Daughters of the Witching Hill (15 page)

"You'll be the ruin of us, you daft boy."

A crooked grin split his face. Right pleased with himself, he was, to be out of the church.

"You'll have to go back in again for communion," I told him, for if the two of us did not step up to the communion table, rumours would fly. Folk would say we were afraid of the Host, or unworthy of it, which was ridiculous, in my mind. Hadn't the Curate told us that the Host was not the Body of Christ, as the Papists would have us believe, but only plain, honest bread that we ate in remembrance of our Lord? According to the Curate, the old priests were nowt but sorcerers preying on the ignorant, and when they chanted
hoc est corpus meum
whilst holding the Host aloft, they were really saying
hocus pocus.

Giggling, my grandson flung himself down upon the Towneleys' grave plot. "The hare what we saw on the way to church had a message for you, Gran."

I folded my arms in front of myself. "And what would that be?"

The boy's eyes fair twinkled, as though he were cannier than any of us had guessed. "Clay pictures," he said, all hushed and secretive.

Again the nightmare reared inside me. I felt the damp weight of the clay in my hand, remembered how I had packed it into the mouth and nose of Annie's attacker so that he could never again draw breath. The thought made me so dizzy that I didn't dare look up for fear of seeing a hare or a brown dog. Then, remembering the Church Warden, I dragged Jamie to the church porch. Looking through the open doorway, I pretended to listen to the sermon whilst Jamie rocked on his heels and counted magpies.

"One for sorrow, two for mirth," he chanted. "Seven for a witch." He spun on his toes. "Let me take the colt home, Gran, please? I'll name him Dandy."

"Hush."

When at last the Curate drew his sermon to a close, too hoarse to drone on any longer, it was time to lead Jamie up the aisle for communion. How my grandson delighted in playing the jester before the long-faced churchmen. Mouth gaping like a trout's, the lad dropped to his knees before the Curate and stuck out his long red tongue. Had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Though they said he was a dullard, our Jamie had a way of twisting every occasion to his own amusement.

"You'd best flog that boy when you get home," the Church Warden told me as I led Jamie out the door.

Pretending humility and obedience, I rushed my grandson away before he could pull a face or do some other fool thing to provoke the man. Bells rang and everybody hastened out of church with the eagerness of cattle let out of the barn for the first time after a long winter. Jamie spirited me away to a shadowy corner of the churchyard.

"What is it now?" I asked him.

"Gift for you." His words slurred. Beneath the shadow of the great yew tree, he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, revealing the communion bread.

"And what would I want with that, you silly boy?"

His eyes widened. "For your spells."

"Enough of your nonsense." I clapped my hand over his mouth, then softened my voice. "Swallow the Lord's bread, love. There's a good boy. Look, here comes your mam."

Lad swung round to Liza and stared at her belly, still flat under her kirtle. "Little sister," he said.

"Come along home, our Jamie," said his father.

My family headed out of the churchyard, but I dawdled behind, waiting for Anne. I'd never seen her looking so ill-done-to, her hands clutched to her middle as though someone had stabbed her there. She didn't need to speak a word. I took her hand and out the lych-gate we went.

"Go on without me," I told Liza and John who started at the sight of Anne and me walking arm in arm like sisters. "I'll meet you back home."

John wrapped a shielding arm round my daughter's shoulders and hustled her and Jamie along, out of Anne's sight. Betty had already gone. Annie and Tom were nowhere to be seen amongst the departing throng. If it had been me with a face like Annie's, I'd have hared home right fast so not to have to endure the prying eyes. My friend wouldn't tell me a thing till we were sat upon the clay banks of Pendle Water.

"Once you made me promise I'd come to you if I was in any sort of fix," Anne said, fighting tears. "Well, now is the time."

"What happened to Annie?"

"It wasn't our Tom's doing," she told me straight off. "He'd never hurt her."

"I know, love. He's a good man. Who did it then?" I dared not speak of the nameless lad in my dream.

"Landlord's brat. Young Robert of Greenhead."

Robert Assheton—I knew him by name and reputation if not by sight. It was common knowledge that he served Sir Shuttleworth of Gawthorpe Hall, Chief Justice of Chester, and that he spent much time travelling with his master. But when he was home at Greenhead, only two miles from Anne's cottage, young Annie would have no respite.

"Look at me!" My friend broke down, helpless and inconsolable. "I'm her mother and I can't protect her. Her husband can't protect her. He's a labourer for the Asshetons. One word from that Devil's son and Tom will lose his livelihood. That bastardly gullion said that if she didn't let him have his way, he'd turn us out of our cottage."

"Have you spoken to the lad's father?" I asked. "Think of the shame, our Anne. His son serving the Chief Justice, then turning round and molesting Annie, and her a married woman."

"Old Master Assheton's off in York, not to return till the end of the month. As for the lad's mother"—Anne made a rude gesture—"she told me to my face that the boy's only young, full of high spirits, and he means no harm. She'd sooner have my Annie whipped in the stocks as a temptress and whore before she'd lay the blame on her precious son. To listen to her, you'd think he shits golden sovereigns out his hole."

"If his parents will do nothing, you must go to the Constable. That would humiliate them even more."

Anne began to cry again. "We've no witness. It's Annie's word against his. Who do you think the Constable will believe?"

My friend's desperation struck me like an iron fist. Though young Robert served Justice Shuttleworth, it seemed there was no justice in sight for Annie. Robert Assheton had acted as he had because he knew he could get away with it. The law of the land protected only the rich. Rocking my friend in my arms, I sought to give her what solace I could. We were just two lowly old women—how could we hope to stand up to the gentry?

"I wish I knew what to do," I told her.

Anne's eyes shone green as the churning water. "We both know the measure of what you can
do,
our Bess."

Her words left me too gobsmacked to speak. Ever since we were girls, Anne had been the doubter, the sceptic, who held all would-be enchanters apart from me, her friend, in deepest contempt. Yet now she was asking me to work magic on her daughter's behalf.

"There must be something, some charm of yours," she said, clasping me tight. "You cured Matty Holden, after all."

Once more the dream wrapped itself round me, how young Annie had sought out my protection, how I'd finally thwarted the lad by slamming clay in his face. I remembered what Jamie had said to me in the churchyard whilst he lay atop the Towneleys' grave plot.
Clay pictures.
I imagined taking a scoop of the river clay I was sat on, imagined shaping it in my hands till it took the form of Robert Assheton. I imagined dropping that clay doll into the fire. Sticking it through with blackthorns. Crumbling it, bit by bit, till nothing remained. Such thoughts left me wanting to spew in the bushes.

Throughout Pendle Forest I was known as a cunning woman. Folk called on me to heal the sick, mend their ailing cows and horses, reveal the names of thieves, bless ale and wombs. On occasion a sorry few had asked me to work curses for their own selfish designs, but I'd always refused.

Some bind I was in now: my dearest friend begging me to use my powers to curse Robert Assheton. If it had been anybody but her, I'd have run off home right then. Meddling in revenge magic would soil my good name forever. Such spells weren't the business of a cunning woman but the work of a witch.
Witch
—the very word set me trembling.

"You're asking me to work woe," I said.

"Bess, you're our only hope."

If I did this, my immortal soul would be damned to hell.
Have a care,
Tibb had admonished me all those years ago,
which path you tread. Some paths are steep and stony whilst others seem broad and easy, though they lead to misfortune.
If I took a single step on the false path, I feared it would be too late to return to the road of righteousness.

Meanwhile, my dream smothered me. Annie's flailing arms, her beaten face. What if she were my daughter? What wouldn't I do to save Liza, my immortal soul be damned? If young Robert laid a finger on my girl, I wouldn't waver a second before unleashing the darkest magics I could conjure.

"Bess?" Anne gave my arm a shake. "You've gone blue round the lips. Look fit to faint, you do."

"Our Anne, let me think on this."

"Think all you like," she said, resigned. "Meanwhile, my daughter has no refuge." Anne pressed her fists into her eye sockets.

"I'll come tomorrow," I promised her. "I'll bring salve for her bruises."

Anne stared off into the rustling green. "It will take more than salve to mend her if no one stops young Assheton."

That night gave me neither rest nor peace. The straw in my pallet kept poking and pricking me, sharp as a thousand bodkins. When at last I slept, I only dreamt of Annie. Of her bruises, dark as shame. Of her eyes, pleading and forlorn. Wherever I turned, there she was, floating before me like a spectre.

At dawn I staggered, shivering and shaking, to the tower window. Tibb's voice seemed to hang in the pearly-grey light.
You and you alone choose the road you walk.
Wasn't I already beyond the pale? Though I had cleaved to the ways of healing and blessing, that didn't redeem me in the eyes of the Curate, for I'd consorted with spirits. As far as the men of the church and the law were concerned, sorcery was sorcery, whether it was used for good or ill. I was damned to hell as it stood. If the Constable chose to arrest me, he could hang me, same as a thief or a common murderer.

A voice inside that was not Tibb's but my own spoke up, insistent and defiant. If there was one kind of justice for the high and mighty, could there not be another justice for the poor? What was the use of having these powers if I didn't use them to help my best friend's daughter? Indeed, such magic was the only power a lowborn woman such as I could wield, the only way retribution could be brought down upon Robert Assheton. How could I live with myself or ever look Anne and her daughters in the eye again if I failed them now?

Whilst the rest of my family slept, I hurried off for West Close, cutting through dew-drenched meadows. Clambering over a stile, I looked up to see seven magpies stitching the sky with beaks and wings.
Seven for a witch.
John suspected my Anne of witchcraft, but I was the real witch and all for the sake of my devotion to her.

Onward I strode till I reached a lane enclosed by hedges and high-arching trees, their branches knit overhead. Rooks I heard, loud and greedy, drowning out the blackbirds and larks. With each step my heart pounded harder. No turning back. Then I was stood before Greenhead Manor, smaller than Roughlee Hall, but grand, nonetheless, with ivy climbing its proud stone walls and framing its mullioned windows that mirrored the blue and green morning. So this was young Robert's home. I froze, no more strength left inside me to move.

Then an invisible thread tugged me onward. My soles burned and I was off down the track that led from the manor house to Anne's cottage. Walking between hedges of budding thorn, I saw not a single magpie, only heard the lambs behind the hedges calling out to their mothers. A clean, fresh scent rose from the earth as the sun climbed higher. Beautiful and pure as a dream, this morning was, and just as fragile and easily torn.

A bridge took me over Spurn Clough where the rushing water in the beck below drowned out the hoof beats coming from behind. Once over the bridge, I was passing round a narrow bend when the rider came galloping, full reckless. He would have knocked me right down had not the brown dog leapt out, snarling and snapping. Eyes a-roll, the stallion screamed, leapt sideways, then reared, his hooves beating the air. The rider, savage as anything, yanked the reins, tearing at the horse's mouth till blood flecked the flying foam. He dug his spurs into the creature's lathered flanks, sending the horse on. The brown dog hurtled after them. Though the entire scene unfolded before me in a flash, I knew beyond a doubt who that young horseman was.

So what could I do but carry on down the track, following the marks left by the horse's hooves and the dog's great paws? Before long the dog prints vanished away, as I knew they would. I came upon a slippery patch where the lad, now unhorsed, sprawled and groaned, his backside well blackened with muck.

"Taken a spill, have you, sir?" I hid my smile. So Tibb had sorted this for me and I'd not have to reach for the clay. "Anything broken? Now, a snapped tailbone is a painful thing. Takes a long time mending, that does. If you don't mind my saying, sir, it's not very canny to ride a green stallion you can scarce master."

My sides ached from the struggle not to laugh as I reached out my arm, making a great show of offering to help him to his feet, but the lad slapped my hand away.