Mist Over Pendle (21 page)

Roger lifted his head. He had the ghost of a smile as he addressed her.

“Will you tell me,” he asked, “how I’m to work that on a man who warms by my fire and drinks my wine?”

“Oh! You mean that he---“

“Peace!” He waved her into silence and stood in thought again.

The priest spoke quietly to Margery.

“Whatever may befall,” he said, “let me give you thanks for kindness shown to--to one who had need of it.”

But Margery did not heed him. She was looking at Roger, and Roger was acting oddly.

He walked slowly to the window and flung, back the damask curtains. The window-glass was black against the night, and the driving rain drummed noisily on it. Roger swung the wrought-iron latch and pushed the casement open. The candles flickered and the curtains billowed as the raindrops came spattering blackly on the damask. For a few moments Roger stayed, looking out into the night. Then he pulled the casement shut, and latched it lightly. He turned to the room again, leaving the curtains parted, and he spoke, as it seemed, to Margery.

“One of these nights we’ll have some rogue climb in by that window,” he said. “It’s but six feet from the ground and there’s ivy there to help.” He paused to brush raindrops from his hair. “A vile night,” he added. “Once out there, you’d not be seen by friend or foe at five paces.”

He came slowly to her as she stood by the hearth.

“If I’m to commit this fellow, we’ll need paper for the drawing of a Mittimus. We’d best go seek it.”

It was, in fact, in the press behind him, as Margery well knew. But his meaning was clear by now.

“Aye, sir,” she said. “We’d best go seek it.” And she went out with him.

When they returned the room was empty. The candles were flickering and the curtains swaying in the wind from the open window. The cloak she had lent the priest lay folded on the table; and on it, gleaming against the russet, was the silver filigree Cross

Anne Sowerbutts drew back the bed-curtains to let a flood of light come in; and Margery woke reluctantly. The strong light set her blinking, and she turned away from it to bury her head again. But Anne was insistent. She had a word from Master Nowell, she said; and that made Margery turn again, to stretch and yawn, and then to listen. It had been a short night after the exertion and excitement, and she had heavy eyes in an aching head. But she made herself listen, and she learned that Roger would ride out as soon as he had breakfasted and would welcome her company if she chose to give it. If not, she might lie abed; but he wished to have her answer.

She made the effort and found him heartily at table, seemingly no whit the worse for his late hours. The rain had passed now; there were wisps of white driving across a blue sky, and a pale sunlight was flooding over the breakfast table.

“I’ve spoiled your sleep,” he told her smilingly as she sank into her sunlit chair. “Spare your denials. You’re still blinking like a noontide owl. But a ride to Goldshaw will blow that away. I think we’ll rouse Hargreaves.”

A lifted eyebrow was all the answer he got to that. Margery had her mouth full.

“Hargreaves,” he went on affably, “was little use enough last night, so we’ll let him be busied this fine morning. He shall stir his great hulk and seek for parents who mourn a child.”

Margery checked in her eating and called herself callous. In this pleasant sunlight she had forgotten that little helpless body. But Roger was speaking again, and now more gravely.

“That we found a dead child last night,” he was saying, “will soon be known to all. That’s for the common ear. That a man was taken and contrived an escape could be given out also if it had to be. It’s a thing that could be explained, though if we don’t brag of it there’ll be few to ask of it. But that the man who escaped was more than a nameless rogue--that is for you and me alone. Is that understood?”

“Aye, sir. And secure.”

“It had best be. That same Statute has severities for those who comfort a Massing Priest. And one thing more---“

He paused, and his gaze was steady on the brown leather jerkin she was wearing with her russets. Then she understood, and her face coloured. Bright against the brown leather, she had the silver Cross.

He smiled as he saw that she had understood.

“Our papist had a discretion,” he told her. “He wore it, but within. Do you the same. A Cross, to be sure, is not in itself a papist thing. It’s not like a Crucifix or an Agnus Dei. A loyal subject may wear one. But you’d best not let that one be seen. It’s not of common work--and it may be known in Pendle.”

That was not to be disputed. Margery had already noted that folk in Pendle had a trick of knowing the affairs of others, and when she rode out with Roger into the sunlight the silver Cross was safely masked within her jerkin. They had fresh horses this morning, restless and eager beasts who made little of the road to Goldshaw; it was the road that led to Tony Nutter’s, but a little short of that, a lane branched off and brought them to a squat and firm-built farmstead. Harry Hargreaves pushed his cheerful face out of a byre as they rode up.

If Roger supposed that his visit would disconcert a none too zealous Constable, he was wrong. Hargreaves’ face lit with pleasure when he saw them.-He welcomed them warmly and insisted on taking them to his parlour, where his wife, a tiny and bird-like woman, almost laughably small against her great husband, joined in his welcome and gave them hospitality that was ahead of the hour. For a moment Margery suspected that here was effusiveness meant to allay wrath, but she was soon sure that it was not; these Hargreaves were not of that breed.

Roger related briefly what could safely be told of the night’s doings, and Hargreaves listened stolidly. He ran his fingers through his brown curls, and his brown face slipped into a twinkling smile that went oddly with his grave words.

“It’s bad, sir,” he said. “It’s worse than bad. I think the Devil stalks in old Pendle these days, and there’s none of us that’s safe--not us, nor our children either. Whose child was it, sir?”

“That’s for the Constable to discover. I’m here to bid you begin.”

“I’ll look to that, sir. I’ll not spare trouble if we can lay these limbs of Hell in gaol. They’re beyond fitness to live. They should be burned from the body of us, sir, burned out root and branch.”

The man’s earnestness was plain, and Margery observed it with interest; it gave her the thought that if the Constable and the Churchwarden were at odds on all else, they were seemingly at one in this; it might have been Richard Baldwin speaking.

But Roger remained cool.

“Burned, do you say?” he answered. “It’s hanging, not burning, that’s provided, and not that till there’s proof. And proof’s what we lack. Why do you say it’s these limbs of Hell?”

“Does a soul doubt it, sir?”

“Maybe not--in Pendle. But a Judge at Lancaster might. Some proof is needed. If you can furnish it, or even the shade of it, I’ll commit.”

“Aye, sir. The whole damned coven. But more of the ale, sir? And you, mistress?”

But Roger was not to be tempted. He had overmuch to do, he said, and at that he took a cordial leave and went trotting down the lane, Margery beside him.

“It’s plaguey odd,” he said suddenly, as they came out of the lane. “That fellow was positively joyed to see us. I’ll swear he was. I’d thought he’d be shy of us this morning after what he didn’t do last night. But not a whit! He was joyed to see us, and I’m asking why.”

He halted to consider it, and Margery countered his question with another.

“Did you mark, sir, that when you spoke of that poor child he showed no surprise?”

Roger’s head jerked up.

“Where do you steer?” he asked sharply. Then his eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly. “You’ve wits like a whetted razor. And you see truly. It was even so. No surprise at all. But you’ll have some thought behind this?”

“I asked myself if it was indeed news to him.”

“God’s Grace, girl! You go deeper than makes for comfort. But it could be so. Then who’s been talking?” ‘

Margery studied her horse’s head intently.

“Not you, sir. Nor I. And I think your servants may be trusted. There remains Master Southworth.”

“Ha! Our Seminary, is it?” Roger looked round him shrewdly. “That’s well said. And I see we’re well placed for a visit to papist Nutter. A word with Tony might be of interest. He’s thick with Hargreaves.”

A short three minutes brought them to the house in the pines, and once again they had gracious and friendly welcome.

“It warms me to see you here--both of you,” said Anthony as he led them in. “I hope to see you many times again.”

“Handsomely spoken, Tony.” But Roger’s tone was dry. “To what do I owe this warmth?”

“To yourself.” Tony Nutter was not flinching from it. “Yourself, you kindle it.”

“My neighbours, I fear, seem agreed to take another view. What’s this of a dead child?”

Margery, just settling herself on the window-seat, held her breath. She had hardly expected such speed, but she saw at once the trap it concealed. Tony Nutter did not.

“Child?” he said. “Have you not heard---“

“Have you?”

The question came with a snap, and Tony stopped short as he saw what was implied. But he did not lose his poise. He stayed collected, and the dignity that was inherent in him broadened and grew plain to see.

“Master Nowell,” he said calmly. “You know as well as any man that we who are of the old Faith must needs keep an ear to the ground. Hearing’s keenest so.”

Roger nodded.

“Thus distant hooves are heard, I’m told--especially flying hooves. But let be! I’m not here to search your garrets. But of this child, Tony. Who can tell me its parents?”

“I cannot. I’ve heard it suggested---“

“I’ll not ask by whom. But what?”

“That . . . that this poor child was some witch woman’s bastard.”

“It could be.” Roger sounded doubtful. “But why?”

“It would give two reasons for . . . for what was done.”

“The other being to be rid of it?”

“Just that.”

Roger sipped his ale in silent thought. Tony Nutter stood watchful; and his sister, coming in to place cake on the table, caught his eye and for once held silence too.

“Death has some queer shapes in Pendle,” said Roger at last.

“Need you tell me that?” was the quiet answer.

“I’m sorry. You meant your daughter. I had not meant to remind you.”

Tony Nutter would have answered that, but his sister would have none of it. She had sat silent for long enough, and now she swept into the talk like a whirl of autumn leaves.

“You’re not to talk of it to him, Master Nowell. It’s bad for him. Any talk of Anne, and he can talk of naught else for the day, and he goes to his bed at night in a humour black as a pall. It’s more than bad for him, and we’ll have more cheerful talk by your leave.”

“My most willing leave.” Roger looked her over whimsically and put her to her favourite topic. “How is Master Miles these days?”

That was enough for Mistress Crook, and she was away on it at once. Miles did excellently. He visited her each week, and never once had he let the weather stay him. But that was his way. And then Mistress Crook, among whose talents discernment seemed to have no place, fixed a beaming eye on Margery and hoped to see her and Miles visiting together again. That, she thought, had been very proper. . . .

There was some more of this, and Margery sat in discomfort. It was not a topic she wished to discuss, least of all with this garrulous lady. But to her relief, Roger was also showing signs of impatience, and they were not lost on the thoughtful Tony. He seized a moment as his sister paused for needed breath.

“You’re the soul of charity, my dear,” he said. “You give Miles all the virtues. And truly, he has at least some of them.”

“Some!” Mistress Crook sounded indignant. “Now don’t pretend not to agree with me, Tony, because you know you do. You know quite well you think the world of him. He’s as good as son and heir to you now.”

“Heir indeed, but not quite son,” said her brother quietly. “But I think we detain our guests.”

Roger had obviously had enough, and he was already on his feet and tying his cloak. They stayed to take courteous leave, and Anthony walked out with them to the horses which the old servitor had in readiness. He stayed by the gate as they rode away, and once again Margery found herself feeling warmly for this kindly, courteous man whose life was bleak and empty. She said so to Roger, and he nodded.

“I told you once,” he said, “that in this County we do not harry papists for the sport of it. It’s such men as Tony Nutter who put us in that humour.”

They came to the Sabden brook and Roger led up the hill away from Read.

“We’re for the Newchurch next,” he said. “Best see Curate Town about that burial. But you’re thoughtful this bright morning. What is it?”

“That Master Nutter plainly knew of the child--which must surely mean Master Southworth.”

“Not a doubt of it. Nor need we doubt that when that Seminary left us he knew which house would shelter him. Like enough he’s there now. There’s another trifle too---“

“Yes?”

“If he found that house in last night’s storm, he’s no newcomer to Pendle. Though that’s to be expected. He’ll have been bred nearby. Some sprig of the Salmesbury Southworths, no doubt.”

They came to the Newchurch and found that they had had their pains for nothing; they learned at the curate’s house that there was a Theological Exercise in Burnley church that day, and Master Town was away to bear his part in it; he would not be back till the next night.

“No matter,” said Roger cheerfully. “The sun’s still high and the horses fresh. We’ll ride to Wheathead and bid the churchwarden take order for that. It’s fairly in his scope. And as he and Town are at odds like dog and bear, there may be sport in it. Turn your horse.”

Margery was not displeased. She would be glad to see Richard Baldwin, and very glad to see Grace. Moreover she was getting hungry, and the thought occurred to her that if Richard Baldwin pressed them to his table he would have no hard task with her.