The Familiars

by Stacey Halls

  As more people arrived at the inn, the passages filled up with voices and the sound of boots on stone. I listened vacantly over Puck’s snores as women chatted and scolded their children, men bellowed, trunks scraped and dogs barked.

  I was holding the paper so tightly I thought it might tear, thinking of how not so long ago I’d held a different letter—one that gave death, while this one gave life. A noise in the passage: much closer. A man’s voice drawing near; a door opening and closing.

  Suddenly I was wide-awake. I pushed myself up on my elbows, bringing my head in line with the top of my stomach. The child must have been sleeping, for once. I went to the window and looked at the sky; I did not have a watch. Where was Richard? It would soon be dark, and from below came the sound of the kitchen getting the supper things ready. Barrels rolled in the yard and the traffic in the streets had eased. I had what felt like a hair’s breadth of time to make a decision: it had to be now. I did not need more than that.

  I woke Puck from where he lay next to me and beckoned him to the floor, where he landed ungracefully on a pile of orange hairs by the door and began sniffing. He had not lain there; this room must not have been cleaned properly. Enough of that—it did not matter. I went to one of the trunks, thanking Prudence for blessing me with her gift earlier, and pulled out the long, wrapped package I had inexplicably buried among several nightshifts. I went to the cupboard and scrawled a note for Richard. Then I cast a swift look around the room, making sure I had got what I needed, and left for the stables with my dog at my heel and the package slim and discreetly at my side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  John Foulds’s house was down a dank little alley in Colne. By the time I arrived it was almost midnight, and I was breathless from navigating the horse along the black paths. But the moon was on my side: full and bright, it had shone all the way from Lancaster, lighting the way for our ghostly procession. And I had Puck with me, so I felt safe, and I held his head with one hand and knocked on John Foulds’s front door with the other.

  The street was silent and there were no lights in the windows. I’d knocked on four doors where I saw the yellow glow of rushlight from the house, and the fourth occupant—a woman, her face creased with tiredness—told me in surprise that John Foulds lived one row behind the market street, three doors from the right. Luckily the moon was full and watery over the village, and the alehouses were long closed, so I could see, but would not be seen.

  I knocked again, and Puck gave a low growl from deep inside his throat. I looked around, and could see no figure at either end, but did have the sense of being watched. It was too dark to see into the shadows pushing up against the houses. I shivered and set my eyes on the wooden door in front of me, knocking more impatiently this time. Then, suddenly, all the hairs on my neck stood up, and I knew there was someone in the alley. Puck immediately began barking, straining from my grip and directing his aggression to our right, and in the gloom I saw something low and spindly slink around the last house. An animal, then. I banged furiously on the door, and a man’s voice shouted from behind it, and then I was looking into the face of John Foulds.

  Tousled dark brown hair hung down on both sides of his face, and he was dressed for bed, wearing a loose cotton smock, untied at the neck. He was as handsome as I’d remembered, but there was something in his eyes that was not—a coldness, perhaps—that impacted on his features in a way that no end of clothing or pomade or jewelry could disguise.

  Whatever it was died when he saw what I held to his stomach: Richard’s musket, which I’d carried with one aching arm beneath my cloak. And then he saw the dog, and there was fright there, and even resignation, as though he had been expecting this very thing to happen to him: a four-foot-eleven pregnant woman arriving on his threshold with a gun.

  He angled himself so that he was standing in between the door and the wall, and I could not see into the small house. I pushed the barrel of the musket into his chest, and was thankful for how heavy it was, because I was shaking so badly. “Will you let me in?” I said.

  “Are we to fight a duel?” he said dryly, his lip curled.

  Puck growled, and he eyed the massive dog anxiously, then gave me a look and opened the door wider. I went in, Puck padding behind me.

  The tiny house had one room downstairs and one up, accessed by a steep set of narrow stairs against the back wall. John Foulds held the only rushlight in the room, and from the glow it cast out I could see a few shapeless objects: a couple of chairs by the fireplace, a low cupboard covered with a cloth and pots and pans. John went to light another rush, and the fatty fumes were choking, but I watched his every move, looking for a flash of silver in case he had a knife, because I had no idea how to use Richard’s gun.

  “Who are you?” he asked, holding the torch up to my face.

  “You don’t know me,” I said. “But we have a mutual friend.”

  He made a noise like forced laughter. “I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Roger Nowell. Is that not who you are here for?”

  “No.” I stared at his flickering face, half-hidden in shadow. He scratched his neck and glanced about nervously. If he moved an inch I would move quicker. “Did he give you money?”

  “What if he did?”

  I let the musket’s barrel fall, heard the mechanisms clink inside. The weight of it was exhausting. Just as I’d reached Colne, it had started to rain very lightly, and now it was coming down harder, thudding into the dirt in the street. John Foulds’s eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  “Why is Alice Gray on trial for murdering your daughter?”

  “She’s a witch,” he said simply.

  His neck was warm and brown in the rushlight, the top of his chest smooth.

  “She loved you,” I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “And she loved Ann.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Who is your husband?”

  “It doesn’t matter. But you will give me something tonight. I will not leave here without a written testimony from you that says Alice Gray did not murder your daughter.”

  He looked at me as if I was crazed. Then he started to laugh. I smelled something else then, masked under the dripping grease of the rushlights. Ale. Fermentation. Decay. John Foulds was still a drunk.

  “If Alice is hanged, it will not bring your daughter back. Why would you see an innocent woman killed?”

  “Innocent? She’s a bitch,” he spat. “Anyway, I can’t write.”

  My heart sank. I’d brought paper and ink and a quill and tucked it in the pack of the horse I’d ridden like a madwoman for the last few miles. The horse was tied outside and would now be soaked, if it hadn’t been stolen already. The musket was so heavy it was making my arms hurt. I could not turn my back on him.

  John Foulds had checkmated me.

  The stairs creaked, making me jump, and someone began walking down them. A long white smock descended from the ceiling, then the rest of a plump body, and a plain-faced woman in a cap appeared, her mouth a little round O as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes widened when she saw Puck; he might have been a wolf in the dim light, and certainly looked monstrous in the little room.

  “John?” she said.

  “Go back to bed.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Now,” he barked.

  The woman turned with difficulty on the dark, narrow staircase, holding the wall with one hand, and before her head disappeared I said, “Wait.” She froze. “Bring me paper and ink, and a quill.”

  She looked quickly at John, and nodded, but did not move.

  “Now,” I said, and she disappeared, creaking up the stairs. “You are literate, then,” I said to John. “Your wife?”

  He regarded me with vicious hatred. “No.”

  “H
ow much money did Roger give you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It is the business of the king’s peace. How much?”

  He moved his jaw; his eyelids lowered.

  “What is of more use to you—money or ale? I have a brewery. If you do what I want, you will have a hogshead sent every month.” His eyes widened. He was listening. “I presume that’s what you spend your money on. Unless you prefer brandy? Wine? What will it be?”

  “How will I know you will keep your word?”

  I loosened my grip on Puck’s collar and he lurched forward, snapping his mighty jaws. John Foulds leaped back and gave a cowardly whimper. What did Alice see in this weak, selfish man?

  The woman padded back down the stairs and handed me the things I’d asked for, never moving her eyes from the dog. As soon as I took them she ran back upstairs.

  “They say dogs can smell fear,” I told him. “I would try to mask it, if I were you. But I know how hard it is when you’re terrified. I am scared, John. I am scared that my friend will be hanged for a crime she did not commit. And not only her—her friend might be hanged, too, for trying to save your daughter’s life.”

  I looked round at the unhappy room, with its stench of fat and ale and the chill that came from the bare walls, and shivered. It was no place for a child. Maybe it was cheerful once, when his wife was alive and they had their new baby wrapped in fresh linen, with the front door open to the street so the neighbors could come in and tell them how blessed they were.

  “And what if I don’t,” he sniffed. “You’ll shoot me?”

  “Yes. Unless you would prefer to be worried by the dog?” His dark eyes went from one to the other. I handed him the paper and quill, and nodded. He sighed and carried it to the low cupboard, bending over to flatten it out in the pool of light.

  “What do I write?”

  “The truth.”

  I stood shivering and waited as he scratched down his words in an untidy, barely legible scrawl. I listened to the horse exhaling outside, and the floorings creaking above, and the rain on the street. My chest was tight with fear, and relief, and I thought of the long way I had to go in the morning. I would ride back to Gawthorpe tonight and sleep for a few hours, then leave for Lancaster before dawn.

  John Foulds handed me his testimony, and I read it through quickly. “Add a line about Katherine Hewitt,” I said. “She is arraigned for the same thing.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I am not writing a whole book.”

  “You will do what it takes. Add a line.”

  He flounced back to the cupboard and scratched a fierce black scrawl at the bottom of the paper. “There,” he said. “Good enough?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, taking it from him and folding it into my pocket. “You had better hope so.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If it isn’t, I may pay you another visit, and don’t expect me to be in a bargaining mood. The assizes start in the morning, should you wish to face what you have done like a man. Good night.” I turned to leave, but it was only a couple of steps to the door. The rain teemed down outside.

  “If that bitch hangs, I’ll still get my ale, won’t I?”

  I stopped in the doorway, and without turning round, released my hand from Puck’s collar. All John Foulds would have seen was a streak of copper and a flash of teeth as the dog threw himself at him and sank his mouth into his arm. He cried out in high-pitched terror, then cursed, rolling about and gripping his elbow. Blood bloomed dark on the dirty white linen. I called Puck softly, and he came back to me. I turned to face the weak, trembling, cowardly man whom Alice once loved.

  “Yes, you will still get the ale,” I said. “Because if my dog doesn’t kill you, that will. And the slower the better.”

  * * *

  An hour later, I realized I was lost. I meant to head west along the river to Gawthorpe, but the rain was coming down so hard and was so loud I couldn’t hear the water, let alone see in the darkness, or even think. There were only trees, and mud, and clouds flitting across the moon, making it impossible.

  I was soaked. The horse was soaked and plodding ahead miserably, stopping now and again in protest. Puck trudged on next to us, exhausted as I was, his drenched coat dark brown. My stomach felt heavier than ever, and my heart was racing despite the slow pace. I turned left and right and left again, hoping to find the wide roads that ran between villages. All I could think of was the two pages in my skirts: my testimony and John Foulds’s. If they were wet, they were ruined. Something was lodged in my stomach, and I thought it might be despair, but I would not submit to it. I would not cry; I would find my way home, even if it took all night. I would go to Lancaster tomorrow and stand up in court and hear my own voice ring through the hall, pronouncing Alice’s innocence, and everyone would listen, and her chains would clatter to the floor, and she would be free.

  I was slumped forward over my stomach, riding at a snail’s pace through the woods, with tall black tree trunks gliding past me surrounding me on all sides, and the rain seeping down my neck, and my dog whining at my side, and the horse’s hooves thudding into the mud, and then The Nightmare began.

  The horse stopped suddenly, as though startled, and that’s when I heard the grunting. It was low, but distinguishable even over the rain. Cold fear drenched me from the head down, and I felt dizzy with it. I closed my eyes and opened them in case I had fallen asleep and was dreaming, but that sound: I knew it, had heard it many times throughout my life, but always in my sleep. Now I was awake, and alone in the woods. Puck barked, and there was a low squeal, and another chomping, grunting noise, and I knew it was closer, but I could see nothing on the ground. I kicked the horse and shouted for it to go, but it staggered about in terror, and then I felt it land against something, and it neighed, and reared—and I began to slip down.

  I screamed and it bucked again, and I jerked sideways. The soaked musket that had been in my lap clattered to the ground, and I gave a cry, gripping desperately to the reins but finding only the horse’s mane and damp neck. It reared once more, and I kicked my feet out of the stirrups lest I get dragged for miles, but then I was falling backward into the blackness. The world tipped upside down, and the rain fell on my face, and my feet were over my head, and there was a moment—a clear, pure moment of rapid fall, where my mind was empty, and I was flying, no, falling—and then I hit the ground, landing on my side, my stomach smashing into the mud.

  I lay with one cheek to the ground, and somewhere close by Puck was barking furiously, and the sound of hooves grew quieter as the horse galloped farther away, and the rain continued to fall. I could not move, but I could hear, was listening for the grunts I knew would come. And then I heard them. There was more than one, a boar coming from somewhere behind me, and one in front, and Puck was nearby, thrashing and barking and growling and snapping, and there was an explosion of squeals, and I had no idea how many of them there were, or if Puck would survive their ivory tusks, like little daggers shooting from their faces.

  I closed my eyes because I knew they would reach me—they always did—but it was what happened after that I did not know. And while Puck wrestled with one or two or three, I felt a curious nudge on my leg, then heard the sound of grunting, greedy with hot breath and blood-soaked teeth. I was wet, with rain or blood or my own piss, and my legs were damp under my skirts, and that’s when the pain started.

  Perhaps a tusk pierced my stomach, because it was instant and fierce, a great crashing blow, and my heart pounded in my chest, and I could not move. But then, just as quickly I was empty, my body ringing with its shocking absence. And then it came again, and something was nuzzling my neck, my face, something hairy and then soft—was it Puck? Something else? And I closed my eyes and began to cry, my tears mixing with the rain, and then the pain came again, harder, driving right into my body, into my spine, and I could not move, with agony or terro
r I did not know, but I was blind with it.

  I was dreaming, I had to be—I had been knocked out, or I was sleeping. I was at home, at Gawthorpe, in my bed, and the window was full of stars—no, I was lying on the forest floor, in the rain, miles from home, miles from anywhere, and I was alone, and about to die.

  Her earthly life will end.

  I was too frightened to cry, but this was a different kind of fright to how I felt in my nightmare. There was knowledge now, and understanding, but still terrible fear, and I could not decide what was worse: the fear or the understanding that this was it.

  My dog. Where was he? I had saved him from a life of violence and misery, and I loved him. I opened my eyes to look for him, and there was a streak of copper, bright as a flame before my eyes, and I closed them again. I knew he was near, fighting for me, that great beast I had carried around and petted and kissed and told secrets to, who could kill a bull but wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  My baby, who I would never meet, and who would never meet me, but we knew each other, and that was enough. Agony seared me again like a branding iron, creasing me in half, and I hoped my child did not feel it, and was not afraid.

  Her earthly life will end.

  The sounds seemed to fade away, but I was pinned to the ground, still pinned to this life under great rolling waves of agony. I might have been under a carriage wheel going back and forth, back and forth.