Mist Over Pendle (20 page)

“Dead?” he asked.

Margery bent her head and forced her mind to move calmly. It was an infant boy she held, and seemingly not a week old. He lay inert in her arms, still and quiet, and when she tore her gloves off, her chilled fingers could feel no warmth in the tiny body.

“I ... I think so,” she answered slowly.

She felt again and as her fingers moved over the child’s forehead she drew them back in surprise. She felt again. It was as she had thought. The child’s face was wet.

“Exposed to die,” said Roger softly, and his voice was colder than the night.

Margery looked round her, wondering. There was water in a tiny rill nearby, but the stones at her feet were dry. Evidently the rain-shower had not yet reached so far. Then the cloud-fringe was on the moon again, and nothing but the loom of things remained. Margery shivered and pulled her cloak tight as the rain came down in a hissing wave.

A clatter of hooves broke into her thoughts as the two servants walked their horses into the circle. The man who had fled came trudging with them, his wrists made fast to Tom Peyton’s saddle. He was still hatless and he had lost his cloak. That, and no more, could be seen of him in the gloom.

“Make him secure and walk him along,” cracked Roger. “He has matter to explain.”

Margery came suddenly to her feet, thinking that she had been bemused for too long.

“I’m taking him home,” she said shrilly, and she was speaking of the child, not the man. “Maybe life’s still a spark.”

She found her stirrup somehow, and without asking any leave she was away, riding swiftly and dangerously, her right arm under her cloak pressing the small cold body to her own.

“God’s Grace!” called Roger, as she went swaying into the rainswept dark. A minute later he came up with her at a full gallop, and he bore her close company through the miles that lay ahead.

The rain made the night its own.

The child was dead.

When Margery was at last convinced of that, and had laid him down in decency, she trailed wearily to the parlour and told Roger.

He was rid of his boots and cloak and stood brooding by the dying fire, his wineglass in his hand.

“What else?” he asked curtly, and stretched out to pour wine for her.

“Drink it,” he told her sharply. “By your face, you’ve need of it.”

She did as he bade her, and then dropped heavily into her chair. For the first time in her young life she was feeling at the end of her strength, and she sprawled limply, her face white and strained.

Roger bent down, stirred the fire, and mended it.

“I think Nick Banister was right,” he said. “Evil is the just word. And now there’s justice to do.”

He straightened himself and looked keenly at Margery.

“You’ve come to no harm,” he said. “Sleep’s your only need, and you may take it to your heart that you’ve borne yourself well this night. There’s more in you than I looked for when I summoned you to Pendle.”

That went to heart; and it roused her, as perhaps he had meant it to do. The fire, too, was springing up as the dry wood flared and crackled, and the warmth of it was reaching her. Between that and the wine she began to feel a glow, and a touch of colour crept back into her cheeks. She got to her feet and slipped out of her cloak, and with Roger’s help she rid herself of her boots. Then she contrived a smile.

“There’s more in Pendle than I looked for when I had your summons,” she answered.

“That I’ll believe,” he said grimly, and he poured the wine again.

Footsteps rang on the boards outside; and a sharp rap on the door heralded Tom Peyton and his fellow. Wet, cold and muddy, they came in briskly, their prisoner between them, and Roger received the man with a cold and hostile stare. For a moment he said nothing, standing in silence and looking the man over with keen attention.

Margery twisted in her chair and mustered her attention to do the same. She saw a stocky, well-built man of middle height and perhaps in his early thirties; thick-set, black of hair, and blue of chin. He held himself erect and returned Roger’s stare with something like composure. He was in a pitiable state; he was still without hat or cloak, soaked with rain and shivering with cold; his sallow cheeks were white, his eyes heavy, and he looked tired to desperation. But he stood quietly and without protest, and he took a quick glance at Margery with eyes that showed intelligence in spite of their fatigue.

“That’s enough, Tom,” Roger was speaking quietly. “You two go for warmth and a drink. You’ve earned both, and I can do what remains. Off you go--but stay near the bell.”

Tom looked relieved. It seemed more than he had hoped for, and the two of them disappeared quickly enough. Roger looked steadily at the man before him.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Thompson.”

The sound of his voice made Margery look up sharply. It had the accent of the country--yet it was not wholly of the country. She listened keenly.

“No doubt.” Roger spoke calmly. “But your true name?”

The man stayed silent, calmly meeting Roger’s eyes, but saying nothing.

“What’s that about your neck?”

Roger snapped the question suddenly, and the man stirred uneasily. But still he said nothing, and Margery, looking intently, saw round his neck what appeared to be a thin silk cord. Roger snapped again.

“I mean what’s about it now--not what’s likely to be about it when the Assizes are done.”

The man drew breath sharply. Then he drooped his head as if in acquiescence. He took the cord between his fingers and drew from within his shirt a small silver Cross, delicately wrought in filigree. He let it hang by the cord, and he stood again composed and silent.

“It’s as I supposed,” said Roger slowly. “I’ll guess your name. Southworth, is it not? And noted as a seditious Jesuit?” The man inclined his head again.

“I am Christopher Southworth,” he answered quietly, and his country accent was gone; this was the voice of education.

“And a Jesuit?” asked Roger.

“No.” The answer was firm.

“At the least then, a Seminary Priest?”

“I am of Douai.”

‘‘Which we call a Seminary. And here to preach sedition?”

“I preach no sedition.”

“We’ll say, then, a Massing Priest, sent to do that Rite?”

The man bowed again.

“I am of the English Mission,” he said simply.

Roger’s voice hardened.

“Is it a part of that Mission to bring cold death to children?”

A faint flush crept into the man’s pale cheeks. “I brought to that child, not death, but life,” he answered deliberately.

“Life?” There was anger in Roger’s voice. “That was my word. Life, I brought.”

There was silence as the men stared at each other. Then Margery jumped from her chair in agitation. She had seen his meaning.

“Oh!” she burst out. “Oh! He’s a priest--and the child’s face--it was wet---“

She stopped, her breath coming quickly, and looked wildly from the one man to the other.

“Grace of God!” said Roger softly.

“Exactly that,” came the quiet rejoinder.

Roger retreated to the hearth, and his fingers fidgeted uneasily.

“Let us have this plain,” he said. “You are telling us, Master Seminary, that you gave Baptism to that child?”

“No less.”

“The child being then alive?”

“There were movements.”

“You heard us coming?”

“On those stones--I did.”

“And you stayed for us?”

“I stayed to do my Office.”

“God’s Grace, man! I’ll own your courage.”

Roger’s eyes dropped as if this embarrassed him. Margery could hold silence no longer.

“By your leave, sir,” she said, “this man is no doubt a papist, but I do not think he is a rogue.”

“Nor I. But what of that?”

“By his looks, sir, he is in very poor and unhappy case. May he not have some comforts?”

Roger stood impassive, his face betraying nothing; but he gave it longer thought than Margery had expected. Then he nodded slightly,.

“Contrive them,” he said shortly.

She took him at his word, and moved her chair forward to the fire. Her eyes gave the invitation, but Christopher Southworth hesitated till he saw Roger’s wave of assent; then he moved forward and sank heavily into the chair.

“My thanks,” he said quietly.

Margery looked round. She had barely sipped her second glass of wine, and now she took it up, set it brimming, and gave it to the priest. Then, seeing him still shiver, she picked her cloak from the press where she had thrown it, and set it about his wet shoulders. He looked up as she did so.

He drank the wine in silence, and when the glass was empty and he would have set it down, it was Roger himself who leaned across and filled it again.

“A gracious charity,” said Christopher Southworth. “At least you do not join malice to heresy.”

“I’ve faults enough without that,” said Roger tersely. “But of this child that’s dead--why thought you that he stood in need of Baptism?”

The priest considered that before he spoke.

“I came to those stones,” he said at length, “on my way to--to where I had to go. And by the stones I saw the child. I saw him plain, the moon being then very bright. And seeing him so, all naked, and in that spot and upon this night, I made bold to guess who had set him there and why.”

He hesitated, and Roger had to prompt him.

“Your guess being?”

“I make no doubt, Master Nowell, that you well know what all men know--that this Forest of Pendle gives harbourage and nurture to a very vile brood of witches?”

“I do know. You suppose, then, that the witches set out this child?”

“What else? Is it not their way?”

“That I know not--except that this child is not the first. Why should witches do such murder?”

A touch of surprise came over the priest.

“You ask me that?”

“I do. How shall it profit them?”

“It might profit their hellish Master.” The priest’s voice had become very grave. “They are a very vile and wanton crew, damned of God and damned of man, wholly given to the work of evil.”

He paused, and his face wrinkled with disgust.

“A baby’s fat may make an ointment,” he went on slowly, “and such an ointment may be used to kill. They know of herbs to season it---“

“Herbs!” Roger was sharp on that, and his eyes met Margery’s. “What herbs, if you please?”

“I do not know. I am not initiate in evil.”

Roger smiled grimly.

“In spite of which, Master Southworth, it seems that you have more than an idle knowledge of these things.”

“Is my duty less?”

“Duty? In the English Mission?”

“In the Church of God. For how shall His servants combat what they do not know?” Roger glanced at Margery.

“What of Ormerod?” he wondered. “What do he and his like know of this, save texts to be cited? I doubt, sir papist, that so much is known in the Church of this realm.”

“I spoke of the Church of God,” was the dry answer.

“God’s Grace!” Roger was smiling faintly. “For a man so circumstanced, you’ve an impudence that warms me. But you have not yet answered my question. Granting that the hellish sisters did expose that child, why suppose him to be not yet baptized? And why such a death?”

“It is the ritual of Hell. Laid upon the stones as a sacrifice to their Master. But a child baptized is a child of God, not acceptable to Hell.”

“You reason shrewdly. And I say again, you have more than idle knowledge.”

A hint of a smile greeted this.

“It’s no matter for marvel. Such knowledge is not hard to come by. There are books in plenty, and of authority.”

“Books?” Roger smiled at the thought. “There’s Foxe’s
Martyrs,
to be sure, and some wild tales in Hollinshed. And the King’s own
Demonology,
which I was lately at charges for.” He laughed. “I sweated the half way through it and find it an endless talk between one Philomathes who knows too little and one Epistemon who knows too much. But what says Margery to this? You have some show of learning.”

Margery scoured her memory for fragments of brotherly talk.

“I remember a Dialogue by one Daneau of Geneva,” she said. “And another by a Master Gifford. And there’s a Discourse by one Perkins. But these, from what I’ve heard, have no great show of authority.”

“Authority,” said Master Southworth crisply, “should not be sought in heretics. If you would have authority, read Bodin or Delrio or Remi. Or Grilland or Boguet or Sinistrari. Or best of all, the
Malleus Malificarum.
These, truly, teach with authority.”

Roger disposed swiftly of this catalogue.

“They are not here to be read,” he said.

“That’s to be deplored.” The priest spoke earnestly. “If I had known your need before I was taken, I would have contrived something. As it is---“

He broke off and shrugged helplessly.

“Aye, as it is.” Roger spoke slowly and soberly. “As it is, sir, you’re taken. And I, sir, am a Justice.”

His tone was warning enough, and the priest rose quietly to his feet.

“You know the Statute, Master Southworth? You are beyond doubt what it calls a priest made in the parts beyond the seas according to the Order and Rites of the Romish Church. And for such a one to enter into this realm is Treason. For which it is very certain that any Judge of Assize will send you to be hanged and drawn.”

The priest said nothing, but his pale face was whiter and more haggard than before. Margery felt herself shudder. She knew as well as he did the horror that was boded. For in that sentence, drawing meant exactly what it meant when one spoke of drawing a chicken--except that the chicken had the privilege of being killed first, which the priest had not. He was hanged merely as a formality, for seconds only, before being lowered to the bench where the long knives waited, and a fire crackled to burn what the knives took out.

Margery shivered. She looked appealingly from the one man to the other; from the priest standing rigid to Roger standing with his head sunk in thought. The silence grew oppressive, and the fire crackled suddenly. It put her in mind of that other fire, and for a moment she felt sick.