Soon we were trundling our way back toward Read Hall. The constable rode slightly ahead and nothing much was said but for a short exchange between the two men who shared the cart with us.
“Constable Barnes don’t look happy,” one said with the merest hint of a smile.
“If he keeps downwind, I will be!” replied his companion.
On our way back down through Goldshaw Booth, there were more people on the main street. Some seemed to be going about their business while others lounged on corners. A few were standing in open doorways, gazing out expectantly as if waiting for us to pass through. There were a few catcalls and jeers and a rotten apple was hurled at us from behind, just missing the constable’s head. He turned his horse angrily and unfurled his whip, but it was impossible to identify the culprit. To more jeers, we continued down the main street, and I was relieved when we were in open countryside again.
As we reached the gates of Read Hall, Constable Barnes spoke for the first time since we’d begun our journey back. “Well, Father, we’ll leave you now. We’ll meet here at the gates an hour after dawn, and back to the tower we go!”
Father Stocks and I clambered down, opened the gates, and after closing them behind us, began to walk up the carriageway between the lawns, while the constable rode away and Cobden continued in the same direction, presumably taking the two bailiffs home before returning to Read Hall. This was my chance to tell the priest about Nowell’s housekeeper.
“Father, I’ve something to tell you about Mistress Wurmalde—”
“Oh, don’t let her bother you, Tom. Her snobbery just comes from an inflated sense of pride. The fact that she looked down her nose at you is her problem, not yours. But at heart she’s a good woman. None of us is perfect.”
“No, Father,” I told him, “it’s not that at all. It’s far worse. She belongs to the dark. She’s a malevolent witch.”
Father Stocks halted. I stopped, too, and he stared at me hard. “Are you sure about that, Tom? Malevolent or falsely accused—which one is it?”
“When she looked at me, I felt cold. Really cold. I sometimes feel like that when something from the dark is near—”
“Sometimes or always, Tom? Did you feel it when you went off alone with young Mab Mouldheel? If so, why did you go?”
“I mostly feel cold from the dead or those who are part of the dark, but it’s not always the case. But when it’s as strong as it was with Mistress Wurmalde, then there can be no doubt about it. Not in my mind. And I’m sure she was short-sniffing me.”
“Perhaps she has a slight head cold, lad. Don’t forget that I’m a seventh son of a seventh son, too,” said Father Stocks, “and I also feel this warning, this cold you’re talking about. But I must tell you that I’ve never once felt it in the presence of Mistress Wurmalde.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d felt the warning cold for sure and seen her sniffing. Could I have been wrong?
“Look, Tom, what you tell me isn’t proof, is it?” the priest continued. “But let’s be on our guard and think about it some more. See if you feel the same when you meet Mistress Wurmalde again.”
“I’d rather spend the night somewhere else,” I said. “When Mistress Wurmalde looked at me, she realized immediately that I knew she was a witch. It’s a warm enough night. I’d be happy to sleep under the stars. I’d feel a lot safer, too.”
“No, Tom,” Father Stocks insisted. “We’ll sleep at Read Hall. That would be wiser. Even if you are right about Mistress Wurmalde, she’s lived here undetected for several years and has a comfortable life—one that the role of housekeeper won’t give her elsewhere. She won’t do anything to undermine that or give herself away, so I think we’ll be safe enough for one night, don’t you? Am I right?”
When I nodded uncertainly, Father Stocks patted my shoulder. We continued toward the house and walked up to the side door for the second time that day. Once again, the same maid answered the priest’s knock. But, to my relief, we didn’t have to talk to Mistress Wurmalde again.
Upon being informed that her master had ridden to Colne to speak to the commander of the garrison there, and that we were to be guests at Read Hall, the maid went off to tell Mistress Wurmalde. She soon returned alone and showed us into the kitchen, where we were given a light supper. It was cold mutton again, but I didn’t complain. Once we were alone, Father Stocks blessed the food quickly, then ate heartily. I just looked at the cold meat and pushed my plate away, but it wasn’t because it looked so unappetizing.
Father Stocks smiled at me across the kitchen table; he knew that I was fasting, preparing for danger from the dark.
“Eat up, Tom—you’ll be safe enough tonight, I promise you,” he told me. “We’ll face the dark soon enough, but not in Magistrate Nowell’s house. Witch or no witch, Mistress Wurmalde will be forced to keep her distance.”
“I’d rather play safe, Father,” I told him.
“Suit yourself, Tom. But you’ll need all your strength in the morning. It’s likely to be a difficult and anxious day.”
I didn’t need reminding about it, but I still declined to eat.
When the maid returned, she glanced crossly at my full plate, but rather than clearing the table she offered to show us up to our rooms.
They were adjacent and on the top story, at the front of the east wing of the house, facing the wide gates. My room had a large mirror directly above the bed, and I immediately turned it to the wall. Now, at least, no witch would be able to spy on me using that. Next I raised the sash window and peered out, drawing in gulps of the cool night air. I was determined not to sleep.
Soon it started to grow dark, and somewhere far away an owl hooted. It had been a long day, and it became harder and harder to stay awake. But then I heard noises. First the crack of a whip and then horses’ hooves pounding gravel. The sounds seemed to be coming from the rear of the house. To my astonishment, a coach and four came round the side and continued down the carriageway toward the gates. And what a coach! I’d never seen anything like it in my life.
It was black as ebony and so highly polished that I could see the moon and stars reflected in it. The horses were also black and wore dark plumes, and as I watched, the driver cracked his whip above their backs. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it was Cobden, the man who’d driven our cart to Malkin Tower. Again, although it was difficult to be sure at that distance, it looked as if the gates had opened by themselves and then closed after the coach had gone through. There was certainly no sign of anyone in the vicinity.
And who was inside that coach? It was impossible to see through the windows because of the dark curtains behind the glass, but it was a carriage fit for a king or queen. Was Mistress Wurmalde inside? If so, where was she going and why? I was now wide awake. I felt sure she’d return before dawn.
CHAPTER IX
Footprints
I watched for half an hour and nothing happened. The moon drifted slowly down toward the west, and at one point there was a brief but heavy shower of rain, a furious cloudburst that left copious puddles on the carriageway. But soon the rain cloud floated away and the moon bathed everything in its yellow light once more. About another fifteen minutes passed, and I was now struggling to keep awake, my eyes beginning to close, my head starting to nod, when suddenly I was jerked alert by the hoot of an owl somewhere in the darkness. Then I heard the distant sound of galloping horses and carriage wheels.
The coach was heading straight for the gates; just when the lead horses seemed about to crash right into them, they opened of their own accord. This time I saw it clearly. An instant later the coach was racing toward the house, the driver cracking his whip as if his very life depended on it, only slowing the horses as they reached the fork that would bring them round to the rear of the house.
Suddenly I knew that I had to see if Mistress Wurmalde was in that coach. I had to be sure it was her, and I had a strong feeling that I would see something vital. One of the back bedrooms would afford such a
view. I assumed the servants had their own quarters, so apart from the priest and me there should be nobody on this floor. At least I hoped not.
Nevertheless, I stepped out into the corridor cautiously and listened. All I could hear was loud snores from Father Stocks’s bedroom, so I walked down the short passageway opposite until I reached a row of bedroom doors. I eased open the first one and crept inside, trying to make as little sound as possible. It was empty and the curtains were drawn back, allowing a narrow silver shaft of moonlight to enter. Quickly I walked over to the window and, keeping in the shadow of the curtain, peered out. I was just in time. Below was a gravel courtyard pitted with puddles of rainwater. The coach had halted close to a flagged path that led to a door down to my right. I watched the driver climb out and this time got a good look at his face. It was Cobden. He opened the carriage door wide and stepped back, giving a low bow.
Mistress Wurmalde climbed down very slowly and cautiously, as if she were afraid of falling; then she stepped carefully across the gravel and up onto the flagged path before sweeping on more swiftly toward the door, the hem of her bell-shaped skirt brushing the ground, her haughty head held high, her gaze stern and imperious. Cobden ran ahead and opened the door for her, again giving a low bow. A maid was waiting just beyond the doorway; she curtsied as Wurmalde entered. When the door closed, Cobden went back to the coach and drove it out of sight behind the stables.
I was just about to leave the window and go back to my own room when I noticed something that sent a chill straight to my heart. Although the gravel was still waterlogged, the flagged path was quite dry and Mistress Wurmalde’s footprints were clearly visible alongside those of the driver.
I stared at them, hardly able to believe what I was seeing. Her pointy wet footprints started at the end of the path and went right up to the door. But there was a set of smaller footprints between them. Three-toed animal footprints, no larger than those of a very small child. But not those of a creature that walked on all fours. And in a moment of horror I understood. . . .
Where she’d been I didn’t know, but she hadn’t returned alone. Those voluminous bell-shaped skirts had served a purpose. Tibb had been hiding beneath them. And now he was inside Read Hall.
In a panic, remembering the ugly, terrifying face in the mirror in that cellar, I turned away from the window and walked quickly back toward my room. Why had she brought him here in such a hurry? Was it something to do with me? Suddenly I realized what he wanted. Tibb was a seer. Whether or not he could see into the future, he could certainly see things at a distance better than any witch. That was how the Pendle covens had discovered the trunks in the first place. And Tibb must also know where the keys were—that I was wearing them around my neck. That’s why he’d been brought to Read Hall in the night. Mistress Wurmalde couldn’t risk acting against me while I was under Nowell’s roof. But Tibb could!
I had to get out of the house, but I couldn’t just leave without waking Father Stocks and warning him of the danger, so I went directly to his bedroom and rapped lightly on the door. He was still snoring loudly, so I eased open the door and stepped into the room. The curtains were closed, but a candle sent out a flickering yellow light.
Father Stocks was lying on the bed on his back; he hadn’t bothered to get undressed and climb between the sheets. Having told me that we’d be safe in Read Hall, it seemed he’d chosen to ready himself for any threat that might come in the night.
I walked up to the edge of the bed and looked down at him. His mouth was wide open and the snoring was very loud, his lips wobbling each time he breathed out. I leaned forward, put my hand on his near shoulder, and shook him gently. There was no response. I shook him again more urgently, then bent my head so that my mouth was very close to his left ear.
“Father Stocks,” I whispered. Then I raised my voice and called his name again.
Still he didn’t respond. His face looked flushed. I put my hand on his forehead and found it to be very warm indeed. Was he ill?
Then the truth sank like lead into my stomach. The Pendle witches were notorious for their skillful use of poisons. I hadn’t eaten the mutton. Father Stocks had! Some poisons were extremely toxic. A finely ground toadstool could have been sprinkled on the meat. Some toadstools could stop your heart in an instant; others took far longer to have an effect.
But surely Mistress Wurmalde wouldn’t risk killing Father Stocks? Not under her own roof. She just wanted him in a deep sleep until morning, to allow time for Tibb to get to me. He was here to get my keys.
But couldn’t she have done that anyway, with no risk to herself? Then I understood. The maid must have reported that I’d not touched my supper. That’s why she’d gone for Tibb. He would help her get the keys anyway, whether I slept or not!
The room seemed to spin. My heart racing, I strode to the door, walked along the corridor, and started to descend the stairs. I had to get away from Read Hall, then back to Downham, in order to warn the Spook about the additional threat posed by Mistress Wurmalde. Where did she fit into the Pendle covens? And what was her part in their wicked schemes?
The dark, wood-paneled hallway had three doors: one led to the study, the second to the kitchen, and the third to the drawing room. Tibb could be anywhere, but I didn’t want to meet Mistress Wurmalde either. She lived in the manner of the lady of the house and was, no doubt, used to being waited on hand and foot; she’d rarely visit the kitchen except to give orders, and nobody would be preparing food at this time of night. So without hesitation I opened the kitchen door. From there I’d be able to get out into the yard and make my escape.
Immediately I realized my mistake. Lit by a shaft of moonlight from the window, Mistress Wurmalde was standing by the table between me and the door. It was as if she’d been waiting for me and knew which route I’d take to make my escape. Had that knowledge been given to her by Tibb? I avoided her gaze, and my eyes swept the room: It was gloomy and there were lots of dark corners. There was no sign of Tibb, but he was small. He could be hiding anywhere in the shadows—perhaps under the table or in a cupboard. Maybe he was still sheltering under her skirts?
“If you’d eaten your supper, you wouldn’t be hungry now,” she said, her voice as cold and threatening as a sharp steel blade.
I looked at her but didn’t reply. I was tensed, ready to run for it. But for all I knew, Tibb was somewhere behind me.
“That is why you’re here now in my kitchen in the dead of night, isn’t it? Or were you thinking of leaving without even a word of thanks for the hospitality you’ve received?”
Her voice had changed slightly. Meeting her in Father Stocks’s presence, I hadn’t noticed it, but now I detected a hint of a foreign accent. With a shock I realized that it was similar to that in Mam’s voice.
“If I’d eaten my supper, I’d be in the same condition as Father Stocks,” I told her bluntly. “That’s the sort of hospitality I can do without.”
“Well, boy, you don’t mince your words—I’ll give you that. So I’ll be equally blunt. We have your trunks and we need the keys. Why don’t you give them to me now and save yourself a great deal of trouble and heartache?”
“The keys belong to me and so do the trunks,” I told her.
“Of course they do,” Mistress Wurmalde replied, “and that’s why we’re willing to buy them from you.”
“They’re not for sale.”
“Oh, I think they are. Especially when you hear the high price that we are willing to pay. In exchange for the trunks and the keys, we will give you the lives of your family. Otherwise . . .”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I was stunned by her offer.
“Well now, that’s made you think, hasn’t it?” she said, a gloating smile spreading across her face.
How could I refuse to give her the keys? She’d implied that my refusal would result in the deaths of Jack, Ellie, and Mary. And yet, despite the pain in my heart, there was a very good reason to refuse. The trunks mus
t be very important to the witch covens. They might contain something—perhaps knowledge of some sort—that could increase the threat from the dark. As Mr. Gregory had said, there was more at stake here than the safety of my family. I needed time. Time to speak to my master. And there was something else here that was strange. Witches were very strong. So why didn’t she just take the keys from me by force?
“I need some time to think,” I told her. “I can’t just decide now—”
“I will allow you one hour, and not a moment longer,” she said. “Return to your room and think it over. Then come back here and give me your answer.”
“No,” I protested. “That’s not enough time. I need a day. A day and a night.”
Mistress Wurmalde frowned, and anger flashed into her eyes. She took a step toward me: Her skirts rustled and the sound of her pointy shoes made two hard clicks on the cold flags of the kitchen. “Time to think is a luxury that you can ill afford,” she told me. “Have you got an imagination, boy?”
I nodded. My mouth was too dry to speak.
“Then let me paint a picture for you. Imagine a grim dungeon, dark and dreary, crawling with vermin and rats. Imagine a bone pit, redolent of the tormented dead, its stench an affront to high heaven. No daylight reaches it from the upper ground, and just one small candle is allowed each day, a few hours of flickering yellow light to illuminate the horror of that place. Your brother Jack is bound to a pillar. He rants and raves; his eyes are wild, his face gaunt, his mind in hell. Some of it is our doing, but most of the blame must fall to you and yours. Yes, it is your fault that he suffers.”
“How can it be my fault?” I asked angrily.
“Because you are your mother’s son, and you have inherited the work that she has done. Both the work and the blame,” said Mistress Wurmalde.
“What do you know of my mother?” I demanded, stung by her words.
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