Chapter 20
THEN
Nicholson had wasted no time. Within three weeks, he was riding through Newbrough on his way to Haydon Bridge. He was determined to find more witches; it had to be so. He firmly believed in Jane Martin’s guilt and, if he could not find her to prove it, he would find someone else.
He had employed a Bell Man, a stevedore who, jaded by dockside life on the River Tyne, was happy to accompany him and announce his presence.
Nicholson adored the power this new job gave him; people looked at him with respect, the same way they had looked at John Kincaid.
And it was with a straight back he sat, dressed in black on a pure white horse: an imposing figure as his entourage trampled freshly fallen snow into mud, churning it into filthy slush as they passed through this foul little village full of stone cottages and hovels.
‘Hear ye, hear ye!’ called the stevedore. Brown, Nicholson thought his name was. ‘All people that would bring in any complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person appointed!’
The crier rode ahead of the entourage, and Nicholson looked around him as he followed.
Soon, he would make his mark in these Border countries, and he’d be as well-known and as wealthy as Kincaid.
He would start small; these tiny villages always harboured women who were different, who did not hold men like him in the highest regard.
And if he could prove his worth in one of these tiny villages, it would be a coup for him as well.
Yes. Newbrough was as good as any place to start.
‘Hear ye! Hear ye! All people that would bring in any complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person appointed!’ repeated the crier. ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’
The villagers who straggled around the streets stared at the procession as it passed them. Nicholson smiled, seeing the women looking at one another, assessing their neighbours, wondering, perhaps, whether they were harbouring a black secret.
‘We are here to help you,’ declared the crier in his broad Tyneside accent.
He brought his horse to a stop. ‘This gentleman has been tasked with cleansing our villages, ridding them from evil. If you have any complaints of this nature, tell us. Any witches you give up to us will have a fair trial, and your minds will be settled.’
Nicholson saw the scrawny, unkempt women huddled beneath their shawls. He noted an elderly lady: a toothless, hunched old hag. She would do. He pointed at her. ‘You. Do you practise the dark arts? Do you cavort with Satan? Do you bear the witch’s mark? You are obliged to tell us…’
‘No!’ A younger woman ran up the old hag, who was trembling with fear. ‘My mother is a good, gentle, kindly, God-fearing woman. It is not the likes of her you need to be searching for.’
‘Then tell me,’ said Nicholson, his voice dripping honey, ‘who should I be searching for?’
The younger woman looked at him, then at the crowd, who were gathering nearby.
‘I think we all know who these men need to speak to.’ Her face hardened as the villagers began to crowd in, eager, it seemed, for a bit of theatre and excitement.
Excellent. The younger woman clutched onto her mother’s arm.
‘We all know of someone who we could take to task for this. For the things that have happened in this village.’
‘Pray tell us, young lady,’ said Brown, playing the part perfectly. Nicholson saw how the woman preened herself, scooping her filthy, mousy-brown hair behind her shoulders and fluttering her eyelashes at the handsome, muscle-bound young man on horseback.
The woman flicked a glance at Nicholson. ‘Is this fellow here to be trusted?’ she asked the crier, suddenly brave. ‘How can we be sure he knows what he is looking for?’
‘My dear lady,’ interrupted Nicholson, tired now of her wasting his time.
There were witches to find! ‘I am Cuthbert Nicholson. I have been employed by the authorities in Newcastle to cleanse your villages of witches and of evil. You speak as if there is someone here who you do not trust. Tell me. Is this person a young woman herself?’ He scanned the crowd.
There were only a couple more elderly ladies in amongst them.
Experience told him they were stalwarts of the village, central repositories of gossip.
These women, unlike some in other areas, were not at risk of accusation.
The hag’s daughter, on the other hand, looked and acted like a whore, primping and preening herself, thrusting her breasts out unconsciously in his party’s direction.
He sensed competition for something here.
A younger woman, perhaps, who was a threat to this female.
‘Tell him nothing!’ A voice burst through the crowd.
Nicholson looked around to see who had spoken.
It was another woman, dark-haired, in her mid-twenties, perhaps?
Two small children hung about her person and a baby squalled on her shoulder.
‘Leave it be, Mary,’ she said, addressing the whore. ‘Do not speak.’
Nicholson ignored her.
He spoke to the whore again – Mary. ‘Tell me, my lady. Mary, is it?’ He smiled at her and she thrust her breasts out again. Disgusting. ‘Is this person a charmer? An enchantrix, perhaps? Has this person proved this to you, over and over again?’
‘Many times,’ said Mary confidently. ‘She has caused illness and death in the village. The crops were spoiled last year, and I saw her walking through the fields before it happened. Once, I saw her change shape – into a fox. Hours later, the chickens were killed—’
‘Mary!’ It was the woman with the brats again. ‘When did that happen?’
‘She walked up an alleyway,’ said Mary assertively. ‘And a fox ran out from whence she had come.’
‘That proves nothing. A fox may well have just been coming through the alleyway.’
‘Oh, you shall not defend her, Ellen!’ shrieked Mary.
Nicholson shuddered at the screeching. ‘Just because she helped you out with the potion. The potion, I may say, sir,’ Mary transferred her attention to Nicholson, enjoying, it seemed, the attention the speech was garnering, ‘that killed Alice not two weeks ago.’
‘Mary,’ said the dark-haired girl – Ellen, it seemed. ‘Stop it. You do not know where this is leading to.’
‘You saw it, Ellen. You saw it as well as I did,’ said Mary. ‘She cannot get away with it. Murdering us in our beds, it’ll be us next. Anyone who speaks out against her is cursed.’
‘You do not know…’ Ellen looked terrified, but Nicholson was enjoying it. He had almost heard enough to accuse this woman, but he was intrigued as to what would be said next.
‘How about the time she made your son take a fever?’ snapped Mary.
This was getting very interesting. ‘You told me he’d been misbehaving, throwing things at her house – she said, I am certain she said, that she would make him sorry.
I was passing the house; I heard it with my own ears.
’ She nodded, satisfied with her memory, it seemed.
‘No.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘That did not happen. She healed him when he had the fever and—’
‘But how did he come to have the fever?’ Mary’s eyes were glinting, so invested was she in her tales. ‘She brought it on him, the poor bairn. He would not have had the fever had she not willed it upon him and said he would be sorry.’
‘But she healed him—’
‘No. She just controlled it. Satan controlled it through her. She did his bidding. It was a warning, Ellen – a warning. Next time, the bairn will not be so lucky, mark my words!’
‘Silence!’ Now Nicholson had had enough.
He wanted to get on with the job; he didn’t have time for catfights.
‘You are obliged to name the wench responsible for this evil. Who is she? Is she a suspected charmer? An enchantrix? A witch, perhaps? If she has harmed children of the village, that cannot be allowed.’
‘It is yon Meggie Noble,’ shouted Mary. ‘We all know it is Meggie Noble. And she has done all of that and more. Her ways are wild and unchristian. She roams thon moors, up at that Well. Sacred, she calls it. Yet it’s only sacred to those who worship Satan.
Yes.’ The woman nodded decisively. ‘She is not called the Snow Witch in these parts for nothing.’
* * *
Ellen felt as if she was balancing on the edge of a cliff, and whichever way she moved, she could tumble into an abyss of shame or righteousness.
If she defended Meggie too much, would she be accused with her?
If she didn’t defend her enough, would Meggie be accused and tried as a witch? Mary’s accusations were not helping.
‘We do not know that she did harm people!’ Ellen said, looking frantically about her.
She didn’t like that word at all – enchantrix.
Her sister had told her it had something to do with witches.
And that nickname Emory had given Meg when they were all children and they’d play together, climbing the ruins of the Roman Wall and running through the fields shouting at the sky.
It was silly words, a bit of fun – but Mary was stating it as a fact. The Snow Witch.
If they arrested Meggie, she could tell them about Ellen and everyone would know what Meggie had done for her.
Yet the truth was that Alice was in her grave because of Meg – what if Meg had chosen to kill her, Ellen, instead of Alice?
She could kill on a whim, that much was certain.
Had Alice wronged Meggie? Was it punishment for something?
And she, Ellen, had been no angel recently towards Meg Noble.
What of the day where she had gone knocking at Meg’s door, and thrown it open unannounced, desperate for her help? Meg had been kneeling on the floor, pushing what looked like a flagstone back into place, and looked up guiltily when Ellen had burst in.
‘Meg, I need your help. You have to make things right. But I can’t pay you yet.’
Meg had fixed her with those odd, grey eyes. ‘But you need me to help you, Ellen?’
Ellen had nodded. ‘I will pay as soon as I can, but this has to be done now. God won’t help me, so you have to.
I know it’s wrong, but I can’t…’ She had shaken her head, swallowed down a sob.
‘Tam is dead, and I cannot… I cannot have another child! Charles – he… Oh God. Meg, please. Nobody knows the bairn is not Tam’s, and… please.’
She had spilled out the whole story to Meggie, who had sat back on her heels and listened wordlessly, then had got to her feet and gone to the dresser.
But Ellen didn’t have space in her mind to think about all of that.
Eventually, Meg had handed her a beaker of liquid.
‘I did know you would come to me,’ Meg had said.
‘I have exactly what you need. Take it.’ Then she had raised her strange, cool eyes to Ellen. ‘I want no money for this.’
Oh God!
They would talk about her. If Meggie chose to reveal Ellen’s secrets, she would always be known as the woman who had carried Milburn’s bastard child.
Look at her, they would say. Her husband dead less than a twelve month.
Ellen was ashamed of herself. Milburn had come to her door, before Tam had died, and Ellen had been weak.
The second time, when she could not pass the child off as her husband’s, that was the time she had been forced to call on Meggie and beg for her help.
The third time had been today. She had panicked and shut the door on Charles, saying that a friend was in the cottage with her. She had sat on the floor sobbing, a hot poker in her hand to defend herself with, just in case.
After the second time, Ellen had been grateful.
But now?
The abyss beckoned and she didn’t know which way to fall.
* * *
Nicholson stared at Ellen, saw the terror in her face and considered pressing her for more information.
He would be interested in seeing this ‘enchantrix’ they talked about.
He guessed the dark-haired woman had tales of her own to tell.
But he would leave her alone for now. He would concentrate on this other girl, this Meggie.
If that brought no joy, then he could move on to this Ellen creature.
He tried to imagine Ellen naked as he probed her with the needle on the end of his staff in order to find a soft, clean spot to prick her.
She had apparently borne three children though, so her flesh could be tarnished with those awful silvery-purple marks across her belly, and her breasts would not be as firm as he might hope. It would not be attractive to see.
She would do as some gentle amusement, he thought, but he would let her go afterwards. Maybe do an extra test on her, so he could watch her blood flow down her white shift, then he would declare her innocent. But he was intrigued by this other girl.
‘Yes! What was that funny word you used, sir? Enchant-something-or-other?’ cried Mary.
The dratted woman was relentless!
‘Enchantrix,’ replied Nicholson, curling his lip with distaste as he looked at this stupid, ill-educated and over-confident wench.
‘Yes. That’s it. She’s an enchantrix.’ Mary put her hands on her hips and nodded.
Nicholson had no doubt she didn’t even know what the word meant.
‘Yes, sir. I know what she is now. It makes sense. She does odd things, sir. Has funny beliefs. I can tell you where she might be if you like? If she is not in her cottage up there,’ she pointed towards a rutted, snow-covered track on the edge of the village.
‘Then she will be up by that Well and the old fort, casting spells and cursing us God-fearing people. She tried to force her way into church to a funeral some days ago – to the funeral of the woman she killed. She could not even let her rest. The witch was shrieking curses like the Devil himself was controlling her tongue. Some men had to escort her out.’ Mary crossed herself piously.
Good God.
‘The woman is mad, I tell you. Mad,’ continued the whore.
‘Mad. Or a witch,’ replied Nicholson. He sighed.
He was bored now. ‘Brown – find out from this woman exactly where this witch practises the dark arts. We shall track her down and deal with her. Fret not, my dear,’ he said, bowing to Ellen as the stevedore broke away from the procession and dismounted from his horse to speak with Mary.
‘The witch will be given a fair trial. We do not deal in false accusations. We strive to discover the truth. Good day.’
He could practically feel the twenty shillings he would earn from this village in his leather purse.
If he didn’t get this enchantrix they were talking about, he would get one of the others.
Either the dark-haired one, the hag or the whore.
He didn’t care which one. It would be more fun trying the younger ones, though. He looked forward to the challenge.