{"id":53,"date":"2014-03-27T16:36:43","date_gmt":"2014-03-27T16:36:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/?page_id=53"},"modified":"2014-04-03T17:02:47","modified_gmt":"2014-04-03T17:02:47","slug":"daughters-of-the-witching-hill-book-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/books\/daughters-of-the-witching-hill\/daughters-of-the-witching-hill-book-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Daughter’s of the Witching Hill: Book Excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"daughterswitchinghill\"She was a very old woman, about the age of Foure-score yeares, and had been a Witch for fiftie yeares. Shee dwelt in the Forrest of Pendle, a vast place, fitte for her profession: What shee committed in her time, no man knows. . . . Shee was a generall agent for the Devill in all these partes: no man escaped her, or her Furies.<\/em><\/p>\n

Thomas Potts, The Wonderfull Discoverie of Witches in the County of Lancaster<\/em>, 1613<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

1<\/h3>\n

1610<\/strong><\/p>\n

See us gathered here, three women stood at Richard Baldwin\u2019s gate. I bide with my daughter, Liza of the squint-eye, and with my granddaughter, Alizon, just fifteen and dazzling as the noontide sun, so bright that she lights up the murk of my dim sight. Demdike, folk call me, after the dammed stream near my dwelling place where the farmers wash their sheep before shearing. When I was younger and stronger, I used to help with the sheepwash. Wasn\u2019t afraid of the fiercest rams. I\u2019d always had a way of gentling creatures by speaking to them low and soft. Though I\u2019m old now, crabbed and near-blind, my memory is long as a midsummer\u2019s day and with my inner eye, I see clear.<\/p>\n

We three wait till Baldwin catches glimpse of us and out he storms. Through the clouded caul that age has cast over my eyes, I catch his form. Thin as a brittle dead stalk, he is, his face pinched, and he\u2019s clad in the dour black weeds of a Puritan. Fancies himself a godly man, does our Dick Baldwin. A loud crack strikes the earth\u2014it\u2019s a horsewhip he carries. My daughter fair leaps as he lashes it against the drought-hard dirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhores and witches,\u201d he rails, shrill enough to set the crows to flight. \u201cGet out of my ground.\u201d<\/p>\n

Slashes of air hit my face as he brandishes his whip, seeking to strike fear into us, but it\u2019s his terror I taste as I let go of Alizon\u2019s guiding hand and step forward, firm and square on my rag-bundled feet. We\u2019ve only come to claim what is ours by right.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhores and witches,\u201d he taunts again, yelling with such bile that his spit sprays me. \u201cI will burn the one of you and hang the other.\u201d<\/p>\n

He speaks to Liza and me, ignoring young Alizon, for he doesn\u2019t trust himself to even look at this girl whose beauty and sore hunger would be enough to make him sink to his knobbly knees.<\/p>\n

I take another step forward, forcing him to back away. The man\u2019s a-fright that I\u2019ll so much as breathe on him. \u201cI care not for you,\u201d I tell him. \u201cHang yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Our Master Baldwin will play the righteous churchman, but what I know of him would besmirch his good name forevermore. He can spout his psalms till he\u2019s hoarse, but heaven\u2019s gates will never open to him. I know this and he knows I know this, and for my knowing, he fears and hates me. Beneath his black clothes beats an even blacker heart. Hired my Liza to card wool, did Baldwin, and then refused to pay her. What\u2019s more, our Liza has done much dearer things for him than carding. Puritan or no, he\u2019s taken his pleasure of her and, lost and grieving her poor murdered husband, ten years dead, our Liza was soft enough to let him. Fool girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cEnough of this,\u201d I say. \u201cLiza carded your wool. Where\u2019s her payment? We\u2019re poor, hungry folk. Would you let us starve for your meanness?\u201d<\/p>\n

I speak in a low, warning tone, not unlike the growl of a dog before it bites. Man like him should know better than to cross the likes of me. Throughout Pendle Forest I\u2019m known as a cunning woman and she who has the power to bless may also curse.<\/p>\n

Our Mr. Baldwin blames me because his daughter Ellen is too poorly to rise from her bed. The girl was a pale, consumptive thing from the day she was born, never hale in all her nine years. Once he called on me to heal her. Mopped her brow, I did. Brewed her feverfew and lungwort, but still she ailed and shivered. Tried my best with her, but some who are sick cannot be mended. Yet Baldwin thinks I bewitched the lass out of malice. Why would I seek to harm a hair on the poor girl\u2019s head when his other daughter, the one he won\u2019t name or even look at, is my own youngest granddaughter, seven-year-old Jennet?<\/p>\n

\u201cRichard.\u201d My Liza makes bold to step toward him. She stretches out a beseeching hand. \u201cHave a heart. For our Jennet\u2019s sake. We\u2019ve nothing more to eat in the house.\u201d<\/p>\n

But he twists away from her in cold dread and still won\u2019t pay her for her honest work, won\u2019t grant us so much as a penny. So what can I do but promise that I\u2019ll pray for him till he comes to be of a better mind? Soft under my breath, masked from his Puritan ears, I murmur the Latin refrains of the old religion. How my whispered words make him pale and quake\u2014does he believe they will strike him dead? Off to his house he scarpers. Behind his bolted door he\u2019ll cower till we\u2019re well gone.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome, Gran.\u201d Alizon takes my arm to lead me home. Can\u2019t make my way round without her in this dark ebb of my years. But with my inner eye I see Tibb sat there on the drystone wall. Sun breaks through the clouds to golden-wash his guilesome face. Dick Baldwin would call him a devil, or even the Devil, but I know better. Tibb, his beautiful form invisible to all but me.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow I don\u2019t generally stand by woe-working,\u201d says my Tibb, stretching out his long legs. \u201cBut if you forespoke Master Baldwin, who could blame you, after all the ill he\u2019s done to you and yours?\u201d He cracks a smile. \u201cIs revenge what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Tibb. Only justice.\u201d I speak with my inner voice that none but Tibb can hear. If Baldwin fell ill and died, what would happen to his lawful daughter, Ellen? Her mother\u2019s long dead. Another poor lass to live off the alms of the parish. No, I\u2019ll not have that burden on my soul.<\/p>\n

\u201cJustice!\u201d Tibb laughs, then shakes his head. \u201cOff the likes of Dick Baldwin? Oh, you do set your sights high.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tibb\u2019s laughter makes the years melt away, drawing me back to the old days, when I could see far with my own two eyes and walk on my own two legs, with none to guide me.<\/p>\n

\"ruledecoration\"<\/p>\n

2<\/h3>\n

1582<\/strong><\/p>\n

By daylight gate I first saw him, the boy climbing out of the stone pit in Goldshaw. The sinking sun set his fair hair alight. Slender, he was, and so young and beautiful. Pure, too. No meanness on him. No spite or evil. I knew straight off that he wouldn\u2019t spit at me for being a barefoot beggar woman. Wouldn\u2019t curse at me or try to shove me into the ditch. There was something in his eyes\u2014a gentleness, a knowing. When he looked at me, my hurting knees turned to butter. When he smiled, I melted to my core, my heart bumping and thumping till I fair fainted away. What would a lad like that want with a fifty-year-old widow like me?<\/p>\n

The month of May, it was, but cold of an evening. His coat was half black, half brown. I thought to myself that he must be poor like me, left to stitch his clothes together from mismatched rags. He reached out his hand, as though making to greet an old friend.<\/p>\n

\u201cElizabeth,\u201d he said. \u201cMy own Bess.\u201d The names by which I was known when a girl with a slender waist and strong legs and rippling chestnut hair. How did he know my true name? Even then I was known to most as Demdike. The boy smiled wide with clean white teeth, none of them missing, and his eyes had a devilish spark in them, as though I were still that young woman with skin like new milk.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, well,\u201d said I, for I was never one to stay silent for long. \u201cYou know my name, so you do. What\u2019s yours then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTibb,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour family name.\u201d I nodded to myself, though I knew of no Tibbs living anywhere in Pendle Forest. \u201cBut what of your Christian name?\u201d After all, I thought, he knew me by mine, God only knew how.<\/p>\n

He lifted his face to the red-glowing sky and laughed as the last of the sun sank behind Pendle Hill. Then I heard a noise behind me: the startled squawk of a pheasant taking flight. When I turned to face the boy again, he had vanished away. I looked up and down the lane, finding him nowhere. Couldn\u2019t even trace his footprints in the muddy track. Did my mind fail me? Had that boy been real at all? This was when I grew afraid and went cold all over, as though frost had settled upon my skin.<\/p>\n

First off, I told no one of Tibb. Who would have believed me when I could scarcely believe it myself? I\u2019d no wish to make myself an even bigger laughingstock than I already was.<\/p>\n

Ned Southerns, my husband, such as he was, had passed on just after our squint-eyed Liza was born, nineteen years ago. He blamed me for our daughter\u2019s deformity because he thought I\u2019d too much contact with beasts whilst I was carrying her. In my married years, I raised fine hens, even kept a nanny goat. There was another child, Christopher, three years older than Liza and not of my husband, but far and away from being the only bastard in Pendle Forest. The gentry and the yeomen bred as many ill-begotten babes as us poor folk, only they did a better job of covering it up. Liza, Kit, and I made our home in a crumbling old watchtower near the edge of Pendle Forest. More ancient than Adam, our tower was: too draughty for storing silage, but it did for us. Malkin Tower, it was called, and, as you\u2019ll know, Malkin can mean either hare or slattern. What better place for me and my brood?<\/p>\n

Still folk whispered that it seemed a curious thing indeed that one such as I should live in a tower built of stout stone with a firehouse boasting a proper hearth at its foot when many a poor widow made do with a one-room hovel with no hearth at all but only a fire pit in the bare earthen floor. In truth, my poor dead mother got the tower given her for her natural life\u2014towers named after slatterns were meant to hide guilty secrets.<\/p>\n

When my mam was young and comely, she\u2019d served the Nowell family at Read Hall. Head ostler\u2019s daughter, so she was, and she\u2019d prospects and a modest dowry besides. But what did she do but catch the eye of Master Nowell\u2019s son, then a lad of seventeen years? The Nowells were not an old family, as gentry went, nor half as grand as the Shuttleworths of Gawthorpe Hall or the de Lacys of Clitheroe. The Nowells\u2019 fortunes had risen along with the sway of the new religion. Back when Old King Henry\u2019s troops came to sack Whalley Abbey, the Nowells sent their men to help topple the ancient stone walls. King rewarded their loyalty by granting the Nowells a goodly portion of the abbey\u2019s lands. One of Old Man Nowells\u2019 sons went to faraway Cambridgeshire to make his name as a Puritan divine, or so I\u2019d been told. Far and wide, the Nowells let it be known that they were godly folk. But even the pious are prey to youthful folly.<\/p>\n

My mam, before her fall from grace, had been an upright girl, so the young Master Roger could hardly discard her as easy as he would some tavern maid. And that was why Mam was given Malkin Tower for the rest of her life on the condition that she never trouble the Nowells of Read Hall. Far enough from Read, it was, for them not to be bothered by the sight of her, but it was close enough to for them to keep watch of her, should she seek to blacken their good name. My mam and I were never respectable\u2014respect costs money and we hadn\u2019t two pennies to rub together. We\u2019d Malkin Tower to live in but no scrap of land for grazing sheep. Most we could manage was a garden plot in the stony soil. By and by, I think the Nowells had fair forgotten us. When my mam passed on, bless her eternal soul, the tower was in such poor repair they didn\u2019t seem to want it back. So I stayed on, for where else had I to go? It seemed they preferred to have no dealings with me and that it shamed them less to allow me to carry on here like a squatter, not paying a farthings\u2019s rent.<\/p>\n

My natural father died some years back, happy and fat and rich. His eldest son, my own half-brother, also named Roger, had become the new master of Read Hall, part of it built from the very stones his grandfather\u2019s servants carted away from the ruined abbey. Younger than me, was my half-brother, by some twenty years. Rarely did our paths cross, for the Nowells went to church in Whalley with the other fine folk, never in the New Church in Goldshaw with the yeomen and lesser gentry. But once, of a market day in Colne, I clapped eyes on Roger Nowell. Impossible to miss him, the way he was sat like some conquering knight upon his great Shire horse, blue-black and gleaming, with red ribbons twisted in its mane. That was some years ago, when my half-brother\u2019s face was yet smooth and unlined. A handsome man, he was, with a firm chin just like mine. I looked straight at him to see if he would recognise his own blood kin. But his sharp blue eyes passed over me as though I was nowt but a heap of dung.<\/p>\n

Over the years he\u2019d become a mighty man: Magistrate and Justice of the Peace. We in Pendle Forest were careful not to cross him or give him cause for offence. On account of my being a poor widow, he granted me a begging license. Did it through Constable without speaking a word to me. And so I was left to wander the tracks of Pendle Forest and wheedle, full humble, for food and honest work.<\/p>\n

But gone were the days when Christian folk felt beholden to give alms to the poor. When I was a tiny girl, the monks of Whalley Abbey fed and clothed the needy. So did the rich folk, for their souls would languish a fair long time in purgatory if they were stingy to us. In the old days, the poor were respected\u2014our prayers were dearer to God than those of the wealthy. Many a well-to-do man on his deathbed would give out food and alms to the lowliest of the parish, so my mam had told me, if they would only pray for his immortal soul. At his funeral, the poor were given doles of bread and soul cakes.<\/p>\n

The reformers said that purgatory was heresy: it was either heaven for the Elect or hell for everyone else, so what need did the rich have to bribe the poor to pray for them? We humble folk were no longer seen as blessed of the Lord but as a right nuisance. When I went begging for a mere bowl of blue milk or a handful of oats to make water porridge, the Hargreaves and the Bannisters and the Mittons narrowed their eyes and said my hard lot was God\u2019s punishment for my sin of bearing a bastard child. Mean as stones, they were. Little did they know. Liza, my lawful-begotten child, was deformed because her father, my husband, gave me no pleasure to speak of, whilst Kit, my bastard, borne of passion and desire, was as tall and beautiful and perfect in form as any larch tree. Ah, but the Puritans would only see what they wanted to see. Most so-called charity they doled out was to give me half a loaf of old bread in exchange for a day laundering soiled clouts.<\/p>\n

But I\u2019d even forgive them for that if they hadn\u2019t robbed my life of its solace and joy. In the old days, we\u2019d a saint for every purpose: Margaret for help in childbirth, Anne for protection in storms, Anthony to ward against fire, George to heal horses and protect them from witchcraft. Old King Henry forbade us to light candles before the saints but at least he let us keep their altars. In the old days, no one forced us to go to church either, even for Easter communion. The chapel nave belonged to us, the ordinary people, and it was the second home we all shared. Dividing the nave from the chancel with the high altar was the carved oak roodscreen which framed the priest as he sang out the mass. We didn\u2019t stand solemn and dour during the holy service, either, but wandered about the nave, from one saint\u2019s altar to the next, gazing at the pictures and statues, till the priest rang the bell, then held up the Host for all to see, the plain wafer transformed in a glorious miracle into the body and blood of Christ. Just laying eyes upon the Host was enough to ward a person from witchcraft, plague, and sudden death.<\/p>\n

When I was twelve, they finished building the New Church of St. Mary\u2019s in Goldshaw to replace the old crumbling chapel of ease where I\u2019d been christened. Bishop from Chester came to consecrate it just in time for All Souls\u2019 when we rang the bells the whole night through to give comfort to our dead.<\/p>\n

Back then we still had our holidays. Christmas lasted twelve days and nights with mummers and guizers in animal masks, dancing by torchlight. The Lord of Misrule, some low born man, lorded it over the gentry to make poor folk laugh. The Towneleys of Carr Hall used to invite all their neighbours, rich and poor alike, to join their festivities. Upon Palm Sunday everyone in the parish gathered for the processions round the fields to make them fertile. After dark, the young folk would go out to bless the land in their own private fashion. Everyone knew what went on, but none stood in our way. If a lass and her young man had to rush to the altar afterward, nobody thought the worse of them for it. I went along with the other girls, arm in arm with my best friend Anne Whittle, both of us wearing green garlands and singing. Cherry-lipped Anne loved to have her sport with the boys, but mindful of my own mother\u2019s fate, I did nowt but kiss and dance and flirt in those days. Only went astray much later in life, when I was a married woman and sore unsatisfied, seeking my pleasures elsewhere.<\/p>\n

In my youth, upon May morning, we arose before dawn to gather hawthorn and woodruff. We\u2019d dance round the Maypole and drink elderflower wine till the very sky reeled. At Midsummer\u2019s, upon the eve of the feast of John the Baptist, we carried birch boughs into the church till our chapel looked like a woodland grove. Bonfires blazed the whole night through. Some folk burned fires of bone, not wood, so that the stench might drive away evil wights from the growing crops. Most of us gathered round the wake fire of sweet apple wood where we danced all night, collapsing upon the grass at sunrise. At Lammas the reapers crowned the Harvest Queen and one year, by Our Lady, it was me, a lass of fifteen, crowned in roses and barley, the lads begging me for a kiss.<\/p>\n

Old King Henry was dead by then and we lived in hope that the old ways would live again. Crowned in roses, I led the procession of maidens on the Feast of the Assumption, each of us bearing flowers and fruits to lay upon the altar of the Queen of Heaven. Only weeks later, Edward the Boy King sent his men to smash every statue in our church, even that of the Blessed Mother herself, whilst we clutched ourselves, full aghast. They tore down the crucifix over the high altar and burned it as though it was some heathen idol. They destroyed our roodscreen, outlawed our processions, and forbade us to deck the church with greenery upon Midsummer or to bring red roses and poppies to the altar on Corpus Christi. They set fire to our Maypole, forbade us to pray for the dead or celebrate the saints\u2019 feast days.<\/p>\n

Six years on, weakling Edward wasted away and his sister Mary Tudor promised to bring back the old religion. For the five years of her reign we had our holidays again, our processions, our mass with swirling incense and the sea of candles lit for the saints. The Towneleys, the Nutters, and the Shuttleworths paid for the new roodscreen, the new statues, altar cloths and vestments. We had our Maypole and rang the church bells for our ancestors on All Souls\u2019 Night. But our joys soured when the news came of the heretics Mary burned alive, near three hundred of them, their only hope to end their agony being the sachets of gunpowder concealed beneath their clothes. Our Catholic queen was nowt but a tyrant. Before long Mary herself died, despised by her own husband, so the story went.<\/p>\n

With Queen Elizabeth came the new religion once more to replace the old. The Queen\u2019s agents stormed in to hack apart our brand new roodscreen. But they could not demolish the statues or the crucifix this time round, for the Towneleys, Shuttleworths, and Nutters had divided the holy images between them and taken them into hiding, in secret chapels inside their great houses. In those early days, some said Elizabeth\u2019s reign couldn\u2019t last long. Anne Boleyn\u2019s bastard, she was, and it seemed half of England wanted her dead. On top of that, she refused to marry and produce an heir of her own religion. Yet the Queen\u2019s religion had endured.<\/p>\n

In truth, the old ways died that day Elizabeth\u2019s agents sacked our church. For the past twenty-odd years, there had been no dancing of a Sunday, no Sunday ales like we used to have when we made merry within the very nave of the church. Though the Sabbath was the only day of leisure we had, Curate refused to let us have any pleasure of it. No football, dice-playing or card-playing. Magistrate Roger Nowell, my own half-brother, forbade the Robin Hood plays and summer games, for he said they led to drunkenness and wantonness amongst the lower orders. Few weeks back, the piper of Clitheroe was arrested for playing late one Sunday afternoon.<\/p>\n

Curate preached that only the Elect would go to heaven and I was canny enough to know that didn\u2019t include me. So if I was damned anyway, why should I suffer to obey their every command? Mind you, I went to church of a Sunday. It was that, or suffer Church Warden\u2019s whip and fine. But I\u2019d left off trying to hold myself to the straight and narrow. Perhaps I\u2019d have fared no better even if the old church had survived, for hadn\u2019t I been an adulteress? Yet still my heart was rooted, full stubborn, in that lost world of chanting, processions, and revels that had bound us together, rich and poor, saint and sinner. My soul\u2019s home was not with this harsh new God, but instead I sought the solace of the Queen of Heaven and whispered the Salve Regina in secret. I swore to cling to the forbidden prayers till my dying day.<\/p>\n

I am getting ahead of myself. Back to the story: that evening, after Tibb first appeared to me, I hared off in the long spring twilight, heading home to Malkin Tower. Wasn\u2019t safe to be about after dark. Folk talked of boggarts haunting the night, not that I was ignorant enough to believe every outlandish tale, but I was shaken to the bone from seeing the boy who disappeared into nowhere. The moon, nearly full, shone in the violet sky and the first stars glimmered when, at last, I reached my door.<\/p>\n

Our Malkin Tower was an odd place. Tower itself had two rooms, one below and one above, and each room had narrow slits for windows from the days, hundreds of years ago, when guardsmen were sat there with their bows and arrows, on the look-out for raiders and poachers. But, as the tower had no chimney or hearth, we spent most of our time in the firehouse, a ramshackle room built on to the foot of the tower. And it was into the firehouse I stumbled that night. My daughter Liza, sat close by the single rush light, gave a cry when she saw me.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo late coming home, Mam! Did a devil cross your path?\u201d<\/p>\n

In the wavering light, my girl looked more frightful than the devil she spoke of, though she couldn\u2019t help it, God bless her. Her left eye stood lower in her face than the other, and while her right eye looked up, her left eye looked down. The sight of her was enough to put folk off their food. Couldn\u2019t hire herself out as a kitchen maid because the housewives of Pendle feared our Liza would spoil their milk and curdle their butter. Looking the way she did, it would take a miracle for her to get regular work, let alone a husband. Most she could hope for was a day\u2019s pittance for carding wool or weeding some housewife\u2019s garden.<\/p>\n

Ignoring her talk of the devil, I unpacked the clump of old bread, the gleanings of the day\u2019s begging, and Liza sliced it into pieces thin as communion wafer.<\/p>\n

Liza, myself, my son Kit, and Kit\u2019s wife, also Elizabeth, though we called her Elsie, gathered for our supper. Kit hired himself out as a day labourer, but at this time of year, there was little work to be had. Lambing season had just passed. Shearing wouldn\u2019t come till high summer. Best he could do was ask for work at the slate pits and hope to earn enough to keep us in oatmeal and barley flour. Kit\u2019s wife, Elsie, was heavy with child. Most work she could get was a day\u2019s mending or spinning.<\/p>\n

When we were sat together at the table, my Liza went green in the face at the taste of the old bread and could barely get a mouthful of the stuff down before she bolted out the door to be sick. Out of old habit, not even thinking, I crossed myself. I looked to Kit, who looked to his wife, who shook her head in sadness. Elsie would deliver her firstborn within the month and now it appeared that Liza was with child, as well. First I wondered who the father could be. Then I asked myself how we would feed two little babes when we were hard-pressed to do for ourselves? We were silent, the lot of us, Elsie doling out the buttermilk she had off the Bulcocks in exchange for a day\u2019s spinning. Our Kit gave his wife half of his own share of bread\u2014wasn\u2019t she eating for two?<\/p>\n

Then I found I couldn\u2019t finish my own bread, so I passed it to Kit before hauling myself out the door to look for Liza. By the cold moonlight I found my poor squint-eyed broomstick of a girl bent over the gatepost, crying fit to die. Taking Liza in my arms, I held her and rubbed her hair. I begged her to tell me who the father was, but she refused.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt will be right,\u201d I told her. \u201cNot the first time an unwed girl fell pregnant. We\u2019ll make do somehow.\u201d What else could I say? I\u2019d no business browbeating her for doing the same as I\u2019d done with Kit\u2019s father, twenty-two years ago.<\/p>\n

After leading my Liza back inside, we made for our beds. I climbed to the upper tower. Room was so cold and draughty that everyone else preferred sleeping below, but of a crystal-clear evening I loved nothing better than to lie upon my pallet and gaze at the moon and stars through the narrow windows. Cold wind didn\u2019t bother me much. I was born with thick skin, would have died ages ago if I\u2019d been a more delicate sort. Yet that night the starry heavens gave me little comfort. I laid myself down and tried to ignore the hammer of worry in my head. Church Warden and Constable were sure to make a stink about Liza. Another bastard child to live off the charity of the parish. They\u2019d fine her at the very least. She\u2019d be lucky if she escaped the pillory. Sleepless, I huddled there whilst the wind whistled through the thatch.<\/p>\n

When I finally closed my eyes, I saw Tibb, his face in its golden glory. Looked like one of the angels I remembered seeing in our church before the reformers stripped the place bare. Out of the dark crush of night came his voice, sweet as a lover\u2019s, gentle as Kit\u2019s father was in the days when he called me his beauty, his heart\u2019s joy. Tibb\u2019s lips were at my ear.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I could,\u201d he told me, \u201cif you let me, I\u2019d ease your burdens, my Bess. No use fretting about Liza. She\u2019ll lose the child within a fortnight and none but you and yours will know she fell pregnant in the first place.\u201d<\/p>\n

My throat was dry and sore. Couldn\u2019t even think straight.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re afraid of me,\u201d he said. \u201cBut you shouldn\u2019t be. I mean you no harm.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not real,\u201d I whispered. \u201cI\u2019m just dreaming you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m as real as the ache in your heart,\u201d he whispered back. \u201cYou were meant to be more than a common beggar, our Bess. You could be a blesser. Next time, you see a sick cow, bless it. Say three Ave Marias and sprinkle some water on the beast. Folk will pay you for such things. Folk will hold you in regard and you won\u2019t have to grovel for the scraps off their table.\u201d<\/p>\n

What nonsense, I thought. Church warden would have me whipped and fined for saying the Ave Maria\u2014and that was but mild chastisement. Catholics were still hanged in these parts, their priests drawn and quartered. I told myself that there was no such boy called Tibb\u2014it was just my empty stomach talking. I rolled over, pulling the tattered blanket to my ears.<\/p>\n

He wouldn\u2019t give over. \u201cIt runs in your blood. You\u2019ve inherited the gift from your mam\u2019s father.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head no. \u201cMy grandfather was an ostler. An honest man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was a horse-charmer, if you remember well.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tibb\u2019s voice summoned the memories. I was sat on Grand-Dad\u2019s knee and he jostled me so that I could pretend I was riding a bouncy pony and all the while he chanted the Charm to St. George to ward horses from witchcraft. Enforce we us with all our might to love St. George, Our Lady\u2019s Knight. Grand-Dad died when I was seven, but he\u2019d taught my mam all his herbcraft for healing beast and folk alike, which she, in turn, had taught me, though Mam herself had no dealings in charms.<\/p>\n

What a marvel. Grand-Dad working his blessings in the stables at Read Hall, beneath the Nowells\u2019 very noses. He must have served them well, kept their nags healthy and sound, so that instead of reporting him for sorcery they became his protectors. Perhaps that, indeed, was why the Nowells had given Malkin Tower to Mam\u2014it did no good at all to vex a cunning man by treating his daughter ill.<\/p>\n

Still the knowing made the sweat run cold down my back. To think that I carried this inside me. I could not say a word, only pray that Tibb would vanish again and leave me in peace.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy own Bess, do I need to give you a sign or two? You\u2019ll see what I\u2019ve said of Liza will come to pass. Now I\u2019ll give you more knowledge of the future. Before the moon is new again, Elsie will bear a son.\u201d<\/p>\n

In spite of myself, I laughed. \u201cAny fool can see she\u2019s carrying a boy from the way she\u2019s bearing so high and wide. I don\u2019t need a slip of a lad like you telling me about wenches bearing babies.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mocking didn\u2019t put Tibb off. He only coaxed me all the more. \u201cThey\u2019ll name the lad Christopher after his father and you\u2019ll see your Kit\u2019s father in the little lad\u2019s face, my Bess. You\u2019ll feel so tender that the years of bitterness will melt away.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tears came to my eyes when I remembered my lover who had given me such pleasure before he bolted off, never to show his face again, leaving me to bear my shame and endure an angry husband fit to flay me alive and the gossips wagging their tongues and pointing. My husband refused to give the baby his name, so that was why my Kit was named Christopher Holgate, not Southerns. As punishment for my sin, I was made to stand a full day in the pillory in Colne marketplace.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not all I can tell you of your future,\u201d said Tibb, nestling close, his breath warming my face. \u201cIn time, your Liza will marry an honest man who will love her in spite of her squint.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFortune-telling\u2019s a sin,\u201d I squeaked. In this Curate and the priests of the old religion had always been of one mind. A dangerous thing, it was, to push back the veil and look into the future, for unless such knowledge came from a prophecy delivered by God, it came from the other place, the evil place, the Devil. Diviners and those who consulted them would be punished in hell by having their heads twisted backward for their unholy curiosity.<\/p>\n

Still Tibb carried on in a voice I couldn\u2019t block out. \u201cLiza will give you three grandchildren.\u201d<\/p>\n

How seductive he was. If only I could trust him and believe that my Liza would be blessed by the love of a good man, a happy family.<\/p>\n

\u201cHer first-born daughter will be your joy,\u201d Tibb told me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll love her till you forget yourself, my Bess. A pretty impudent lass with skin like cream. A beauty such as you were at her age. She\u2019ll be your very likeness and you\u2019ll teach her the things that I\u2019ll teach you.\u201d His voice sang with his promise.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat else can you tell me?\u201d I asked, my heart in my mouth.<\/p>\n

Opening my eyes, I dared myself to look him in the face, but I only saw the stars shining in the window slits.<\/p>\n

# # #<\/p>\n

Excerpt from Daughters of the Witching Hill:\u00a0A Novel of the Pendle Witches<\/em>\u00a0by Mary Sharratt<\/strong><\/p>\n

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She was a very old woman, about the age of Foure-score yeares, and had been a Witch for fiftie yeares. Shee dwelt in the Forrest of Pendle, a vast place, fitte for her profession: What shee committed in her time, no man knows. . . . Shee was a generall agent for the Devill in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":18,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"page-full.php","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-53","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/53","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=53"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/53\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":432,"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/53\/revisions\/432"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/18"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/marysharratt.com\/main\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=53"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}