“Aye,” said the priest. “This is sheep country without a doubt. That’s the wealth of Pendle up there. We produce the best mutton in the County, and some make a very good living. Mind you, there’s real poverty to balance it. A lot gain their bread by begging. One of the things about being a priest that gives me real satisfaction is trying to alleviate that need. In effect I become a beggar myself. I beg parishioners to put money in the collection plate. I beg for clothes and food. Then I give it to the poor. It’s very worthwhile.”
“More worthwhile than being a spook, Father?” I asked.
Father Stocks smiled. “For me, Tom, the answer must be yes. But everyone must follow their own path. . . .”
“What made you finally decide that it was better to be a priest than a spook?” I asked.
Father Stocks looked at me hard for a moment, then frowned. It seemed that he wasn’t going to answer, and I feared that my bluntness had offended him. When he finally spoke, he seemed to choose his words carefully.
“Perhaps it was the moment when I finally realized just how dark things were getting. I saw how hard John Gregory worked, dealing with this threat here and that danger there. Constantly risking his life, yet never managing to solve the real problem—that of the evil at the very heart of the world, which is far too big for us to cope with alone. We poor humans need the help of a higher power. We need the help of God.”
“So you absolutely believe in God?” I asked. “You’ve no doubts?”
“Oh, yes, Tom. I believe in God and I have no doubts at all. And I also believe in the power of prayer. What’s more, my vocation gives me the opportunity to help others. That’s why I’ve become a priest.”
I nodded and smiled. It was a good enough answer from a good man. I hadn’t known Father Stocks long, but already I liked him and could understand why the Spook had called him a friend.
We walked on until, at last, we reached a gate; beyond it were wide, verdant lawns where red deer grazed. They were planted with copses of trees, seemingly positioned to please the eye.
“Here we are,” said Father Stocks. “This is Read Park.”
“But where’s the big house?” I asked. There was no sign of a building of any kind, and I wondered if it was hidden behind some trees.
“This is just the laund, Tom—which is another name for a deer park. All this land belongs to Read Hall. It’ll be awhile before we reach the hall itself and the inner grounds. And it’s a dwelling that befits a man who was once high sheriff of the whole County.”
CHAPTER VIII
Mistress Wurmalde
SET in its own grounds within the laund, Read Hall was the most impressive rural dwelling I’d ever seen, more akin to a palace than the home of a country gentleman. Wide gates gave access to an even wider gravel carriageway that led straight up to the front door. From there, the gravel forked right and left, giving entry to the back of the building. The hall itself was three stories high, with an imposing main entrance. Two ivy-covered wings extending to the front formed an open, three-walled courtyard. I regarded the expanse of mullioned windows with astonishment, wondering how many bedrooms there must be.
“Does the magistrate have a large family?” I asked, regarding Read Hall in amazement.
“Roger Nowell’s family did live with him here once,” Father Stocks replied, “but, sadly, his wife died a few years ago. He has two grown-up daughters who’ve found themselves good husbands to the south of the County. His only son is in the army, and that’s where he’ll stay until Master Nowell dies and the lad comes back to inherit the hall and land.”
“It must be strange to live alone in such a big house,” I observed.
“Oh, he’s not exactly alone, Tom. He has servants to cook and clean and, of course, his housekeeper, Mistress Wurmalde. She’s a very formidable woman who manages things very efficiently. But in some ways she’s not at all what you’d expect from someone in her position. A stranger who was unaware of the true situation might take her to be the mistress of the house. I’ve always found her courteous and intelligent, but some say she’s got above herself and puts on airs and graces beyond the call of her station. She’s certainly changed things in recent years. Once, when I visited Read Hall, I knocked at the front door. But now only knights and esquires are welcomed there. We’ll have to use the tradesmen’s entrance at the side.”
So, rather than leading us up to that imposing front door, Father Stocks took us down the side of the house, with ornamental shrubs and trees to our right, until finally we halted before a small door. He knocked politely three times. After we’d been waiting almost a minute, he knocked again, this time more loudly. A few moments later a maid opened the door and blinked nervously into the sunlight.
Father Stocks asked to speak to Master Nowell, and we were shown into a large, dark-paneled hallway. The maid scuttled away, and we were left waiting there for several more minutes. The deep silence reminded me of being in church until it was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. But instead of the gentleman that I’d expected, a woman stood before us, regarding us critically. Immediately, from what the priest had said, I knew that this was Mistress Wurmalde.
In her late thirties or thereabouts, she was tall for a woman and carried herself proudly, shoulders back and head held high. Her abundant dark hair was swept sideways over her ears like a great lion’s mane—a style that suited her well, for it displayed her strong features to good effect.
Two other attributes attracted my gaze, so that it involuntarily flicked rapidly between them: her lips and her eyes. She concentrated upon the priest and didn’t look at me directly, but I could tell that her eyes were bold and piercing; I felt that had she so much as glanced at me, she would have been able to see right into my soul. As for her lips, they were so pale that they resembled those of a corpse. They were large and full, and despite their want of color she was clearly a woman of great strength and vitality.
Yet it was her clothes that gave me the greatest surprise. I’d never seen a woman dressed in such a way. She wore a gown of the finest black silk with a white ruff at the collar, and that gown contained enough material to dress another twenty. The skirts flared at the hip to fall in a wide bell shape that touched the floor, obscuring her shoes. How many layers of silk would you need to achieve an effect like that? It must have cost a lot of money; such apparel was surely more suitable for a royal court.
“You are very welcome, Father,” she said. “But to what do we owe the honor of your visit? And who is your companion?”
The priest gave a little bow. “I wish to speak to Master Nowell,” he replied. “And this is Tom Ward, a visitor to Pendle.”
For the first time Mistress Wurmalde’s eyes fixed directly upon mine, and I saw them widen slightly. Then her nostrils flared, and she gave a short sniff in my direction. And in that contact, which lasted no more than a second at most, an ice-cold chill passed from the back of my head and down into my spine. I knew that I was in the presence of someone who dealt with the dark. I was filled with the certain conviction that the woman was a witch. And in that instant I realized that she also knew what I was. A moment of recognition had passed between us.
A frown began before quickly correcting itself, and she smiled coldly, turning back to the priest. “I’m sorry, Father, but that won’t be possible today. Master Nowell is extremely busy. I suggest that you try again tomorrow—perhaps in the afternoon?”
Father Stocks colored slightly, but then he straightened his back, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with determination. “I must apologize for the interruption, Mistress Wurmalde, but I wish to speak to Master Nowell in his capacity as magistrate. The business is urgent and will not wait.”
Mistress Wurmalde nodded, but she didn’t look at all happy. “Be so good as to wait here,” she instructed us. “I’ll see what I can do.”
We waited there in the hallway. Full of anxiety, I desperately wanted to tell Father Stocks my concerns about Mistress Wurmalde but fe
ared that she might return at any moment. However, she sent the maid, who led us into a large study that rivaled the Spook’s Chipenden library both in size and in the number of books it contained. But while the Spook’s books came in all shapes and sizes and in a wide variety of covers, these were all richly bound in identical fine brown leather. Bound, it seemed to me, more for display than to be read.
The study was cheerful and warm, lit by a blazing log fire to our left, above which was a large mirror with an ornate gilt frame. Master Nowell was writing at his desk when we entered. It was covered in papers and was a contrast to the tidiness of the shelves. He rose to his feet and greeted us with a smile. He was a man in his early fifties, broad of shoulder and trim of waist. His face was weatherbeaten—he looked more like a farmer than a magistrate, so I supposed he liked the outdoor life. He greeted Father Stocks warmly, nodded pleasantly in my direction, and invited us to sit down. We pulled two chairs closer to the desk, and the priest wasted no time in stating the purpose of our visit. He finished by handing Nowell the piece of paper on which he’d written down the testimonies of the two witnesses from Goldshaw Booth.
The magistrate read them quickly and looked up. “And you say, Father, that they would swear under oath to the facts stated here?”
“Without a doubt. But we must guarantee that they remain anonymous.”
“Good,” said Nowell. “It’s about time the villains in that tower were dealt with once and for all. This may be just what we need to do it. Can you write, boy?” he asked, looking at me.
I nodded, and he pushed a sheet of paper toward me. “State the names and ages of the kidnapped, together with descriptions of the goods taken. Then sign it at the bottom.”
I did as he asked, then returned the paper to him. “I’ll send for the constable, and then we’ll pay a visit to Malkin Tower. Don’t worry, boy. We’ll have your family safe and sound by nightfall.”
It was as we turned to leave that, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move in the mirror. I might have been mistaken, but it looked like a brief flash of black silk, which vanished the very moment I looked directly at it. I wondered if Wurmalde had been spying on us.
Within the hour we were heading for Malkin Tower.
The magistrate led the way, seated high on a big roan mare. Just behind and to his left was the parish constable, a dour-faced man called Barnes, dressed in black and riding a smaller gray horse. Both were armed: Roger Nowell had a sword at his hip, while the constable carried a stout stick with a whip hooked to his saddle. Father Stocks and I rode in an open cart, sharing the discomfort with the two bailiffs the constable had brought along. They sat beside us silently, nursing cudgels but not making eye contact, and I had a strong feeling that they didn’t want to be on the road to the tower. The driver of the cart was one of Nowell’s servants, a man called Cobden, who nodded once to the priest and muttered “Father,” but completely ignored me.
The road was pitted and uneven and the ride gave us a good jolting so that I couldn’t wait for it to end. We could have made better time on foot by traveling across country, I thought, rather than keeping to the roads and tracks. But nobody asked my opinion, so I just had to put up with it. And I’d other things to distract me from the discomfort of that cart.
My anxiety regarding Jack, Ellie, and their child was building. What if they’d been moved already? Then darker thoughts rose up, even though I tried my best to thrust them to the back of my mind. What if they’d been murdered and their bodies hidden where they’d never be found? A lump suddenly came into my throat. After all, what had they done wrong? They didn’t deserve that—Mary was just a child. And then there’d be a fourth life lost—Ellie’s unborn baby, the son that Jack had always wanted. It was all my fault. If I hadn’t been apprenticed to the Spook, none of this would have happened. The Malkins and the Deanes said they wanted me dead: It had to be something to do with the work I was training for.
Despite the presence of Magistrate Nowell and his constable, I wasn’t very optimistic about our chances of getting into Malkin Tower. What if the Malkins just refused to open the door? After all, it was very thick and studded with iron—I wondered if that caused a problem for the witches, and then remembered that there were other clan members to open and close it. There was even a moat. It seemed to me that Nowell was relying upon their fear of the law and of the consequences of resisting. But he didn’t know that he was dealing with real witches, and I wasn’t too confident in the power of a sword and a few cudgels to sort everything out.
There was also the problem of Mistress Wurmalde for me to think about. My instincts screamed out at me that she was a witch. And yet she was the housekeeper of Magistrate Nowell, the foremost representative of the law in Pendle and a man who, despite all that had happened in this area of the County, was convinced that witches did not exist. Did that disbelief result from the fact that he was himself bewitched? Was she using glamour and fascination—the witch powers the Spook had described?
What should I do about it? No point in telling Nowell, but I did need to tell Father Stocks and the Spook just as soon as I got the chance. I’d wanted to tell the priest before we set off for the tower, but I hadn’t really had the chance.
While those thoughts were whirling through my head, we climbed upward through the village of Goldshaw Booth. The main street was deserted, but lace curtains twitched as we passed. I felt certain that word of our coming would already have been carried to Malkin Tower. They would be waiting for us.
We entered Crow Wood, and I saw the tower when we were still some distance away. It rose above the trees, dark and impressive like something made to withstand the assault of an army. Set within a clearing, on a slight elevation of the ground, it was oval in shape, its girth at its widest point at least twice that of the Spook’s Chipenden house. The tower was three times the height of the largest of the surrounding trees and there were battlements on top, a low castellated wall for armed men to shelter behind. That meant there had to be a way up onto the roof from inside. About halfway up the wall there were also narrow windows without glass, slits in the stone through which an archer could fire.
As we entered the clearing and moved closer, I could see that the drawbridge was raised and the moat was deep and wide. The cart came to a halt, so I clambered down, eager to stretch my legs. Father Stocks and the two bailiffs followed my lead. We were all staring toward the tower, but nothing was happening.
After a minute Nowell gave a sigh of impatience, rode right up to the edge of the moat, and called out in a loud voice, “Open up in the name of the law!”
For a moment there was silence but for the breathing of the horses.
Then a female voice called down from one of the arrow slits. “Be patient while we lower the bridge. Be patient while we prepare the way.”
No sooner had she spoken than there was the grinding of a capstan and a clanking of chains; slowly the bridge began to descend. I could see the system clearly now. The chains were attached to the corners of the heavy wooden drawbridge and led through slits in the rock to a chamber within the tower. No doubt several people would now be employed turning the capstan to release the length of chain. Then, as the bridge jerked downward, I saw the formidable iron-studded door that had been hidden behind it. It was at least as strong as the thick stone walls. Surely nothing could break through those stout defenses.
At last the drawbridge was in position, and we waited expectantly for the huge door to be opened. I began to feel nervous. How many people were in the tower? There’d be witches and their supporters, while there were only seven of us. Once we were inside, they could simply close the door behind us and we’d be sealed off from the world, prisoners ourselves.
But nothing happened, and there was no sound from within the tower. Nowell turned and gestured for Constable Barnes to join him by the moat, where he gave him some instructions. The constable immediately dismounted and began to cross the drawbridge. When he reached the door, he b
egan to pound on the metal with his fist. At that sound, a flock of crows fluttered up from the trees behind the tower and began a raucous cawing.
There was no answer, so the constable banged again. Immediately I caught a glimpse of movement on the battlements above him. A figure in black seemed to lean forward. A second later, a dark liquid showered down onto the head of the unfortunate constable, and he jumped back with a curse. There was a cackle of laughter from above, followed by the sound of more laughing and jeers from within the tower.
The constable returned to his horse, rubbing his eyes. His hair was saturated and his jerkin spattered with dark stains. He remounted, shaking his head, and both he and the magistrate rode back toward us; they were talking animatedly, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They came to a halt facing us, close enough for me to get a whiff of what had been poured over Constable Barnes: the contents of a chamber pot. The smell was really bad.
“I shall ride to Colne immediately, Father,” Nowell said, his face florid with anger. “Those who defy the law and treat it with contempt deserve the full consequences. I know the commander of the army garrison there. I think this is a task for the military.”
He started to ride away eastward, then halted and called back over his shoulder. “I’ll stay at the barracks and be back just as soon as I can with the help we need. In the meantime, Father, tell Mistress Wurmalde that you’re my guest for the night. You and the boy.”
With that, the magistrate rode off at a canter while we climbed back up into the cart. I didn’t look forward to a night spent at Read Hall. How could I sleep when a witch was in the house?
My heart was also heavy at the thought of Jack and his family having to spend another night in the dungeons below the tower. I wasn’t too optimistic that the arrival of soldiers from the barracks would solve things quickly. There was still the problem of the thick stone walls and the iron-studded door.
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