Mist Over Pendle (44 page)

Matters were in this state, Roger blowing smoke of tobacco and Margery beginning to think hopefully about dinner, when a wild-eyed lad tumbled from a sweating horse and ran breathless to the great door. Roger waited for nobody. He pushed the lattice open, called the lad to him, and had his tale from him first hand; and within the minute Roger had pulled at the bell-cord and was shouting urgently for horses while he and Margery ran in haste for their riding clothes. For the lad brought a call for urgent help. The rabble was up, under Richard Baldwin and another. They were swimming a witch in the pool at Wheathead, and Hargreaves, the Constable, was hard pressed.

Then they were away, Margery staying somehow at Roger’s side, and Tom Peyton and Joe Rimmer storming along behind them. Margery took a risky glance at them and saw the bulges in their saddle-bags; and these, she guessed, meant pistols. She glanced across at Roger, and for the first time by day in Pendle she saw the sword-sheath pushing through his cloak; and she thought of Richard Baldwin.

They came out into the road, and they buried their faces in their cloaks as they turned into the wind and the stinging sleet. Roger rode like a madman, and all his preachings of safety were far behind him. His big chestnut, given his head and a touch of the spur, was away like a Fury, and Margery’s grey went scampering after the chestnut. What followed was a whirl, and she was far too occupied in keeping her seat to be able to think; she was perhaps seventy pounds lighter than Roger, and what might have been riding for him was a wild bounce for her. They went past the Newchurch, and she seemed scarcely to have noted that the place looked deserted, when they were down the hill and splashing through the Pendle Water. Then there was Barley and the lesser stream; and then the bend she knew, where the grey mill stood by the shivering pool.

Here all was familiar, and today so strange. For round the pool that was always so quiet and lonely, there was now a swaying surging rabble, perhaps a hundred of them--men and women, and even some children too. They were all wet, all cold, and all ripe for mischief. In the centre of them the press was thinner and here, bare-headed and commanding, was Richard Baldwin.

The crowd turned as they heard the horses, and those on the fringe pressed back in alarm, leaving a lane into which Roger promptly rode. He was not gentle; he forced his way ruthlessly; but he got through; and Margery, who had kept close, dismounted at his side, watchful and anxious.

Richard Baldwin, tight-lipped and stern, stood by the low stone wall and waited silently for Roger. At his side was a man whom Margery did not know, a chubby fresh-complexioned fellow with the clothes and air of a townsman; at another time he might have looked genial, but now, with his round face puckered, his podgy chin set tight, and his clothes soaked through with rain and mud, he had all the look of an angry and dangerous man. But Margery spared him no more than a glance, for behind him, on the ground, was Alizon Device; and Alizon Device was ready to be swum. She lay naked in the mud, scratched, bruised and bleeding, with the cold rain splashing on her. Her left wrist was tied to her right ankle and her right wrist to her left ankle, and her rolling eyes and twitching lips showed the extremity of her terror. Standing beyond her, muddy and dishevelled, was Harry Hargreaves, and he greeted Roger with unconcealed relief.

Roger nodded to him and turned sharply to Margery.

“Untie that girl,” he said curtly.

Richard Baldwin moved forward quickly, his face set and hard.

“Master Nowell---”

“Go to your homes--each one of you, and at once.” Roger’s voice went sharply to the crowd, and Baldwin waited. Margery, tense and breathless, heard a stir and a buzz--and that was all. None moved. And Richard Baldwin spoke again.

“You’d best know---”

“I mean to know.”

Roger snapped it, and the crackle in his voice won him silence. He glanced sharply at Margery, and she hastily remembered what he had told her to do; at once she pulled the gloves from her frozen fingers and dropped on her knees by the writhing Alizon. Then a fierce hand clapped on her shoulder, and the chubby-faced stranger spun her round and spoke angrily.

“You’ll leave that---”

He got no further. Roger’s sword was out like a striking snake, and the point pricked blood from the fellow’s throat. He jumped like a startled goat, and at once Roger was between him and Margery.

“Do you stay your hands, or do I slit your throat?”

It was enough. The fellow pressed back, not a word said, against the wall by the pool; and again Margery knelt and fumbled with the knots in the tough wet cord. All her mind was with Roger, and from somewhere deeper than thought a compulsion was upon her. All hung now on the obedience that Roger could exact, and she, who had an order to obey, had an example to give. Her fingers froze, and the hard rope bruised her nails, but she made herself go on; and from behind her she heard Richard Baldwin again.

“Master Nowell, I do beseech you---”

“In the King’s name, I do command you that you do depart, all of you, peaceably to your homes.”

This was formal, and Margery knew its meaning. If that was not obeyed, a magistrate might make arrests and at need use force. This was the crisis, and Margery turned with an agonized glance to see what should befall. The movement caught Hargreaves’ eye, and he saw her trouble; in a moment he was at her side, knife in hand, to cut the knots. Alizon stretched hopelessly, and Margery hastily pulled off her cloak and flung it over the girl. Then she turned quickly to Roger.

The crowd had not dispersed. They had retreated a little, and that was all. Roger, his back to the low wall, had his eyes on the crowd; on the fringes his two servants sat their horses stiffly, and Margery saw that they had pulled off their gloves and had their hands on their saddle-bags. But the crowd was not looking at them, and only a few were looking at Roger; more and more were turning to Richard Baldwin, and Margery understood. He was their leader, and they waited to see what he would do.

Apparently Roger understood it too. He turned to Baldwin and got his word in first.

“I’ve commanded all to their homes. You are one, and your home’s behind you.”

There was a gasp from the crowd, and then a deadly silence as they waited. Margery, standing stiffly by Alizon, caught the tension and found her breath racing. Here was the climax.

“Aye. You’ve commanded it.” Richard Baldwin spoke doggedly, and his voice shook from the power that was in him. “But here’s witchcraft and a man maimed---”

“It’s a lawful command. I’ll hear of witchcraft only when it’s obeyed.”

Margery caught the note of it, and she knew that Roger’s resolution matched Richard’s. Open conflict was very near, and with it, like as not, would be bloodshed. Margery shivered at the thought; and again she looked helplessly from the one man to the other, while the thought played in her that she, and she alone of all here, had the goodwill of both. And suddenly the unseen forces gripped her, and she knew what must be done.

She moved forward stiffly, and before either man could speak again she had slipped between them.

“I’ve loosed the girl, sir--as you commanded.”

“My thanks.”

He was curt and formal, for he had not yet seen where she was going. But from Roger she turned to Richard Baldwin, and faced his frigid disapproval.

“You’ll perceive why I loosed her, Master Baldwin?”

“I do not,” came the icy answer.

“I was commanded so to do.” Her eyes were as steady as his. “And being commanded, I remembered the words of Samuel to Saul. That, sir, is why.”

There was a murmur from the crowd, and at her side Roger stirred suddenly. But Margery paid no heed. She was watching Richard’s face intently as he searched his memory for the text. And as he groped, she gave it him.

“For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft,” she told him quietly, and she saw the doubt flicker in his smouldering eyes.

“You fling that at me?” he brooded.

“I do not fling it, and the words are not mine. But if rebellion and witchcraft be twins, I’d shun the one as I’d shun the other.”

That gave him pause, for it was shrewdly said. Richard Baldwin did not take his Bible lightly, and he would let neither his wishes nor his hates over-ride the commandments of his God, when once he was sure what those commandments were. And now, as he stood in anxious thought, Roger had a word to add. Roger, too, could control resentment to serve duty, and he had seen at last where Margery was driving. He put up his sword and spoke quietly.

“Richard--you spoke just now of a man maimed---”

“That I did. And by her arts---” He pointed to the girl on the ground, still huddled under Margery’s cloak. “By her hellish arts, John Law lies maimed in Colne----”

“That’s for me to hear of. I’ve that duty as a Justice. But not before this rabble. Therefore, Richard, go you to your house. And when you’re in, I’ll come in also, if you’ll give me leave, and hear of this in proper form.”

“May I come too?”

Margery spoke quickly as she saw him still hesitate, and her question turned the scale. Even at this moment, goodwill weighed for something, and Richard inclined his head courteously. “And welcome, mistress.”

He turned, signing to the stranger to follow him; and together they walked slowly through the crowd and into the house. Margery, looking to the house, saw Grace for the first time; white-faced and anxious, she was with her mother at a window above stair.

There was no more trouble. The muttering crowd had lost their leader, and none dared be first in stubbornness. Roger did not have to repeat his command, for none would meet his eye. In five minutes all were gone, streaming away in muttering groups, sullen and disappointed, but without cohesion enough to make a danger. Then Harry Hargreaves seemed to shake himself.

“Mother of God!” he said. “That came near it. I’ve been sweating like a foundered horse.”

Roger laughed.

“It’s well ended,” he said. “And I think we’ve to give some thanks to my cousin here. That was quick wit and a cool head.”

“Amen to that! But I’ll thank you too, sir. I can’t mind ever being more pleased to see any. I’d been here but three minutes when you came, and for two of them I’d been praying for hope of help.”

Roger nodded and looked down at Alizon. She was lying still and quiet under Margery’s cloak, and he frowned.

“If the girl’s not in a faint, she’s near it,” he said, “and small wonder! She’ll be best at Read. See to that, and then follow us in.”

He walked to the house with Hargreaves, leaving Margery to devise something. But it was not very difficult. Grace and her mother dared Richard’s wrath and passed down a blanket and an old cloak. Margery saw Alizon decently wrapped, and then she and Tom Peyton between them heaved her up in front of Joe Rimmer as he sat his great horse. The big man grinned and then trotted off cheerfully, Margery calling after him that, witch or no witch, Alizon was to be handed to the women and instantly put to bed.

Tom Peyton stayed. Margery had expected him to ride with Joe, but he did not; he believed in missing nothing, and he walked unblushingly to the house with Margery. Grace was at the door to welcome them, and a quick squeeze of the hand showed her feelings to Margery. Then there was the great kitchen and a leaping fire, and cheer and warmth at last.

There was all that, and there was also what Margery valued more; there was an air of friendliness. Margery sensed it at once and her respect for Richard Baldwin soared. He had consented unwillingly and from conscience, to give obedience to the magistrate and receive him into his house. But, consent once given he would not spoil it with sulkiness, nor show ill manners to his guests. So there was a welcome; there were chairs by the fire and bread and cheese and hot spiced ale. Richard Baldwin could be hard and he could be narrow, but he could not be petty

They found Margery space and a chair. Grace passed her an ale-mug, and she took it thankfully, for she had been without a cloak for long enough to feel the cold. And as Tom Peyton slid into a corner with a brimming mug in his hand, Roger was coming to what Margery wanted to hear. Apparently it had been settled that no more should be heard of the attempt to swim a witch, and now Roger was asking what this was, about a man maimed.

“That,” said Richard, “is a matter for Abraham Law “ Eyes turned to the stranger, and Margery, like the others began to give him serious attention for the first time; and it occurred to her now that something in his plump figure and shining red face was familiar. The truculence he had borrowed from the crowd had quite gone now, and the vicious look had gone with it He was clearly a fellow of mean station, and to be within doors m the presence of an Esquire, especially one who had just pricked a sword into his neck, was a situation that unnerved him. He had not ventured to sit, and he was standing shyly by the hearth; he shifted unhappily as they turned to him, and he was in haste to set his ale-mug down.

In the end it was Richard Baldwin who had to tell his story for him. This man, he said, was the son of John Law, the petty chapman, whom they would all know; and at once Margery knew what was familiar in this man’s looks. She had always thought of John Law as Fat Jack, and she had therefore missed the significance of the name; but the resemblance was plain enough once she was reminded.

Richard went on with the tale. Eight
days ago, he said, this Abraham Law being then in Halifax where his work was, had had word that his father lay grievously stricken in an ale-house at Colne; and hastening there, he had found his father deformed and thick of speech, his head drawn awry and his arms and legs without good movement, especially on one side. And thickly and painfully his father had told of meeting Alizon Device in a field near Colne, of being pestered by her for pins, and of sturdily refusing to open his pack. Alizon had been angry. She had cursed and muttered; and John Law, misliking her looks and knowing her to be a witch, had hurried from her at a greater pace than made for ease. But he had gone no more than a furlong when he was smitten down. What had come to him he did not know; but when he had found his senses again, he had been so stricken that he had been in great distress to get as far as the nearest alehouse; and there he still lay. And who could doubt that here was witchcraft?