Daughters of the Witching Hill Page 3

  Less than a week later Elsie went to her childbed and I delivered her firstborn—a son, as I knew it would be. Our Kit was so happy he wept. Liza, dry-eyed, helped care for the baby whilst Elsie recovered from her confinement. As soon as my daughter-in-law was on her feet again, we took ourselves to the New Church in Goldshaw to have the child christened. The Curate spoke the Gospel over the baby but refused to trace the cross on his forehead with holy water, for he considered such things to be popish sorcery.

  Soon shearing season was upon us, and Kit had work every day for a fortnight. Liza, Elsie, and myself went from house to house to comb and card the new wool, Elsie bringing little Christopher along in a rush basket so she could nurse him. Walking homeward by dusk, I twisted my ankle coming down a steep track and had to hobble the rest of the way with one arm round Liza's waist. Come Sunday I let the rest of them go off to church whilst I stayed home to mind the baby. My swollen ankle was propped up on display in case the Church Warden or one of his lackeys barged in to see why I hadn't shown my face.

  In truth, I was grateful for these few hours of ease with my new grandson. So sweet and perfect little Christopher was. Couldn't keep myself from taking him out of his swaddling to count his fingers and toes, then I trimmed his tiny nails gently with my teeth, for it was said that infants with long nails grew up to be thieves. I rocked and sang to my darling till he smiled. Couldn't remember when I'd last been so happy. That Sunday was the hottest we'd seen all year. Since the others were gone, I'd taken off my kirtle and was wearing only my thin smock whilst I was sat on the bench beneath the elder tree. My kirtle was hanging from the tree branch so I could slip it back on in a hurry if I heard the Church Warden coming. But for now I delighted in the cool shade and the singing birds and my baby Christopher cuddled in my arms. Elderblossom scented the air. Folk called it a witches' tree, but that was just foolish talk. In my mind, it was a tree of many gifts. I made elder cordial from the foamy white flowers and elderwine from the purple-black berries.

  Little Christopher gazed up at me with innocent eyes, his fingers wrapped round my thumb, till he nodded off. Lulled by the sunlight, I leaned back against the tree trunk and, breathing in the elderflowers, slipped off to sleep as well.

  His curling golden hair haloed by the sun, he bent over me, and I was young again, beautiful enough to dazzle him. All I ask is one kiss. His mouth sought mine. Tilting my face to his, I surrendered, just as I had before, a faithless wife taking her pleasure with a travelling pedlar. How he kissed me.

  I awoke with a whimper as a hot tongue bathed the underside of my left arm. In the heat of summer, I'd gone stone cold and couldn't say a word, only clutch the baby tight. By God's grace, the child still slept. I had awakened to see a great brown dog pressed against my knee, slavishly licking my arm.

  Though I willed myself to order the dog away, I couldn't speak. My throat was dry as dust. In a panic, I tried to say the Pater Noster, but I couldn't remember the words. Quailing, I awakened Christopher who shrieked. The brown dog trotted away, disappearing through a gap in the hedge.

  Though I'd dreamt of Kit's father, it was Tibb's kiss that burned on my lips, Tibb's visitation that made every hair on my body stand up. And then I knew that, unlike Kit's father, Tibb would never leave me, as much as I sought to banish him. It was useless trying to fight it or deny it. He would be with me always.

  3

  TIBB APPEARED TO ME almost daily, most often at daylight gate, though sometimes in the blue quiet of morning or in the black hush of night.

  "Why are you here?" I asked him. "Why do you keep coming?"

  He smiled and told me, "My lady sent me to look after you." But he wouldn't say who that lady was.

  I struggled to make sense of it. Cunning folk I knew, by name and reputation at least: the midwife down in Colne, the herbwife over in Trawden. Did they have spirits such as Tibb? If so, they would scarce admit it for all the world to hear, for dealing with spirits was sorcery and the Bible said suffer not a witch to live. But, then again, you were only a witch if you used your powers for evil. Cunning folk did good. I'd heard that the Trawden herbwife had once cured a man of palsy. Fact was, people had need of charmers, for who else was there to treat the sick? Even supposing a person was rich enough to hire a physician, such doctors, with their lancets and leeches, were more likely to do harm than good to a body. In the old days, the monks of Whalley Abbey grew medicinal herbs and they'd a prayer and blessing for every illness, even holy relics to heal those with serious ailments, but the brothers were dead or in hiding now, so it was either seek out a blesser or suffer without end.

  I made myself remember my own grand-dad, the light in his eyes. When I tossed in the throes of some ague, he'd only to lay his hand upon my brow and chant a rhyme under his breath for the fever to ease. Had he a familiar? Following my memory back far as it would go, I recalled the spotted bitch that seemed to follow him everywhere, yet the animal had never drawn close enough so that Mam or I could touch it.

  Mam wasn't a cunning woman, but she had known a thing or two. Long ago I'd heard her tell of the fairy folk. They were not like us mortal beings. Neither were they angels or demons or even ghosts, but a middle race that lived betwixt and between, made of a substance so fine that they could appear and disappear at will. Only the blessed and the mad could see them. My grand-dad had sought out their magics; many a horse he healed on account of their aid. They dwelt in a world apart from ours, yet it was very near. They'd a queen, the Queen of Elfhame, near as beautiful as Our Lady. She dressed all in green and rode a white mare with thirty-nine bells tied in its mane. Fleet as the bride of the wind, she'd ride, the music of those ringing, singing bells echoing through the forest. My lady sent me to look after you. Was Tibb, then, one of the elvenfolk, the Queen of Elfhame's host?

  With such things churning in my head, I thought I'd gone stark mad. Yet on the outside, nothing much changed. I was still Demdike, the beggar woman of Malkin Tower, mother to one bastard and to one squint-eyed spinster too poor to afford a spinning wheel.

  But Kit and his family moved on. It was Elsie's doing. To be honest, she'd never warmed to Liza and after I upbraided her for scolding Liza about the tansy, she'd taken to fearing me, too. I could see it in that fretful flicker in her eyes whenever I took her little son in my arms. She'd try to snatch him away, only Kit would wrap his arms round her and say, "Peace, Elsie. Let my old mother show some affection to her grandson."

  Kit's words were of little use. Elsie carried on as though I'd toss little Christopher headfirst into the bubbling soup pot soon as her back was turned. So she badgered and nagged till Kit at last agreed they could move down to Sabden and stay with her brother's people. I was happy, at least, that Kit found steady work in a stone-cutter's yard. Strong as a bull, he was, shouldering those great slabs of slate as if they were no heavier than a lamb's fleece.

  Once he and his family moved to Sabden, I only saw them of a Sabbath. Pained me, it did, to see so little of Kit and my grandson, though I confess I didn't miss Elsie much. Why my Kit had to marry such a wet, jumpy thing was beyond my understanding. But he was a dutiful son, sending me what money he could spare. For the rest, Liza and I were left to our own devices. Two masterless women living in a tower.

  Liza found what work she could whilst I wandered my lonely way begging. More often than not, I'd be walking along Pendle Water or up over Stang Top Moor when I'd see him out of the corner of my eye. Then my Tibb would take his place at my side. I'd be covered in the dust of the road, swatting at midges and flies, and he'd be fresh and clean as the first morning of spring.

  "Go down yonder track," he said one morning. "You'll come across a lamb that's sore lame. Poor thing is bound to die anyway. Wring its neck and hide it in your bundle. None will be the wiser. You and our Liza can have meat this night. Later you can bury the bones in your garden."

  "Hold your wicked tongue," I told him. "I might be a beggar but I'm no thief."

  He grinned. "That's a sharp
temper you have, my Bess."

  In truth, I'd grown impatient with his mischief. "If you think you're so clever, why can't you cure my Liza of her squint?"

  He sobered and bowed his head. "What God has done, only God can undo."

  "What's the use of you, then, if you're only good for tempting me into getting hanged as a sheep thief?"

  "I can reveal the things that lie hidden," he was quick to tell me. "What have you lost? I'll tell you where it's gone."

  "Kit's father," I said, tart as anything. "Always wondered where he wandered off to."

  Long before Tibb first appeared to me, I confess I was once desperate enough to seek out a tinker woman who claimed she could tell fortunes. Paid her a penny to tell me where my lost love had gone. Took my money, that charlatan had, and told me a pretty tale of my lost Jake being pressed against his will into the Queen's Navy. He had died at sea, so she said, pining for me till his last breath.

  Tibb was more forthright. "My Bess, sometimes you're too soft for your own good. He was a rogue, your Jake. Had a girl like you in every town and village on his way. Your Kit has a score of half-brothers and -sisters scattered across two counties. If you'd any sense, you'd have scorned his impudence."

  "Does he still live?" I asked.

  "Aye, he lives. In Halifax. In his son's house, off Doghouse Fold." Tibb's accuracy in such matters fair took the breath out of me. "Don't ask me to spirit you away to visit him, for you'll not like what you see. Your Jake's a helpless, toothless old wretch by now. His greedy children—"

  I scowled.

  "His greedy lawful children," he corrected himself, "have taken his house, his possessions, and his money, banishing him to a bed in the garret. His wits, his health, his memory, all are gone, Bess. Though he lives, he's a mere shade. His stingy daughter-in-law dishes out one meagre bowl of gruel to him in a day and leaves him to lie in his own piss."

  "Enough!" I cried. Such a lot was too cruel for any man, even the one who had used and betrayed me. That night I would pray for Jake.

  Tibb wandered over to a birch copse where bluebells grew in a cloudy swath. "I'd never abandon you to such a fate." He sat himself down in the soft grass, then stretched out his arm, beckoning me to rest a spell beside him.

  "So you're more faithful than other men?"

  "You're a fine one to talk of being faithful," he said. "Letting your husband wear the cuckold's horns. But to answer your question, my Bess: Yes, I am true. You may count on me."

  "At least you're useful in that sense."

  This made him laugh. "At last, my Bess, we are of one mind."

  "If you know so much, tell me this. Where may Liza and I go to find work tomorrow and more in payment than stale bread?"

  He smiled, showing off his fine white teeth. "Anthony Holden's, down at Bull Hole Farm. You'll have meat in your belly without risking your neck to steal a sickly lamb."

  "Why Anthony Holden's?" Liza demanded when I roused her in the morning. "Last time he had no work for me. Chased me off his land, he did. Hates the sight of me."

  "Just this once," I said. "If he sends us packing, we'll never go there again, I promise."

  On that brisk morning I led the way. We skirted Blacko Hill, then walked along Pendle Water, passing through Roughlee with its manor house where Richard Nutter lived. Like his father before him, Nutter had remained true to the old faith. Of late, rumours had gone round of him concealing Jesuits, a new breed of priest come over from France as part of a secret English mission. Courting ruin, that was. Both Nutter and the priest, if discovered, would be done for high treason and dragged off to Lancaster where they would first be hanged, then cut down whilst still alive and disembowelled, left to die in slow torment before the spitting mob.

  The year before last Nutter had taken a new bride, young enough to be his granddaughter, so I'd heard. Kept themselves to themselves, the Nutters did, so I'd never clapped eyes on the lass. But I fair wondered what kind of girl would choose to bear such a yoke, not only to marry a sixty-year-old man, rich though he might be, but to risk her life sheltering Jesuits. I wouldn't trade places with her for all the money in the world.

  Liza and I pressed on by way of Thorneyholme into Goldshaw, past the New Church and the stone pit where I first met Tibb. Felt like an age before we finally reached Bull Hole Farm. As we trudged up to the farmhouse, a brown dog shot out of nowhere and bounded up to meet us. The hairs on my skin stood on end when that beast thrust his muzzle into my palm.

  "Are you not well?" my daughter asked me. "Told you it was too far to walk on no account."

  "Tell me, Liza, did you see this dog when you last came to Bull Hole?"

  "I recall seeing a black dog, not a brown one." She shrugged. "But farmers are like to keep more than one dog, as a rule."

  She dropped to her knees, took the dog's great head in her hands, and rubbed it behind the ears. Had a soft spot for God's creatures, did our Liza. Her bad temper vanished. For a moment I was worried she would spend the rest of the day fussing over that infernal beast.

  "Enough of that," I said. "We've come to find honest work."

  The brown dog scampered away, as if to lead us to the farmhouse door, but when we reached the house, there was no sign of the animal. A woman's head appeared in a window, then the door flew open. Sarah Holden was stood on the threshold, hands flapping in alarm.

  "Away from here, you squint-eyed devil! We've a sick child in the house and more than enough bad luck. Be off before I have my husband turn you out the gate."

  Hiding behind Mistress Holden's skirts, small children sneaked glances at my Liza, who decided to amuse her onlookers. Throwing back her head, she rolled her eyes in contrary directions till the children shrieked with laughter. Ignoring her antics, I strode up to the door and put my foot in before Mistress Holden could slam it shut.

  "Is that any way for a Christian to greet her neighbour?" I asked her.

  "You're no neighbour of mine," she said.

  No neighbour of hers, indeed! Did we not take communion at the same table, I was about to argue when, to my astonishment, a passage from Proverbs came to me, one of the Curate's favourites.

  Smooth-tongued as Tibb, I quoted the Bible verse: "He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack; but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse."

  When I said the word curse, she whitened, her lips pressing down, but I knew she could not dispute what was written in the Good Book. At a loss, she was, and what did I do but turn that to my advantage?

  "Have a heart, Sarah Holden. I'm old enough to be your own mother. Liza and I have travelled all this way because we've no bread left in our house. Not a single egg. My girl has a squint, it's true, but she won't bring any bad luck in your house, I swear. Have us work outdoors, if you will. We could weed your garden."

  The woman shook her head. "Weeding's children's work." She sighed. "If it's honest work you're after, you can scrub out the scullery. There's spinning to be done, too."

  "My Liza can spin beautifully," I told her.

  The children leapt and clapped their hands, begging Liza to do the trick with her eyes again till their mother shooed them away.

  Leaving Liza to do the spinning, I scrubbed out the scullery myself. By noon I was near finished. Meanwhile the smell of lamb stew and baking bread wafted in from the kitchen, and I was hoping and praying Mistress Holden would invite us to her table. We'd keep our mouths shut and sit well below the salt, to be sure.

  From the kitchen I heard Anthony Holden and his farmhands tramp in the door, heard Sarah Holden call her servant girl to fetch ale from the cellar. The mere thought of ale made my mouth water, though if Mistress Holden was stingy in her brewing as she was in everything else, it was probably weak, watery stuff. I rinsed out the clouts and was hanging them to dry when, from out of the kitchen, came a roar that stopped my heart.

  "That bug-eyed slattern!" Master Holden shouted to his wife. "You let her in the house and she's spoiled the ale!"

  "No, sir." Li
za's voice came tight and scared. "I never touched your ale, sir. Never even looked at it."

  "You cursed it," he said. "You're ruled by the Devil, you ugly thing."

  I rushed out of the scullery to see my daughter quaking before him. Master Holden had left the door wide open. Outside the brown dog was stood watching. All my hackles were raised. I pressed my hands together, then stepped between Master Holden and Liza. Mistress Holden, the children, and the servants were stood round, afraid to even speak with the master in such a temper. I lifted my chin and tried to convince myself that I wasn't afraid of him.

  "Sir, if your ale's been cursed, it wasn't the work of my Liza. That I'll swear upon your Bible. But if you show me the ale, I can lift the curse."

  If anything, my words left Master Holden looking even angrier, his face flushed a deep plum. The one thing that held me riveted was the sight of the brown dog. He was sat down now, one huge paw resting on the threshold.

  "You claim to have the power to lift a curse?" Master Holden spoke with contempt, as though I were an idiot not even fit to scrub out his wife's scullery.

  "Sir, you just accused my poor Liza of cursing the brew. If you believe she has such powers, merely from her squint, which was given to her by God, why can you not believe that a simple woman such as myself can bless and lift a curse?"

  Never in my life had I spoken so bold to my betters. It was as though Tibb were stood beside me, whispering the words in my ear. Master Holden was struck speechless, probably wondering whether to backhand me for my cheek. But I didn't cower.

  "Master Holden," I said. "Sure there's no harm in letting me try."

  "Ale jug's on the table," he said. Then his mouth clamped up and he looked fair powerless to say anything more.

  The brown dog lay down with both front paws resting on the threshold.

  Head buzzing, I crossed the slate floor to the scrubbed oaken table and put my hands on either side of the jug. I was silent. Everyone was. If I couldn't do this, they'd call me a liar. Holden would chase me off with a switch. But before I could founder another second, the words came to me, sweet and pure as Tibb's voice.