Mist Over Pendle (11 page)

Mistress Nutter chose to be arch.

“I had meant to convey, sir, that your cousin should have some courtesies from her own sex as well as from yours. You’d not confine her to a monastery?”

“Indeed no, ma’am.” Roger was as bland as before. “Nor to a nunnery either. She was not born under such a star if I judge aright.”

The laugh rippled again.

“It’s very well sir.” She turned directly to Margery. “You’ve been already to my poor house, as I’m told, and I’m sorry you’d so sad an errand. Please to come again, and soon. We’ll try then to give you friendlier welcome.”

Margery stood stiffly, her thoughts whirling as she sought for escape. There was something here that she mistrusted, and the memory of that chilling glance in the church came vividly to her as she stood. She knew she had no wish to go again to the Rough Lee, to be the guest of this woman whose dark eyes stabbed like icicles. Then, while she still groped for words of refusal, she was sinking into a quick curtsey and saying how pleased she would be to go.

She was almost relieved when she had said it. There was, after all, no other answer within the courtesies, and she could not stand in silence for ever. She would at least have time to brace herself before the ordeal came.

Mistress Nutter dipped acknowledgment of the curtsey. She smiled acknowledgment of the acceptance. For a moment the dark eyes gleamed, and Margery stiffened again as the ghost of a shiver came and went. But before she had found a word to say,

Mistress Nutter had turned to Roger and was speaking with a most becoming gravity.

“I’m in your debt, sir, for the pains you took when poor Mitton died last week.”

“Not so, ma’am. A simple duty.” Roger’s smooth tone expressed nothing.

“Aye sir, duty no doubt. But duty most zealously performed. I say again that we’re in your debt. And we much regret that so much was laid upon you.”

“Let’s keep regrets, ma’am, for Mitton’s death.”

“Aye indeed.” She nodded decorous agreement. “Poor Mitton! A faithful servant, sir, and I do not know how I shall find his like---“

It almost sounded as though that might be the cause of her regret.

“What of these women, sir?” Her question came sharply while Margery was musing. “Women, ma’am?”

“These Demdikes. I’ve heard such tales---“

“From whom, may I ask?”

The first edge of sharpness had come into Roger’s voice as he slipped his question quickly. But Mistress Nutter was not disturbed. She answered him easily.

“From my servants, sir. They’re in such flutterings---“

“You’ll hardly heed such gossip, ma’am.”

The dark eyes lost their light. They were very steady when she spoke again.

“May we be serious, Master Nowell? Mitton dies something oddly. Some women of an ill sort are seen. Then a magistrate puts them to the question. May I not suppose---?”

“You may suppose, ma’am, that if there’d been anything found against them they’d have been committed.”

Mistress Nutter stood in silence. Then she nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand sir. Then I’ll take my leave.” She turned quickly to Margery. “You bear it in mind, mistress? No long delay!”

Margery’s curtsey was formal. Roger’s bow was solemn. Mistress Nutter outdid them both. Her curtsey was perfect, and her smile was charming as she turned about and went tripping lightly through the churchyard gate.

“What the Devil!”

Roger was staring at her retreating back, and for a moment Margery was startled. But the old sardonic tone was back in his voice, and she felt her forehead crinkle with relief. Here was something she could deal with at her ease. “Sir?”

The lift of her eyebrows said the rest, and Roger asked no more. He explained himself pithily.

“She’s mighty civil,” he said. “And when Alice Nutter’s mighty civil, it commonly means that she wants something. At this moment I don’t perceive what it is. Did you mark that chantry?”

“Aye sir. And the glass in it.”

Black-and-silver went trotting past the gate on a fine black horse with silver lace on a black saddle-cloth. Roger swept his beaver punctiliously. Then he stood in silence.

“Touching this chantry, sir?”

Margery prompted him as the silence lengthened, and at once he was in his light humour again. He moved down the deserted path.

“We’ll go to the inn,” he said. “My throat needs cosseting again. But touching this chantry, little cousin, it’s ours, as you’ll have marked from the glass. For these hundred years it’s been ours, for which we’re at charges each year of six shillings and eightpence. But while I was away from here there were some who took it to themselves, and even when I was back they declared that they should continue in the use of it.”

He stood aside to let her pass through the gate, and again she had to prompt him.

“And you answered?”

“Mildly as a coted dove. Only saying that I’d run a foot of steel through the next that did. Since which time, these gentlemen have not used my chantry.”

“No sir? And yet---“

“Aye little cousin--and yet?” His forehead was crinkling now. “For though they kept themselves from my chantry, they bade their ladies sit therein--whom I could not well call to account.”

“I perceive the difficulty, sir.” Her solemn tone matched his. “And then?”

“The Devil whispered in my ear--and I, in my turn, whispered in the ear of Alice Nutter---“

“To her content, I trust?”

“To her infinite content. For the Nutters, being, when all is said, no more than yeomen, are not graced with a pew in church. They must sit with the common sort--which irked our Alice sorely.

So I gave her leave to sit within my chantry--
my
chantry, do you see, little cousin?”

“Aye sir. Which she does?”

“Which you saw her do. And one by one the high-born ladies find them seating elsewhere. And I---I found me a little pew within a barn---“

“A barn!” Margery was shaking with laughter.

“Aye, a barn--where it had been these seventy years, some puling monk having stayed it from the church when first our people made it. So I hauled it within and set it where you see, for such comfort as it has.”

The lift of his eyebrows sent Margery into helpless laughter at his oddities; but under the laughter a more serious thought was stirring in her. She was coming to see, more and more clearly, why there might be some who did not love Roger Nowell.

They came to the inn, and suddenly his mood had another shift. He stopped by the door and regarded her gravely.

“I had the thought,” he said, “that you were not at ease with Alice Nutter?”

Margery’s eyes were as steady as his.

“I’ll not deny it, sir. I was most ill at ease.”

He nodded, and at once the banter was back in his voice.

“Little cousin,” he said solemnly, “you’ve a most excellent good nose.”

Master Nicholas Banister, Squire of Altham and a Justice of the Peace and Quorum, rode to Read the next morning. He came on the wings of a gusty wind that set grey clouds chasing m a patterned sky, and he swung from his horse in bright sunshine with his cloak black from the rain of the spattering showers.

His coming was expected, and he had the welcome that belongs to an old friend. Roger was out in the wind to greet him. There was a groom to take his horse, and Tom Peyton to see to his servant’s needs. There was hot spiced ale to warm his heart, a chair set ready by a tended fire, and cheesecakes warming before it. Sandals and gown of his own were waiting as change from his boots and cloak, and a long white pipe and leaves of tobacco were ready at His call.

Margery, too was ready. She had, indeed, been ready this past hour, for the bustle of preparation had warned her and roused her curiosity. After her experience with Richard Baldwin she was taking no more risks, least of all with this man who was Roger’s nearest friend; and today she was trim and demure in the black saye kirtle and the flowered sarcenet gown. She had, indeed, given it the white lace collar, but that no more than lightened it; it did not mar its propriety.

She saw through the window Master Banister’s coming, and as he and Roger walked together to the great door, she moved discreetly into the window, thankful that this was between showers and that there was sunlight for her hair; and when Master Banister, cloak swaying and spurs jingling, swept into the room in haste to be at the fire, she was admirably poised for him to see.

He stopped as though he were frozen.

“Lord of Grace, Roger! What’s this?” he burst out. “Is she your own?”

Roger’s crinkling smile showed his pleasure, and Margery, catching sight of it as she made her curtsey, let her face melt into its twin. It was not wasted on Master Banister.

“Roger! Roger!” he said. “Tell me more. Whose is she?”

Roger was laughing now.

“I’ve told you Nick, she’s my cousin only, and distant at that. I could wish she were nearer. But she’s Margery Whitaker, not Nowell.”

“Whitaker is it?” Master Banister untied his cloak and stood considering her. “You bring her here from nowhere and say she’s not yours? I’ll believe you, Roger, but there’ll be those in Pendle who won’t.”

“I nothing doubt it. But we neglect your comfort.” Roger jerked at the bell cord, and at once there was bustle for Master Banister’s needs. Margery took his cloak, Roger saw to his ale, and his own servant came hurrying to tug off his boots and help him into gown and sandals. It gave Margery a chance to consider him. He was a tall spare man, perhaps a few years older than Roger, and not so broad nor so robust; but his lithe figure and browned face told of good health, and there was a hint of hidden reserves in the ease of his movements. His hair and beard were grey now, and it was plain that he had felt the chill of this blustering morning. But his spirits had not been chilled, and his hazel eyes were bright and clear. Just now they were a-twinkle with pleasure; and Margery, sensing the honesty and kindliness that lay in them, knew already that she liked Nick Banister.

“Margery Whitaker,” he repeated. “I would it had been Nowell, as with such a look it should have been. But it’s the less matter since I’ll call her by no more than the Margery. That’s if she’ll give me leave. What say you, lass?”

“Why, gladly sir.” Margery was pleased. This augured friendliness, and she hoped it might be a hint to Roger, who was still calling her little cousin.

“That’s well answered,” he said, and busied himself with a cheesecake in the comfort of an elbow-chair. Roger leaned across to replenish his ale.

“I’ll not have you neglected, Nick. The less so since we’ve work to do.”

“Lord of Grace!” said Master Banister cheerfully. “It’s ever so with you Pendle folk, Roger. What’s for today?”

It was as a Justice of the Peace, the nearest among Roger’s neighbours, that Master Banister had made his visit. It was established between these two that unless some more urgent matter should intervene, Nick Banister should ride to Read each Monday and Roger to Altham each Wednesday. At each house the host conducted the business, and his guest became active only when some matter rose that required the sitting of two Justices together.

Roger propped himself against the chimney-shelf.

“It’s what we’ve had before,” he answered. “There’s matter of a girl to be bound apprentice. There’s a fellow taken begging and presented as a rogue. And there’s the usual calendar from the Newchurch.”

Nick Banister laughed.

“Meaning your Richard Baldwin, I take it--still hot against sinners?”

“Hot as the Devil’s nose. But it’s to -be remembered he’s churchwarden there, and has duties.”

“Which afflict him sorely.” Nick Banister heaved to his feet. “The sooner started, the sooner ended. Let’s be to it.”

The two men moved to the door together, but before they reached it Nick Banister paused.

“What of your Margery?” he said. “Is she banished from this? By her face she’s agog with interest.”

“Is it so?” Roger turned, smiling. “Come in if you’ve a mind to, and choose your own moment.”

Ten minutes later Margery moved quietly through the side door of what Roger, half mockingly, called his Justice Room--by which he meant that he had taken advantage of the present emptiness of his house to set aside a convenient room for this use. A long table of shining oak ran across one end of it, and set against the table, with their backs to the wall behind, were elbow-chairs for the two Justices. Each end of the table had an empty chair, and another half-dozen chairs were set against the walls; in one of these sat an elderly white-haired man whom Margery did not know; in another sat Richard Baldwin.

Nick Banister was at his ease in his chair, his long legs stretched beneath the table and his furred gown pulled comfortably. A smiling lift of his eyebrows welcomed Margery and directed her to a chair by the wall. She tip-toed to it and then gave her attention to Roger.

He had pushed his chair back to the wall and was on his feet, standing with his head a little down and his fingers on the table before him. To his left, and beyond the table, stood Jim Wilsey, cheerful and untidy as ever. In front of the table a burly rough-bearded fellow in rags and tatters stood guarded by four sturdy men who formed the Watch that day.

Apparently Roger had heard as much of this matter as he wanted, for he brought it to a quick end even as Margery found her seat.

“Enough,” he said. “You’re a known noted rogue and you’d best have stayed elsewhere. Here you shall have your deserts.”

He took a quick glance to his left, where Nick Banister sat in silence. A slight nod signified assent, and Roger turned to his front again.

“William Walker,” he said formally, “being presented and convicted as a known and noted -rogue, and for begging and trespass. To be soundly whipped according to law. And to sit in the stocks the space of six hours.”

He waved a hand at Tom Peyton, who seemed to have a status here, and the unfortunate trespasser was hustled out without a chance even to struggle. Roger seated himself, took pen and ink, and wrote laboriously on a paper that lay on the table before him.