Mist Over Pendle (3 page)

She slipped away in the morning as soon as breakfast was done, and with the persistence of a nosing dog she went from mercer to mercer, asking prices and feeling mockados with a fine disregard of everything but her own needs; and at the ninth shop, where she stayed as usual until her welcome had grown thin, she was offered a riding-habit that had been made for a lady who in the end had not taken it. Margery took one look at it and then fell to haggling like a Lombard money-changer. There was a doublet cut like a man’s, and of orange-tawny mockado pinked with silver tinsel; it was cut in the new style, buttoning in the front and needing no stomacher, and the sleeves were of the new style too, plainly shaped and tight-fitting. There was the long and extravagantly pleated riding-skirt called a safeguard, also of the orange-tawny, and lined, like the doublet, with orange sarcenet; and to complete it there was a riding-cloak, long and full, from a warm russet frieze of the fine Penistone weave.

She got all that for thirteen crowns, and the afternoon saw her out again, apparently impervious to dust and heat. She began with an hour spent trying hats, and she enjoyed that more than the milliner did. In the end she picked on a good black felt, pinked like the doublet with silver tinsel; she could trim it for herself, and at least it was a proper copintank and not a porringer. For another fifteen shillings she had a pair of long boots in a good Spanish leather, soft and unpolished. Then she had a pair of gloves in brown doeskin, with silver lace at the cuffs of the gauntlets; she bought orange feathers for the crown of the hat, and orange ribbons for its brim; and then, with only two shillings left, she spent them on a pound of the famous yellow starch which Mistress Turner had made so fashionable for ruffs.

She came home penniless and triumphant, and laid all the things gleefully on her bed; and Prudence, coming to see what foolishness those silver crowns had led her young sister into, gazed icily at the array and sniffed again; they were, she said, fit only for a Whitehall fly-by-night, which Margery seemed in a fair way to becoming. She went out with a bang of the door, and Margery put her tongue out at it; it was not for sisterly approval that she had chosen the orange-tawny.

Nothing could disturb her calm in the week that remained. She even kept her composure and spoke polite thanks when Richard produced a book which brother Alexander had sent from Cambridge as his parting gift to her; it was Alexander Nowell’s
Homily On The Justice Of God,
and Margery looked at it gravely and as gravely said that she would be sure to make good use of it. Then all was ready, and when August was a week old they took her to St. Paul s Cross, where a wagon waited; it had come from Kendal with a load of Westmorland wool, and the wagoner having no load to carry back had been glad to agree for four passengers at a modest charge; and as the other three were a divine and his wife and daughter, it could not be doubted that Margery was travelling within the proprieties

Farewells were said, and Margery climbed into the wagon She was wearing her oldest and shabbiest kirtle, for this was not to be travel in luxury; if the wagoner’s charges had been modest the comfort he provided was modest too; all he had been able to do for his passengers was to spread some straw within the wagon, and it was insufficient provision, as Margery realized as soon as the thick-set horses began their steady walk. The springless wagon banged and jolted, and the passengers suffered with what fortitude they could summon. The stout wooden floor, besides being as hard as granite, was dark and oily from numberless loads of wool and from the same source it had acquired a scent that would never leave it; to add to these discomforts, there were countless wool-combmgs mixed with the straw, and if anything more was needed to teach Margery what travelling meant, she found it in a growing suspicion which was amply confirmed before the day was out: there were fleas in the wool.

The wagoner was a cheerful fellow--too cheerful, they thought when they complained of the fleas and he roared with laughter-there were always fleas in wool, he said. But he swept the wagon that night, and then he swilled it clean before putting in fresh straw; and the next day, if they were a little damp, they were at least unbitten. But nothing the wagoner could do could make them comfortable. The boards and the jolts, the smells of oil and wool, the choking dust and the scorching sun: these remained.

But if the rutted roads were hot and dusty, at least they were not muddy, The heavy wheels banged and bounced, but they turned; there was never any danger of being bogged, and so swiftly was the journey accomplished that it lasted scarcely three weeks. On the second day of September, in the heat of a shining afternoon, they came down a gentle grassy slope and saw at its foot the river Ribble, placid in its bordering meadows. Beyond it, clean and grey in the summer light, was the little town of Preston, and in less than an hour they had crossed the stream and entered the town. They found it busy, for this was a market-day and the streets were a press of men, townsmen in gowns and doublets, and yeomen in homespuns and riding-boots; and here where the press was thickest, in the street called the Friargate, Margery alighted and sought the
Angel.

The clear cool light of the next morning found her sitting on the low linen-covered seat that ran under the window of her chamber in the
Angel;
she had set the lattice wide, and she was savouring the clean freshness of the air as she watched the wakening bustle in the Friargate below. From time to time she leaned out to see more clearly, and such passers-by as then chanced to look up had a glimpse of a fresh young face set against orange-tawny; and some of them, she noted, showed a disposition to look again. That was as it should be, and Margery nodded with satisfaction; she was beginning to like this County of Lancaster.

So indeed she might, for the
Angel
had given her of its best. The first mention of her cousin’s name had worked wonders with the landlord; porters had gone scurrying to fetch her baggage while his wife conducted her to her chamber above stair, and he himself had instantly despatched a lad to Read with word of her coming. She had supped well, and slept well, and while she breakfasted the landlord had been with her again to say that the lad was back from Read. Master Nowell sent his felicitations; he would ride when he had breakfasted, and he might be expected in Preston before eleven. All was therefore very well, and but for one gnawing thought Margery would have had perfect content.

The gnawing thought, of course, was of Roger Nowell. Margery was far too clear-sighted not to know that she might need all her wits, and more, in the weeks to come. She thought she might fairly judge from his letters that Roger Nowell was peremptory, perceptive, and not ungenerous; but what else he might be, those short letters could not show. He might be a gloomy bigot or a genial roisterer, a kindly scholar or a swaggering rake; there was nothing to show. But whatever he was, he might enforce himself on her with what harshness he chose, and there would be none to say him nay; that, at least, was certain, and she would have no more protection than her own wits could furnish

She shivered, a little at her thoughts, and withdrew her eyes from the street. But the cheer of the sunlit room and the glow of the orange-tawny heartened her, and she ran across to peer into the little steel mirror that hung on the opposite wall. That heartened her further. In any event, she told herself it was too late now for such broodings. All was set, and the issue hung on the one thing she could not yet know--on the manner of man it was who was riding in from Read.

She seated herself by the window once more, and again she glanced thoughtfully round the room, asking herself anxiously whether all was as it should be in readiness for his coming. She nodded approval of what she saw. All was very tidy and decent; the canvas travelling-bags, packed and tied, waited by the door: near them, on the side-table, were hat and gloves and the russet cloak placed carelessly to display exactly the right amount of its orange lining. And, some six feet from where she sat, a wisp of thread lay on the floor, white against the dark boards. This was not an accident.

It had to do with that streak of redness in her hair. Margery had a strong suspicion that this lurking redness was a potent charm, and she had every intention of making the most of it in the encounter she now awaited. But she also knew, having looked into the matter with some care, that this redness needed full sunlight to bring it out fully. Herein lay the difficulty. For the window was low, and the shaft of incoming sunlight was therefore low also; and she had discovered by careful trial that the sun-light would be below her hair when she stood to greet her cousin. Wherefore, something must be contrived, and Margery had contrived it with a fine simplicity. Since she could not bring the sunlight up to her hair, she must bring her hair down to the sunlight and a formal curtsey would do this admirably. It was moreover a thing very proper to the occasion, and she knew that she could perform it with a most becoming grace. All that was needed therefore, was to ensure that when she made her curtsey her hair should sink exactly into that narrow shaft of sunlight Hence that wisp of thread. It marked the exact spot where she must point her toe to begin the curtsey. She had placed it precisely after some careful trials. ‘

She looked out into the Friargate again, marking the growing bustle and the occasional upward glance of burgher or apprentice But the sun was rising higher, and more and more her eyes turned to that distant end of the street whence, very soon now, she might see a horseman ride. She wanted some warning of his coming, and more and more her eyes sought in the press for the rider who should seek the
Angel.

Yet in the end she missed his coming. For chancing to look into the room she saw with sudden alarm that the sunlight had moved from the wisp of thread. She was at first angry, and then amused that she should have thought the sun stayed still. But she had to try the curtsey again, three separate times, before she was satisfied; and as she rose after placing the thread again, there was a clatter of horses in the arch below, a shouting and a running of feet, and the landlord’s voice raised in a greeting to Master Nowell.

She felt her heart pounding as she hurried to her place and stood to face the door. She made swiftly sure that she stood correctly, feet together, back hollowed, head erect and hands clasped. Then, with her face a little pale and her breath a little fast, she waited, very straight and still, and heard the ring of boots on the stair and in the passage--a brisk confident tread, with a firm drop of heel and a pleasant jingle of spurs. Then the hinges creaked, and there was a man in the doorway.

He halted, stiff and impassive, and considered her gravely; a big man, full six feet of him, broad of shoulder and slim of hip, with an alert vigour that belied the flecks of grey in his beard. There was something sombre in this sun-browned face with the thick eyebrows and the big jutting nose; yet it seemed to Margery that here too was something friendly, something even of humour in the lines of his forehead. Then, while she looked, he swept his beaver off; and the breath caught in her throat as she saw the glint of red in his brown hair.

She steadied herself, and as he came towards her she gave him her best curtsey. It was deftly done, and as she had planned. And as her head sank into the shaft of sunlight, his advance stopped abruptly, and he stood staring.

“God’s Grace!” he said softly. “God’s Grace!”

Deliberately she did not rise. She knew she was set to advantage; there would be nothing lost by waiting. So, for a moment, they stayed, he looking down at her and she looking up at him. Then he flung hat and whip to the window-seat and began peeling off his gloves.

“Get up, little cousin.”

His voice was bantering, and of a sudden he broke into a smile that lit his face and changed his whole aspect; and it was Margery’s turn to stare as she saw the odd crinkle of the forehead that came with the smile.

“You
are
little cousin, not a doubt of it. How do they call you?”

“Margery Whitaker, by your leave sir.” He flung his gloves after his hat.

“If you’d said Margery Nowell, you’d still have had my leave--or any man’s. None would deny it you while you look so. However....“

His smile came again, and it was infectious. It called hers out m response, and she felt her forehead crinkle. He stopped short in the act of loosening his cloak.

“God’s Grace!” he said again. “None indeed! And I had thought to see....“

He broke off, and his face grew thoughtful as he walked to the window.

Margery, watching in silence, asked herself why this man stood so far apart from other men. That he did stand apart was clear; why, was not so clear. Certainly it was not his clothes. His leather jerkin, serge breeches, and cloak of russet frieze were homely enough, and his beaver was almost shabby. There was nothing to distinguish him from the yeomen she had seen in the street except the bright steel sword-hilt in the folds of his cloak--that, and his eyes. And then she understood. For in this man’s eyes, unmistakably and in full measure, was that nameless force which in all times and places has been authority; and Margery, who had never seen it before, knew it on the instant for what it was.

He was smiling again now, and curiosity was raging in Margery. She decided to risk it.

“Pray sir,” she said, “what was it that you thought to see? Or whom?”

“That? Why, nothing at all....“ But his smile was broadening, and something impish was creeping into it. “Nay, if you will have it, I thought to see some pudding-faced wench, with hair free from curl, and flanks like a Flemish mare.”

Margery nearly choked. She was not used to this sort of thing. It flouted all she had been taught; and because it delighted her, it lured her. into archness. She made her curtsey again, most formally and deliberately, and she looked up at her cousin with lifting eyebrows and a smile that had an inviting touch of impudence.

“Must I then regret it, sir, that I do not match your expectations?”