Mist Over Pendle (17 page)

“So he’s just said. Why should he not?”

“There’s no reason. But I wonder that Miles did not speak of him this morning.”

Margery caught her breath sharply. Miles of the Rough Lee could only be Miles Nutter. Which meant---

“No doubt he thought nothing of it.” Richard’s answer broke into her thought, and she made herself pay heed to him.

“You’ll remember the book you spoke of?” he reminded her.

“Surely I will.”

He helped her to mount.

“Good day to you, mistress. We’ve been glad of your visit. Let it not be your last!”

“It shall not. I promise that. Good day, and my thanks! You’ll give my message to the chapman, Grace?”

“I will. And you’ll come soon, Margery?”

“I will indeed.”

She trotted off down the bank of the stream, leaving Richard Baldwin to stare in surprise at his daughter’s sudden familiarity. But of this, Margery saw nothing. She was too deeply sunk in thought. She knew now why Miles Nutter had been on that unlikely road. He had been visiting the mill, and Margery could think of no reason why he should not. But why in the world could he not have said so?

She passed through Barley, found the Pendle Water, and decided to follow it down. She knew she could get home that way, and this grassy track was set about with arching trees whose cool shade looked attractive. Margery wanted to think.

There could be no doubt that Miles Nutter had been at the mill. Grace had distinctly said that Miles had not spoken of the chapman---

Margery whistled softly and called herself a fool. It was suddenly so obvious. For Grace had not spoken of Master Nutter, nor even of Miles Nutter. She had simply spoken of Miles. And Grace, as Margery had just learned, was not one to use a plain Christian name without some encouragement.

Margery dismounted and sat herself on the grassy bank. She wanted to think this out, and she was asking herself where her wits had been this day. If she supposed that something existed between Miles and Grace, that could certainly account for his being unwilling to ride to the mill at Margery’s side. It might account, too, for old Richard’s seeming displeasure when he had met Miles escorting Margery from Goldshaw the other day.

The shade was cool, for the bank was thick with pine and larch and rowan. Margery stretched herself comfortably as she considered this. It was easy enough to suppose that Miles Nutter had two faces, that he was paying court to her and Grace at the same time; there need be nothing unbelievable in that. But could she think that Miles was paying court to her? Certainly he was showing very little ardour. And if he had little ardour, why should he wantonly lay up trouble for himself?

Margery sighed with perplexity, and her thoughts turned to that chilling tale of Margaret Baldwin. If this girl had been at all like the cool and friendly Grace, it was no matter for wonder that Richard Baldwin was savage against the witches. He was not a man to doubt a witch’s power to give effect to her malice. Again Margery sighed. She had not this easy certainty. After what she had seen at the Malkin Tower the other day, she did not doubt the malice; but she did doubt the power.

There was a sudden rustle in the sloping bank above. Leaves swayed and parted, and Jennet Device came slithering down the steep grass, ending on her back at Margery’s feet.

“ ‘Lo!” said Jennet cheerfully. “I’ve been looking.”

“Looking at what, Jennet?” Margery was smiling at the child, almost thankful for her interruption.

“You.” Jennet’s answer was characteristically blunt. “You-- sitting like that.”

Her eyes strayed to the grazing horse, and it suddenly dawned on Margery that the saddle-bags were the point of interest. She laughed.

“I’m sorry, Jennet. I don’t think there’s any cheese today. Let’s look, shall we?”

They explored the bags together and found a pair of apples, which Jennet seemed to think an acceptable substitute. She sank her white teeth into one without delay, while Margery stretched on the grass again.

“I saw you Sunday,” said Jennet suddenly.

“Did you? Where?”

“Church.”

The scene in the churchyard came suddenly to life in Margery’s mind, and she had a quick vision of Alizon Device and Anne Redfern, and of Roger’s drastic quelling of their quarrel.

“Where were you, Jennet?” she asked.

“Hid,” said Jennet briefly.

“Why?”

“Chattox and that Anne.”

“Oh, I see.” Margery stopped to consider this queer self-possessed child. Had she cause to fear Anne Redfern?

Jennet gurgled suddenly, and spat out bits of apple. Margery realized that she was laughing.

“Did you see?” asked Jennet. “See what?”

“Alizon and that Anne. And Master Nowell. I did laugh!”

“Jennet!”

Margery was a little shocked, but Jennet was laughing merrily.

“Alizon can’t sit down,” she gurgled.

“Jennet! You shouldn’t laugh at that.”

“Why not?”

This was disconcerting. Margery had no answer ready.

“I hope Anne’s sore,” said Jennet brightly.

“Why?”

“She’s bad. They’re all bad, the Chattox. Even Granny’s feared of them. And they broke our fire-house.”

“They what?”

But Jennet was not listening. She was crouching on all fours and giving ear to something else. Then she sank back again as though reassured.

“I thought it was Alizon,” she explained. “She’s with Granny, begging in Barley.”

“You don’t seem to like Alizon?”

“She’s a bitch. I saw you this morning.”

Margery gasped. She had thought herself quick-witted, but this child’s shifts were bewildering.

“Going to Baldwin’s,” explained Jennet. “And
he
doesn’t like Alizon.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t. But why doesn’t he?”

“He chased her. And Granny too. Off his land. Granny said she’d pray for him.”

“She’d what?”

“Pray still and loud, was what she said. She did, too.”

The chill that lurked in Pendle swept over Margery again. She was getting to know it now, and to hate it. What tale was this that the child was telling? Granny must be old Demdike, the woman of the Malkin Tower. Prayer by Demdike? What sort of prayer, and to Whom? And ‘still’, in Jennet’s usage, would mean ‘unceasingly’. Margery twitched with discomfort, and Jennet munched steadily at the second apple.

“And what happened?”

Margery spoke at last, and her own voice sounded strange to her.

“A girl died,” said Jennet briefly. “At Baldwin’s.”

She twisted suddenly round, and pushed her fair hair back from her forehead to show a dry white scar.

“Alizon!” she said. “When she was buried.”

“When who was buried, Jennet?”

“Margaret. Alizon was drunk. She threw a pot at me. That’s why---“

Jennet stopped abruptly and crouched tensely. Then she was away up the grassy bank, wobbling like an excited rabbit. There was a flutter of leaves, and she was gone.

Margery jumped to her feet. Faintly, up the track, she heard voices, and she knew at once that this must be Demdike and her Alizon. And at that she realized that she, like Jennet, had no wish to be seen by them, by this Alizon who threw pots, and this Demdike who prayed so still and loud. Before they had rounded the bend, Margery was at horse again, riding through the woodland to the road, to home, and sanity.

With Michaelmas upon them, Roger grew concerned over the matter of a Constable.

Churchwardens and Overseers, he explained, were elected at Easter, but the Constable at Michaelmas. The election lay with the Vestry, and the Vestry, said Roger, were as laggard as so many slugs; for here was Michaelmas upon them, and no man yet named to succeed Jim Wilsey in his distasteful office. Roger grew perturbed. It was not proper, he said, for the Forest hamlets to be without a Constable; and moreover the Quarter Sessions were at hand, and the Bench would have a sharp word to say if they heard of such neglect. As usual, it was Roger who had to see to it, and he took such a tone with the Twelve who made the Vestry that they hastily met and as hastily elected one Hargreaves of Goldshaw to be Constable for the forthcoming year. Once the election had been done, the office could not be refused, and the Twelve spared no time on Hargreaves’ anguished protests; they went to their homes and left him to it.

Roger was not pleased. The Twelve, he said, had not between them wit enough to furnish out a maggot. Did not all men know that this Hargreaves was a rank papist, only just this side recusancy? And was that a judicious choice? But there was nothing to be done now that the election had been lawfully made. Roger had to accept it, and Margery attended him as Clerk when Henry Hargreaves, Yeoman, of Goldshaw Booth, was sworn before the Justice in the ancient forms.

She eyed this Hargreaves with interest as he took the oath He was all brown. He had jerkin and breeches of brown. He had a brown and sunburned face, big and smiling. He had twinkling brown eyes and a crop of brown hair; a big fellow, plump, well fed, and sure of himself. He had a big jovial voice, and he said cheerily that he knew nothing of Constable’s work but would see what he could make of it. He would need, he said, some instruction; and Roger tersely told him that he would get it.

Then Hargreaves turned to Margery and told her, to her surprise, that he had a message for her.

“It’s from Tony Nutter,” he explained. “He and I are neighbours up in Goldshaw, and he’d have you know that you’ll be welcome at his house when next you please to ride that way.”

She found that heartening. She was pleased that Tony had remembered her, and she was pleased to have a reason for calling on him again; she wanted to learn more about his daughter who had died, so she thanked this Hargreaves politely, and considered him anew. Apparently he was on good terms with Tony Nutter, and because of that, and because they were both papists, she supposed they might have the same outlook on affairs and people. Margery had not forgotten Tony’s warm words about Roger, and if this Hargreaves shared that sentiment he might make a more helpful Constable than Roger seemed disposed to expect.

On that she left him, perceiving that he and Roger had much to discuss. But two days later she acted on the invitation Hargreaves had brought, and she rode unheralded into Goldshaw. Tony Nutter came out himself to help her unhorse, while the old servitor hovered behind him to lead the beast away.

Anthony led her in at once and took her to his sister, who received her smilingly and cut short her polite apologies.

“We’re glad to see you,” she said. “We wished you to come. That’s why Tony sent the message.”

She went to see to the cake and ale, leaving Tony to help Margery from her cloak.

“We expected you,” he said. “Harry brought your answer.”

“Harry?”---

“Neighbour Hargreaves, should I say? Our new Constable. And what does Roger Nowell say to that?”

Margery hesitated. It might not be tactful to repeat Roger’s comments to a fellow-papist. Fortunately Margaret Crook’s return provided a diversion.

“What’s this about neighbour Hargreaves?” she asked.

Tony took his ale to the hearth and leaned comfortably against the chimney-shelf.

“I was asking what Roger Nowell thinks of him as Constable,” he replied.

“He should be pleased.” Mistress Crook nodded vigorously. “Harry’s a good fellow, and he’s an honest man too, which is more than can be said of some we’ve had as Constables. He’ll be a very proper Constable. Everybody knows that. They wouldn’t have made him Constable if they hadn’t. This cake’s not what it should be, is it? It’s sad as Lent. It’s those elm logs, Tony. I’ve told you before, you can’t keep a proper heat with elm.”

“Then we’ll have more of the ash.” Tony was smiling at his sister’s chatter. “But of Harry as Constable, proper’s not the word that all would use.” He looked whimsically at Margery. “I hear you’ve been at Wheathead?”

“Why yes. But some days ago.”

She was asking herself how he knew. There was a warning in that, she thought. Everybody seemed to know everything in Pendle, and that might be worth remembering.

“Richard Baldwin might say improper,” he went on quietly. “A stout heretic, our Richard--which Harry is not. You knew that?”

His question was to Margery, and it embarrassed her. She had no tactful answer ready. Fortunately he did not wait for one.

“Harry Hargreaves holds to the Faith of his fathers,” he went on, looking very straightly at her. “So does his wife, and so do I, and .Margaret here. And that’s the core of the matter. He’s an odd choice for Constable.”

His sister’s chatter filled the silence as he ended.

“I think he’ll be a very proper Constable,” she insisted. “And I’m sure everybody else will think so too, except a few sourfaces.”

“What about our Alice? She’s heretic enough, and a sourface too.”

“Oh--Alice?” Mistress Crook seemed disconcerted. “I’m sure Alice will give credit where credit’s due. Alice speaks fair of everyone.”

“Aye, so she--speaks. And talk of the Devil! Who’s this?”

They all looked to the window as a horseman rode up. Margaret Crook came to her feet delightedly.

“It’s Miles,” she said. “I’m so pleased. He could not have come better, bless him!”

She hurried out, and Tony, with an amused glance at Margery, strolled after her. Margery sat stiffly, her lips tight with annoyance. In her opinion, Miles could not have come worse. She had thought herself in a fair way to learning what she wanted to know, and now there would be no more of it. And here, in this house, she could not deal with Miles Nutter as she wished to. She thought his coming most inopportune.

What he thought of it himself, she could not decide. He came in with his aunt, and greeted Margery civilly and without apparent embarrassment. She followed his lead and the proper civilities were exchanged. But thereafter it was Mistress Crook who led the idle talk, and Miles and Margery did no more than follow politely. Tony stayed by the hearth in a silence prolonged enough to set Margery wondering what thoughts were stirring in his shrewd, observant head.