The strangeness gone out of her face, Anne wrapped her arm round my shoulders. Once more she was my friend, ever practical, quick to think up some joke to make me smile. "Never a dull one, you. Always had to choose the hardest road. Married that shovel-faced Ned when you could have had any lad in Pendle—barring mine, of course!"
Eager to put this talk of magic behind us, I grinned.
"Kindred spirits, we are," she said. "Had to do things our own way, no matter what folk said."
Her arm linked with mine, we headed back. Sermon had lasted an age, the afternoon was wearing on, and our families awaited us. Gone were the days when we could linger together for hours and hours. But before we went on our separate ways, Anne plucked a lacy spray of cow parsley and tucked it behind my ear, which made us both laugh.
"Our Anne, do you think things will ever be so good again as they were back in our day?"
I wasn't talking about the old church, for Anne had never been pious. Far as she was concerned, both Catholic priest and Protestant curate were nowt but long-winded hypocrites. What I meant were the revels and feasts, the delight we'd shared when we were two garlanded girls traipsing into the twilit fields. Our own daughters had never known such a carefree time, only this life of toil and want.
"The old ways are lost," she said, gentle and sad. "Not even them charms of yours can turn back time."
She spoke as any sensible person would do. But after we'd said our farewells and I'd headed off home, I thought to myself that the old ways would never truly die if I kept them alive in my memory. Well important, it was, that someone remained to tell young folk that the world hadn't always been the way it was now.
As Anne had predicted, folk in Pendle Forest would never let me forget what I'd done at Bull Hole Farm. When I went begging, they looked at me differently than before, as though they feared what might happen if they sent me away hungry. Instead of giving me the work of the lowest servant, they invited me to their table, served me what food they could provide, be it porridge or pottage or applecake, with a mug of their best ale to wash it down. Then, after an age of hemming and hawing, they made their request of me. Could I sit a spell with their child or their old mother, with their cow or their lame horse?
The beasts I didn't mind. Adored cows, I did, for their huge eyes and their gentle might. All I needed do was stroke a cow's neck and she'd go soft as lambswool. Drop her ears and stand still and easy whilst I chanted my Ave Marias over her, sprinkled her with blessed water, and let her drink the special tonic I'd brewed. The most skittish horse would nuzzle my neck after I spoke to him and stroked him on the withers and under the mane. Then I'd poultice the nag's legs with elecampane, which my grand-dad had called Horse Heal, for it cured every rash and swelling.
Learned to carry herbs in my bundle: plants to cure cow, sheep, horse, and folk alike. Sick children took the most out of me. Despite Tibb's promises, this never changed. After blessing a child, I was laid up at least seven days. Perhaps it was my fear of something going wrong that left me so weak. Walking on a knife edge, it was. I prayed and prayed that not a single child I blessed would ever die. Grown folk were different. If I blessed an ailing old soul and it was for nowt, no one held it against me. Tried my best to give them some comfort and ease before they departed this world. I liked to see them go with a smile on their lips.
Before long, folk took to asking me for more than simple blessings. Spinsters and widows begged me for love spells, and some folk I'll not name asked me to curse their enemies, but I refused to meddle in any such business. If I wanted to keep my reputation, I could only be seen to work for good and never for evil. So I told people my business was blessing and healing, nowt else, yet despite Tibb's help, there were some whose afflictions were beyond my powers to cure.
Of an August dawn, I walked to Hugh Bradyll's farm, for his wife had asked me to come. The year before Bradyll had broken his leg and the blacksmith had set it for him, but done a poor job, so the bone had mended crooked. Nowadays the sorry man limped about in such constant pain, he could no longer plough his field or herd his cows, and he'd no sons to do the heavy work for him.
Upon reaching the Bradylls' house, I took out my bundle of herbs and blessed the grey-faced yeoman in the name of the Holy Trinity, the five wounds of Our Lord, the Mother of God, and the Twelve Apostles. I spoke every holy verse I knew, chanted the Pater Noster, Ave Maria, and the Creed. But Tibb's voice came low in my ear, telling me what I already knew in my heart: Bradyll's leg would never be right again, that the marrow inside the bone had wasted away.
"This leg can't be fixed," I told his goodwife who was stood there, hands wringing her apron. "I'll brew a tincture of poppy seed to dull his pain, but there's nowt else I can do."
"You said you were a blesser." Mistress Bradyll made like I'd betrayed her out of malice.
"Told you not to bother calling out that lying quack," Bradyll spat before clenching his teeth again in agony.
"In God's name, I've done my best, sir." Had to bite my tongue to hold my peace. "I'm a blesser, to be sure, but no miracle worker. Blacksmith set your leg crooked, sir, and crooked it will remain."
Master turned his head to the wall. "Show that bilker to the door," he told his wife.
My head throbbing, I followed Mistress Bradyll out of the chamber. Her good man was bitter because he was ruined. If he could no longer get about on his two legs, he'd lose his livelihood, lose his leasehold on the farm. Most he could hope for was to learn weaving or somesuch job that could be done sitting down, but even weavers needed their feet to work the loom. He'd have to sit in his bed and card wool like a woman. Couldn't really blame him for his temper or his wife for her tears, but why did they have to lay the blame at my feet?
Meanwhile, I was fit to faint away from hunger. Hadn't had anything to eat or drink that day, and now it seemed that the Bradylls were of the opinion that I hadn't earned any payment at all. Mistress Bradyll opened the door for me.
"Good day to you, Demdike," she said.
But I refused to leave till she had at least paid me in food and drink. Just wasn't hospitable to send a fifty-year-old woman on her way without even a cup of small beer or buttermilk. Holding Mistress Bradyll's eyes with my own, I recited the charm to get drink.
Crucifixus hoc signum vitam eternam.
Amen.
Hearing the strange words bubble up from my lips, Mistress Bradyll started. She was too young to remember either the old Latin prayers or the crucifix that had once hung upon our roodscreen. On procession days we had carried it round the fields and pastures to bless the land, the animals, and the crops, for Christ's passion was the promise of life everlasting. Now the cross that hung in our church was stark, bare wood, and those walls, once painted with pictures of the saints and their stories, were whitewashed, empty as my stomach was now.
Not waiting for an invitation, I sat myself down at Mistress Bradyll's table and stared at her with unblinking eyes till she shut the door and dragged herself to the pantry to fetch me bread, butter, cheese, and beer. Didn't take my leave till I'd eaten and drunk my fill. I wasn't going to go to bed hungry this night on account of Master Bradyll's bad leg. I kept my eyes level on Mistress Bradyll till she took the hint and packed a bundle of bread and cheese for me to take home to Liza. By the time I walked out her door, she was shaking like a reed, well glad to see me gone.
So back to Malkin Tower I tramped. Didn't know if I'd find Liza home. She might have been spinning at the Holdens' or helping with the threshing at Thorneyholme Farm. Instead I found her sat regal as a duchess upon the bench beneath the elder tree. As the swaying branches, weighted with purple-black berries, cast their shadows over her face, she looked older and wiser, a woman and no mere girl. Two strangers were sat facing her on the good bench she'd dragged out of the firehouse. Ladies, they were, sporting fine gowns of new wool trimmed in velvet and gold thread. Never before had we been graced by such fancy folk.
I was about to barge forward and announce myself when a hare flitted across my path. Tibb's voice whispered in my ear.
Stay back and watch a spell, my Bess. You'll learn something of your daughter.
The elder of the two strangers spoke to Liza. "We've never before resorted to such measures, you understand, but when needs must." She spoke half in bossiness, half in trepidation. Wanted something done for her, she did. Right plump was our guest, with a lace-trimmed coif to cover her grey hair. I tried to put a name to her face, but she appeared an utter stranger.
"Madam, I can bless as well as my mother," said my Liza.
The cheek of her! She'd sat herself beneath that witchy elder tree to make herself look like a charmer, and she made no show of trying to hide her squint.
"Tell me what I may do for you," said my daughter, speaking smooth as Tibb, who laughed in my ear.
"It's my Alice." The stranger indicated the young woman at her side. "Two years wed and barren as a mule."
"Mother!" Young Alice's voice came sharp as broken crockery. A comely thing she was. Crow-black hair and smooth white skin, cheeks flushing red from her insufferable mother's nagging.
"We made a good marriage for her," the shrew blistered on. "Her sons, should she ever bear any, shall be addressed as Esquire. Her poor father nearly killed himself to raise her dowry."
Young Alice blinked, full miserable, staring down at her small hands. Soft as kid, they'd be. No work for her but sewing and embroidery.
"Yet we've no sign of a babe." The mother went on to explain that Alice's husband had a child by a previous marriage, a daughter, and if Alice had no children, that daughter would inherit the husband's estates. "My Alice," she said, "must have sons. What if her husband has the marriage annulled on account of her being barren?"
Right harridan, the mother was. No wonder her daughter couldn't conceive. What babe would want to be born to such a grand-dam? Judging from her speech, the mother wasn't from the gentry, despite her good clothes, but the wife of some middling merchant hoping to raise herself up through her daughter's marriage.
"Peace, Mistress Whitaker," said our Liza, sounding patient and wise. "What do you want from me?" Liza looked from mother to daughter, her wandering eyes lighting on the girl's downcast face. "Herbs to bless the womb? A charm to help the young lady conceive?"
"There's a curse you must lift," Mistress Whitaker said. "My Alice is barren because that Chattox over in West Close bewitched her."
"Chattox?" Liza seemed baffled as I was. "You mean Anne Whittle?"
In my hiding place, I could scarce keep myself from sputtering in outrage. Never in all my days had I heard such twaddle. My Anne cursing someone? My Anne, who thought that wizards and their ilk were puffed-up charlatans? She was the last person in Pendle who would meddle in hexes.
"Why would you ever think such a thing?" Liza asked, speaking my very thoughts.
The mother leaned forward on her bench whilst her daughter was sat there, pale and unmoving. "Just after my daughter's wedding, the pair of us saw that Chattox at Colne Market. She passed so close by, not taking care to move out of our way. My daughter trod on her foot."
"It was an accident," the girl spoke up. "I never meant to slight her."
"But slighted she was," said Mistress Whitaker. "I heard her muttering and murmuring under her breath, too low for anybody to make out her words. In God's name, I'll swear it was an incantation."
My skin prickled. Sometimes, it was true, Anne talked to herself—she seemed to value her own counsel and motherwit above all else—but what harm was in that? How dare this woman slander my friend? I was set to burst out of my hiding place to defend Anne's good name when Tibb's hand on my arm held me back.
"Wait a spell yet," he whispered. "There is more you'll learn."
"The Widow Chattox," said Liza, "has no more power to bewitch your daughter than the mice what live in our thatch. But if Mistress Alice has been cursed, I've a charm that will break it, just the same."
At that, my Liza began to recite word for word the blessing I'd spoken over little Matty Holden at Bull Hole Farm. How had she learned it—by eavesdropping? Wench was too canny for her own good. How clear Liza's voice rang out. Both anger and pride tore at my heart.
Sleepest thou, wakest thou, Gabriel?
No, Lord, I am stayed with stick and stake,
That I can neither sleep nor wake.
Rise up, Gabriel, and come with me,
The stick nor the stake have power to keep thee.
Then, by Our Lady, I caught my breath to see Alice take something from her velvet purse. Garnet beads, shining dark red as droplets of blood, flashed in her white hands. Her fingers began to work them, one by one, whilst her lips intoned the forbidden prayers. I hadn't seen a rosary since the days of Mary Tudor. Even owning one marked a person out as a traitor. If the Church Warden happened by, he might well report her to the Magistrate who would have her whisked off to Lancaster Gaol. Who was this timid girl, bullied by her mother yet so willing to risk everything for her troth to the old religion? After a moment I put two and two together. She could be none other than the young wife of Richard Nutter of Roughlee Hall, the man who sheltered Jesuit missionaries. At least in their piety, the girl and her husband were well-matched.