The Familiars

by Halls, Stacey

  Richard and I had travelled all the way in a numb sort of silence, with Puck padding at our sides or trundling behind us on the cart, whining occasionally. It was a welcome relief when the noise and distraction of Lancaster arrived.

  By mid-afternoon we were pulling into the yard of the Red Lion, a modest inn shielded by trees, tucked away down a narrow road leading to the river. I barely noticed the room we were shown to on the third floor, but it was clean and well furnished, with carpets on the cupboards and a handsome four-poster bed. When my trunk was set down with a thud, I jumped, and the porter looked at me with curiosity. The baby bucked and rolled inside me, invigorated by the long and bumpy journey. I was so big now my skirts hung inches away from my legs.

  Bread and milk was brought for the dog, which he ate gratefully before settling on the Turkey carpet in front of the fireplace. I could not rest so easily: I was cold and shivering, and lay on the bed on my side, drawing my knees up to meet my stomach.

  Richard stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Since the dreadful dinner a week before, I had barely spoken. I had barely eaten or slept either. I drifted up and down the long gallery, my legs planted wide on the polished wood to balance my massive stomach. Or I sat at various windows, facing out, and the baby moved for both of us. I could tell Richard was still anxious I would lose it, and I felt like telling him there was no need to be so worried about things that were out of our control, when there was so much that we could have done, and had not. The appeals we should have made; the help we should have offered. I dared not think it was too late, but part of me knew it was: for me, for her, for everything.

  ‘How do you think it will go?’ Richard spoke.

  I stared at the wall.

  ‘They cannot be found guilty,’ I replied. ‘Their only witnesses are each other. They are like children telling tales.’

  ‘People are hanged for a lot less. Do you really think they know the Devil?’

  I thought of Malkin Tower poking up from the moorside like a finger from a grave. How the wind had howled there; how it would drive you mad. I thought of Alice’s home, open to the sky; the damp streaming down the walls; the child she knew as a daughter buried in the thick, wet soil. What was there for them in this life? In the shadows cast by their fire at night, perhaps they did see things they wanted to.

  ‘If the Devil is poverty, and hunger, and grief, then yes, I think they know the Devil.’

  Richard went to the castle to find out when the witches’ trial would start. For the rest of the day I lay fully dressed on the bed, staring out of the window at the trees, with Puck lying next to me, thumping his tail happily at being allowed on the counterpane. Even with the glass separating me from the street, I was aware of a strange quality to the air outside. I realised it was excitement. The trees shivered with it, and it bounced off the walls and flags of the yard like rain. More carriages were arriving at the inn now, and the yard was full of people with brightly expectant faces talking to one another. Women carrying babes jiggled them patiently; men stood astride the cobbles with a sense of purpose. I knew that if I could listen I would hear a hundred different opinions, all of them certain. Neighbours denouncing neighbours – it was the most reliable trait of humanity, and was how the dungeon was filled in the first place. Rumour spread faster than disease, and could be just as destructive.

  A maid brought a tray of food and set it on the cupboard, bowing clumsily, flinching when she saw the dog. I didn’t look at the tray, let alone touch it. I felt for the paper in my pocket I had put there the night before – my statement defending Alice’s innocence that I hoped to read aloud before the judges. A more eloquent version of my speech at the dining table, I had written it at least five times, the paper blotting with ink and tears. If they would not let me speak, I would try to have Richard stand for me. He did not know this yet, because I could not face him refusing me this one kindness, though I would never ask anything of him again. I did not know if they would let me read it at the assizes, did not know of any time when a woman had been allowed to stand up and speak when she was not in the dock. The idea of doing it sent my legs to melting, but then I thought of Alice’s face, blinking in the light after being kept in the dark. She had to be at the trial, yet I had a choice. Roger had said no witnesses would be brought, but Bromley and Altham could surely not ignore the polite request of a member of the gentry, when they had dined at his house? I would leave it until the last moment to ask Richard’s permission to speak, because I was not convinced myself that my words would be enough, and until I was, I could not persuade him with conviction.

  As more people arrived at the inn, the passages filled up with voices and the sound of boots on stone. I listened vacantly over Puck’s snores as women chatted and scolded their children, men bellowed, trunks scraped and dogs barked.

  I was clutching the paper so tightly I thought it might tear, thinking of how, not so long ago, I’d held a different letter – one that gave death, while this one could give life. A noise in the passage: much closer. A man’s voice drawing near; a door opening and closing.

  Suddenly I was wide awake. I pushed myself up on my elbows, bringing my head in line with the top of my stomach. The child must have been sleeping, for once. I went to the window and looked at the sky; I did not have a watch. Where was Richard? It would soon be dark, and from below came the sound of the kitchen getting the supper things ready. Barrels rolled in the yard and the traffic in the streets had eased. I had what felt like a hair’s breadth of time to make a decision: it had to be now. I did not need more than that.

  I woke Puck from where he lay next to me and beckoned him to the floor, before going to one of the trunks. Thanking Prudence for blessing me with her gift earlier, I pulled out the long, wrapped package I had buried among several nightdresses. Then I went to the cupboard and scrawled a note for Richard, finally casting a swift look around the room, making sure I had got what I needed. With my dog at my heel, I left for the stables, the package slim and inconspicuous at my side.

  CHAPTER 24

  John Foulds’ house was down a dank little alley in Colne. By the time I arrived it was almost midnight, and I was breathless from navigating the horse along the black paths. But the moon was on my side: full and bright, it had shone all the way from Lancaster, lighting the way for our ghostly procession. And I had Puck with me, so I felt safe, and I held his head with one hand and knocked on John Foulds’ front door with the other.

  The street was silent and there were no lights in the windows. I’d knocked on four doors where I saw the yellow glow of rushlight, and the last occupant – a woman, her face creased with tiredness – told me in surprise that John Foulds lived one row behind the market street, three doors from the right.

  Here, I knocked again, and Puck gave a low growl from deep inside his throat. I looked around, and could see no figure at either end of the passage, but did have the sense of being watched. It was too dark to see into the shadows pushing up against the houses. I shivered and set my eyes on the wooden door in front of me, knocking more impatiently this time. Then, suddenly, all the hairs on my neck stood up, and I knew there was someone in the alley. Puck immediately began barking, straining from my grip and directing his aggression to our right, and in the gloom I saw something low and rangy slink around the last house. I banged furiously on the door, and a man’s voice shouted from behind it, and then I was looking into the face of John Foulds.

  Tousled dark brown hair hung down either side of his face, and he was dressed for bed, wearing a loose cotton smock, untied at the neck. He was as handsome as I’d remembered, but there was something in his eyes that was not – a coldness, perhaps, that impacted on his features, like an imperfection in a portrait. Whatever arrogance he had, though, died when he saw what I held to his stomach: Richard’s musket, which I’d carried with one aching arm beneath my cloak. And then he saw the dog, and there was fright there, and even resignation.

  He angled himself so that he
was standing between the door and the wall, and I could not see into the small house. I pushed the barrel of the musket into his chest, and was thankful for how heavy it was, because I was shaking so badly.

  ‘Will you let me in?’ I said.

  ‘Are we to fight a duel?’ he said drily, his lip curled.

  Puck growled, and he eyed the massive dog anxiously, then gave me a look and opened the door wider. I went in, Puck padding behind me.

  The tiny house had one room downstairs and one up, accessed by a steep set of narrow stairs against the back wall. John Foulds held the only rushlight in the room, and from its glow I could see a few shapeless objects: a couple of chairs by the fireplace; a low cupboard covered with a cloth and pots and pans. John went to light another rush and set it in a holder on the cupboard, and the fatty fumes were choking. But I watched his every move, because I had no idea how to use Richard’s gun.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, holding his torch up to my face.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ I said. ‘But we have a mutual friend.’

  He made a noise like forced laughter.

  ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Roger Nowell. Is that not who you are here for?’

  ‘No.’

  I stared at John Foulds’ flickering face, half-hidden in shadow. He scratched his neck and glanced about fretfully. If he moved suddenly, could I move quicker?

  ‘Did he give you money?’ I asked.

  ‘What if he did?’

  I let the musket fall, heard the mechanisms clink inside. The weight of it was exhausting. Just as I’d reached Colne, it had started to rain very lightly, and now I could hear it coming down harder, thudding into the dirt in the street. John Foulds’ eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  ‘Why is Alice Gray on trial for murdering your daughter?’

  ‘She’s a witch,’ he said simply.

  His neck was warm and brown in the rushlight, the top of his chest smooth.

  ‘She loved you,’ I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘And she loved Ann.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It matters not.’

  ‘Who is your husband?’

  ‘It matters not. But you will give me something tonight. I will not leave here without a written testimony from you that says Alice Gray did not murder your daughter.’

  He looked at me as if I was crazed. Then he started to laugh. I smelt something else then, masked under the dripping grease of the rushlights. Ale. Fermentation. Decay. John Foulds was still a drunk.

  ‘If Alice is hanged, it will not bring your daughter back. Why would you see an innocent woman killed?’

  ‘Innocent? She’s a bitch,’ he spat. ‘Anyway, I can’t write.’

  My heart sank. A signed testimony had been my only hope – I’d brought paper and ink and a quill, and tucked it in the pack of the horse. How naïve I had been to assume he could read, or write, or even sign his name, when Alice could not. The musket was so heavy, it was making my arms hurt. But I could not turn my back on him.

  John Foulds had checkmated me.

  The stairs creaked, making me jump, and someone began walking down them. A long white smock descended from the ceiling, then the rest of a plump body, and a plain-faced woman in a cap appeared, her mouth a little round ‘O’ as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes widened when she saw Puck; he might have been a wolf in the dim light, and certainly looked monstrous in the little room.

  ‘John?’ she said.

  ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Now,’ he barked.

  The woman turned with difficulty on the dark, narrow staircase, holding the wall with one hand.

  Before her head disappeared, I said, ‘Wait.’ She stopped. ‘What kind of knife does John use to sharpen his quill?’

  She gaped at me.

  ‘An ordinary one, Miss.’

  ‘Just as I thought. There is a horse tied outside. In its pack you will find a quill and paper and ink. Will you bring them to me?’

  She looked quickly at John, and nodded, but did not move.

  ‘Now,’ I said, and she disappeared through the front door into the rain. ‘You are literate, then,’ I said to John. ‘Your wife?’

  He regarded me with vicious hatred.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How much money did Roger give you?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It is the business of the king’s peace. How much?’

  He moved his jaw; his eyelids lowered.

  ‘What is of more use to you: money or ale? I have a brewery. If you do what I want, you will have a hogshead sent every month.’ His eyes widened. He was listening now. ‘I presume that’s what you spend your money on. Unless you prefer brandy? Wine? What will it be?’

  ‘How do I know you will keep your word?’

  I loosened my grip on Puck’s collar and he lurched forwards, snapping his mighty jaws. John Foulds leapt back and gave a cowardly whimper. What had Alice seen in this weak, selfish man?

  The woman padded back inside and handed me the things I’d asked for, never moving her eyes from the dog. As soon as I took them she ran back upstairs.

  ‘They say dogs can smell fear,’ I told him. ‘I would try to mask it, if I were you. But I know how hard it is when you’re terrified. I am scared, John. I am scared that my friend will be hanged for a crime she did not commit. And not only her: her friend might be hanged, too, for trying to save your daughter’s life.’

  I looked around at the unhappy room, with its stench of fat and ale, and the chill that came from the bare walls, and shivered. It was no place for a child. Maybe it was cheerful once, when John’s wife was alive and they had their new baby wrapped in fresh linen, with the front door open to the street so the neighbours could come in and tell them how blessed they were.

  ‘And what if I don’t?’ He sniffed. ‘You’ll shoot me?’

  ‘Yes. Unless you would prefer to be worried by the dog?’

  His dark eyes went from one to the other. I handed him the paper and quill, and nodded. He sighed and carried it to the low cupboard, bending over to flatten it out in the pool of light.

  ‘What do I write?’

  ‘The truth.’

  I stood shivering and waited as he scratched down his words in an untidy, barely legible scrawl. I listened to the horse exhaling outside and the rain on the street. My chest was tight with fear, and relief, and I thought of the long way I had to travel in the morning. I would ride back to Gawthorpe tonight and sleep for a few hours, then leave for Lancaster before dawn.

  John Foulds handed me his testimony, and I read it through quickly.

  ‘Add a line about Katherine Hewitt,’ I said. ‘She is arraigned for the same thing.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I am not writing a whole book.’

  ‘You will do what it takes. Add a line.’

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Good enough?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, taking it from him and folding it into my pocket. ‘You had better hope so.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘If it isn’t, I may pay you another visit, and don’t expect me to be in a bargaining mood. The assizes start in the morning, should you wish to face what you have done like a man. Goodnight.’

  I turned to leave. The rain teemed down outside.

  ‘If that bitch hangs, I’ll still get my ale, won’t I?’

  I stopped in the doorway and, without turning around, released my hand from Puck’s collar. All John Foulds would have seen was a streak of copper and a flash of teeth as the dog threw himself at him and sunk his mouth into his arm. He cried out in high-pitched terror, then cursed, rolling about and gripping his elbow. Blood bloomed dark on the dirty white linen. I called Puck softly, and he came back to me. I turned to face the weak, trembling, cowardly man whom Alice once loved.

  ‘Yes, you will still get the ale,’ I said. ‘Because if my dog doesn�
�t kill you, that will. And the slower the better.’

  An hour later, I realised I was lost. I meant to head west along the river to Gawthorpe, but the rain was coming down so hard and was so loud I couldn’t hear the water, let alone see in the darkness. There were only trees, and mud, and clouds flitting across the moon, making it impossible.

  I was soaked. The horse was soaked too and plodding ahead miserably, stopping now and again in protest. Puck trudged on next to us, exhausted as I was, his drenched coat a dark brown. My stomach felt heavier than ever, and my heart was racing despite the slow pace. I turned left and right and left again, hoping to find the wide roads that ran between villages. All I could think of was the two pages in my skirts: my testimony and John Foulds’. If they were wet, they were ruined. Something was lodged in my stomach, and I thought it might be despair, but I would not submit to it. I would not cry; I would find my way home, even if it took all night. I would go to Lancaster tomorrow and stand up in court and hear my own voice ring through the hall, pronouncing Alice’s innocence, and everyone would listen, and her chains would clatter to the floor, and she would be free.

  I was slumped forwards over my stomach, riding at a snail’s pace through the woods, with tall black tree trunks surrounding me on all sides, and the rain seeping down my neck, and then The Nightmare began.

  The horse stopped suddenly, as though startled, and that’s when I heard the grunting. It was low, but distinguishable even over the rain. Cold fear drenched me from the head down, and I felt dizzy with it. I closed my eyes and opened them again in case I was dreaming, but that sound: I knew it, had heard it many times throughout my life, but always in my sleep. Now I was awake, and alone in the woods. Puck barked, and there was a low squeal, and another chomping, grunting noise, and I knew the beasts had come closer, but I could see nothing on the ground. I kicked the horse and shouted for it to go, but it staggered about in terror, and then I felt it land against something, and it neighed, and reared – and I began to slip down.