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Authors: Mary Sharratt
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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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.
When Liza's charm was wound up, young Alice closed her eyes, kissed the beads, and tucked them away, safe and out of sight. The young lady then drew something else from her purse—five shining shillings she pressed into Liza's outstretched palm. More brass than I'd seen in my life. We didn't take money, I wanted to shout. We took capons and eggs and ale and dressed hares, but no coins. Liza had already pocketed them.
My girl declared that she would go through my store of dried herbs and give young Alice the physick she needed to ward off witchcraft and bless the womb. But Liza didn't know much about the plants beyond the quick and timely use of tansy. For all I knew, she'd give young Alice some wort that would poison her, then we'd both be hanged.
Without further ado, I leapt out from behind the black-thorn, as though out of thin air, causing everyone to cry out. Liza's mouth opened wide enough for a hen to nest inside. Never crossed her mind that I could eavesdrop as well as she. As the saying goes, the apple doesn't fall far from the
"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.
When Liza's charm was wound up, young Alice closed her eyes, kissed the beads, and tucked them away, safe and out of sight. The young lady then drew something else from her purse—five shining shillings she pressed into Liza's outstretched palm. More brass than I'd seen in my life. We didn't take money, I wanted to shout. We took capons and eggs and ale and dressed hares, but no coins. Liza had already pocketed them.
My girl declared that she would go through my store of dried herbs and give young Alice the physick she needed to ward off witchcraft and bless the womb. But Liza didn't know much about the plants beyond the quick and timely use of tansy. For all I knew, she'd give young Alice some wort that would poison her, then we'd both be hanged.
Without further ado, I leapt out from behind the black-thorn, as though out of thin air, causing everyone to cry out. Liza's mouth opened wide enough for a hen to nest inside. Never crossed her mind that I could eavesdrop as well as she. As the saying goes, the apple doesn't fall far from the
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