from?”

  “Home.”

  His answer was curt, and at the tone of it her excitement faded and she looked at him in dismay.

  “I came as I said I’d come,” he said slowly. “After a week of March. I came this morning, and they told me you were here. So I followed. I ... I was eager.”

  His eyes turned from her and rested for a moment on the priest in the doorway.

  “I was eager to see you,” he went on. “But hardly eager to see so much.”

  Then Margery understood; and at once her mind slipped back to the night at Marton when she had assured him so keenly that she had ended with Master Southworth. Her courage began to fail as she understood.

  He turned from her, and walked to the door. He shook the water from his dripping cloak, and went slowly into the hall, Margery followed limply, and Christopher Southworth stood impassive. In unbroken silence the two men faced each other. And then, before either had spoken, a chair scraped in the bedchamber above, and feet moved quickly.

  To Margery, those simple sounds, ringing loud in the silence, were charged with meaning. Margaret Crook had moved to see to Tony’s needs. It was a sharp reminder to Margery that Tony’s needs were the greater; and at once her mind leapt away from her own tangle and became alert in another’s cause.

  “God’s Grace!”

  It burst from her without warning, and the men whipped round to her in surprise.

  “God’s Grace!” she said again, and her voice had something of the ring that had conquered Margaret. “There’s a man dying above, and we linger here like slugs.”

  She rounded on Frank, who was plainly startled, and explained herself crisply.

  “Tony Nutter--you’ve heard me speak of him--is above there. He’s deadly sick, and like as not he’s dying. And just now that comes before all else.”

  Frank saw the question in her eyes and he nodded his assent. She had convinced him of urgency, and he would allow that to come before resentments. She hurried on before he could change his mind.

  “Master Southworth’s coming was not contrived by me. I did not think to see him here, nor he, I’m sure, to see me. This Tony Nutter is a papist, Frank, and had need of a priest. That I take to be the truth of it?”

  Christopher Southworth bowed his head in agreement, and Margery paused; her eyes held them both.

  “There’s a dying man. Will you both do now what shall serve his needs? Master Southworth?”

  “I’d refuse that at peril of soul.”

  “Frank?”

  He spoke for the first time since he had entered the house, and his answer surprised her.

  “It’s a hundred and thirty miles hither from my home. I’ve had weather foul and roads worse. But I rode it in four days and a morning, and I did not do that with intent to quarrel when I found you.” He paused, and Margery saw for the first time that his face was strained and his eyes bloodshot. But he had a hint of a smile now. “You seem to have all this under your hand, and I’ll not dispute it with you. What would you have of me?”

  But she turned first to the priest.

  “Master Southworth; your work here is done, and you linger at your peril--and not your own peril only. I would not seem surly, but we’ll breathe more freely when you’re gone.”

  He nodded, but then he turned to Frank.

  “She reasons well,” he said. “But you, sir, are in some sort concerned in this. Have I your leave to go?”

  Frank shrugged lightly.

  “Margery has this under command,” he answered, “and I’ve said I’ll not dispute it with her. You’ll be wise to go.” The smile was hovering on his lips again. “And indeed, sir, I’ve some liking for you and I wish you better than what’s prepared at Lathom. So get you gone while none hinders.”

  The priest looked steadily at him.

  “You’re generous,” he said quietly.

  “Not wholly. I’ve had kin at Douai---” He smiled oddly at that. “And in these days I’m not milord’s catchpoll. You’ll have a horse?”

  “Nearby.”

  “Seek it then.”

  “My thanks--to you both.”

  He pressed at the panelling by the side of the stair; something clicked and a panel turned. From the space within he drew cloak and hat, and the discreet travelling-bag that served for plate and vestments--the bag that would hang him if he were taken with it.

  In silence he adjusted his cloak and pulled his hat low. Then, by the door, he paused and spoke to Margery.

  “I do not think that we shall meet again. I am ordered to another place, and I do not think I can do you any service-- except that you shall have my prayers. If I had stayed here---”

  “You must not stay here.”

  “No. But it’s my great regret that you are a heretic, for I think you are well disposed. However---”

  His hand lifted quickly, and before Margery had seen what he was about, the sigil was completed.

  “God be with you--both!”

  He pulled his cloak tight and went out into the rain. He walked quickly across the soaking gravel till he came to the hedge of leafless thorn that ran between the pines. For a moment he waited there, looking back at them as they stood in the doorway. Then he moved behind the hedge and was gone.

  Margery shut the door and signed to Frank to wait. She went quickly up the stair and looked into the bedchamber, where a bewildered Margaret, bubbling with curiosity, loosed a flood of whispered questions. But Margery put her off with a brief assurance that the priest was safe away; all else, she said, must wait. She stayed only long enough to learn that Tony, if no better, was at least no worse; and then she hurried down the stair again. Frank was still standing at its foot, and for a moment Margery allowed herself to relax.

  “You’ve been very--well disposed,” she whispered.

  “That’s what the Seminary said to you.”

  She nodded.

  “With a shade of difference, I’m saying it now to you.”

  He spoke no answer, but his arms came round her and he kissed her with a quiet assurance. And then she flung her head back and
pushed him away.

  “That must wait,” she said quickly. “There’s work to do.”

  “Yes?”

  His tone showed that he accepted a necessity. She marshalled her scattered thoughts, and then spoke lucidly.

  “Tony’s deadly sick. There’s malice in it, and I think there’s a venom used. His sister, who has him in charge, is kindness alive, but she’s no match for this Devil’s work. Also, with fear for him and lack of sleep, she’s so worked on that she should be in a bed, not beside one. So it’s urgent to have them safely lodged at Read--both of them, and the old man too. We can’t leave him.”

  “What old man?”

  “He was leading out my horse when you came. I hope he’s not still doing circles on the gravel.”

  “More likely he’s led mine in.”

  “You may look to that. But what’s urgent is to have men and horses and a litter---”

  “Which I’m to contrive?”

  “You are.”

  “How?”

  “That’s for your wits. Such things must be at Read if they’re rummaged for. Meantime I’ll be busied here. His sister’s given to wordiness, and how she’s to be soothed and persuaded---”

  “That’s for your wits.” He flung the words back at her. Then he opened the door and peered out at the dripping greyness. “The light fades, and if this is to be done before dark I’d best be moving.”

  They found the old man wearily swilling the spilt curd from the kitchen floor, and they let him continue while Frank took the speedier course and saw to his horse himself. Margery watched him ride away, and then, reluctantly, she climbed the stair once more. The news that her young guest had coolly made plans to uproot her from hearth and home might not commend itself to Margaret, and Margery foresaw an argument. But to her deep relief she was wrong, and once she had explained matters she had her way without dispute. Margaret Crook was too tired, and too worn with trouble, to care much what was done, if only somebody else saw to the doing of it.

  Margery came down the stair again and went into the parlour that could be so pleasant in the sun. But now there was no sun. The curtains were still drawn across the window; the fire had burned out, and a thread of smoke was flaring from the neglected candle. Margery looked with distaste. She pinched the candle and drew back the curtains; and for a moment she had the lattice open to let the reek from the room. She pulled it close, and in the last light of the waning afternoon she sat on the window-seat, alone with her thoughts, and peering at the unending rain.

  The room was quite dark, and the last glimmer of dusk was on the pines, when the lanterns came in sight; and when the horses crunched on the gravel, Roger Nowell was the first to dismount.

  Chapter 34: THE STRICKEN PEDLAR

  Roger’s friendly parlour seemed like a corner in Heaven.

  Tony Nutter, quieter now, was in peaceful sleep above, and Margaret had with no great difficulty been persuaded to bed also. Margery, who had missed dinner without a thought of it, had made amends for that at supper; and now, in ease at last, she was telling the tale of the day. She ended it, and then she laughed as she saw Frank’s puzzled face; he had not known of the coppice where the purple flowers grew, and he had not been told the half of what was suspected of Alice Nutter; but he was soon enlightened and then he showed a fine indignation, looking at Roger as though in expectation of instant action.

  But Roger puffed smoke of tobacco and stayed in his comfortable ease.

  “With poisons as with sorceries,” he said lazily, “it’s best to have some evidence. And I’m not fool enough to commit without it.”

  “But surely, sir, with this tale---”

  “What does this tale amount to? That Margery thought she tasted bitterness in a syllabub--no more.”

  “Something more, surely?” Margery had come upright in her chair. “Tony Nutter had all the Herbal said--the fever, the eyes, and the rest.”

  “Who’ll hang Alice Nutter from a Herbal? That woman’s no fool. Tony did in truth take chill from the snow. He did in truth come to fever by that. As like as not, he did in truth bring his fever back by adventuring out too soon. And when he’s found all but dying of a fever, is it not the same fever?”

  “Yet if other things were sworn to?”

  “They’d be disbelieved. Please to remember that Alice Nutter is not a Demdike. She’s of substance and good estate, and she stands in good repute. She’s reared a son who may be thought a credit, and she’s known for fair speech and charitable works. And I say again, she’s no fool. Her way, even in this, shows it. She waits till he truly has a fever, and then she uses what brings the look of fever. It’s perhaps to be deplored that the old fellow swilled that floor. We might have saved the stuff else, and fed it to a dog. A dead dog’s poor proof, but it’s better than we’ve got.”

  And with that Roger seemed to dismiss the topic. He turned to Frank and spoke in a different tone.

  “This Seminary, Southworth--he’s had uncommon fortune. A Massing priest who escapes thrice should indeed believe in miracles. It’s well enough in itself, and I don’t doubt we can hush it. But what of you? I understood your fortunes at Lathom to wait upon his capture.”

  Margery sat stiffly. Her head had been so filled during the day that she had thought of none but Tony; she had never even asked herself what it might have meant to Frank to stand easily while that priest departed; and now, when it was brought to her, she was at once acutely anxious. But Frank still seemed at ease about it.

  “That’s no matter,” he answered cheerfully. “I said this afternoon that I’m not milord’s catchpoll these days. The truth is, I’m better placed in the world than I was.”

  “Why, what’s this? You never told me---”

  He told her with no more delay. His mother, he reminded them, had been distressed partly because her brother had died; but this brother had died childless, and his modest estate had passed to his sister--Frank’s mother; and she, considering that her elder son was heir to his father’s estate, had at once made her younger son heir to this one, and by so doing she had, as he pointed out, wholly changed his prospects.

  “Almost,” he said, “I may claim the status of an elder son. And in the meantime there are some rents made overtome. Wherefore I have it in mind to ride this week to Lathom and be quitted of milord’s service. He may keep his favour for another, since I want it not.”

  Roger eyed him shrewdly. Then he had a warning to give.

  “Quit milord’s service by all means, if you’ve a mind to. I think you may be wise in that. But spare your resentments and show him the courtesies.”

  “Why sir, I---”

  “Spare your resentments.” The note of authority was in Roger’s voice. “To provoke his anger might well provoke his inquiry into your doings here. And they will not stand inquiry Nor will Margery’s.”

  That settled it, and Frank was firm that he would show no resentments at Lathom. He would be smooth, he said, as any Jesuit.

  “One thing more,” said Roger. “I think you’d waste your time at Lathom. Milord’s at Lancaster. He attends the opening of the Lent Assize, and he’ll be there all week.”

  “Then I’ll seek him at Lancaster, sir. And perhaps I may come to a word with Master Covell too.”

  “Very like. He seems to have some softness for you.” Roger’s smile broadened. “You say you have some money now?”

  “Sufficient, sir. But---”

  “You’ll need it, if you let him lodge you at the George.”

  And Margery led the laughter as her quick mind recalled what Roger had once said of the ways of Edmund Covell.

  Then Roger made an end to talk, telling her roundly that it was high time she was abed; but he did not, this night, take her to the stair to light her candle; instead he stayed by the fire and left that work to Frank. He hastened to it, and Margery stood very still as he lit her candle; she gave no sign that she had seen the tallow spill as his hand shook, but she took the candle from him and then paused
.

  “My thanks,” she said steadily. “And for more than this.”

  He looked up at her as she stood above him on the stair, and a slow smile was on him.

  “These new days,” he said. “May we once more--ride in Pendle?”

  Her forehead took a crinkle, and a gleam of mischief flickered in her tired eyes.

  “Yours to command,” she said. And then she was away, leaving him to consider the possible meanings of that; it was, she thought, no bad end to a wet Sunday.

  He was in no hurry for Lancaster, and Friday had come before he took his departure; and in the afternoon of that day, Margery being then in the parlour with Roger, Alice Nutter came to Read.

  Roger saw her first, and Roger was not pleased. She came most elegant in ash-grey velvet--the new ash-grey, as Margery promptly noted--and she rode a grey mare whose saddle-cloth was black and gold. Roger saw her through the window, and his sniff brought Margery to his side. Together they watched the lady dismount.

  “We may suppose,” said Roger, “that she learned something of Sunday and is here to learn more. I think we’ll prick -her a little---”

  Margery nodded hastily, and then salutes were punctilious as their guest was shown in. She addressed herself to Roger.

  “I’m told,” she said, “that my brother is your guest just now?”

  “Your husband’s brother, ma’am.”

  “I count it the same, sir.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  The dark head reared a little, and Margery watched with interest; that had seemed a very promising beginning. Alice Nutter’s foot tapped the floor imperiously.

  “At the least, sir, I hear poor Tony is with you?”

  “You set me to marvel, ma’am.”

  “How?” Her eyebrows were arching, but Roger’s smile was bland.

  “Here’s Friday,” he said. “He came to me on Sunday, and you’re but newly told?”