Mist Over Pendle (34 page)

It was nightfall of the morrow when they were home again, and at once Margery entered on some busy days. She could not, for very shame, have everything done for her by sempstresses, and there was work in plenty for herself and Anne Sowerbutts. There was sarcenet and saye to be made into petticoats, gloves to embroider, white lace to be worked into collars, and a new hat of real beaver fur to be trimmed and plumed. Then she had to leave the work half done while she rode with Roger to Preston again, to try the gowns and kirtle and buy more threads and laces. She was far too busy to pine for anybody, and she had scarcely a thought of Alice Nutter.

Only once did Pendle intrude itself upon her. In the week in which they were to leave, she had an unexpected encounter. She had walked with Roger through the stables, and she chose to return alone through the back of the house. This brought her past the kitchen, and as she passed its open door her keen ears picked from the chatter a voice she thought she knew. She stopped, turned, and marched into the kitchen; and at once there was an excited yelp as Jennet Device came scampering up to her.

Margery was as pleased as she was surprised. She had a persistent liking for the grey-eyed Jennet, and it was weeks since she had seen the child.

“ ‘Lo,” said Jennet in her matter-of-fact tones. “You well again?”

“Well?” Margery permitted herself a blink of surprise. “I’ve not been sick, Jennet.”

“No?” Jennet seemed unconvinced, but she was quite unperturbed ; and suddenly she bit fiercely into a huge piece of apple tart someone had given her. “You fell off a horse,” she added cheerfully.

“Did I? How did you know that?”

“Saw you.”

Margery became interested, and her interest sharpened as she asked herself how much this child knew. Jennet’s attack on the tart had smeared her to the ears with apple syrup, and she was now unconcernedly licking her fingers as she wiped it off.

“When was this, Jennet?” asked Margery quietly.

“Martin’s Day.”

The strong white teeth sank into the tart again, and it was plain that there would be an interval before Jennet could possibly speak again. Margery thought quickly, and suddenly realized that there were three kitchen-maids in front of her, all with bulging eyes and gaping ears; and there was no telling what this queer child would say next. Margery decided to take no risks.

“Come with me, Jennet,” she said, to the obvious dismay of the maids. She left the kitchen and made for Roger’s parlour. Jennet, busy removing a second layer of syrup from her ears, trotted behind like an obedient dog.

It was the half-hour before dinner, and Roger was sitting quietly with his ale when the two of them walked in.

“This,” said Margery briefly, “is Jennet Device, Alizon’s sister.”

“The Devil she is!” Roger turned in his chair and looked keenly at the child, who returned his stare unabashed and went on wiping her ears. Then Roger’s face relaxed and his smile appeared.

“I remember you, little maid,” he told her solemnly, and Jennet, as if she liked his tone, broke into a grin.

“What’s that on your fingers?”

“Apple.”

Jennet spoke the word between licks, and Margery expanded it for her.

“Jennet’s been eating apple tart,” she exclaimed. “She’s quick at it, but not neat.”

“So it seems.” Roger contemplated Jennet with open amusement. “You like apple tart, little maid?”

A gurgle from Jennet seemed to mean that she did.

“Is there apple tart at the Malkin Tower?”

Jennet shook her head, and Roger’s smile broadened.

“Are there no apples there?”

“No oven.”

The terse answer was so prompt that Margery burst out laughing as she saw its meaning; if no more than apples had been lacking, Jennet would have come by them somehow.

“And to what,” asked Roger, “do I owe this pleasure?”

Margery realized that this question was for her, and she answered it quickly.

“I found Jennet in the kitchen--with a half-dozen wenches cocking ears. And Jennet says she saw my fall at Martinmas.”

Roger seldom needed long explanations, and Margery read in his eyes that he had seen the point at once. But his immediate response was indirect. He spoke again to Jennet.

“In the kitchen? Do you want to eat dinner there?”

Jennet’s face lit with eagerness, and the watchful Margery knew that a bait had been offered and taken.

“You shall if you wish,” said Roger carelessly. “Did you see anyone else at Martinmas?”

Jennet began to count on her fingers.

“Five,” she said at length. Then she stood waiting quietly, as if her shrewd mind had understood that she must answer obediently if she wanted her dinner.

“Five?” Roger gave the word a slight stress. “And who were they?”

Jennet ticked them off on her sticky fingers.

“The gentleman,” she began, “the one in green. And two serving men. And a papist---“

“That’s four.” Roger’s voice betrayed nothing. “And who else?”

“There was Anne. She was hid.”

Roger’s face stayed impassive, but for a moment his eyes sought Margery’s. Then he turned to Jennet again. “Which Anne was that?”

“Redfern.”

“Was it? And was she hid with you?” The little head shook vigorously.

“Not me with Anne. Pig-dung’s sweeter.”

“Well said, little maid! But whither did these people go?” Jennet wrinkled her forehead, and her sticky fingers began to count again.

“The papist rode off. The gentleman after him--but he didn’t catch him.”

“Why not?”

“Too late.” Jennet grinned broadly at Margery in explanation of that, and Roger went tactfully to his next question. “Where did the papist go when he wasn’t caught?”

“Don’t know,” said Jennet slowly.

“Guess?”

“Goldshaw.”

Roger made no comment, but his swift glance at Margery showed that he was impressed by Jennet’s knowledge. “And Anne Redfern,” he said. “Where did she go?”

“Rough Lee.”

There was no hesitation this time; the answer came pat, and Margery saw Roger’s knuckles whiten as he gripped his chair.

“Why did she go to the Rough Lee?”

“Tell our Alice.”

“Impudent child!” But there was no reproof in Roger’s tone. “Why should Anne Redfern tell our--tell Mistress Nutter?”

“She’s frighted of her.”

“Is she? And are you?” The little head nodded. “And do you go there to tell her things?” “Not me!”

“Why not--if you’re frighted?”

“She can’t catch
me.”

“Well said, little maid!” Roger laughed, and then seemed to decide that Jennet had had enough. “You shall have your dinner now. Do you come here often?”

Jennet pursed her lips and considered that cautiously.

“Now and then,” she admitted at length.

“I’ve not seen you here before.” Roger laughed again as Jennet began to look mutinous. “Which means that when you come here you don’t let me see you. Is that it?”

With a little hesitation, Jennet nodded again.

“It’s very well, Jennet.” Roger was smiling openly at her. “You need not hide next time. I give you leave to come again.” He turned to Margery. “See she has dinner in the kitchen.”

“I will. Come along, Jennet.”

She made for the door, and she had pushed Jennet through it when Roger spoke again.

“If there’s another apple tart, give it her. She’s earned it.”

When Margery came back to the parlour, Roger had left his chair and was leaning against the chimney-shelf. He looked up as she came in.

“I think we know now,” he said slowly, “how Alice Nutter was able to send some hurtful words to Lathom. But that’s the lesser matter. What of this child?”

“Jennet? She’s shrewd for her age. And well informed.”

“Uncommonly well informed. And what she does not know she guesses--shrewdly, as you say. But consider---“ Roger was speaking soberly now. “She’s shrewd and knowledgeable. She has two sharp eyes and a trick of hiding herself. And even when she’s not hid, who’d take heed of such a child? She may see all and be seen by none. She’s had some favours from you and she has hopes of more. And as far as we may judge, we have her goodwill. Now, add that up.”

“You mean---“ Margery hesitated. “You mean that she could be, in some sort, a spy?”

“She was born to that trade. Nor, I think, should we scruple to use her. We’re in no case for niceties. We’ve fair warrant for a spy. So look to it, and keep her fee’d.”

“Fee’d?” Margery laughed. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll keep her fed.”

Three days later they rode to Marton.

Tom Heber, red, plump and jovial, greeted them noisily. From behind him a swarm of children were released to fling themselves at Roger with whoops of delight; and into this uproar came Anne Heber, laughing and protesting, to give welcome to her father. Margery hung back, and watched with eyes that missed nothing. Anne Heber, she noted, did not take after Roger. She was a pleasant, fair-haired woman, with a soft, clear skin and calm, friendly eyes; at seventeen she had probably been fragile and alluring; at twenty-nine she looked broad, placid and capable. Margery considered the six children, and thought them sufficient explanation of that.

Margery was presented, and Anne showed herself friendly. She had one eye for Margery and one for the orange-tawny, and she seemed to approve of both. Then she led within doors, and Margery, following her up the stair, had a backward glance at a Roger who was new to her--a Roger sitting in the arch of the great door and bestowing sugared plums, in strict rotation, on the clamouring children. Evidently he was an old friend to them, and Margery was first surprised at that and then surprised at herself for not foreseeing it.

Dusk was on the house when she came down the stair, and the candles lit her flame satin to a glow that matched the scarlet gown. Below her was an excited buzz, for this was Christmas Eve and it was open house to all who came. Expectancy was in the air, and the boughs of evergreen that hung from wall and ceiling gave mystery as well as colour. Margery went down excitedly, very willing to take her part in these Christmas revellings, whatever they might be. On that she knew herself to be ignorant, for Christmas had always been a mild and decorous season in her mother’s puritan home. She knew also that Christmas in the North Parts had the repute of being never mild and not always decorous; but what the North Country customs actually were, she did not know. She had asked Roger, and he had firmly refused to enlighten her; he had retired instead behind an impish grin and had told her that she would learn.

She did. There were plenty to teach her, and they found her a willing pupil. It was a mixed company: an Esquire or two, half a dozen gentlemen and a score of yeomen, all with their wives and the elders of their sons and daughters. Already they had forgotten distinctions, and it was hard to tell in the throng which was the gentleman and which the yeoman. But at least none was in doubt about Margery, for though she had not contrived it her late appearance turned to her profit; it meant that they were all there to see her when she halted, half way down the stair, to survey the scene. And see her they did; the warmth of her flame and scarlet, the red glint the candles had found in her hair, her widening eyes and her cheeks flushed with excitement, all joined to make a picture rare in Craven; and a burly yeoman, taking the freedom that Christmas gave, raised his ale-mug in a cheerful swing and set the company turning to see what this apparition was. Roger was prompt on that; he slipped through the throng, gay in his wine-red velvet, and came to the foot of the stair to take her hand and announce her formally to the company.

It set her breath fluttering. Quiet days at Lambeth had not prepared her for this before so many. But she faced them boldly, even if the hand that clutched Roger’s did feel moist and sticky; and then, firmly telling herself that her flame satin, with its yellow lace and French farthingale, was second to nothing in this company, she made her curtsey twice--first to Roger alone, and then to them all; and while she held herself, poised and still, in that most gracious gesture, a wild and incongruous thought came shooting through her mind--a thought of sister Prudence come by some miracle into this room; Prudence, with her hair lifting and her jaw dropping at the sight of her young sister now. It was too much for Margery; her mind leapt at it, and with a crinkling forehead she went off into gurgling laughter.

That conquered them all, and at once she found herself one of them, and therefore at her ease; and with that came confidence, and she plunged joyously into the whirl of it. There was dancing, and of this she was nervous, for she knew little enough about it; dancing had not been one of the things her family had taught her. But to her infinite relief, it was Roger who first took her hand and led her out; and if her performance in the Galliard was not skilful, it matched in that the performances of many others in the company. They did not, she thought, have much love for the Galliard; they danced it once, apparently as a concession to the forms of things, and thereafter they abandoned it and kept themselves to what Margery would have called the Branle. The French had called it that when they devised it, and in southern England, where men looked respectfully to France for guidance in polite affairs, it was still so called; but here in the North Parts, where it was not the way of men to look respectfully to anybody, they called it the Brawl; and after that manner they danced it. It gave Margery little trouble; for placing of feet, as she soon perceived, counted for very little in the Brawl; all that mattered was that at every opportunity everybody kissed somebody. The staid and dignified sat cautiously aside, but the younger yeomanry went at it with zest, and they plainly thought it a vast improvement on the Galliard.

Roger evidently considered that he had done his duty when he led Margery in the Galliard. After that he left her to fend for herself; and she fended very well in a gay press of yeomen’s sons and daughters. She learnt the Brawl; she learnt their quick blunt repartee; she learnt the purpose of the sprigs of mistletoe that hid so coyly in the hanging evergreens. In no long time Margery was enjoying herself; this sort of Christmas seemed to her to have much to commend it, and when she Said as much to a red-haired young yeoman who was just then at her side, he laughed excitedly and told her that if she wanted to learn more she should hold tight to Old Ball’s tail; nor, as he swept her again into the Brawl, would he tell her what he meant by that odd remark.