by Robert Neill
Anne Redfern found her voice as Margery’s pen began to scratch.
“Twelvepence!” she spluttered. “And me without one!” But Roger was not impressed.
“Tell that to another,” was his curt answer. “You’re a known lingerer and a liar too, for which I’ll call your churchwarden to witness. What says he?”
Richard Baldwin spoke decisively.
“She’s the one and she’s the other, and much that’s worse besides.”
“Even so. Twelvepence let it stay. And if it be not paid as required you’re for the Preston Sessions, and I doubt not gaol thereafter.”
He ended on that. Nick Banister came to his feet and the two men went out together. Margery stayed to collect her writings, and as she moved slowly to the door Richard Baldwin intercepted her.
“You’re schooled in more than the Scriptures, mistress,” he told her. “I would as much might be said of my own daughter. Grace can write her name and a few words more, but she’ll not make a clerk. You’ll be a pride to them that reared you.”
Margery, with a quick thought of Prudence and Alexander, was by no means sure of that sentiment; but she offered no contradiction.
“You’re very gracious, Master Baldwin,” she said. “I do my poor best.”
“None so poor, mistress, none so poor. You’ll remember that there’s a welcome if you’ll ride so far as Wheathead?”
“That I’ll surely do.”
She smiled very graciously and went demurely out. But the smile had broadened into a grin before she reached the parlour. Richard Baldwin, after all, had not been so very difficult.
But in the parlour some more compliments awaited her. Roger said he had not known what a talented cousin he had, and Nick Banister went further.
“If I’d a son not wed,” he told her, “I’d be in talk with Roger about you.”
She coloured at that; and groping for an answer she could find no proper one. Perhaps Roger saw her difficulty, for he changed the topic abruptly.
“This Redfern woman,” he said. “Did I deal too hardly with her?”
Nick Banister pursed his lips.
“No,” he said at length. “It’s not the first time she’s been presented.”
“Nor the last, if I know her. But you remember her, do you?”
“Tolerably. She’s of the infernal sisterhood you keep in Pendle, is she not?”
“The infernal---“ Roger laughed. “Our witch brood, hey? I think she is--she and her chattering dam.”
“Roger, you talk in riddles. Who chatters?”
“This Redfern’s mother. The crone mutters to herself without ending, though there’s scarce a word to be made out. For which cause she’s called the Chattox, though I’ve heard her true name’s Whittle.”
“Whittle? That’s a name could have come from the same cause.”
Roger nodded.
“It may have done. But Nick, there’s trouble again with the other brood--the Demdikes. Have you heard that Mitton’s dead?”
“I have not. Who is Mitton?”
Roger told the tale briefly and added some details of the doings at the Malkin Tower. Nick Banister listened attentively, quietly sipping his ale while his eyes seldom left Roger’s face.
“So?” he said slowly when Roger had at last ended. “It’s you and Baldwin at odds again, is it?”
“That’s not to be shirked. He’d have had me tear confession from them--which is not my way.”
“Nor mine. Yet have a care of that man, Roger. He could be dangerous. What of the witches?”
“You call them so?”
“At the least, it’s what they’d call themselves. But of this Mitton, Roger. What killed him?”
“I’d say his heart burst. He was over-fat for running in the heat. I’ve seen the like before.”
“As have I. But this whelp, as you called her. What did she think?”
“Alizon?” Roger spoke carefully. “I think Alizon supposed the Demdike’s arts had struck the man.”
“Why say you that?”
“Nick, you press me like an attorney. It’s no wonder you’re of the Quorum. I say it because she was very sorely scared.”
“Of more than seeing the man fall?”
“Aye. From what I’m told, she hared it up the hill as though the Devil were nosing her back parts. But what of it?”
Nick Banister answered him very gravely, and Margery suddenly saw how very bright and shrewd his eyes had grown.
“These women, Roger, are what I’ve called them--a sisterhood. If they have not the powers that Baldwin supposes, at least they think they have. In that they’re at one with Baldwin. I don’t doubt that this Alizon truly supposes that the Demdike struck Mitton down--and I don’t doubt that the Demdike supposes it, aye and willed it too. They’re an evil sisterhood Roger, and a dangerous. They think they can kill, and, believing that, they sometimes do kill. Killing’s none so hard when your victim’s crazed with fear. They’re evil, they’re murderous, and they’re dangerous. Look to it Roger, and be not at too great odds with Baldwin. He could be a stout friend and a willing, when there’s such villainy abroad.”
Roger’s slow smile betrayed nothing.
“You have the right of it Nick,” he answered quietly. “I don’t doubt that. And yet---“
“Yet what?”
But Roger did not answer that directly. He drained his ale-mug thoughtfully, and then he seemed to answer a question that had not been asked.
“I ask myself,” he said, “who’ll pay the Redfern’s fine.”
Chapter 10: UNDERCURRENTS
Roger’s question was answered within two days. On the Wednesday morning he made ready to ride to Altham, as his custom was, and he was just about to mount when a horseman rode up to the house. Roger had brief speech with him and then presented him to Margery as Miles, son of Richard Nutter of the Rough Lee.
“He has moneys to pay on behalf of one Anne Redfern,” said Roger. “Be pleased, therefore, to give him quittance for that. Give him also some proper entertainment. Fare you well.”
And on that, without any more words, Roger was away. Tom Peyton went clattering behind him, and Margery was left standing on the gravel wondering whether she should infer displeasure from his abrupt departure, or amusement from a suspicious crinkling she had seen in his forehead. But that, she reminded herself, she might ponder later. At the moment she had a social duty to perform, and she was by no means sure how to perform it.
She turned to Miles Nutter, and for a moment they stood considering each other. He was a young man of perhaps eighteen or twenty years, and Margery’s first note was that he was uncommonly good-looking. He was slim, slight, and of a medium stature, trim and almost dapper, and holding himself briskly erect. His face, neat and delicate in its lines, was pleasant and vivacious, and it was bronzed enough to blend pleasantly with black hair that had a natural curl. His doublet, breeches, and cloak were of murrey serge, his hat of black beaver, his boots of soft yellow leather; and Margery, observing these things, was thankful that she had been minded to go riding, and was therefore already in her orange-tawny. Master Nutter held himself well. He stood with an easy smile, hat in hand, at the side of his horse; and Margery was pleased with him. As far as looks went she approved of Master Nutter, and she gave him a very friendly smile.
He bowed with less clumsiness than most men showed. Then he passed his horse to the waiting groom.
“I’ll regret it,” he said politely, “if my coming intrudes upon your affairs, madam.”
“It does not,” she told him promptly. She liked his airy voice, and nobody had ever called her madam before. She was disposed to favour Master Nutter. “I’ve no affairs of note this morning, sir. Pray come within, and I’ll give you the quittance my cousin ordered.”
He stood gracefully aside to let her pass, and as she led him in he chatted easily in his light tones.
“I’m ashamed that you should be plagued with quittances for pence, madam. But I’m
told you’ll know the occasion for it. This Anne Redfern dwells on my father’s land, and my mother has some softness---“
“No doubt sir.” She thought it prudent to interrupt. It would be safer than an argument about his mother, and softness was not the first of the qualities Margery would have attributed to the lady.
She solemnly took his proffered pence and then busied herself with the writing of what she hoped would pass as a quittance. She had no idea what form it should take, but she need not have been troubled. He took it without a reading and quickly stowed it in his pouch. Apparently he was more interested in Margery than in the quittance; yet a shyness seemed upon him now, as though he were reluctant to speak what was in his mind. Margery thought she had better help him.
“You’ll drink a cup of ale, sir?” she said, and pulled at the bell cord. “You’ll need it after riding through so fresh a morning.”
He accepted it pleasantly, and Margery moved to the window as he drank. There was sunlight there that could pick a glint of red.
Master Nutter seemed encouraged.
“It is indeed a very fresh morning, madam.” He was looking thoughtfully at the orange-tawny. “I--er--I have to ride yet a little further this clay--up into Goldshaw. Has any yet conducted you to Goldshaw, madam?”
“No sir.” An eye flickered and a forehead crinkled. “I’ve heard talk of it, but not yet seen it.”
Ten minutes later they trotted out together into a fine September morning with a soft west wind and a sky of cobalt blue. They went in an amiable silence, and Margery told herself that there was much to be said for these easy Lancashire customs. She would certainly not have been given this freedom at home, but Roger had specifically told her that in the Forest she might ride where and with whom she chose; the Forest folk had easy ways and were not given to raising eyebrows at nothing. So Margery rode at ease, and found happiness enough in the cool air and the greens and blues of the morning.
He led her by the road she had ridden when she had gone with Roger to the Rough Lee. But before they had come to the Hoarstones, Master Nutter, still chattering amiably of everything and nothing, turned abruptly into a side-road, and they dropped steeply into the valley where the Sabden brook glittered in the morning sun.
“I’ve messages for my Uncle Anthony,” he explained. “He fives up in Goldshaw here, with his sister who’s my aunt.”
“Your mother’s sister, is it?”
Margery was in some disappointment. She had expected a morning spent roving on this hillside, and a visit to a second Alice Nutter was a much less tempting prospect. But he was in haste to reassure her.
“Not so,” he said quickly. “It’s from my father’s side. My uncle in Goldshaw is younger brother to my father. He’s a widower now, and his sister, being my Aunt Margaret, dwells with him and keeps his house. In full style she’s Mistress Crook, but she’s widowed too, and it serves her turn to dwell with him. This road leads to the Newchurch, but here’s where we leave it.”
They were at the bottom of the hill and had just splashed across the brook. Master Nutter turned to ride down it, but soon he had left it and was leading up a gulley in the hillside. Margery followed without protest. She was at least partly reassured. The proposed visit certainly suited her worse than the ride she had expected; but she had liked Dick Nutter, and if his brother and sister were after his pattern they might be tolerable folk to visit. And when all was said, they were Roger’s neighbours, and there might be nothing lost by knowing what they were like.
Two minutes on the climbing track brought them to a modest house, squat, comfortable and unpretentious, sure of itself in the strength that the grey stone gave. It was set in a fringe of pines, linked by a blackthorn hedge; in the Winter it might have had an air of gloom, but on this brilliant morning the grey stones were gleaming in the sun, and the fringeing pines gave a cool and pleasant shade.
Master Nutter was assiduous. He helped Margery to dismount; he opened the gate; he led the horses, and when the fine oak door swung open he was in haste to present her to the man who stood quietly beneath the low stone lintel.
He might have spared his breath in that, for one look told Margery that here was Dick Nutter’s brother. He had the same spare and wiry figure, the same sandy hair, the same look of decent honesty; and this Anthony had also a kindliness of eye that won him Margery’s liking at once. In a soft quiet voice he gave her friendly welcome, and he led her into a small square hall, stoutly panelled in oak. To her right, an oaken stair led to chambers above; before her, an oaken door stood open to show a cool stone-flagged kitchen; to her left, another door led to a sunlit parlour, likewise panelled in oak. Anthony Nutter took Margery’s cloak while his nephew hurried into the parlour; and at once his voice was lifted in greeting to his Aunt Margaret. Anthony Nutter smiled at the sound of it, and then stood aside as an ancient servitor came waddling out of the kitchen and went to the horses. Anthony was smiling again as he viewed the old fellow’s back; then he turned to Margery and took her into the parlour.
Aunt Margaret turned out to be a pleasant middle-aged woman, soft of speech and kindly of face. She offered the friendliest of welcomes, and produced ale, and cakes, and an apple tart of surpassing excellence. The welcome, and the unassuming friendliness of the house, soon melted Margery’s carefully-assumed dignity and set her chattering freely. Miles, too, had plenty to say for himself. He turned to Margery with a very boyish grin and offered her more of the apple tart.
Margery hesitated. She was in her usual state of suppressed hunger, and it was an excellent tart. But she was a guest on a first visit--and the tart, when all was said, did not belong to Miles.
Margaret Crook gave an understanding smile.
“Now no holding back for the looks of things, please. It was made for the boy’s visit, and it shall end with that.”
Her affectionate glance at Miles, and his smiling response, were not lost on Margery. It looked like the spoiled nephew of the favourite aunt. Margery ceased to hesitate, and sank her teeth into apple tart instead.
“I’m glad it’s liked,” said Mistress Crook. “Though I must not take all the credit for it. It’s of a special making, and I had it from Miles’s mother. Have you met Mistress Nutter yet?”
Margery, having her mouth full, nodded.
“She’s the best of cooks,” Mistress Crook went on “She’s skilled in all things, and not least in that.”
“Spoken like yourself, my dear. If you spoke of the Devil you’d find his good parts.”
This was Anthony Nutter, breaking suddenly into the talk from the hearth, where he was leaning his shoulders against the littered shelf that ran above it. He had said no more till now than some polite greetings, and his sudden intervention surprised them all. His sister shook her head in vigorous disapproval.
“Tony! Tony!” she said. “You must stop saying things like that. What will Mistress Whitaker think?”
]Think? Of me, or of Alice? Which?”
“Of both of you, Tony. And you might remember that Miles is here. Alice is his mother, even though you forget it.”
But Anthony Nutter was unabashed. He broke into a shy affectionate smile.
“So she is, my dear. So she is. Though he takes more after you. And you, my dear, are the sweetest thing made, and it’s beyond your powers to think hardly of any.”
His smile was disarming, and his sister laughed openly.
“Take no more notice of him, Miles,” she said. “It’s the humour he’s in. Tell me now, what news have you for me?”
This led to family gossip, and Margery left Miles to it. Anthony she noticed, had left the hearth and was standing in the sunlight of the open window, with his hair rippling faintly in the soft wind that blew through the casement. On impulse she went across to him, and he waved her to the low seat, done in blue linen that ran under the window. Himself, he remained standing as he looked her over gravely. Apparently he was satisfied, for he nodded as though pleased.
“You
’re kin to Roger Nowell, are you not?” he asked without prelude.
“Yes.”
She answered him simply, for she felt already that this was a man to be dealt with plainly.
He nodded again and His answer had a plainness that surprised her.
“Inheritance made him an Esquire. God made him a gentleman. Have that in mind, for you’ll meet some who’ll blacken him.
The slow, puckering smile came on him again.
“Enough of that!” he said. “I’ll be having you in flight from me. Such earnestness on a September morning! Are you come for long?”
She laughed.
“Truly sir, I know not. But I think I’m here till my cousin tires of me.”
“That should be long. I doubt not that your presence gladdens him.”
She was surprised at the warmth that his answer stirred in her. There was a patent sincerity about Anthony Nutter which gave power to his words.
“You are too good, sir,” was all she could find to say.
“Polite belittlement! But I know of what I speak. Roger Nowell had daughters, and now they’re gone, and his house is the emptier for that--as mine has been since my Anne is gone.”
“Your daughter, sir?”
“Aye.” He hesitated. “She was of your age,” he went on. “She died. Just two years agone.”
“Oh!” Margery came to a stop, not knowing what she could say.
“Be at ease. It was not your fault.” His smile was a little twisted now. “These things are of God, and I doubt not He has care for His own. But perhaps we talk too long. Miles seems astir.”
Miles was. He had risen and was looking inquiringly at Margery. She nodded, aware that for a first visit she had stayed long enough.
But as Miles sought her cloak, her host had yet a word to say; and he said it with the direct simplicity that seemed to be his way.
“You’ve met Alice--my brother’s wife?”
“Only once.”
“It’s enough. She might be called--powerful.”