The Pendle Curse Read online

  “Come over here,” Mistress Towneley said in the same commanding tone she used to the servants. He obeyed. “One last kiss before you go.”

  Revulsion screamed at him to leave, but he fought it back as he bent down. In a second, she had wrapped her arms around him and dragged him down to her. Caught off balance, he fell, then scrambled up to prevent himself from being caught in yet another clinch. She made a grab for his cock, but he managed to sidestep her.

  She laughed. “I won’t bite you James, except… Only in the extremes of passion of course.”

  He knew that to be the truth. Those sharp teeth left red marks on his shoulders, his neck and even his ears. He wouldn’t let her mouth anywhere near his genitals. Only Alizon’s sweet lips could venture there. He shut the bedroom door behind him and leaned against it as his mind screamed. How much longer?

  That evening, he unlatched the heavy wooden door and it swung back, releasing the mixed, warm aromas of peat smoke, bunches of drying herbs and a stew of some kind. No meat today—although there might be some gravy mixed in from yesterday’s rabbit. No, today would be potatoes, carrots perhaps and fresh bread. He could smell baking. No one baked bread like his mother. She looked up from the kitchen table as he strode into the dimly lit room.

  Behind her, the fire gave off the inevitable smoke from burning turfs. Thankfully, most of it escaped up the chimney. At least they had a chimney, not merely a hole in the roof that let in the snow and rain, like most of their neighbors. But then, they had been luckier than most for a few generations now. Ever since a long-forgotten ancestor had somehow acquired Malkin Tower, where his grandmother lived, while the rest of the family lived in this cottage nearby. No land accompanied the properties, but thankfully they didn’t have to pay rent to an unscrupulous landlord for the roofs over their heads.

  James’s boots clattered on the stone floor as he crossed to a high-backed wooden chair, where he sat down. His mother, Elizabeth, stopped slicing the still-warm loaf of bread, wiped floury hands on her apron and set about pulling her son’s boots off.

  “What did she give you today, son?”

  James shook his head. “Nothing today, Mother. But there will be meat and ale by the week’s end.”

  Elizabeth Device’s dark eyes flashed angrily as she tugged at the boot. “You shouldn’t allow her to make you wait for her bounty. Did you not please her today?”

  James scowled. “Oh, I pleased her right enough. She was pleasured pink.”

  His mother sucked her teeth. “I do not wish to hear about your bedroom frolics. But if you will tumble the mistress of the house, then you should be well paid for it.”

  James stood, helped his mother rise from her kneeling position and noted how her knee pained her, as he heard the familiar crack of the joint. “Oh, she will pay me, Mother, you may count on it. She was well pleasured and satisfied, though every moment of it was abhorrent to me.”

  Elizabeth stared at him for a few seconds, but her face revealed nothing. She didn’t have to speak. He knew. His relationship with Mistress Towneley put him on a dangerous path—profitable enough while it lasted, but one mistake could ruin them all.

  James slipped on his old shoes and looked around the room. No sign of William, but then he would have been put to bed an hour since.

  “Alizon?”

  His mother went back to the table and wiped it clean. They would eat soon. “She is away at your grandmother’s house, making a meal for her. Mother’s eyesight is so poor now, she cannot even see to cook without scalding herself. I worry about her, alone in that house.”

  James smiled. “Ah, but you know she is never alone in that house. Never entirely alone at any rate.”

  Elizabeth cast him a disapproving glance. “The spirits are not always our friends, James, and you know better than to jest at their expense.” She crossed herself.

  James counted. She would repeat this seven times. Never once more nor less. He banged his fist on the table.

  “Why do you do that, Mother, when you know it defiles the old ways?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, and a wisp of gray hair escaped from under her white cap.

  James shoved his chair back so violently that it toppled over. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. A thin girl of eleven years old sidled into the room. His sister Jennet.

  “Why are you skulking around over there?” The edge to his voice drew a scowl from the girl. She stood still for a moment and he noticed her dirty, bare feet.

  “Been playing in the mud again?”

  She shook her head. Unkempt, matted curls of dirty blonde hair coiled like writhing snakes around her face.

  James glared at her and the girl stared back. Defiant. An odd child. Sly. She always seemed to be watching, waiting.

  “That child’s filthy,” James said to his mother.

  His mother barely looked at her. “She’ll bathe with the rest of us on Friday.” Then she turned to Jennet. “Get to bed.”

  Her voice had been cold. James knew his mother hated the girl and had done so since the day the old midwife had presented her with the squalling infant. Still grief-stricken for her husband, she had refused to take Jennet to her breast, and the child would have starved if James’s grandmother had not forced her to feed her baby. Sometimes though, he believed it might have been better if the girl had not survived.

  James had never trusted Jennet. Not since the day he had discovered her behind a bale of hay in their uncle Christopher’s cowshed, mere feet away from where his best milk cow lay. Both the cow and the calf she had birthed the previous week were dead, stricken by some unnamed ailment no one could fathom. But James knew. Uncle Christopher had spoken harshly to Jennet a few days earlier when he caught her stealing apples from his store. He had smacked her and sent her away.

  James recalled the defiant look on the girl’s face after her punishment. The same look he saw now. A wave of revulsion, tinged with fear, washed over him; a shadow stalked the far recesses of his mind and he shivered.

  He watched the girl melt away into the darkness as she left the room. She slept in her mother’s bedchamber, along with William, but soon she would be too old for that. The living arrangements would have to be reviewed. Perhaps someone would need to live with their grandmother at Malkin Tower. Maybe Alizon and him?

  A familiar scraping noise distracted him. He turned to see the latch rise. The door opened and his heart lifted. Alizon, her long, black hair loose and her cap in her hand. Windswept, she smiled as soon as she saw James. She needed to push the door hard against the gale that sent the candles sputtering, then plunged the room into darkness, save for the firelight.

  “Shut the door, girl!” his mother said as she hurried to light spills from the fire.

  Alizon leaned against the door, laughing. She always loved the wind and rain, but the downpour must have stopped as not a drop glistened on her hair. James laughed with her, aware of his mother’s vexed looks from one to the other.

  “Now we are all here, we will eat.” Elizabeth relit the candles and turned to the black iron pot, suspended over the fire. She lifted the lid and fresh aromas of a hearty stew filled the room. James felt hunger gnawing at him. His mother could make so much of so little. Even with their improved circumstances, they could hardly be called well-off, just a little more comfortable than most. Especially if Alizon managed to come home with a few pennies from begging on the Colne road.

  James sat at the table and watched Alizon laying out spoons and bowls for the three adults. He loved to study her as she busied herself, to see her lithe body enveloped in her long, brown, woolen skirt. It flared out at her hips, emphasizing her slim waist and full breasts, the promise of which now spilled over the top of her tight-fitting bodice. How he longed to cup those breasts in his hands. He felt a stirring. Not now. He inhaled deeply and averted his gaze. “How is Grandmother?”

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sp; Alizon finished her task and sat opposite him as Elizabeth heaved the pot onto the table and began to ladle out their stew.

  “She is better, I think,” Alizon said, “although her bones pain her and she has trouble walking more than a few steps.” A frown etched her forehead.

  James reached over and grasped her hand. “What troubles you?” Her dark brown eyes captivated him. If he could, he would have taken her, right there on the kitchen table. The frown lifted, to be replaced by a smile as her full lips parted to show perfect, even white teeth.

  “Oh, it is nothing. She has been scrying and saw a vision, but Grandmother often sees visions. Some are meaningful and some not so much.”

  Elizabeth sat between them, at the head of the table. “What did she see?”

  James let go of Alizon’s hand and picked up his spoon.

  Alizon copied him. “She saw Jennet in a room where there were a lot of people, but all eyes were upon her. Her mouth was moving but Grandmother could not make out what she was saying, and then the girl pointed at—” She stopped and shot James a frightened glance. James knew she had almost said something important, but for some reason couldn’t bring herself to utter the words.

  “Pointed at what? Who?” Elizabeth demanded.

  Alizon shot James a pleading glance, and he responded with a question in his eyes. What should he say? He had no idea. Unless…

  “Someone,” Alizon said at last. “Grandmother couldn’t see who.”

  Alizon had lied of course. But no matter. James would get it out of her later.

  He stole a glance at his mother as she stared at Alizon, spoon poised halfway to her mouth. Did she believe her? James doubted it. But his mother let it drop. For now at least.

  The stew tasted rich and meaty, for all it consisted of root vegetables. James ate hungrily, tearing off bread to mop up the gravy. When he replaced his spoon, not a scrap remained in his bowl.

  Elizabeth cleared away the dishes. “I will wash those tomorrow. It is too late to go for water now. I am away to my bed. Do not tarry too late.”

  “No, Mother,” James said, longing for her to leave them, which she did, closing the door behind her.

  As soon as she left, he caught Alizon around her waist and clasped her to his chest, while she laughed and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Tell me now. Who did Grandmother say she saw in the mirror?”

  Alizon frowned. “It may be nothing. She said it wasn’t clear.”

  James kissed her nose. “You know you must tell me. You can deny me nothing.” He pressed hard against her.

  Alizon rolled her eyes. “Very well. She said she saw Mother, you and me. Others were there too, but they were too dark to see. As if they were hidden.”

  “Did she see herself there?”

  Alizon shook her head.

  “And what else?”

  “Just Jennet. Pointing. Accusing.” Alizon shivered. “It may be nothing.” Again he felt a tightening clench in his stomach, but dismissed it. For now he had more urgent needs.

  He rained kisses on her face, her neck and down to the swell of her breasts, gently—and then more urgently—pulling open her bodice to reveal more of her warm, firm flesh. His mouth latched onto her right nipple and he sucked hungrily. Soft moans escaped her partially open lips and his cock hardened.

  “I can wait no longer,” he said and scooped her up in his arms. She leaned over to open the door and he carried her to his room. They had to be quiet. Even in his bedroom. Only a thin wall separated them from Elizabeth.

  James laid her down on his bed and she smiled at him. He stood and unbuttoned his breeches while she sat up, removing her bodice, and her breasts sprang free. He leaned over her, lifted her skirt and let his hand travel up between her legs to her secret place.

  “Oh, Alizon, my beautiful one. All day I have waited for this.”

  She moaned. “James. Come inside me.”

  He lifted her hips and thrust himself hard inside her so that she gave a muffled cry.

  He framed her face with his hands and bent to kiss her full on the lips. “My demon angel. My lovely Alizon. My beloved sister.”

  Chapter Three

  “Honestly Dawn, I wouldn’t have believed it. There, in front of me. Pendle Hill. Exactly as I’d dreamt it. And not only that afternoon either. I’m pretty sure it was in my dream the previous night as well. I know I was freezing cold and a wind howled around me. It must have stayed with me when I got up to go to the bathroom, because when I came out, I couldn’t stop shivering—as if a cold breeze were blowing in the flat. Weird!”

  Dawn stared at me over our lunchtime cups of steaming latte in Costa’s. She pushed her long red hair back over her ear, a gesture I’d seen her perform many times when she pondered how to respond to something she found awkward. She took another sip of coffee. “Do you think you may have seen a photo of Pendle Hill at some time and your mind latched on to the memory of it in your dream?”

  I hadn’t considered it, because I was so sure I’d never been there, but could I be certain I had never seen something on TV about it at some stage in the past? “Yes, probably. Something like that. Maybe I saw a documentary. I knew the name rang a bell with me, so I did a search and up popped all this stuff about the Lancashire Witch Trials in 1612. Pretty gruesome too.”

  “Did you see the Most Haunted program about it a few years ago?”

  I shook my head. “Never watched it. I mean, they’re all faked, aren’t they?”

  Dawn shrugged her shoulders. “Quite possibly. That one was pretty creepy though.”

  “I’m still skeptical.” But into my mind flashed my fears of the early hours of the previous morning. I pushed them away. “Anyway, I’ve decided to go and spend a few days there.”

  Dawn’s eyes widened. “Seriously? On your own?”

  For some bizarre reason, I hadn’t considered I might be lonely all on my own in a strange place I was visiting as a result of some mad whim. “It’s the first thing that’s caught my attention since…well…I can’t tell you how it feels to actually be interested in something again. I’ve just got to do it now, before I find some reason not to. I’m afraid that would be all too easy these days, and I’m fed up with myself. If you could come as well, that would be great. But I know you’re tied to school holidays just as I used to be.”

  Dawn grimaced. “And the school inspectors are coming. I think the head’s a bit worried, if you ask me.”

  “I thought things had got better at your school.”

  “Discipline has, that’s for sure. But the exam results may not be that wonderful.” Dawn paused for a moment. “You said ‘used to be’. You ‘used to be’ tied to school holidays. Does that mean you’ve decided to quit teaching?”

  I hadn’t realized I’d said that. “No, not finally decided, but…” What else could I say? And who was I kidding anyway? Thank God Rich had taken out good life insurance. With that and a legacy from my money-conscious adoptive parents, I was fairly comfortably off. Certainly for the foreseeable future. At least I didn’t have to hang on to a job I’d grown to hate.

  Dawn smiled. “I don’t blame you. I honestly don’t know how much longer I’ll carry on. It’s not the teaching I’m fed up with, it’s all the admin. All the hoops we have to jump through and the meaningless league tables and tick boxes. Why can’t they leave us alone to get on with our jobs?”

  I couldn’t resist striking a dramatic pose, the back of my hand flat against my forehead. “Ah, the cry of the dedicated teacher. I know it well.”

  Dawn laughed. “You know it well because you’ve said it yourself. Countless times.”

  “I know, and I stand by it too.”

  Dawn drained her cup. “What do you think you’ll do then? Instead of teaching? I can’t imagine you sitting on the sofa watching reruns of Desperate Housewives.”

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p; I grimaced. “Hardly. No, I’m not sure really. I’ve often thought that if ever I gave up work, I’d probably write a book.”

  “Why not? Sounds like a good idea. What would you write about? Fact or fiction?”

  I’d barely given it a thought but, prompted by Dawn, an idea flashed into my mind. “I could always write a history of the Pendle witches. Or maybe a novel about them. I could research background during this holiday.”

  Dawn leaned forward. “That sounds interesting. You know, my mother said we were related to one of the families involved in all that. Can’t remember which one though. I didn’t take a lot of notice. Where are you staying?”

  I’d found a quaint little place on the Internet. “A small seventeenth-century farmhouse near Barrowford. Right at the start of the Witches’ Trail.”

  “Very atmospheric.”

  “Only time will tell, but it had a good write-up on TripAdvisor. A couple of people said they’d experienced spooky stuff happening in their rooms, but I expect the worst I’ll get is a leaky bath tap.”

  “Or creaky plumbing in general. All those knocking sounds. They always happen at night, don’t they? Never during the day.”

  “No, it’s just that you’re not there to hear them during the day.”

  Dawn laughed. “Now we’re back to the old conundrum. If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one to hear it, does it make a sound?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods?”

  It felt so good to laugh, and after lunch and some window shopping, I returned to Lane’s Brewery feeling lighter than I had in months.

  I pushed open the glass door and strolled past the framed photographs of the old brewery in its heyday. Heavy horses pulled carts piled high with beer barrels, presided over by cheerful draymen with broad smiles and aprons. They sat under arched signs that proclaimed, “Lane’s Finest Ales. The Beer that Fuels the Empire”. Well, until they closed down in 1970 at any rate.