Blood and Clay Read online

  “How’ve you been? Did you have a good Christmas?” I rubbed my arm, the place he had taken his hand from seconds before now bristled and goose pimpled with the absence of his warmth.

  “Same old. Lots to eat, church, gifts. I got this coat.” Gabe gestured to a thick coat which he wore over a work shirt which skimmed his chest. His chest seemed to have grown wider since I had seen him last and he seemed to have shot up in height too.

  “That’s nice.” I tried to sound cheery for him.

  “Sorry Lizzie. That was stupid of me, you know with your family an’ all. How was your Christmas?” Gabe looked at me with a concern that made me feel guilty for not being more cheerful for him.

  “Yes fine. Not bad.” I said quickly. I didn’t want him to feel bad for me. What good would it do for him to know the truth? That we had as little food as ever, that the fire had refused to light all Christmas because of the damp, that Mam and James had had a blazing row on Christmas Day that ended up with her getting a black eye and that she had taken it out on me the day after. I winced a bit as the memory reminded me of the still fading bruises over my ribs and hip.

  “Hmm, good.” Gabe stared absentmindedly across the yard again. Jane came out of the farmhouse and he watched her as she made her way towards us. I took the chance to examine his face.

  It wasn’t often I got a look at his face without him looking back at me and he seemed to have changed over the month that we hadn’t seen each other. He had lost the baby faced roundness his chin had always had and in its place was a more grown up and stronger jaw. His strawberry blond hair was getting longer and brushed his collar at the back. Though his freckles were still smattered over his nose and cheeks it seemed like he looked more rugged than he had before. I was surprised to realise that it was because of the beginnings of stubble coming over his chin and jaw-line. I suddenly felt like the world was moving too fast. He was growing up without me.

  Then he smiled a huge grin and the sides of his eyes crinkled and my Gabe was back. It only took me a second to notice that it wasn’t my Gabe I was looking at though. From the way he was smiling, not at me but at Jenny, I knew that something more than a growth spurt had happened over the last few weeks.

  “Hi Jane.” He said, starting to tug self consciously at his jacket and smoothing his hair down at the back.

  “Hi Gabe.” Jane smiled then looked down shyly. She tucked her hair behind her ears, almost a mirror image of Gabe’s actions, and then looked up again. It was like looking at a female Gabe. Her hair hung to her waist but was the same strawberry blonde; her eyes were the same shining pale green. They were made for each other. I began to feel as if I were going to vomit. From nowhere a flood of feelings came rushing in and I felt more alone than I had ever felt.

  “Hi Alizon.” Jane turned to give me a genuine smile.

  “Oh Lizzie.” Gabe seemed surprised to see me still there. “Sorry. Do you know each other? Lizzie this is Jane. Jane, this is my friend Lizzie.”

  “Yes we know each other a bit. We’ve not had time to talk before though. Mam raves about your stitching though Lizzie.”

  Mrs Nutter had always taken pity on me and one year, not so far back; we had spent a few hours darning Mr Nutter’s socks as Gran had been working on a cow with a fever. It was a nice memory, but one that made me realise what I didn’t have in a Mam.

  "What in God's name have you done you old witch?"

  Our heads whipped towards the barn door. We didn’t hear what Gran's answer was; only John's next words.

  "You were meant to heal it not kill of you evil old crone.”

  We ran into the barn to see what had happened. At the far end of the barn the milking stool had been overturned. Gran was slowly collecting her things and returning them to the drawstring pouch which she wore around her waist. She didn’t look the least bit scared by John Nutter who was tugging at his own hair, his face going red from anger.

  “She was just sickening from the calving. You just had to give her some of your herbs or say one of your little rhymes to make her better and now she’s dead. What use is she to me dead? She won’t even make good meat. God only knows what you’ve done to her. I might poison people if I feed them that meat”

  “She was sickening?” hissed Gran “She was more than sickening John Nutter. She was courting death. You should have called me earlier”

  I looked at the cow. It was still on its knees, as if it were just resting, but from the rear of the cow I could see a puddle of blood with chunks of afterbirth in it. The cow’s eyes were open but glassy and I could see that the cow’s spirit had left her. Her large tongue lolled out of her mouth and had already started to take on a blue black tinge.

  “Get out you murdering crone” shouted John Nutter as he kicked the milking stool in anger and began pacing the room. Mrs Nutter shot us a worried look and nodded goodbye as we made to leave.

  “As you wish John Nutter. Lizard take my arm, we have a long walk home and my old bones are tired”.

  Gran adopted the stooped, frail gait, which I knew to be untrue; she shuffled out of the barn leaning heavily on my arm. Once out of the barn she tugged viciously at my arm as she began to storm out of the farmyard, avoiding every dip and stone which got in her way. Again I wondered if Gran was really as blind as she claimed to be. I looked back at the barn in time to see Gabe and Jane coming out. Gabe had his arm around Jane and the stopped and looked at each other as Gabe spoke. My stomach dropped and I looked back to the footpath. I wasn’t sure where these feelings were coming from but I had learnt long ago that the best way for me to deal with any painful feelings was to squash them down hard and try to forget. I tried to do it but the pain lingered in my chest, like the pain that had sat there after I had been kicked by the farmer.

  The journey back to Malkin Tower was faster than the journey to Nutter Farm had been. Gran moved at a furious pace muttering as she walked. Every now and then she would shout in anger.

  “Full mornings work……. Stupid cow was half dead already……..how dare he call me a crone…..be sorry, he’ll be sorry...”

  I didn’t envy John Nutter. I just hoped that Gran would leave the family alone. I couldn’t bear to see the children or Mrs Nutter suffer. The rest of the day was not pleasant in Malkin Tower. Gran sat by the fire for the rest of the day muttering. Every time I got to the fire to try and warm myself Gran lashed out at me with a stick or her foot and so I avoided her as best as possible. I knew that Gran would expect me to stay at the house in case I was needed. Mam and Nettie had gone walking for the day to collect herbs. James was nowhere to be found so was probably out drinking, fighting or thieving. Despite the beating I knew I’d probably get for having disappeared, I decided to spend the afternoon in my clearing. I shuddered as I passed the haunted clearing with the stained stone slab and I walked faster until the oppressive sense of death had passed and I reached my own clearing.

  Even in the autumn chill the clearing felt warmer than anywhere else. The covering of branches overhead and the mossy ground below made the clearing insulated and all of the noises of the forest muted. I lay on my back in the centre of the clearing for a while then, when the damp of the moss started to seep into my clothes, I crawled to the tree and curled up in the hole in the trunk.

  I stayed in the clearing, within the tree trunk, for the rest of the afternoon. As I sat in my safe place I prayed over and over again and asked God to keep the Nutter family safe, especially the children. I didn’t feel like I knew much about good and evil but I did feel in my blood and bones that God was good and would not allow any harm to come to the children as long as I could pray hard enough for Him to hear me. I knew that tonight I would be asked to help Gran out of the house and to leave her outside in the dark for half of an hour. I didn’t know what Gran did during this time only that within days of doing it a person who had offended the family would suffer pain, death or misfortune. I only hoped that her prayers had been strong enough.

  When the air was finally t
oo cold for me to bear and the clearing had begun to get too dark to see I crawled out of the tree and stood up, arching my curved spine to straighten it out again after my time curled up in the tree. With a final prayer to God, this time for myself, I set off home and as I walked I mentally prepared myself for the beating I knew would be waiting for me when I arrived.

  Chapter Seven

  As Roger knelt down he relished the hardness of the prayer pillow beneath his knees. Feeling uncomfortable did not bother Roger. He felt it was an excellent display of piousness to suffer for his faith. He listened intently to the vicar’s choice of words for the prayer. The words spoke directly to Roger’s current frame of mind and he felt that the vicar must have done so after their conversations the day before on the tasks which lay ahead.

  “Our Heavenly Father hear our prayers.

  As we live under the rule of our monarch

  We thank you for choosing him as our King.

  We vow to aid him in all condemnation

  Of witches and Catholics and heathens.

  Help us to remain strong and steadfast in our duties,

  And bless our magistrate Roger Nowell as he begins his quest

  To battle the evil among us to preserve our piety and goodness.

  In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost

  Thy will be done,

  Amen’

  The congregation echoed the “Amen” then stood for the last hymn of the service. Roger took an extra few seconds to silently ask God for the strength he needed to serve his King and community then stood to join in the hymn.

  As the service ended Roger slipped out from his back row pew and made his escape before the women of the village could corner him. As one of the last eligible bachelors of the parish Roger was rarely starved of attention following the Sunday Service. It was an attention that Roger despised and the girlish fripperies and concerns of the single and matchmaking women of the parish angered him. Did they not see that it was a goodness of the soul he prized not the angle of a well turned nose or the bounce of a carefully coiled curl?

  As Roger walked quickly away from the church and prepared to mount his horse he heard the rest of the congregation come out of the church. Instead of making his exit, however, Roger decided to stay and visit the vicar to gain some further counsel on the challenge he was about to begin. Roger cringed as he made his way back through the simpering women who tried to get his attention. He kept his gaze focused on the church entrance so as not to appear purposefully rude in ignoring the women. Once inside the church Roger sat in the pew he had left only moments before and waited for the stragglers to leave. Once the last people, the elderly members of the community, had left the church Roger waited for the vicar to see him. The vicar saw Roger as he bent to collect the final hymn books from the back pews and came to sit beside him.

  “Roger so good to see you. Did you like our prayer today?”

  “I appreciated it. I need all the strength God can give me”

  “That you do Roger. Did you want to speak to me about something? Have you decided what to do about the witches?”

  Roger sat in silence for a minute, eyes closed and breathing slowly as if in prayer. Then he raised his head and looked at the vicar.

  “Yes. I needed your counsel. I need to know that what I am about to do is right and just in the eyes of God. People will get hurt, maybe even killed. I need to know that it is necessary and that God will forgive me.”

  “It is so bad Roger? There will be deaths?”

  Roger heaved a big sigh. “Yes it is. It is that bad, or at least it may become so. Witches are being hung as far as London and Scotland and as near as Lancaster. The tortures they put those women through to make them confess. I don’t know if I have the strength to order that to be done.”

  “What is done Roger? What could be so bad?”

  “They poke them. With sharp pointed sticks. They poke until they find a spot which does not bleed and produces no pain. That is the spot where the Devil took their blood to make them his own.”

  “Well that is not pleasant Roger but it is not so terrible. These things must be done.”

  “I know. They do other things too. You know of the floatings. We all do. Tie the women up and drop them in the village pond. If they float they are witches and must face burning or the gallows. If they sink? Well at least they go to heaven. I just pity those poor souls who sink; innocent women who are mistaken for witches and end up dead.”

  “It is all for the cause Roger. These women would not be accused if they had not given us reason to fear them.”

  “Yes. I know, all for the cause. There are other tortures too. Tortures usually saved for murderers and those guilty of treason. They are legal to use on witches now. We are no longer in the soft willed ways of Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Maybe it is for the better Roger. What are you afraid of? That you may find witches among us?”

  “No. Unfortunately I know that the Devil Brides already walk among us. The families of Old Mother Chattox and Old Mother Demdike. We know them too well. I am afraid that when I am called to deal with tem I will not have the courage to order it done. To order torture and deaths of women and children. Can this really be what God wants?”

  “We cannot answer that Roger but we must trust in what our king says. He was chosen by God to rule us. Surely he is closer to God than even you and I. If these women and children lie with the Devil then they are against God and against goodness. We must deal with that as forcefully as is necessary and may God forgive us for any innocents we cause to suffer.”

  “May that be so.” Said Roger. A look of relief settled upon his previously troubled face. He was a God fearing Protestant and this man of God sanctioned the acts that Roger was about to instigate.

  “Do you know that these women and their families are witches? Can you be sure?”

  “Aye unfortunately I am quite sure. I cannot absolutely know until they confess but I am sure as I can be from the stories that these women and their kin are witches. They cast charms and make herbal brews. There are tales of their deeds also. Old Chattox is said to have killed the man who married Demdike’s daughter. There was no body but that is the tale.”

  “Just a family feud? Do they trouble others with their deeds?”

  “Aye they do. There are stories of illnesses. Richard Baldwin has a daughter who is suffering from fits and convulsions as if possessed by the Devil. He swears to all who will listen that it is the work of Demdike. Just last night John Nutter came to me to make accusations. He told me that Demdike killed his cow. He did not explain how she came to be at is farm. I suspect he invited her there to heal the cow. Whatever the reason his cow died, and another five this morning. He blames Demdike’s trickeries for it all.”

  “As you know I keep mainly to my church and my prayers but even I have heard gossips within this parish talk of the families and of a murder in Pendle Forest. Is that true?”

  “That I do not know. It is true that a body was found. The body of a young man called Thomas Lister. He was murdered in a clearing near here. It was never established who committed the foul deed only that witchcraft was suspected. The site of the body was close to Malkin Tower where Demdike’s family live. Many think it was her or one of hers. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was.”

  “If it wasn’t? Do you still seek to prosecute the families?”

  “I hope to God not but I cannot ignore it any longer. The King’s Daemonologie is quite clear. Deaths are not the crime being punished, witchcraft is. For a sentence in gaol or worse, death of a victim is not necessary, merely evidence of witchcraft. I think that perhaps King James fears that they will plot against him.”

  “Then they go to trial?”

  “No. At least not yet, but if there are any further complaints I will not be able to avoid it. It will not be long before news reaches London that Lancashire is failing to take action against those in league with the Devil. The King already fears this county. We don’t w
ant him to fear it anymore or it may mean the death of us all.”

  “Then let us hope that there are no more complaints and if there are then let us hope that God gives us the moral and emotional strength that we need in order to do his bidding.”

  Chapter Eight

  I crouched in the corner. From where I sat I could see all of the kitchen and living area. The compressed earth beneath me was warm from the constant use of the room. The painful cold of January had passed to the less harsh damp of February. The corner I crouched in was untouched by the drips which puddled in many areas of the room. As I drew my legs closer to my body I used my arms to hug Nettie who was pressed close at my side. Nettie was crying quietly and shivering. I didn’t know if it was caused by the cold or by fear ‘cause she was scared by the hammering on the door. As I hugged Nettie closer I stroked her hair and sang softly, trying to calm her and block out the noise. Every so often I would lose my place in the song and Nettie would squeak as another thunderstorm fist blows assaulted the barn door, sending splinters of rotten wood flying to the ground.