“Because the good men left in those villages are too few,” replied the Spook. “The dark has bitten too deep there, and the resulting wounds have festered. Those who hate the dark might once have fought and won. Now the witch clans rule, and good folk have mostly gone elsewhere—or died in the dungeons beneath Malkin Tower. So this is your chance now—maybe the last you’ll ever have—to fight the dark.”
The Spook paused, and a silence fell. I could see that many gathered there were thinking carefully about what he’d just said. It was then that a voice growled angrily from the back. “Where’s Father Stocks? I thought he’d called the meeting. That’s the only reason I came!”
It was the farm laborer from that first cottage I’d called at with Alice. The first man I’d lied to. There was a muttering from the back of the church. It seemed that others felt the same way.
“We weren’t going to tell you this, lest it drained away the last dregs of your courage,” said the Spook. “But now it has to be said. A good friend of this village has died at the hands of the witch who is the chief instigator of all this trouble. A friend who has done more than anyone to keep you and your families safe. I speak of Father Stocks, your parish priest. And now I speak in his name, asking for your help.”
At the mention of Father Stocks, all the candles in the church flickered together and almost went out. The door closed, yet there was no wind; no earthly explanation for it. Gasps were heard from the congregation, and Finley, the blacksmith, put his head in his hands as if in prayer. I shivered, but the moment passed and the candles burned steadily once more. The Spook waited a few seconds to allow the shocking news to sink in before continuing.
“So I’m begging you now. If you won’t do it for yourselves, do it for Father Stocks. Repay the debt that you owe a man who gave his life fighting the dark. The witch, who slew him in cold blood when he lay helpless, is called Wurmalde. This witch covets even the bones of your beloved dead. This witch, given half a chance, would drink the blood of your children. So fight for them and for your children’s children. Do it now! Fight while you still can. Before it’s too late. Either that, or end up like the poor folk in the villages to the south.”
Matt Finley, the blacksmith, looked up and stared hard at the Spook. “What do you want us to do?” he asked.
“Witches can sniff out approaching danger, and they’ll know we’re coming,” replied the Spook, locking eyes with the blacksmith, “so there’s no need for stealth. Once we move in, make as much noise as you like. In fact the more the better! You see, they’re not always that precise when it comes to numbers. There are enough of you to make the threat serious, but we need to make it appear even larger than it is. They won’t know how many of us there are, and we can work that to our advantage. As well as weapons, we’ll need torches.”
“What will we face up there? How many?” demanded Finley. “Most men here have families to support. We need to know what our chances are of getting back in one piece.”
“As for numbers, I can’t be sure,” admitted the Spook. “There’ll be at least two or three for every one of us, but that’s not a worry because there’s a good chance most of you won’t even need to strike a blow. My intention is to disrupt what they’re attempting and drive them off the hill to the west. In the confusion, I’ll deal with Wurmalde and their evil schemes will come to nothing.
“I suggest you split yourselves into five groups of six or so, each group to take up a different position on the eastern slope. James here will climb a little higher up and light his torch. That’ll be the signal for you to light yours. That done, move up the hill steadily and swing round toward the beacon. One more thing—don’t bunch. Each group should spread out some way. For all they know, there might be others without torches walking among you. As I said, they’ll just sense the threat, not the details of what they face.
“So that’s the plan. If you’ve anything to say, say it now. Don’t be afraid to ask.”
Someone spoke up immediately from the back of the group. It was the old man who’d been the first to enter the church. “Mr. Gregory, will we be in danger of attack from . . .” he asked nervously. He didn’t complete his sentence, and when the Spook looked directly at him, the man simply gestured upward and uttered one further word: “Broomsticks?”
The Spook didn’t smile, although I knew that in other circumstances he might easily have started roaring with laughter. “No,” he said. “I’ve been following my trade for more years than I care to remember, but in all that time I can honestly say that I’ve never seen a witch fly on a broomstick. It’s a very common superstition, but it simply isn’t true.
“Now it’s my duty to inform you of the dangers if the worst should happen. Beware of their blades. They’d cut out your heart as soon as look at you, and most have great strength—much more than your average man. So beware of that. Don’t let them get close. If necessary, use your clubs and sticks in defense.
“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t look into their eyes. A witch can get you in her power with a glance; don’t listen to a word she says, either. And remember, there might well be some male clan members to face. If so, be equally on your guard. They learn a lot from the women they associate with. They won’t fight fair and can get up to all sorts of tricks. But as I said, most likely it won’t even come to a pitched battle. Anything else?”
Nobody spoke, but Matt Finley shook his head for all of them. He looked as grim-faced and resigned as the rest. They didn’t want to face the witches but accepted that for the sake of their families they had no real alternative.
“Well,” said the Spook, “we’ve little time to waste. They’re up on yonder hill earlier than I expected. But whatever’s done is done, so now let’s make sure they don’t do anything worse. God be with you all.”
In response, some of the villagers crossed themselves; others bowed their heads. The Spook had never really made it clear whether or not he believed in God. If he did, it wasn’t the God prescribed by Church doctrine. Nevertheless, it was exactly the right thing to say, and within moments the groups were leaving the church to go and collect their makeshift weapons and torches.
CHAPTER XXII
The Battle of Pendle Hill
OUTSIDE the church it smelled like rain again, and in the distance I heard a faint rumble of thunder. A storm was on its way.
We raced south into the lee of the hill. Time was short, and the minutes were ticking away to midnight. I kept glancing up uneasily toward the summit, where the beacon lit the night sky over the hill, the glow reflecting back from the low clouds.
All who’d assembled in the church were with us, but not all were equally fit. By the time we’d crossed the stream to reach Fell Hollow, the place the Spook had appointed for our final gathering prior to the attack on the hill, our party was strung out over more than half a mile, and more precious time was lost. But even the less fit were valuable. They could carry torches and help to swell the size of the army visible to the witches.
Although I was frustrated by the delay, as our band gathered in the hollow, I suddenly felt more optimistic. There were thirty or more men prepared to do battle with the witches on the hill. My brother James and Matt Finley carried huge hammers; others were armed with clubs; a few had staffs; and all were carrying unlit torches. It was a better response than the Spook had expected.
At last it was time to attack, and as agreed, the vil-lagers spread out in groups along the eastern slope of Pendle, ready for the ascent. When this was finally accomplished, the Spook turned to face my brother.
“Well, James, you know what you have to do. As you climb, keep your distance from us three. They won’t be able to sniff us out—for, as you know, Tom and I are both seventh sons of seventh sons and long-sniffing doesn’t work on us, and Alice has witch blood from both sides of her family, so that should serve her just as well. They won’t get a hint until we’re in really close, and by then it’ll be too late. We’ll move to the southeast of the hill and climb u
p from there directly toward the fire. With a bit of luck, and making the best use of the confusion, I’ll bind Wurmalde and bring her back down while the rest flee.”
James nodded. “Whatever you say, Mr. Gregory. Anyways, I’ll be off. So good luck to the three of you. And take care, Tom. I’ll be thinking of you. . . .”
With that, he gave us a wave and set off at a brisk pace up the hill, moving away from us diagonally, his big hammer across his shoulder. I felt nervous, and not only for myself. This was a very dangerous situation. The Spook had told the villagers that the witches would probably flee from the hill as soon as they attacked—he had to do that. If he gave them the full range of possibilities, they’d probably be too scared to help. It was his duty to use all possible means to stop the Lammas sabbath before something from the dark was released into the County.
But things could go badly. The witches might well stand and fight. We weren’t just facing covens of thirteen; the clans were also there, to witness what was about to happen. There might be more than a hundred people on the hill; if it came to a pitched battle, we’d be greatly outnumbered. I was worried about the Spook and Alice. James, too. I already had one brother who was seriously hurt. I didn’t want something bad happening to James as well.
“Well then,” said the Spook, “let’s get ourselves as close as possible to that fire. We want to be ready when the attack starts. And while I want the others to draw attention to themselves, we must be as quiet as church mice. We need the element of surprise.”
So saying, he led the way south before gradually beginning a direct ascent toward the beacon. I followed close behind him, glad of my staff, Alice at my own heels. The climb was steep and the grass coarse, with big tussocks and treacherous, uneven ground. It was dark now, and it would be easy to twist an ankle. The Spook had told me that the plateau atop the hill was just as bad. A lot of rain fell on Pendle, and there were bogs aplenty. But there was also one thing to our advantage—heather.
It grew in profusion as we neared the summit and gave us some cover. The Spook put his hand on my shoulder and pressed, signaling that I should drop to my knees. I continued to follow him upward, now crawling through the heather, the wet ground soon soaking the knees of my breeches, while ahead of me the sky grew red, until I could actually see the sparks from the huge fire rising up to soar over us, blasted by the prevailing westerly wind.
At last the Spook came to a halt and waved me forward. I crawled until I was kneeling alongside him, Alice taking up a position on my right. We were facing the fire, and what I saw dashed such hopes as I’d had: I no longer had any illusions that we were going to destroy the power of the Pendle covens. Despite the Spook’s avowed intention in coming here, I knew now that it just wasn’t possible. There were too many of them, and the threat they posed was too great. To our right, there had to be two hundred or more people in an arc facing the fire, all of them either witches or part of the clans. And they were armed to the teeth. The women had knives at their belts, some brandishing them wildly so that the blades reflected the firelight; the men had long sticks with knives or barbarous hooks lashed to the end.
There, beyond the fire, facing the gathering, and with four other witches at her side—one of them Mab Mouldheel—was the tall, threatening figure of Wurmalde. She was addressing the clans, moving her arms dramatically to emphasize what she was saying. I could just about hear her voice, carried by the wind, but was too far away to make out the actual words.
There seemed to be little happening in the way of rituals. To one side of the main gathering, sheep were roasting on spits and I could even see casks of ale. It looked like they were planning some sort of celebration.
“I can see Mab, but who are the three others with Wurmalde?” I asked, keeping my voice low—though there was little chance that I could be heard. The wind was blowing toward us and the witches were crying out in response to Wurmalde, some shrieking loud enough to wake the longtime dead.
It was Alice who answered. “One on the right is Anne Malkin, coven leader. Next to her is Old Florence, who governs the Deanes. Getting on in years, she is, and little threat to us tonight. They must have carried her up the hill. The third is Grimalkin, the assassin.”
At the name Grimalkin, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck move. She was the cruel killer whom Wurmalde had threatened to use against Jack and his family, the one who marked the boundaries of Pendle with her warning sign.
Suddenly Wurmalde stopped speaking, and after a few moments’ silence the witches surged toward the casks of ale and spits of roasting sheep. If the celebrations were beginning, then did it mean the ritual had already been completed?
It was as if the Spook had read my mind. “I don’t like the look of this at all,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve arrived too late. . . .”
Soon the clans were celebrating with abandon, quaffing ale and wolfing down roasted mutton while I could only watch in dismay, my heart sinking lower and lower. Had the Fiend already come through the portal? If so, he would be gathering strength. Soon he would be coming for me.
As I watched, something happened to silence the celebrations. A lone witch ran to the fire from the northeast. She must have been placed on the summit to keep watch. Whatever she said to the gathering, all the witches suddenly became less boisterous; some turned their backs on the fire and faced north or east. Some even seemed to be looking in our direction, and even though everything I’d been taught told me that they couldn’t sniff us out from that distance, I became very nervous.
When I glanced down and to my right, I could see the torches moving up the hill. The Spook had planned things well. The villagers were spread out in groups, with the groups themselves not too close together, which gave the illusion that an army was climbing Pendle. But would the witches fall for that? By now the clans were definitely alarmed. Sentinels kept running back from their positions on the summit to report to the gathering.
After a while the clans began to shrink back behind the fire and a few were even beginning to slip away to the west, as if trying to lose themselves in the darkness beyond the firelight. But then it all went wrong. . . .
Once the villagers reached the summit and moved onto the plateau toward the witches, it became increasingly apparent that they were pitifully few in number. You could see their advance becoming slower and slower as they saw the armed horde they faced. Now the witches began to jeer and yell, brandishing their weapons while moving purposefully forward. It looked as if all was lost. I wondered what the Spook would do now. It was hopeless, but I couldn’t see him remaining hidden here in the shadows while the villagers were slaughtered. In a moment he’d lead me and Alice to join the fray.
By now the villagers had come to a halt, standing in a thin, uncertain line. They looked ready to turn and flee at any moment. But then I heard a man shouting what sounded like orders and, to my astonishment, someone burst from the line and ran directly to the waiting witches. It was a big man brandishing a huge hammer. At first I thought it was Matt Finley, the Downham blacksmith, but then I recognized him beyond all doubt. It was James! He was running flat out, water splashing up each time his boots landed on the soggy ground, the spray glistening orange and red in the firelight so that he seemed to be running through fire—either that, or his boots themselves flickered flames into the darkness.
Now, rather than remaining in a thin line, the villagers bunched up tightly behind him and followed him, most running at full pelt. As if by chance, or maybe some dormant battle instinct, moments before reaching their enemies, they somehow achieved the shape of a wedge, which drove hard into the massed witches, splitting the group almost into two halves before being brought to a standstill by the sheer weight of their numbers. James was the point of that wedge, and now I could see his hammer rising and falling and hear shrieks and shouts as the witches fought back and battle was joined.
I feared for James. How long could he survive, pressed hard by so many opponents? But before I could dwell on my
fear, the Spook touched my shoulder.
“Right, lad, follow me. This is our chance. But you stay here, girl,” he commanded Alice. “If things go badly, you of all people wouldn’t want to fall into their hands!”
So saying, the Spook stood up and began to run toward the other side of the fire. I followed close at his heels, and Alice, ignoring his warning, was at my right shoulder. And then we had a stroke of luck. Grimalkin, the assassin, went to join the fray, and now only four witches were standing to the rear of the fire—just Wurmalde, Mab, Old Florence, and Anne Malkin.
We were closing on them fast when they finally saw the threat. It was close, so very close. Within moments the Spook would have cast his chain over Wurmalde and carried her off down the hill while I tried to hold off any pursuit. But it was not to be. Wurmalde shrieked out a command, and some witches nearest to the fire turned their backs on the battle and rushed forward, quickly moving between us and our quarry.
The Spook never paused. Still running at full tilt, he downed the first witch with a sideways swing of his staff. The next opponent was a big bear of a man, wielding an enormous cudgel, but this time the Spook used the point of his staff. The blade flashed, and the man went down. But now the Spook was gradually being brought to a halt as witches and their supporters pressed in on us from every side. I started swinging my own staff desperately, but hope was leaving me fast. There were simply too many of them.
Two witches faced me. One gripped the end of my staff and held it tightly, her face grimacing with the pain of holding the rowan wood; the second, her expression filled with cruel intent, raised her knife, and I saw the long serrated blade arcing down toward my chest. I brought up my right arm to try and fend off the blow even though I knew I was already too late.
But her blade failed to strike home. I glimpsed a dark shape above me and felt a sudden wind, something passing so close above that it almost touched my head, and the witch with the blade screamed as she was lifted clean off her feet and hurled away from me. She fell onto the edge of the fire, throwing up a shower of sparks.
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