The Familiars

by Halls, Stacey

  ‘Unfortunately, very well.’ A tendon jumped in his cheek. ‘She worked for my family for many years, but since my father died she has not left us alone. We gave her kindness and favours, but she is ungrateful, always asking for more.’

  ‘Who is she accused of murdering?’

  ‘A child.’

  Both my mother and I were united briefly in shock. Thomas stared grimly at the fire.

  ‘Are you protesting her innocence?’

  Thomas looked sharply at me. ‘Her innocence? Her guilt. She murdered another servant’s son – an infant, not a year old – brutally and heartlessly.’

  Before I could stop it a memory crowded in: a small, cold body, two tiny rows of eyelashes that would never open. I closed my eyes and forced it away.

  ‘Why would she do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because she is a jealous woman,’ Thomas said shortly. ‘She failed to seduce Edward and so took the thing that was most precious to him and his wife. She is a witch.’

  My mother leant forwards. ‘Another witch?’ Thomas was confused. ‘You have not heard about the latest guest at Read Hall?’

  ‘How do you know about the guest at Read Hall?’ I asked.

  She shrugged one shoulder dismissively. ‘Richard told me.’

  She said it in a way that implied of course he would inform his mother-in-law of every matter of which he knew. But she had a way of drawing things out of people, of picking up on a moment of hesitation or an offhand comment and worrying it like the dog with the ewe. Richard would not have spread his friend’s affairs about the county; my mother must already have heard it from someone else and no doubt questioned him while he was occupied and distracted.

  ‘Who is at Read Hall?’ Thomas asked, looking from my mother to me.

  So she told him about Roger, who Thomas was intimately acquainted with, and the pedlar John Law and the witch Alizon Device. He listened with great interest.

  Her version of events was less informed and more speculative than Roger’s. Deigning to not correct her gave me great satisfaction, and so that she wouldn’t see the smug expression on my face, I turned my attention to the frieze that crowded the top of the dining room walls. Mermaids, dolphins, griffins and all sorts of creatures, half-human and half-animal, fixed their attention on the centre of the room, as though we were at some great mythical court. When I came to Gawthorpe the frieze was my favourite thing about the house, and I would walk around and around, examining each figure, giving them names and little stories. Here were two orphan sisters, who were princesses of the sea and ruled the waves; there was a lion army with their shields, primed to attack. I watched them grow darker and more mysterious as the night arrived, and my mother and Thomas Lister nattered like two washerwomen. My eyelids began to droop; my mouth was dry and my back ached. Until Richard came back I would have to sit here, and there was still no sign of him.

  That’s when it occurred to me: as long as my mother was here, Richard would sleep in our bed so as not to invite questions, for her beady eyes missed nothing. She had given no sign that she had seen the truckle bed, but perhaps Richard had closed the dressing room door.

  I pulled at the rolls in my hair and wondered how long until I could take them out.

  ‘The girl is at Roger Nowell’s house,’ my mother was saying, her eyes shining. ‘He is keeping her there so she can do no harm to others.’

  ‘And she confessed?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘And Roger thinks there are others?’

  My mother nodded. ‘In the same family.’

  ‘Heavens, Mother. Anyone would think you had been walking alongside John Law when he was cursed,’ I said.

  Thomas was looking thoughtful, clutching his glass against his chest.

  ‘Will you admire our mermaids, Thomas?’ I asked. ‘Take a closer look. They are quite remarkable, designed by two brothers who carried out all the plasterwork at Gawthorpe.’

  Obligingly he stood and approached them, and I turned to my mother and whispered, ‘We do not talk of Roger Nowell’s business like village wives in this house. He is our friend. Now Thomas is going to take what you told him to Yorkshire, which is further than it needed to go.’

  My mother’s face grew sour. ‘I am merely informing your neighbour of what is happening under his nose. Everyone will know soon enough that there are witches in these parts. And so they should. Do they not say the women are wild here?’

  ‘I know not what they say, nor do I care to. And I’m not sure wild is the same as evil.’

  ‘Very skilled work,’ Thomas commented politely behind us. ‘Extremely intricate. Quite fantastical.’ He seemed stirred and didn’t come back to his seat. ‘I will set out again before it gets dark; I may call at Read Hall before my journey to Yorkshire.’

  ‘Read Hall is five miles in the other direction,’ I said.

  He reached for his cloak.

  ‘My regards to Richard.’

  He left swiftly, his boots echoing in the passage. There was a moment of silence, then I excused myself on the pretence of needing to go to bed.

  The candles had been lit in my chamber and I stood in front of the glass to remove the rolls from my hair. It looked weak and thin, and strands fell away to the floor when I combed through it. I went to the window to close the drapes and in the glass I saw Richard’s outline in the doorway.

  ‘You’ll sleep in here tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘I suppose.’

  I turned and my heart stopped in my chest.

  His hands were scarlet. Blood coated his doublet and there were flecks on his face and up to his elbows.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ve sent for a jug.’ He wiped his hands along his arms but the blood was dried. The skin around his fingernails was already turning brown. ‘It was a mess. If I hadn’t seen the dog I would have thought a wolf had done it.’

  I walked over to the bed and sat on it to remove my slippers.

  ‘That’s impossible. There have been no wolves here for a hundred years.’

  I thought about our bodies being close again tonight, his warmth beside me. Maybe I could run my finger down his spine like I used to. Maybe he would turn and put his mouth to mine, his hardness inside me. Even if we never slept in the same bed again, I would never forget the soft heat of his skin at the tip of my fingers. Then I thought of the secret letter, and the image vanished.

  ‘Was the sheep dead?’ I asked, turning to let Richard unlace me.

  ‘No. I had to kill it.’

  ‘And the dog? What was it?’

  ‘A brown mongrel. It ran off before I could catch it. I’ll ask around to find out who it belongs to.’

  ‘I have hired the girl who rescued me as a midwife.’

  ‘Oh yes? What was her name? She is a midwife?’

  ‘Alice. She is very experienced.’ I did not meet his eye. ‘I hope you don’t mind – I’ve lent her a horse from the stables, for as long as she attends me.’

  ‘Not one of mine?’

  ‘No, the grey draught mare. She is quite old now. Richard …’ I swallowed. ‘Will you stay in here from tonight?’

  ‘Many men and their wives sleep in different rooms, it’s not unusual,’ he replied, not unkindly.

  ‘It should be.’

  ‘Nonsense. Besides, you are already with child. It is not as though we can make another one.’

  But I did not hear him, because I’d lifted my smock over my head. A fine thread of scarlet was trailing down my thigh. I halted it on its path with a finger and panic rolled towards me like storm clouds. I closed my eyes and prayed.

  CHAPTER 6

  I lay awake, stiff as a board next to Richard, who snored softly. I rose finally to walk in the long gallery while the moonlight streamed in. The house was silent, and the polished floorboards gleamed bright as snow. The floor creaked under my silent tread as I went up and down, east to west and back again. I returned to bed before the day arrived. More than once I looked at t
he dried streak of red that had faded into my skin to prove what had happened, or rather had started to happen, and then stopped. I’d covered it quickly with my nightdress, and Richard had noticed nothing, preoccupied with washing off the sheep’s blood. I could smell it from across the room, and my stomach twisted with revulsion and fear, as though smelling blood might bring on my own.

  Alice had asked me to give her a few days to collect some herbs that would make me stronger, and it already felt like an eternity, so in the morning while everyone broke their fast, I walked out to give Puck his exercise. I could not eat because my stomach was like a bag of eels again, but with worry this time. We turned right out of the house and went along the edge of the lawn, following the river and passing the great barn and outbuildings. The dogs in their kennels caught Puck’s scent and barked themselves senseless. He sniffed around the corners and walls, ignoring them. Sometimes I wondered if he knew he was a dog. I wondered too if he could remember anything from before I rescued him, and hoped he couldn’t.

  ‘Good morning, Mistress,’ the farming men and apprentices said, laden with tools and ropes and things I had no idea the uses of.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, and walked on.

  The house and all its buildings were soon swallowed behind the trees, which closed over it like a green drape. They rustled around me as I followed the narrow road that led away from Gawthorpe, watching Puck as he explored, flitting through trees, his nose fixed to the ground.

  A quarter of a mile or so from the house, I could see two figures approaching on horseback. I stepped closer to the trees and waited, recognising the larger shape to be Roger. When they were a short distance away, he spoke briefly to the person on his right – a woman in a plain wool dress. My eyesight was poor, but I knew it was not his wife, Katherine. Roger dismounted and approached, holding the reins of his horse, which I noticed was roped to its companion. Her spindly white hands were locked in manacles, which were tied to the reins. A prisoner, then. As magistrate, Roger was often carting felons around the county and sometimes took them up to the gaol at Lancaster. My gaze lingered a moment too long on her bound wrists, and when I looked up into the shrewd face of a young woman, with dark eyes and thin lips, she was regarding me with a hostile sort of pride.

  ‘Mistress, I am pleased to see you out walking on this fine day. You look to be in invigorated spirits,’ said Roger.

  ‘Are you visiting us?’ I asked, holding my hand out to let him kiss it.

  ‘A different kind of visit today – more an invitation for Richard, in fact. Is he at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he have free time this morning?’

  ‘He leaves for Manchester in an hour,’ I lied. Richard was not going off with Roger and leaving me alone with my mother if I had anything to do with it. ‘His things are being prepared. Is everything all right?’

  He nodded again. It was strange for him to not introduce his companion.

  ‘That’s disappointing. I am going now to Ashlar House.’

  ‘James Walmsley’s home?’

  ‘Indeed. I wondered if Richard would be interested in accompanying me – I have two interviews to conduct and would appreciate his assistance.’ He leant closer. ‘He is going to do great things one day, your husband. Mark my words, he will be high in government by the time he is as old as I am, and I plan to help him on his way. He has the advantage of birth that I did not, his uncle being well known at court. At some point I will introduce him to the king, and I wish for him to have a hand in these developments at Pendle. They could further him in the eyes of the Crown. I trust his opinion, as does Mr Walmsley, but we shall have to get on without him today.’

  He turned to glance back at his companion, whose quiet presence was somehow unnerving.

  ‘I hear you have employed a midwife,’ Roger said unexpectedly.

  I blinked in surprise. ‘I have,’ I replied, wondering how he knew. Richard had not seen him since their hunt.

  Roger beamed. ‘Wonderful. There will be an heir at Gawthorpe before the year is out. Is it the same woman as last time? From Wigan?’

  It was hard to concentrate, what with the malicious radiance emitting from the woman behind him.

  ‘No. A local woman.’

  ‘Jennifer Barley? She was Katherine’s.’

  ‘No. A girl called Alice, from Colne.’

  Then something strange happened. At the mention of Alice’s name, Roger’s acquaintance made a sudden movement that startled her horse. I glanced up at her, then quickly away when I saw she had not removed her gaze from my face, as though she was reading something quite fascinating.

  ‘We shall have to arrange a gift for your confinement,’ Roger was saying. How could he carry on our conversation as though his prisoner was not even here? He looked pleased. ‘What to buy for the woman who has everything?’

  ‘Who is your friend, Roger? Will you not introduce me?’

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Alizon Device.’

  A chill brushed my skin, and my heart beat a little faster. So Roger was parading the witch around Pendle and had brought her to Gawthorpe. There was something in Alizon’s proud stare that led me to believe she knew this, and I felt a twinge of sympathy.

  ‘Don’t let the dress fool you – it’s Katherine’s. Alizon has been staying with me these past few days. We are going to Ashlar House for a meeting with some of her relatives,’ he said jovially, turning back to his charge.

  The girl did not speak, but shimmered with malice. In the silence that followed, a rook cried out from the trees and a gust of wind moved the forest around us.

  ‘Give Richard my best. And Friday sennight, you’ll come to dine at Read? Katherine is so looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘It would be our honour.’

  I curtseyed, and let my eyes flick once more to Alizon Device, who was still as a statue, her gaze resting somewhere in the middle distance. Roger raised his hat and mounted. I watched them go, seeing Roger’s many-ringed hand raise up in farewell. Then I called for Puck and started back towards the house.

  As it was the last day of Lent and my mother did not care for fish, and the cook always remembered, we sat down to a rich dinner of cheese pies with potatoes, fruit, bread and beer. I nibbled at crusts and crumbs, but was so used to not eating I barely felt hungry any more.

  My mother disapproved of all our servants apart from the cook. She had decided that they were surly and ungrateful, and said that it was only a matter of time before the silver and silk began to go missing. Sometimes I wondered if I lived in my own house or hers. I could tell she missed the days of running Barton, which with its large staff was palatial compared to her modest manor. Richard and I used to call her Gloriana of the Manor when she visited us after we were married, trying to direct us as though we were both her children. Until then I’d never had anyone to make fun with. We would stop up our mouths with food when she said things like: ‘Really, Richard, I never knew a man to wear as much jewellery as you,’ and, ‘You should have your crest put on your bottles for serving wine – it’s the fashionable thing, you know. They are even doing it in Yorkshire.’

  On that afternoon she decided to take issue with the set of panels above the fireplace.

  ‘Richard, I see you have still not had my daughter’s name scribed on the overmantel,’ she announced, referring to the five solid wood squares engraved with the names of various members of the Shuttleworth family.

  Richard’s initials were added to the fourth before we married. He meant to have a carpenter put my initials with his but had not found the time, so R and S floated on their own, waiting for a companion. It was a bruise that my mother could not stop pressing, as though the wooden panel was the only evidence of my existence and not simply decoration.

  ‘There is no great urgency, Mother,’ I said.

  ‘Is four years not enough time?’

  ‘I will add it to my ever-growing list,’ was Richard’s genial reply.

  It
was decided she would leave the following day, Easter Sunday, and we went all together to church. I might have been imagining it but my waist felt thicker overnight. I sat through the service looking at my hands folded neatly in my lap, wondering where Alice Gray was and what she was doing. All the people from the town were staring at me a beat longer than usual; I knew I looked ill. I stuck to wearing black – colours only highlighted the grey of my face, which was dull as a rain cloud. My mother’s presence invited more than a few extra glances too. She kept her face passive with indifference, but I knew inside she was purring like a cat.

  During the service as the curate spoke, I moved my eyes over the hats and caps, looking for a twist of golden hair, but saw none. I caught the eye of a young woman sitting a few pews across, dressed in a fine warm cloak, her globe of a stomach pressing through it. She looked at me in the bold, friendly way countrywomen look at one another, as though to say ‘we are one and the same’. But we were not, and I looked away.

  My hands were like ice, so I sat on them until they were numb. The nausea had crept back that morning, persistent and unwelcome. Colne was a few miles away and had its own parish, so it was unlikely Alice would be a worshipper at St Leonard’s. But she worked at the sign of the Hand and Shuttle, less than a mile away; dare I show my impatience and visit her there? I had invited her to come on Good Friday, but she said she could not and would come after Easter.

  I saw the apothecary sitting a few pews away with his family, his placid face turned to the pulpit like a flower looks to the light. Would Alice grow the herbs herself, or buy them from him? And if she did, would she be discreet?

  John Baxter, the curate, had a high, clear voice that rang up into the eaves of the church, banishing darkness from every corner.

  ‘“And when Herod saw Jesus, he was exceeding glad”,’ he was saying. ‘“For he was desirous to see him of a long season, because he had heard many things of him, and he hoped to have seen some miracle done by him.”’

  Up there with him at the pulpit was the new King’s Bible we had bought him in London. It was the first time I’d been in a printer’s, a tall building in the city that to me was as narrow as a wardrobe. In the streets outside, children carried baskets of loaves on their heads, as though we were in Galilee. Inside the printer’s was a different world entirely, half scholarly with its atmosphere of paper and ink, and half like a torture chamber with huge, groaning wooden contraptions.