It was. Joseph went ahead now while I, secretly sending up prayers of gratitude, followed on his heels, with Mealy and Bronze close behind us. We plodded on.
And on. We were back on the path, but we still seemed to be getting nowhere. I don’t like to remember it. In one brief glance back, I saw that Sybil was now leaning against Brockley with her head turned into his chest. Brockley had pulled his hood so far forward that I couldn’t see his face at all. I felt as though we had indeed died, and this was eternity.
And then, for the second time, it was Sybil, rousing from her faint or her sleep or whichever it was, who re-awakened hope, by calling out: ‘Stop and listen! I’m sure I heard a dog bark. Somewhere ahead!’
We halted. We were all silent. Then, faintly, far in the distance, we heard it. There was indeed a dog somewhere ahead. Brockley at once raised his voice in loud halloos and we all began, slowly and cautiously, to move forward again. A few moments later, a huge, hairy, tawny something bounded out of the blizzard and pranced round us. I had seen the menagerie at the Tower of London and for one wild moment I thought the creature was a lion, until it let out a volley of throaty barks and I realized that the dog, or rather the hound, that we had heard in the distance had arrived to inspect us.
But it looked so fierce and it was so bouncy that it upset the horses. I had to cling hard to the two sets of reins I was holding, and make soothing noises at Rusty and Blaze as they snorted and trampled. Rusty, normally so well mannered, was sidling and throwing his head about, while Blaze, his ears flattened back, was trying to stand on his hind legs. Joseph could not help me because Splash was also plunging. Fortunately, Bronze, really the least excitable horse I have ever known, just stood there, stolidly. Dale was patting him and telling him not to be alarmed, but where dear placid Bronze was concerned, she could have saved her breath.
The dog, however, was followed in another moment by a human shape, wrapped in cloak and hood, with great leather boots up to its knees, who snapped: ‘Quiet! Down!’ at the dog and sensibly added his weight to mine to steady my two horses.
‘Where are we?’ Brockley demanded, from on his perch on Mealy.
‘Thorby village, and lucky tha be to get here in this,’ said our rescuer. ‘Coom on, then – will thee shut thy noise, Fangs! – not far now. Hoondred yards, no more. This way.’
Joseph and I got back into our saddles and Joseph took charge of leading Rusty. The dog, despite its alarming appearance, which indeed included a most impressive set of fangs, was fortunately willing to accept us as friends, presumably because its master had. It went ahead of us, panting and leaping through the snow and in its wake we made our way onwards, coming to a stop in front of a squat stone building. It had an oaken door, split in half, and the top half was open.
‘This here’s my alehouse,’ said our guide. ‘Silas Butterworth, that’s my name. Thee’ll have to bide here, I fancy, not that I takes folk in mostly, but no decent Yorkshireman’ll leave fellow creatures out in a snowstorm, least of all lasses. Whatever brought three lasses travelling this road anyhow?’ He looked up at Brockley. ‘Get down, if thee will, man, and hand thy lass down to me. Thee’ll find stabling round the back …’
‘It wasn’t snowing when we started out,’ I said.
‘Mebbe not, but where was thee bound for? Thee can’t have business here, surely! There’s nobbut a handful of cottages here and a bit of a church and the fields round about and this is a long way round to get to York, if that’s where thee’s bound. What brought thee by this track?’
Brockley, who had not attempted to dismount and was still holding Sybil in front of him, said: ‘We’re making for a place called Stonemoor House. Isn’t that near here?’
The snow had eased a little. Silas Butterworth was now revealed as a stocky old fellow with white hair hanging round his ears, a weather-reddened skin, and round blue eyes. He stood with feet apart, taking us in, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then he said: ‘Stonemoor? Thee’s bound there?’
‘Yes.’ His evident surprise was itself a surprise to me. ‘We have business there,’ I said. ‘Is it far? Can you direct us?’
‘Aye. Well, the ladies’ll tak thee in, sure enough. They take guests. Say it’s tradition, so they do. Don’t happen often, though. They keep theirselves to theirselves mostly. They’re odd folk and there’s some in the village don’t care for them. Queer goings on, so some folk say, and so does vicar, and they could be things that’ll mebbe bring trouble on us one day.’
I remembered Cecil saying that some of the Thorby folk suspected the ladies of witchcraft. I wasn’t sure how to reply to this broad hint and it was Brockley who said bluntly: ‘What’s wrong with the ladies of Stonemoor? We have to go there and if something is amiss with them, we would like to know what it is.’
‘They’re Catholic ladies,’ said Butterworth. ‘That’s enough, ain’t it? Though, mind you, there’s plenty as are glad of work on t’farm that goes with the place, and they buy things from us – butcher’s work and barrels o’ my ale, and the like. They physic some on us too, when we get ill, though there’s been trouble over that since Master Harry Henley died after Mistress Bella up at the house gave him some herbal brew or other when he was sick with terrible headaches and took to his bed. Doctor Rowbotham, that’s our vicar, the next Sunday, he said it wasn’t right for a woman to be acting the physician. If you ask me, Harry was dying any road and no brew of herbs would make nor mar him, but some aren’t so sure. I’ve nowt against Mistress Bella myself. My guts have been giving me trouble on and off for this past year, near enough, and her remedies ease me and I’m grateful for it but there’s some who mutter about witchery. So, what kind of business is it that folk like thee have with Stonemoor?’
Brockley scowled at that and Sybil drew her breath in sharply and I felt much as they did for it was an impertinent question. But there was no point in annoying the man. ‘They have a valuable book for sale. We have come to pay for it and collect it,’ I said.
‘I see. Well, it’s not my affair, I grant thee. Thee’ll do better there than here, truth to tell – they’ve rooms for travellers, aye and provender. It’s nobbut a short way if thee had wings, but for horse or man it’s up a good long hill path. You want to get there now?’
‘Yes, we do!’ said Brockley.
Master Butterworth looked at the snow. ‘Thee’ll do best wi’ a guide. Tracks’ll be buried, like.’ We all murmured heartfelt agreement. ‘Well … I’ve customers inside, drinkin’ my ale, but there’s someone I can send with thee, ’less thee’d like to stop for a drink?’
I yearned for one and probably we all did, but Brockley said: ‘We’d all like to, but we ought to get on before the snow thickens again.’ He considered the sky. ‘I’d say there’s more up there waiting to come down. We’ll pretend we’ve drunk in your alehouse, though. And pay for the drinks and the guide you send with us.’
Whereat Master Butterworth’s weather-beaten face split into a wide and satisfied smile. He was as gap-toothed as the Thwaites or Gladys. Brockley pushed back his cloak, found the purse at his belt, and saw to the transaction.
‘Will Grimes’ll show thee the way,’ Butterworth said. He raised his voice. ‘Grimes! Get out here, Will! Move thy worthless legs!’
The lower half of the door opened but I didn’t see Will Grimes until he was out of it and almost up to us, because my eyes were looking for him at a level too high and there was still quite enough falling snow to be bemusing. He seemed to materialize just in front of me, so suddenly that I was startled. He was barely five feet high, a skinny little man with a brown wizened face like a goblin, and a pair of bright pale eyes on either side of a hooked nose. He was like the description one of Aunt Tabitha’s maids had given me of Robin Goodfellow, the mischievous sprite for whom countrywomen so often put out bowls of milk at night. ‘And they bowls of milk do get drunk, my ma says, for she puts them out, regular, every night!’ she had told me, nodding emphatically, eyes wide with earnestness.
Aunt Tabitha had overheard her and boxed her ears, and both she and Uncle Herbert had explained to me that Robin Goodfellow was just a story believed in by the ignorant – ‘And of course the bowls of milk get drunk!’ said Aunt Tabitha. ‘By farm cats!’
Aunt Tabitha’s outrage hadn’t damped the maid’s enthusiasm for old-time stories. She had another one, about a Green Man. I had once seen a tavern called by that name, which puzzled me. It had an inn sign showing a man’s bearded face peering out through a mass of thick green foliage. The man’s face was green as well. It was that same maid who told me that he was a figure from the past, a god of the forest. My aunt never heard her tell that story, which was probably just as well for the maid. I liked her stories as I had liked the tales told by my cousin’s tutor. I had never met anyone who resembled the Green Man but I now wondered if whoever began that legend of Robin Goodfellow had known someone who looked like Will Grimes.
‘You called on me, maister?’ he said, looking sidelong at Butterworth.
‘Aye, I did. Now get thy pony, quick, and tek these folk up to Stonemoor,’ said Butterworth. ‘Then get back here, fast. Hurry, now!’
‘Aye,’ said the goblin, and turning, strolled off round the corner of the alehouse. The order to hurry had obviously not had much effect on him. Butterworth was still grinning and I noticed that Brockley looked amused. I reckoned that what we had just heard was a standing joke between man and master. However, it was only a few minutes before Will Grimes was back, leading a diminutive pony, as notably hairy as the dog, to the point that one wondered how it could see where it was going through the curtain of its forelock. It was bridled but not saddled. Grimes hopped astride it with casual ease, and waved a beckoning hand to us.
We said goodbye to Butterworth, and turned the horses’ heads. They had sensed the nearness of stabling and were somewhat unwilling to leave the alehouse, but we kicked them determinedly on. ‘We’re nearly there,’ said Brockley, into Mealy’s ear.
Grimes led us back a little way along the track that had brought us, passing a turn to the left, the way that we had come, though now we were led straight on. We found ourselves going uphill and then realized that the path, which we couldn’t see though Will and his pony (forelock notwithstanding) seemed sure of the way, was climbing the hill in a zigzag. It took a long time. The snow was falling lightly now but Brockley had been right, I felt sure, for the sky above was the colour of lead. There was more trouble to come.
At last, we saw ahead of us a crenelated gatehouse, built of grey stone, with a studded double door that didn’t look inviting. Grimes, however, leant from his pony and pounded on it, shouting to someone within to open, and one leaf of it was pulled back, with a loud grating noise and a very obvious effort on the part of the woman who was pulling it. All we could see of her was a female shape cloaked and hooded in dark blue. We could hear her panting for breath as she pulled.
‘Visitors for thee,’ said Willy laconically. ‘Say they’ve business with thee and any road, they need shelter for the night. Two men and three lasses.’ He swung the pony round and nodded to us. ‘I’ll be getting back, afore I can’t.’ He pointed up at the sky, kicked his mount, and was gone, so swiftly that it seemed as if he was anxious to get away, vanishing into the snow which was now thickening again. I could almost believe that Will Grimes had summoned the new blizzard by goblin magic.
‘You’d best come in,’ the woman said to us. Her voice was educated, a southerner’s voice, I thought. We rode through, passing an open door into the gatehouse. A waft of warmth came from it; presumably the little gatekeeper had been inside, keeping snug, when we arrived. We emerged into a courtyard and found ourselves facing the main house. Through the snow, we made out a long frontage with an imposing air. A flight of several steps led up to its main entrance, though another doorway, some way to the right, had a more modest staircase.
Like the gatehouse, the place was built of grey stone and partly crenelated, with a sharply sloping roof visible behind the imitation battlements. Most of the windows were small and pointed at their tops in the fashion of the previous century, but the whole building had an oddly lopsided shape. It looked as though the smaller entrance led into a wing that had been built later and differently, since it wasn’t crenelated and the roof did not slant so steeply. The windows were larger, too.
A man appeared from round the right-hand corner. ‘I thought I heard someone hammering at the gate, and I heard a horse snort, too.’ He was a big muscular fellow with a heavy-boned face. He went to help the woman to shut the gate again, and as he turned back to take Rusty’s bridle from Joseph while he dismounted, I saw that the hand that took the rein was enormous. He was very much the type of man we had all seen at fairs, offering to fight all comers, but his accent, by contrast, was well bred and his manner was courteous.
‘So we’ve guests! Welcome to Stonemoor House. Ladies, go in out of the snow. Gentlemen, I’ll show you where to put the horses. They could do with a rub down and a bran mash, I fancy.’
‘This is Walter Cogge, our steward and the bailiff for our farm,’ said the woman. ‘He will take you to the stable and you can put your horses in with ours. Walter will see them warm and fed.’
Brockley and Sybil slid to the ground together. She was looking better, and took Mealy’s bridle while I went to help Dale down. Then Joseph, Brockley, and Walter Cogge took charge of all the horses and prepared to lead them away. First, though, Brockley paused, looking at me. The wind was rising and blew a thick flurry of snowflakes across his face. He brushed them off his eyebrows.
‘We’re here, madam,’ he said. ‘Safe in sanctuary.’
‘Safe from the snow, at least,’ said Sybil.
She didn’t enlarge on what she meant by that but I knew what she meant without being told and so did Brockley and Dale. Brockley shook his head but I saw Dale flinch. I looked at the snow, which was now falling heavily and already piling up round our feet, and then looked at the house in front of me and the closed gate, and had a horrid sense of being trapped. Whatever awaited us in Stonemoor, we had little chance of getting away from it very soon. We were going to be snowed in with it. Whatever it was.
NINE
Chanting in the Night
The men led the horses away and the small woman who had with such difficulty dragged the gate open turned to us.
‘My name is Margaret Beale,’ she said. ‘Whatever brought you here and in such terrible weather? Did you miss your way somehow? You must be long miles out of your proper road. You’re in luck as it chances for we’re expecting a party of five guests soon, but I can’t suppose they’re likely to arrive now, not until the weather clears. Which means that our best guest rooms are free and we can make you properly comfortable. Please come with me and I will show you to our guest quarters.’
She glanced to where the men and the horses were just disappearing round the corner of the house. ‘Are those your grooms? Master Cogge will find them somewhere to sleep and will see that they have a meal and …’
‘The younger man is a groom,’ I said, ‘and can be accommodated with your own man, but the older one is Roger Brockley, my personal manservant. My tirewoman Frances Brockley—’ I indicated Dale – ‘is his wife. I wish them to have a chamber in the guest quarters, close to myself and my gentlewoman here. I am Mistress Ursula Stannard and this is Mistress Sybil Jester. We didn’t miss our way. We intended to come here. We have an errand from the court of Queen Elizabeth, to a Mistress Philippa Gould, who lives here, I believe.’
‘Really?’ Mistress Beale was so diminutive that she had to turn her face upwards in order to look at me. It was a pleasant face, a little pink and a little wrinkled like a last season’s apple, and her brown eyes were lively, like her chatty conversation. ‘Well, come in and be welcome,’ she said. ‘I will send someone to fetch your Master Brockley, if that is your wish. This way.’
Head bowed against the snow, she led us, not towards the main entrance but towards the sma
ller one to the right, leading into the wing without the battlements. We followed her inside, to find ourselves standing in a flagstoned entrance vestibule. It had stone walls and a vaulted ceiling, high above us. We were out of the wind but otherwise the place was just as cold as the courtyard.
‘Wait here,’ said Margaret Beale, sounding flustered. ‘I must find someone to look after you and then get back to my little room at the gatehouse.’
‘Are you always the gatekeeper?’ asked Sybil with concern. ‘That gate was very heavy for you, surely.’
‘We all take our turn,’ said Mistress Beale. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’
She scuttled off through a low door on the left. We stood there, shivering, colder even than when we had been on our horses, for horses are warmer-blooded than their riders, and one always gains heat from them. However, it was not long before someone came, in the shape of two more ladies. Both were dressed in sweeping dark-blue gowns, with small ruffs and no farthingales, and their hair was hidden under close-fitting dark-blue wimples. As a form of dress, it was not precisely the garb of nuns, but it was similar. Neither woman was young, but the one who was probably the elder was tall and held herself as straight as any guardsman at the Tower of London. She had a long, bony face with a grim, tight mouth. The other was shorter, plump and obsequious and half a pace behind her companion.
‘This is most unexpected,’ said the tall one disapprovingly. We dripped melted snow on to the flagstones and said nothing. ‘Mistress Stannard and Mistress Jester, I think Margaret said? And a tirewoman – Brockley is the name, I think.’
‘Yes,’ said Sybil. I added: ‘And you are?’
‘I am Angelica Ames.’ A misnomer, I thought, as no one could have looked less angelic but perhaps she had been pretty as a baby. ‘And this is Mary Haxby, who will prepare your rooms. Your tirewoman and your manservant are man and wife and you wish them to be accommodated in the guest quarters, so I hear.’
The Heretic’s Creed Page 8
